Thirteen
Kelly went to bed very late, and even then he couldn’t sleep. He lay tossing and turning for what seemed like an eternity, until he could stand it no more. Wearily he dragged himself out of bed and set off for the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. On the way downstairs, he glanced at his watch. It was almost exactly 3.30 a.m.
His head ached and he really didn’t think that was fair. After all, he was probably the only person at yesterday’s wake who hadn’t had an alcoholic drink. He felt totally disorientated and very ill at ease. Even though Moira had not been spending most of her time in his home for several months, the knowledge that she was there, with her family, just a couple of streets away, had seemed to make things all right. And, in spite of her being so dreadfully ill, maybe he had been half conning himself that one day she would return and everything would be back to normal. But now he knew she wasn’t coming back. He felt empty. Bereft. Even the house felt different. Almost as if it had lost its soul.
While the kettle boiled, he rummaged in the kitchen cupboard where he kept the bulk of what passed for his medical supplies, and eventually found a packet of Nurofen with three pills left in it. He pushed two of the capsules through their silver-foil container and swallowed them dry, then he removed the third and swallowed that too.
To hell with it, he thought dejectedly. His head was throbbing for England.
He made the tea, ladled in the usual three spoonfuls of sugar and then headed for his favourite armchair in the living room, where he sat down and switched on the TV. His head began to ease a little as he drank the tea. An old episode of Columbo was being screened on Plus. Watching anything was better than struggling to sleep; in any case he rather liked the crumpled San Francisco detective, and fervently wished that real-life investigators were able to come up with such neat endings so easily.
The last thing Kelly remembered was that Columbo was about to explain to the villain exactly how and why he was guilty of murder. Then he must have fallen asleep, and so would probably never know the denouement. He woke with a start. The phone was ringing. Immediately, he felt the familiar stab of panic which he had been experiencing for some weeks whenever the phone rang at an antisocial time. Moira. Had something happened to Moira? Then he remembered. Something had happened to Moira, all right. She was dead. That period of his life was over, and so was the constant, nagging anxiety that had recently been the major part of it. His eyes felt sore, but he registered that he no longer had a headache. He had not closed the curtains the previous night, and bright morning light was streaming into the east-facing room. However, that alone had not been enough to wake him. Automatically, he glanced at his watch. It was 7.45 a.m. Why did he seem able, even under the most stressful circumstances, to sleep in a chair when he couldn’t do so in his own bed, he reflected obliquely as he reached for the phone. And, anyway, who the hell could be calling him at this time?
‘Kelly,’ he said abruptly.
‘John, sorry if I’m calling you too early, it’s just that I thought you might be leaving for work and I didn’t want to miss you.’
Kelly didn’t go to work any more, not in the way implied, and he had absolutely no idea who his caller was. It was a woman’s voice — clear, intelligent and somehow rather determined-sounding. There was something vaguely familiar about the voice, but not enough for Kelly to come close to identifying it.
‘It’s Margaret Slade.’
Jesus, thought Kelly, she sounded a bit different to how she had been when he’d visited her in her sad little flat.
‘Oh, hello,’ he said.
‘I just wondered if you’d managed to find out anything more about that other young soldier I told you about. The one called Trevor, the one I was told had also died at Hangridge.’
‘Ah, no, not yet.’ Kelly had made no further inquiries concerning Hangridge since Moira’s death, and wasn’t at all sure when he’d feel able to do so again. He had felt so crass when he had almost started cross-examining Nick the previous day, that it had rather put him off the whole thing. But, naturally, he had no intention of sharing that with Margaret Slade.
‘I’ve been a bit busy,’ he finished lamely.
‘Oh,’ Margaret Slade sounded disappointed. ‘Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry I bothered you. I just thought...’
Her voice tailed off. She sounded more than disappointed. She sounded thoroughly let down. He knew exactly what she thought. Kelly had bounced in, full of confidence, appearing to be both capable and informed, and she had thought that he was committed to investigating the death of her daughter and the others. What he probably hadn’t realised, based on that one meeting with her drunk out of her skull, was how much she still cared.
‘No, no. It’s not how it seems. Look...’
He considered for just a split second. He found he did not want to let this woman down, neither did he want to let down her daughter nor any of the other young people whose lives had been lost at Hangridge.
‘Look,’ he said again. ‘My partner died right after I left you last week. It was the funeral yesterday. We’d been expecting it. She was very ill, but even so...’
He stopped and took a very deep breath. Margaret Slade, he thought, would have absolutely no idea what it cost Kelly to confide even as little as that to a total stranger. Somewhat to his surprise, however, he was immediately rather glad that he had done so.
‘I’m so sorry, John,’ said Mrs Slade, and her voice alone told him that she really meant it, even though she barely knew him and had not known Moira at all. But, of course, this was a woman who understood about grief and despair.
‘And I’m so sorry for intruding at this sad time,’ she went on, in a strangely formal sort of way. But then, thought Kelly, it is to the traditional and to the formal that we all cling in our grief. And, again, Margaret Slade would know about that.
‘I’ll call again in a week or two, if that’s all right.’
‘No, don’t go, Margaret.’ It seemed quite natural that they were now on Christian-name terms. ‘Please. I’m fine, honestly.’
‘If you’re sure?’
‘Absolutely sure. It will help me to think about something else.’
‘Yes.’ Only one word, but again Kelly was aware that Margaret Slade understood. ‘It’s just that, well, I’ve been in touch with Marcia Foster, Craig’s mother. I found the letter she wrote after my Jossy died. I kept everything, you know. Put it all in a box. Anyway, we’ve decided we want to do something. We want all the families to get together, to form an organisation. An action group, I think they call it. I was hoping you might give me Alan Connelly’s parents’ address.’
Kelly was surprised and impressed. He thought for a moment. Apart from anything else, it was also a heaven-sent excuse to get in touch with the Connellys again. Neil Connelly hadn’t been very receptive, but Kelly would now be able to tell him about two more deaths. That might change things.
‘I’m not sure that I should do that, Margaret,’ he said. ‘But I’ll tell you what I will do. I’ll contact them again, tell them all about you and ask them to call you. How’s that?’
‘OK.’ She paused. ‘There’s something else. Marcia Foster and I wondered if you would help us. We’ve no experience of doing anything like this. We wondered if you’d tell us what we should do, who we should write to, that sort of thing.’
‘Well, yes,’ Kelly begun. The journalist in him was beginning to think about what all this would mean in terms of his big story. Selfishly, the problem for him would be that this action group could mean that his exclusive might become public property sooner than he had bargained for. If the families started going straight to the TV and press, and there was little doubt that attracting the attention of the media would be a major part of any campaign, then Kelly’s input would become virtually irrelevant — or, at least, it would be based solely on what he had so far.