He already knew that this was a long-established regiment, and indeed learned from its website that it had been founded during the Napoleonic Wars, in 1812, just three years before the Battle of Waterloo. Kelly thought for a moment. Of course. The then newly formed regiment had served with distinction at Waterloo, and its part in Wellington’s historic victory was recorded on the towering stone monument to the Iron Duke, which had been built high above the little Somerset town which bore his name. Kelly had several times visited the unique 175-foot phallic tower because its site, on the highest point of the Blackdown Hills, just two or three miles from the Devon border, presented one of the finest views in the West Country. On a clear day, you could see for miles right across the lush Taunton Vale to Exmoor and the Bristol Channel beyond.
He read on. The Devonshire Fusiliers also appeared to have served with distinction in every major war since, and when Britain’s other four English fusilier regiments — the Royal Northumberland, the Royal Warwickshire, the Royal Fusiliers, City of London, and the Lancashire — had been united in 1968 to form the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, only the Devonshire had retained its autonomy.
This was one of Britain’s premier fighting units, with the proudest of histories. It was pretty obvious that a regiment with that kind of tradition to look back on would not take kindly to having its affairs scrutinised by any outside agencies.
And, as Kelly logged off the Net, he found himself wondering just how far even the most decent of men within the Devonshire Fusiliers would go to protect their regiment’s hard-won reputation.
He eventually set off at about 10 a.m. to drive across the moors to Hangridge, a journey he reckoned would take around an hour, or maybe a little more depending on the traffic. He had to negotiate the busy market town of Newton Abbot in order to hit the moorland road, and that was rarely easy. But as soon as he pulled away from his parking space, he became aware of a familiar, unhealthy banging sound at the rear of his car. It was, of course, the exhaust, and broken exhaust pipes were the curse of MGs because the cars were built so low. Kelly couldn’t even remember hitting the exhaust, but it was extremely easily done, and, whatever the cause of the problem, the entire system now sounded as if it were about to fall off. He certainly could not drive the car over Dartmoor. Cursing, he took a detour to his regular garage, Torbay Classic Cars, where Wayne, the rather morose young man who ran the place, expressed his dismay with characteristic gloom, said the car wasn’t going anywhere and he wouldn’t even be able to look at it for two days. But he did, at least, immediately offer Kelly the big old Volvo which passed for Torbay Classic’s courtesy car.
Kelly didn’t like the Volvo, which he thought was slightly less manoeuvrable than your average bulldozer. He was, however, grateful for any transport because he was determined to get out to Hangridge somehow, in order to confront Parker-Brown.
Having visited the barracks once before, as an Evening Argus reporter covering its 25th anniversary celebrations, Kelly had the advantage of Karen, in that he knew exactly where Hangridge was. He was pretty sure Colonel Gerrard Parker-Brown had already been in command at the time of the anniversary, but he did not remember the officer at all. However, the press had been safely corralled well away from the top brass, who had been seen only briefly, alongside their visiting minor royal, commander in chief, when assembled for a photocall. Kelly, like the rest of them, had only had direct contact with an army press officer, down from the MoD in London for the day.
Kelly had worked on a lot of army stories and, by and large, got on well with soldiers. Journalists usually did, in Kelly’s experience, as they did on an individual basis with police officers. All three of these tough professions had a lot in common, Kelly reckoned. They provided more than a measure of excitement, tinged on occasions with fear, they involved crazy hours and confrontation with sides of life most people living in a halfway civilised society were fortunate enough never to have to face. And all three were run in a thoroughly autocratic way. Indeed, Kelly sometimes suspected that the unquestioned, absolute control an editor had over his newspaper and its staff probably made the newspaper world the most autocratically governed of the three. One way and another, soldiers, journalists and police officers routinely faced their own individual kinds of firing line at the discretion of their top brass. It was, perhaps, not surprising that the individuals concerned were inclined to be extremely comfortable in each other’s company, sometimes even those who rather thought they should not be.
A light drizzle was falling as Kelly approached Hangridge. The headquarters of the Devonshire Fusiliers loomed on the hillside, a sprawling development of low angular buildings within a wire perimeter fence that snaked over the rolling terrain almost as if it had been drawn on in pen and ink. And, even when you were expecting it, the barracks, with its curiously suburban aura, still came as a surprise in the remote heart of one of Britain’s wildest moorlands.
Kelly motored slowly to the sentry point, taking careful note of every possible detail as he did so. After all, this was where at least two of the young people involved had allegedly killed themselves. Wide verges of springy moorland grass flanked the big gateway. It occurred to Kelly that there was no cover of any kind. Anything going on in that area could be clearly seen from most parts of the camp.
He drew the big Volvo to a halt alongside the open gates to Hangridge, and handed his letter from Margaret Slade to the sentry who had immediately approached the car.
‘I wonder if you could pass this to Colonel Parker-Brown and ask him if he has a few minutes to spare to see me,’ he said.
The sentry nodded his assent and directed Kelly to park to one side, clearing the gateway for other traffic. There was not another vehicle moving anywhere in sight, but presumably this was the correct procedure. Kelly found himself smiling as he watched the young soldier then use the phone in his sentry box. Within a minute or two another soldier, a corporal judging from the stripe on the uniform sweater he wore over his khaki trousers, hurried out of the main administrative building and across the quadrangle, hunching his shoulders against the drizzle. Glancing curiously towards Kelly, he took the letter from the sentry and began to make his way back.
Would Parker-Brown call to a higher authority for guidance, or might he simply refuse to see Kelly? Kelly didn’t think the colonel would do either. Everything that he had learned about the CO of the Devonshire Fusiliers indicated a man who made his own decisions, a high-flier who was not afraid of responsibility and taking control. Kelly could picture clearly in his mind the officer reading his letter and pondering what to do. He settled more comfortably into his seat as he waited, but he somehow didn’t think he would have to wait long. Parker-Brown was, after all, trained to make fast decisions under pressure.
After just a minute or two more, Kelly was proven right. The sentry answered his phone and then beckoned Kelly forward, telling him that the colonel would see him shortly, and directing him to the visitors’ parking bays just to the right of the main administrative building.
A sergeant, sternly uncommunicative, was waiting to escort Kelly into the CO’s office. The Devonshire Fusiliers were taking no chances with him, he thought. He found his heart was pumping in his chest. He felt that a lot rested on this meeting.
Parker-Brown was sitting at his desk when Kelly entered. He rose to his feet at once, greeted Kelly warmly and invited him to sit in one of the room’s two armchairs, as he lowered himself into the other, just as he had done when Karen had made her first visit only a couple of weeks or so earlier.
‘Anything I can do to help, I will,’ the colonel said at once. ‘I do feel for these families, you know. I’m a father myself.’