The policeman seemed to speak to him briefly, then began to escort the new arrival towards the scene of the accident, using his torch to light the way. As the two figures passed Kelly’s car, the man with the briefcase turned his head towards the little MG, and was illuminated enough by the torchlight held in his companion’s hand for Kelly to be able to recognise him. It was Audley Richards, the regional Home Office pathologist.
So, somebody’s bought it, thought Kelly. That would seriously slow up any chances of the road being cleared in the near future. He sighed and, taking a long pull on his roll-up, settled down in his seat.
After just a minute or two the torch-bearing policeman returned to resume his sentry duty, and Kelly began to feel just a flickering of journalistic interest. He may have retired from the game in any sort of full-time capacity, but he had no objections to earning a few bob out of the odd freelance opportunity. In any case, under the circumstances it was probably an extremely good idea to keep his hand in. If he didn’t very soon get to grips with the novel he was writing, which was, of course, destined to transform his life J.K. Rowling-style, he might well end up back on the road all over again. This time as an even more tired old hack.
Kelly knew that — particularly given the dreadful driving conditions — the odds were on this being merely a routine traffic accident involving people whose death would be of no interest to anyone other than their own family or friends. But, on the other hand, he also knew you could never be quite sure of that. Kelly had not so long ago made a few enquiries at the scene of a relatively minor road accident, only to discover that the driver of one of the vehicles involved was a senior Church of England bishop and that the woman who had been accompanying him, and who, in an apparent state of shock, was demanding rather demonstrative comfort from him, was not his wife. That one had brought in a nice few bob in linage from the nationals.
And so, aware that his pay-off from his old job was close to running out and that his bank manager was unlikely to further fund his writing career without at least some indication of progress, Kelly, with slight reluctance, stepped out of his car. Within seconds he was drenched, his light suede jacket given yet another soaking from which, he felt, it was unlikely ever to fully recover. The lashing rain cut straight through his thinning hair and felt icy-cold against his scalp. None the less, he made himself join the policeman a little further up the road, his feet making unpleasant sloshing sounds on a road running with water. If Plod could cope with these conditions, then so could he, he told himself.
Out loud he said: ‘What’s happened, then? You’ve got a fatality, I presume.’
In the arc of the flashlight, the young policeman’s eyes looked overly big.
‘How do you know that?’ he asked sharply.
Kelly shrugged. ‘I saw Dr Richards arrive,’ he said. ‘I’ve known him for years.’
He smiled wryly and stretched out a hand. ‘John Kelly,’ he said. ‘I’ve been, I mean I was, a journalist for more years than I care to remember. This was my patch.’
Kelly could see the policeman relaxing. In high places, the tension between police and press was considerable and led to all sorts of much publicised confrontation. On the road, the foot soldiers of both professions shared a natural affinity. More often than not they rather liked each other. Certainly, they understood each other’s way of life and shared many of the same sort of experiences — standing around in the cold and wet, waiting for something to happen, being merely one example.
‘So, some poor sod’s bought it?’ Kelly said questioningly, looking at the policeman sideways.
The constable paused only for a second. He was wet through and the night was yet young. It wasn’t just struggling scribes who welcomed displacement activities.
‘Yeah, only a kid too,’ the police officer replied. ‘We’re not sure exactly what happened. The lorry driver’s in total shock, can’t tell us much at all. Apparently he should have been on the Okehampton bypass, on his way overnight down to Cornwall, but he took a wrong turning and got totally lost. He’s miles out of his way. Not surprising in these conditions.’
The constable waved his arms at the murkiness around him and narrowed his eyes as if imagining what it would be like to drive a large, articulated truck over Dartmoor on such a terrible night.
‘We’ve got the SOCOs coming out, and we’re still waiting for the ambulance from Ashburton. It was a bit of a surprise, actually, that Dr Richards got here first.’
‘Yes, well, he lives for his work,’ said Kelly, a little caustically. He had clashed with Audley Richards, a doctor of the old school, very aware of his professional status and an extremely precise, taciturn character, more than once during his days on the Evening Argus.
The constable shot him a questioning glance, unsure how to take the remark. Kelly made his face expressionless.
‘So, you don’t know what happened, then?’
‘Not really. It looks like the kid could have been drinking, though. He’s still reeking of booze and all the lorry driver keeps saying is that he suddenly loomed up in front of him.’
‘Loomed up in front of him,’ Kelly repeated. ‘You mean he was on foot?’
‘Yeah, didn’t I say? He was on foot. And you don’t get many pedestrians out here on a road like this. Not at night, anyway. Bad luck, though. Not much traffic either... I mean, who’d want to drive over the moors in these conditions...’
Kelly stopped listening. A kid. A pedestrian. A drunken pedestrian involved in a road accident so close to The Wild Dog. Kelly had a quick brain, always had had, but he didn’t need to be very quick at all for an obvious possibility to occur to him. His mind began to whirl. Could the casualty possibly be his young friend from The Wild Dog? On the one hand it seemed quite likely, but on the other, the Scottish squaddie had not left alone. He had been escorted out by two men, men whom Kelly had felt quite certain were army mates who had come looking for him in order to take him safely back to base. They wouldn’t have let him come to harm in his drunken state, surely? And yet, and yet... Kelly didn’t know what to think. Young Alan had looked frightened, after all, hadn’t he?
‘Look, Constable, I was in the pub back up the road — The Wild Dog — with this lad, just a kid, like you said... He’d had a real skinful. I wonder if it could be him?’
‘Well, I’ve really no idea...’
‘It might help if I could see him?’ Kelly persisted.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ hesitated the policeman. ‘I’m not in charge.’
‘Then perhaps I could speak to whoever is?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘It may be somebody I know,’ ventured Kelly hopefully.
‘Ron Smythe,’ added the policeman. ‘Sergeant Ron Smythe. The lorry driver called 999 on his mobile and the sarge and I were only down the road in Buckfastleigh on a domestic...’
‘I really think I could help,’ repeated Kelly. Being a displacement activity for a bored wet policeman was one thing, but Kelly himself was by now so wet he was afraid he might drown if he had to stand around in this downpour for much longer.
Without saying any more, the constable gestured for Kelly to follow and led the way through the narrow gap between the rear end of the articulated lorry and the stone wall to the right of the road. Kelly could see now that the big artic’, which he guessed would have been travelling in the same direction from which he had arrived on the scene, had jackknifed and the wheels of the cab were dangling precariously over the ditch on the other side of the moorland road.
Beyond the artic’ Kelly could just make out a figure laying in the middle of the road, limbs sprawled at unnatural angles, and another figure crouched by its side. That was Audley Richards, the pathologist. A third figure was silhouetted against the bright headlights of a parked police car, presumably left on to illuminate the scene. As Kelly and the police constable approached, the third figure, momentarily turned into a giant by the huge shadow he cast across the ground as he moved, strode towards them in an authoritative way.