‘Who’s this, Dave?’ he asked.
‘Name’s John Kelly, says he’s a journalist, Sarge.’
The sergeant, whose long bony face was now brightly lit up down one side, giving him a curiously skeletal appearance, studied Kelly with a complete lack of interest and no recognition, which in Kelly’s case was a mixed blessing. He knew a lot of police officers, but had not necessarily made the acquaintance of all of them in the most desirable of manners. Kelly had had a varied relationship with the police over the years.
‘No press,’ said the sergeant sharply, looking directly at Kelly. ‘The only information you’re going to get is through the press office, mate.’
He turned on his heel, glancing towards the constable as he did so. ‘And you should know that, Dave,’ he finished.
‘I’m not making a press enquiry,’ Kelly interjected swiftly. ‘There’s just a chance I might be able to help. It’s possible that I could have been with your victim earlier, in The Wild Dog.’
‘Really.’ Sergeant Smythe did not sound particularly interested, but he did pause as if considering what might be his next course of action. Then the wail of approaching emergency vehicles, rising above the noise of the wind and rain, demanded his attention. Smythe turned his back on Kelly as a second police car and an ambulance came into sight, sending showers of water into the night air as they pulled to a halt at the accident scene.
The two-man ambulance crew emerged swiftly from their vehicle and, carrying their medical equipment with them in boxes and bags, hurried towards the prostrate figure on the ground, slowing up when confronted by the crouched form of Audley Richards, whose presence indicated much the same to them as it had to Kelly earlier.
With rather less urgency, two officers carrying cases emerged from the police car. SOCOs, thought Kelly. Scenes of Crime Officers, whose attendance was standard procedure nowadays in the case of sudden death, even when there was little or no suggestion of any kind of foul play.
Sergeant Smythe promptly set off to join the various newcomers. ‘You’ll have to wait,’ he called over his shoulder in a rather peremptory tone.
Kelly hunched his inadequately clad shoulders against the rain and did just that. Icy-cold droplets ran down his neck inside his collar. He shivered. One aspect of journalism that he had been looking forward to leaving behind was the waiting. Door-stepping, they called it. Waiting on the outside, looking in, waiting on the off-chance that somebody who knew something might give you a minute of their time, and, in so doing, enough information to make a story. Kelly was too old for door-stepping. Come to think of it, he reckoned he had always been too old for door-stepping. But here he was, at it again. And this time he wasn’t even being paid for it, he grumbled silently to himself.
Eventually, Audley Richards stood up and stepped back from the body on the ground. Then the paramedics, by now looking as if they were quite satisfied that there was nothing they could do to help, began to load the dead man onto a stretcher.
The Home Office pathologist produced a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, removed one with one hand and put it in his mouth, and with his other hand raised an old Zippo lighter to the cigarette’s end. Funny how many doctors smoked, thought Kelly idly. Indeed, doctors were probably leaders of the do what I say, not what I do brigade, he reflected.
The flame of Dr Richards’ lighter flickered uncertainly for just a few seconds before dying out. Two further attempts to light up produced only the same result.
‘Damn,’ muttered Audley Richards, hunching his back against the wind and rain, as he tried to provide some sort of protection from the elements with his body’s bulk.
‘Allow me,’ said Kelly, stepping smartly forward and cupping his hands around the pathologist’s cigarette end.
‘What the fuck are you doing here, Kelly?’ asked the doctor conversationally, his small Hitler-like moustache bristling as he spoke. He and Kelly went back a long way. Kelly respected Audley Richards because of his reputation for professionalism, and was prepared to overlook his perennial grumpiness. Dr Richards, on the other hand, had always made it quite clear to Kelly that he saw no use whatsoever for journalists in general, and that he was particularly incensed merely by Kelly’s presence on earth. This did not, however, prevent him from gratefully taking advantage of the shelter provided by Kelly’s cupped hands in order to finally light up.
‘Just driving by,’ said Kelly. ‘Or trying to.’
Richards grunted around his cigarette, which had finally begun to burn surprisingly well under the circumstances.
‘I think I may know the victim,’ Kelly continued.
‘Poor sod,’ said Audley Richards. Kelly eyed him quizzically. Poor sod because he was dead, or poor sod because he had been unlucky enough even to have met Kelly in passing? Kelly wasn’t at all sure. But while he was still working it out, Sergeant Smythe approached and touched him lightly on one arm.
‘Right, you can have a look now, if you wish.’ Sergeant Smythe turned to the pathologist. ‘Unless you have any objections, Dr Richards? Unorthodox, I know, but the lad doesn’t seem to have any identification papers on him at all, and we do need to find out who he is.’
‘No objections, Sergeant. Nothing more I can do. The whole thing’s perfectly straightforward, if you ask me. One word of warning.’ Audley Richards extended a thumb in the general direction of Kelly. ‘It won’t be if he gets involved.’
‘You know this man, Doctor?’
‘Oh, yes, I know him, Sergeant. Just make sure his coat button isn’t a camera, that’s all.’
The sergeant looked puzzled. Kelly stepped past him before he had time to change his mind and approached the paramedics who were now loading their stretcher into the ambulance.
‘The sergeant says I can have a look,’ he began.
The older of the two paramedics looked towards Sergeant Smythe, who nodded his assent, albeit a little uncertainly.
The body on the stretcher was entirely covered by a blanket. The second paramedic pulled it back, exposing the face of the dead young man.
There didn’t seem to be a mark on him. Kelly had mentally prepared himself for a gruesome sight. But this lad just looked as if he were in a deep sleep. Whatever injuries he had sustained must have been solely to his body. His face remained untouched and Kelly had no problem at all identifying him.
Sergeant Smythe had followed him over to the ambulance. Kelly turned round to face him.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. It is the lad I met in the pub.’
‘Right,’ responded Smythe. ‘You and I had better have a chat then, hadn’t we, Mr Kelly.’
He led Kelly over to his patrol car and gestured to one of the paramedics to follow them. The interior light snapped on as the sergeant opened the nearside rear passenger door. There was already a man sitting in the back seat, and Kelly registered at once that this must be the lorry driver. He had a wide, plumpish face, etched with laughter lines around his eyes and mouth, indicating that he was probably a jovial good-humoured sort. At that moment, however, he appeared anything but jovial. His skin was so pale it looked almost as if all the blood had been drained from him, his eyes were red-rimmed and bright with shock, and he was trembling.
‘OK, mate,’ said the sergeant quite gently. ‘The ambulance boys are going to look after you now. All right?’