In addition there was just a chance, in spite of Kelly’s conviction otherwise, that there might be some evidence gleaned from the Babbacombe crime scene, or at least some meaningful forensic evidence gathered from Kelly’s clothing.
She already knew that the doctor had found some tiny fragments of what appeared to be alien skin in Kelly’s teeth, but it would be several days before she would receive a DNA profile from the scraps of skin, and even then, unless Kelly’s attacker had a criminal record, it would not be much use to her without a suspect to compare the DNA with. And whatever part Gerrard Parker-Brown may or may not have played in the deaths of Hangridge soldiers, it appeared that he could not have been guilty of attacking Kelly. Not personally, anyway.
There were other lines of inquiry to be followed up. She managed to acquire a photograph of Parker-Brown from the chief constable’s commendations ceremony the previous year, and dispatched an officer to The Wild Dog to see if the landlord might also be able to identify him as having visited the pub on the night that Alan Connelly died.
Then she spent the rest of the day making sure that she was up to speed on every development, while at the same time sending off teams of detectives to interview the families of the various dead soldiers. In cases where the families lived out of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary’s area, in particular Alan Connelly’s family in Scotland, Jimmy Gates’ brother, Colin, in London and Jocelyn Slade’s mother in Reading, she liaised with the various regional forces so that statements could be taken as soon as possible by officers already on the spot.
She also rang Phil Cooper and suggested that they stage a joint blitz on Hangridge the following morning, by which time, hopefully, several other lines of inquiry would have been followed up.
‘I suggest we get there early, about seven a.m., and hopefully take them by surprise,’ she told him. ‘And we’ll go mob-handed, Phil. I don’t know quite how you put the fear of God into the arrogant, bloody British army, but let’s give it a damned good try, shall we?’
‘Yes, boss.’ Cooper’s response was short and sweet. He really was a good man to have on your side, and she was glad that she was no longer troubled by confusing personal feelings about him.
‘You and I will confront Parker-Brown first of all, and then we will systematically work through the whole damn camp, if necessary,’ she continued. ‘The place is no doubt a hotbed of gossip, and I intend to make the most of that. It must be full of people in the know. And I want to know what they know, even if we have to talk to the lot of them.’
‘Yes, boss.’ No nonsense. No arguing.
She ended the call swiftly, as soon as she had said all she needed to. There was still a lot of work to be done that day. Then she had to make sure she got a good night’s sleep, in order to be fresh for that early-morning confrontation with the commanding officer of the Devonshire Fusiliers.
And for once in her life she couldn’t wait for dawn to break.
Kelly knew that he should phone Margaret Slade to keep her in touch with developments. Or at least those developments which he was prepared to share with her. But somehow he just didn’t seem to have the heart or the energy to do it.
He still didn’t feel at all well. There was something he desperately wanted to do, something which involved a long journey, and he still didn’t feel capable of driving, or indeed embarking on a journey of any kind, by any mode of transport.
He decided that he may as well return to bed and was just about to make a move, when his phone rang again. He checked the display panel and saw that this time his caller was Margaret Slade. He still didn’t want to speak to her, but reckoned he owed her that much, at least. She sounded extremely excited.
‘John, I’ve had two local CID round, sent on behalf of your mob down in Devon, apparently. They wanted to know everything about my Jossy and how she died and about what people said to me at her funeral, absolutely everything. They’ve launched a full-scale police investigation. Isn’t that great, Kelly? Isn’t that great?’
Kelly was so preoccupied, and so worried by his preoccupation, that he just couldn’t keep up with her enthusiasm.
‘It certainly is, Margaret,’ he said eventually, as warmly as he could, ‘It certainly is.’
‘Yes, it’s a real result,’ she went on. ‘They also told me about that other soldier who’s been killed in London. I’m dreadfully sorry for him and his family, of course, but it’s another reason why the authorities can’t pretend any more that there isn’t something very wrong at Hangridge. And we haven’t even had to use our people power yet. You must have really stirred things up, John, you really must have.’
‘Yes, I think you can say that safely enough,’ responded Kelly, with absolute honesty.
‘So, what should we do? You must be itching to get some stories into the press. It speaks for itself now, doesn’t it? Devon and Cornwall police yesterday launched a major inquiry into the suspicious deaths of a number of soldiers, all stationed at Hangridge barracks, HQ of the Devonshire Fusiliers. It writes itself. I think even I could do it.’
‘I think you could too,’ said Kelly, managing a small smile. She was right. The story would write itself. But at that moment, possibly for the first time in his life when confronted with such a thoroughly cracking yarn, Kelly couldn’t bring himself to write it.
‘But I still think we should hold off on the publicity front,’ he continued, sounding pretty pathetic, he thought. ‘Let’s see what the next few days bring, eh? We don’t want to screw things up after such a grand start, do we?’
‘Well, OK, if you say so.’ Margaret Slade sounded both disappointed and surprised. Kelly understood that. He supposed it must be a little surprising to listen to a journalist trying to justify why he didn’t want to publish a story.
‘But the whole thing could break at any moment now, couldn’t it?’ she continued. ‘I thought you’d want to make sure you got your story in first. After all, you’ve done a good job for us, John, really you have.’
‘Thank you very much. But I still think we should hold back for a day or two.’
‘Right.’
Margaret Slade rang off sounding much less excited and somewhat bewildered. Kelly’s head was swimming again, and still aching for England. He was relieved that Margaret hadn’t asked him if he knew of any fresh developments, other than the murder of Robert Morgan, because he didn’t want to go into all that with her. Not at the moment, anyway.
He made his way into the bedroom and took two more of the police doctor’s blockbuster painkillers. He couldn’t even think straight, and he certainly could take no action of any kind until he felt a whole lot better. But he hadn’t wanted to discuss any of that with Margaret Slade, either. There were, in fact, a number of aspects to this investigation that he intended to keep entirely to himself — at least until he was able to draw some conclusions of his own. And he thought that the only constructive thing he could do was to crash out again and hope that he woke up considerably recovered.
He checked his watch. It was nearly five o’clock now. Time for bed again, he thought. His beleaguered brain was buzzing and once more he did not think he would sleep easily. Yet, within seconds he was deeply asleep.
Karen was not so fortunate. In spite of being exhausted, and in spite of her determination to be rested for her early-morning raid on Hangridge, when she finally went to bed just before 11 p.m., she was barely able to sleep at all. She had arranged to meet the three officers she had decided to take with her out to the barracks, Detective Sergeant Chris Tompkins, Detective Constable Janet Farnsby, and Micky Turner, a young uniformed constable, at the station at 5.30 a.m., but she actually got there herself before five. She really hadn’t been able to wait.