I bet they did, thought Karen. She had never heard of an inquiry anything like the one Parker-Brown had referred to, and she rather suspected that it had probably been set up within the last twenty-four hours. In as much as it existed at all. Aloud, she said:
‘I see. None the less, Colonel, I am the senior officer in charge of this investigation here in Devon, and I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you to go through that statement again, right away, with myself and PC Turner, and to answer any additional questions we may have. So perhaps you would invite us in, please.’
Parker-Brown did not move an inch from the doorway. As so often with him, she now realised, his face and eyes were giving nothing away.
‘I’m so sorry, Detective Superintendent. I have been instructed by my superiors at the MoD to give no further interviews to the police. It is felt that I have already fulfilled my every obligation.’
‘I’m afraid I do not agree with that, Colonel, and I must insist.’ Karen struggled to keep her voice calm. She was absolutely furious.
‘Oh. Are you planning to arrest me, Detective Superintendent?’
Parker-Brown was so cool that Karen wanted to slap him.
‘Not at this moment. No.’
‘In that case, Detective Superintendent, I am sure you will forgive me if I prefer to follow the orders of my superiors.’
Karen stared at him for several seconds. If she had thought there was any way she could have got away with it, she really would have hit him. She was trapped and she knew it. Gesturing to Turner to accompany her, she turned on her heel and began to walk away from the house.
‘Do not think this is the end of the matter,’ she commented rather lamely, she thought, over her shoulder. ‘We will be back.’
‘I look forward to it,’ he responded, his manner teasing, his voice displaying more than a touch of arrogance, she reckoned.
It was too much for her.
As Turner stepped into their squad car, Karen returned to Parker-Brown, who had not moved from his position in the doorway of his home.
‘I met your wife,’ she told him quietly.
‘Ah,’ he said. She waited to see if he would make any further comment. He didn’t.
‘Why?’ she asked.
He understood what she meant at once.
‘I didn’t think you’d have anything to do with me if you thought I was married.’
He could have no idea, of course, how ironic she found that remark. He didn’t know about Phil Cooper. Married men, unfortunately, had not always been off her agenda. Congenital liars were.
‘You’re a grade A bastard in every direction of life, Gerry,’ she told him, her eyes blazing with anger. ‘And I am going to get you, I promise.’
He said nothing, but she thought there may have been the merest flicker of concern in those strangely feminine brown eyes. And with this man, she thought, as she turned away from him again, even that was a result.
Kelly stayed in the armchair in the window for the rest of that day and the whole of the night, going over and over everything in his mind.
There had been a total of six sudden deaths of young soldiers stationed at Hangridge: Trevor Parsons, Jocelyn Slade, Craig Foster, James Gates, Alan Connelly and Robert Morgan.
Parsons’ death, it seemed, could well have been a genuine suicide after all. Jocelyn Slade and Craig Foster had, according to Nick, both been murdered by the monstrous and mysterious Irishman. James Gates’ death remained unexplained, although Kelly strongly suspected he had been murdered too, probably on the instructions of Parker-Brown. Connelly had almost certainly been dispatched by the Irishman and Parker-Brown. And Nick’s silence when his father had accused him of killing Morgan made Kelly quite certain that he was guilty of that final murder.
It was mind-blowing. Kelly felt sick. He sat staring into space, desperately trying to come to terms with it all. The phone rang several more times but he continued to ignore it.
He did not sleep properly all night, only occasionally dozing fitfully.
In the morning, still feeling nauseous, he decided to check his messages, even though it was highly unlikely that he would do anything about them.
There were several from Margaret Slade.
‘John, things are really starting to happen. We’re planning to do our bit, too, just to make sure this investigation doesn’t get swept under the carpet as well. We’re going to march on parliament at the end of the week and we want to publicise that. We also want to announce that we are calling for a full public inquiry. The papers already know there’s something up. People talk, don’t they? Neil Connelly has apparently told his local rag in Scotland that he now thinks his son was murdered and that he might not be the only one. I’ve had the Sun, the Mail, the Mirror and the Guardian on to me already and so far I’ve stalled, because I need to know what you are planning. Please call me.’
‘John, where are you? I think I’ve now had every paper in the country on the phone. They’re all champing at the bit. John, it has to be time to make our move.’
‘John. Please call me.’
‘John. If I don’t hear from you tonight, I’m going to try to handle everything myself. I’m going to have to start giving interviews.’
Kelly stared blankly at the machine. He knew he should call Margaret Slade back. She didn’t deserve to be suddenly abandoned. He just didn’t feel able to do so. He couldn’t tell her any of what he had learned. Not yet. But worse than that, unless he did something, unless he did tell Karen Meadows all that Nick had told him, unless he shopped his only son, he had a dreadful feeling the truth was never going to come out — even if the families did force a public inquiry.
There were also several messages from Karen Meadows.
‘I do hope you’re there, Kelly. I heard from uniform that you did a disappearing act. Will you please pick up the phone. I still need you on the case. You’d never believe the wall that the army are building round this little lot. One thing is certain, this investigation is only just beginning.’
The final call was from Jennifer.
‘I’ve also left a message on your mobile, John. I thought you were planning to come over? I’ve got some news.’
He switched off the answering machine, pulled the telephone socket out of the wall, and sat staring into space for several minutes. Eventually, he went up to the bathroom and removed the packet of Nurofen he always kept in the cabinet. Then he went downstairs and raided the cupboard in the kitchen, where he kept the rest of whatever other medical supplies he had. There was some paracetamol, some more Nurofen, and, best of all, a three-quarters-full bottle of sleeping pills that had been prescribed for Moira when she had first begun to feel ill. And the remains of the blockbuster painkillers, which the police doctor had supplied him with, were still in his jacket pocket. He piled the lot of them into the wicker basket on the worktop which Moira had used for bread. Then he went to the other cupboard in the kitchen, which served as a bar. Kelly knew that an alcoholic who can only refrain from drinking by avoiding all contact with alcohol was unlikely to succeed in his aim, and he had, so far at least, not been tempted to start drinking again simply because he kept alcohol in the house. He had always felt that visitors to his home should not be deprived of alcohol, just because he was no longer able to drink without destroying himself. He rummaged through the contents of the cupboard and at the back found an unopened bottle of Glenmorangie, which, ironically enough, was Nick’s favourite malt whisky. And when Kelly had been a drinker, it had been his favourite too.