No Reason To Die (26 page)

‘Hello, Nick.’

‘How are you doing, Dad?’

‘Oh, you know. About how you’d expect, I suppose.’

Nick merely nodded and leaned against the wall alongside his father. For at least a minute they smoked together in companionable silence. Nick finished his cigarette first, threw the butt on the ground, pressed it into the concrete, then took the packet from his pocket and withdrew another one. When he had lit up, he passed the pack to his father who was now reaching the end of his roll-up. Kelly gratefully took one of the ready-made sort for a change, and lit it from his roll-up’s glowing end.

‘Not given up, then?’ queried Nick with a smile.

‘No bloody fear,’ said Kelly. ‘Anyway, you’re supposed to be the fit one.’

He glanced towards his son, who still looked every bit as much in shape as he had done during his time in the army.

Nick grinned, flashing even white teeth. He really
was a handsome bugger, thought Kelly, reflecting that he certainly didn’t get his looks from his father.

‘There is a limit,’ said Nick. He stopped grinning and glanced at his father appraisingly.

‘You sure you’re OK, Dad?’

‘Oh, yeah. Course I am.’

There was so much Kelly would like to say to Nick. He would like to tell him how much it meant to have his only son there that day, and, indeed, how much it meant to him to have found again this young man whose childhood he had almost totally missed, both when he was still married to Nick’s mother, because he had been too busy playing newspapers – and playing around with other women too, if he was honest – and then later, after his marriage had ended, because he dared not look back. And he was so grateful to Nick for seeking him out after years of estrangement and making it so clear that he wanted to build a new relationship with him. The two men were now closer, Kelly sometimes thought, than many fathers and sons who had never had to deal with the disruption of families torn apart and trust destroyed. And Kelly couldn’t believe his luck.

He thought Nick understood what he felt, but he was much the same with his son as he had been with his partner. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Nick all that. Not properly, anyway. And neither could he bring himself to talk about Moira and just how totally devastated he felt. He had lost his greatest supporter, his rock, and he couldn’t tell anyone how it felt, how it really felt, not even Nick.

‘Perhaps you might like to come up to London and stay for a couple of days, in a week or two’s time, maybe,’ Nick began. ‘We could take the Aston out for
a proper test run somewhere. I’m sure you’d like to put her through her paces.’

Kelly smiled. He didn’t think Nick had any idea quite how proud his father was of him. Kelly not only liked and respected Nick, but also admired him for the success he had made of his life, both as a career soldier and now as a business and IT consultant, even though he had never understood exactly what Nick did, except that his son was frequently employed by government departments and that his areas of expertise, particularly involving computers, came directly from his army training. Armies no long marched on their stomachs, but on their keyboards, Nick had once told him. And the secret of success in the modern world was to be multi-skilled, his son also maintained.

Kelly did understand that Nick’s work earned him bucketloads of money. He had actually helped Nick choose that special Aston he had only recently acquired, and the prospect of driving the Aston, coupled with the delight he always found in sharing Nick’s company, would normally have caused Kelly to become boyishly excited. But that day he could manage little enthusiasm.

‘Thanks, lad, I’ll see,’ he said.

As ever, Nick seemed to understand his feelings absolutely.

‘Of course, Dad,’ he said. ‘You’ve got other things on your mind today. I’ll call you from London. It’s just that, well, I wanted you to know the offer was there, because I’m afraid I have to leave to drive back to town very soon. I’m really sorry, Dad. I had been hoping to stay over, at least for tonight, but I’m in the middle of this big project. I have to be at a meeting in
the City first thing tomorrow morning and I just couldn’t alter it.’

‘That’s all right son, don’t worry about it. I do understand. I’m just so grateful to you for coming all this way, and I know Moira would have been too.’

‘I couldn’t do any other,’ said Nick simply.

‘I know.’ Kelly studied him for a moment, so together and capable. Then, before he had really considered what he was going to say, he began to speak again.

‘It’s a pity, though, because there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.’

Nick’s eyes softened. Kelly realised at once that his son thought he wanted to touch on those areas he usually avoided, to talk about something concerning Moira, or maybe even about him. What Kelly actually wanted to talk about was Hangridge. Nick was a military man through and through, an ex-soldier who still had plenty of military contacts. He might be able to help considerably. After all, he had been at the cutting edge of the army and had even served with the SAS, possibly the most elite fighting regiment in the world.

Kelly reckoned that Nick might be able to shed all kinds of light on what could have been happening at the Dartmoor barracks. He was more than a little surprised at himself, however, for allowing his thoughts to wander along that road on the day of Moira’s funeral. And he had the grace to feel ashamed. He hadn’t intended to do this today, but now that the thought had suddenly shot into his mind, demanding his immediate attention, he couldn’t quite stop himself, and he was about to launch into an account of the Hangridge affair and to start asking his son
questions, when he was interrupted by Jennifer.

‘John, Nick, will you come in?’ she began. ‘We thought we’d ask anyone who wanted to share their memories of Mum to say a few words. John, we wondered if you’d like to start?’

‘Of course,’ said Kelly automatically, even though his mind had immediately gone a complete blank.

He tossed his second cigarette onto the ground, and Nick did the same. He turned in silence to follow Jennifer, but Nick placed a big hand on his shoulder, momentarily restraining him.

‘Look, Dad, I don’t have to go straight away,’ he said gently. ‘I can stay at least another hour, maybe two. We can talk later.’

Kelly felt even more ashamed. He knew that to attempt to talk to Nick about Hangridge that day would be quite wrong, and he could hardly believe he had been about to do so. Nick, who was being so kind and considerate, and obviously making himself ready to hear emotional outpourings from his father, would be more than a little shocked to learn what had been going on in his father’s head on such a day.

‘Thanks, son, you’re a good man,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think this is the time or the place.’

Nick did not even slacken his grip on his father’s shoulder. My God, he had strong hands, Kelly thought obliquely.

‘It’s all right to talk, you know, Dad,’ said Nick, and in stark contrast to the steel in his fingers his voice was very soft.

Kelly really did feel embarrassed then. Sometimes he wondered what was wrong with himself. He was genuinely overwhelmed with grief for a woman he really had loved, in his way, probably more than
anyone else in his life, except his son, and yet Hangridge, his latest obsession, had, albeit briefly, taken over his head again.

He managed a small smile, one which he hoped was both appreciative and vaguely reassuring.

‘Maybe when I come to visit you in London, OK?’ he said.

Kelly went to bed very late, and even then he couldn’t sleep. He lay tossing and turning for what seemed like an eternity, until he could stand it no more. Wearily he dragged himself out of bed and set off for the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. On the way downstairs, he glanced at his watch. It was almost exactly 3.30 a.m.

His head ached and he really didn’t think that was fair. After all, he was probably the only person at yesterday’s wake who hadn’t had an alcoholic drink. He felt totally disorientated and very ill at ease. Even though Moira had not been spending most of her time in his home for several months, the knowledge that she was there, with her family, just a couple of streets away, had seemed to make things all right. And, in spite of her being so dreadfully ill, maybe he had been half conning himself that one day she would return and everything would be back to normal. But now he knew she wasn’t coming back. He felt empty. Bereft. Even the house felt different. Almost as if it had lost its soul.

While the kettle boiled, he rummaged in the kitchen cupboard where he kept the bulk of what passed for his medical supplies, and eventually found a packet of Nurofen with three pills left in it. He pushed two of the capsules through their silver-foil container and swallowed them dry, then he removed the third and swallowed that too.

To hell with it, he thought dejectedly. His head was throbbing for England.

He made the tea, ladled in the usual three spoonfuls of sugar and then headed for his favourite armchair in the living room, where he sat down and switched on the TV. His head began to ease a little as he drank the tea. An old episode of
Columbo
was being screened on Plus. Watching anything was better than struggling to sleep; in any case he rather liked the crumpled San Francisco detective, and fervently wished that real-life investigators were able to come up with such neat endings so easily.

The last thing Kelly remembered was that Columbo was about to explain to the villain exactly how and why he was guilty of murder. Then he must have fallen asleep, and so would probably never know the denouement. He woke with a start. The phone was ringing. Immediately, he felt the familiar stab of panic which he had been experiencing for some weeks whenever the phone rang at an antisocial time. Moira. Had something happened to Moira? Then he remembered. Something had happened to Moira, all right. She was dead. That period of his life was over, and so was the constant, nagging anxiety that had recently been the major part of it. His eyes felt sore, but he registered that he no longer had a headache. He had not closed the curtains the previous night, and bright morning light was streaming into the east-facing room. However, that alone had not been enough to wake him. Automatically, he glanced at his watch. It was 7.45 a.m. Why did he seem able, even under the most stressful circumstances, to sleep in a chair when he couldn’t do so in his own bed, he reflected obliquely as he reached for the phone. And,
anyway, who the hell could be calling him at this time?

‘Kelly,’ he said abruptly.

‘John, sorry if I’m calling you too early, it’s just that I thought you might be leaving for work and I didn’t want to miss you.’

Kelly didn’t go to work any more, not in the way implied, and he had absolutely no idea who his caller was. It was a woman’s voice – clear, intelligent and somehow rather determined-sounding. There was something vaguely familiar about the voice, but not enough for Kelly to come close to identifying it.

‘It’s Margaret Slade.’

Jesus, thought Kelly, she sounded a bit different to how she had been when he’d visited her in her sad little flat.

‘Oh, hello,’ he said.

‘I just wondered if you’d managed to find out anything more about that other young soldier I told you about. The one called Trevor, the one I was told had also died at Hangridge.’

‘Ah, no, not yet.’ Kelly had made no further inquiries concerning Hangridge since Moira’s death, and wasn’t at all sure when he’d feel able to do so again. He had felt so crass when he had almost started cross-examining Nick the previous day, that it had rather put him off the whole thing. But, naturally, he had no intention of sharing that with Margaret Slade.

‘I’ve been a bit busy,’ he finished lamely.

‘Oh,’ Margaret Slade sounded disappointed. ‘Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry I bothered you. I just thought …’

Her voice tailed off. She sounded more than disappointed. She sounded thoroughly let down. He
knew exactly what she thought. Kelly had bounced in, full of confidence, appearing to be both capable and informed, and she had thought that he was committed to investigating the death of her daughter and the others. What he probably hadn’t realised, based on that one meeting with her drunk out of her skull, was how much she still cared.

‘No, no. It’s not how it seems. Look …’

He considered for just a split second. He found he did not want to let this woman down, neither did he want to let down her daughter nor any of the other young people whose lives had been lost at Hangridge.

‘Look,’ he said again. ‘My partner died right after I left you last week. It was the funeral yesterday. We’d been expecting it. She was very ill, but even so …’

He stopped and took a very deep breath. Margaret Slade, he thought, would have absolutely no idea what it cost Kelly to confide even as little as that to a total stranger. Somewhat to his surprise, however, he was immediately rather glad that he had done so.

‘I’m so sorry, John,’ said Mrs Slade, and her voice alone told him that she really meant it, even though she barely knew him and had not known Moira at all. But, of course, this was a woman who understood about grief and despair.

‘And I’m so sorry for intruding at this sad time,’ she went on, in a strangely formal sort of way. But then, thought Kelly, it is to the traditional and to the formal that we all cling in our grief. And, again, Margaret Slade would know about that.

‘I’ll call again in a week or two, if that’s all right.’

‘No, don’t go, Margaret.’ It seemed quite natural that they were now on Christian-name terms. ‘Please. I’m fine, honestly.’

‘If you’re sure?’

‘Absolutely sure. It will help me to think about something else.’

‘Yes.’ Only one word, but again Kelly was aware that Margaret Slade understood. ‘It’s just that, well, I’ve been in touch with Marcia Foster, Craig’s mother. I found the letter she wrote after my Jossy died. I kept everything, you know. Put it all in a box. Anyway, we’ve decided we want to do something. We want all the families to get together, to form an organisation. An action group, I think they call it. I was hoping you might give me Alan Connelly’s parents’ address.’