No Reason To Die

by Hilary Bonner

  In the taxi on the way back into the city centre, he reflected further. He ought to hightail it home and throw himself one hundred per cent into what passed for his work. Indeed, if he didn’t do so, he dreaded to think what the future was likely to hold for him. He had taken a big gamble when he had decided to throw in his job at the Argus and take his chance as a novelist. And so far it was a gamble that didn’t seem to be paying off.

  He checked his watch. It was almost 10.30 p.m. He could not, however, go home that night – unless he took the sleeper, which he couldn’t afford. Kelly reckoned he had been quite extravagant enough for one day. When he had finished the great novel and flogged it to a leading publisher for a cool half-million or so, everything would be different. Well, a man could dream. Only Kelly’s dream was becoming less and less likely to become reality with every day that passed.

  He booked into a cheap, downmarket but fairly clean-looking bed and breakfast establishment, about all he deserved, he thought, as he sat on the small divan bed with its once-white plastic headboard, and reflected on just how much he would like to visit the pub next door and have a real drink. No. Not a drink. Kelly would actually rather have liked to get blind drunk. The only problem was that he knew for certain, from thoroughly unpleasant past experience, that if he went out and got drunk that night, indeed if he went out and had just one alcoholic drink that night, then the next day he would do it again. And the next day. And the day after.

  He settled for fish and chips from the still-open chippy he had noticed across the street, and, back in his room, tucked into the greasy contents of his paper-wrapped parcel which, as ever, smelled far more appetising than it tasted. He whiled away the rest of the evening watching repeats of old favourites like Columbo on Plus and Absolutely Fabulous on UK Gold. He congratulated himself on at least having managed to find a b & b with digital satellite TV. One way and another, Kelly, what with his near-addiction to computer games as well as spending more and more time, both day and night, watching TV, was in danger of growing square eyes, he reckoned.

  It was gone midnight before he finally switched off the television. And he only did so then, because The Vicar of Dibley came on Gold after Ab Fab, and it reminded him of Moira and that he had yet again failed to contact her. It was too late now, and he had not even told her he was going away. In addition, if either she or the girls had tried to call him on his mobile, they would have found that it been switched off all day. It remained switched off. Kelly did not like, any more, having his life interrupted by something in his pocket ringing – even if he did find it difficult to recall what his life was exactly, at that point in time. And he knew he was playing an unpleasant sort of Russian roulette by not ensuring that Moira or the girls could always contact him, but there was no point, in even checking his messages now, he told himself, as he could do nothing constructive about anything until the morning.

  He stripped off his clothes, crawled into the narrow bed and lay there awake for at least another couple of hours contemplating the mess he yet again seemed to be making of his life, and wondering what on earth had possessed him to travel the length of England on an off-chance, before finally, weighed down with his own inadequacies and troubled as ever by nagging guilt, he fell into a fitful sleep.

  In the morning he woke feeling fresh enough, in spite of everything, which was one advantage, possibly the only advantage Kelly reckoned on a bad day, of not drinking.

  He caught the first direct train to Newton Abbot, and once aboard, correctly seated in a second-class compartment this time, he tried not to think about Hangridge and the untimely death of Fusilier Connelly. It was, however, an extremely long journey back to Newton Abbot, even if this time the trip were to pass without any massive delay-causing incidents at all.

  Kelly tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come. Once upon a time he would have wandered along to the buffet bar and downed a few large Scotches. That would have solved the problem. As it was, the prospect of yet another pint of Diet Coke left him cold.

  He had bought several newspapers at the station and he made himself read them from cover to cover, even though he found them unusually uninteresting that day. He held out until just past Birmingham.

  Then he switched on his mobile to make a call. Just the one call, he promised himself. He did not have any kind of address for Craig Foster, and he did not think he ought to push his luck with George Salt. So he decided that he would make one quick call to the Evening Argus, and ask Sally, the editor’s secretary, with whom he had always had a good jokey relationship, to check out Craig Foster in the paper’s cuttings library. He had no idea where Craig Foster came from – although he did hope that his home would turn out to be somewhere in the west rather than at the other end of the country – or how long he had been stationed at Hangridge. But Karen had said there had been stories written about the young man’s death, and, at the very least, the Argus should have an inquest report on record.

  Just as he started to dial the number, his mobile called him with a message from the previous day. It was Moira’s daughter Jennifer, yet again wanting to know where he was. He promised himself he would phone to apologise as soon as he had made that call to the Argus.

  Sally seemed genuinely pleased to hear from him.

  ‘So, how are you, you old bugger,’ she asked affectionately. Sally was a genuine Devon maid, born and bred in the South Hams, and, like all true Devonians, was inclined to use the word ‘bugger’ as a term of endearment.

  Kelly had also been born and brought up in Devon, in Torquay, and he knew the form well enough, though he had often been amused by the reactions of foreigners.

  ‘I’m fine, me lover,’ he responded warmly. ‘All the better for hearing your voice.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, me dear,’ replied Sally sweetly. ‘So, what do you want?’

  ‘How do you know I want anything, me ’andsome?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve always been able to read your mind, you bugger,’ remarked Sally pleasantly. ‘In any case, leopards don’t change their spots. And, by the way, Kelly, I’ve got the afternoon off, so if you don’t spit it out smartish you won’t be getting it, whatever it is.’

  Kelly grinned. He told her then about Craig Foster.

  ‘As well as looking for him by name, you could try any cuts on the Devonshire Fusiliers, and Hangridge, too. It’s some sort of address I’m after, most of all, or at least a town or a district. I do know there were stories, and there’s bound to have been an inquest report, but goodness knows whether it would all have been filed or not, the way the library’s been run down …’

  They exchanged a few mutually comforting grumbles about how comprehensive the Argus’ cuttings library had once been, and how, like most newspaper libraries, the culling of staff combined with switching to a computer database, without first loading it with back information, had caused standards to drop alarmingly. In spite of all that, Sally agreed to do the check as soon as she could and promised to call Kelly back when she had done so.

  He settled into his seat. The sun was shining directly into his side of the train, which this time was mercifully only half full, and he suddenly felt extremely warm and comfortable. He would call Moira later, he decided, when he was a little nearer home. Within minutes the warmth and the gentle rocking movement of the train, combined perhaps with the satisfaction of having put something in motion, had lulled him off to sleep. And he woke with a start when his mobile rang half an hour or so later.

  ‘I’ve found a few bits, Kelly,’ came Sally’s voice over the air waves. ‘A page lead, back of the book, when Craig Foster died, the inquest report like you said, and a death notice. You’re lucky. Deaths, marriages, and births, they still cut all of those. And he was a local lad, it seems—’

  ‘That’s great,’ interjected Kelly excitedly. Death notices almost always gave full personal details including at least partial addresses. He loved getting a result like that, wherever it might lead, always had done. ‘Will you read it to me.’

/>   ‘Foster, Fusilier Craig Anthony. Aged seventeen. Much loved only son of Phillip and Marcia Foster, of Grange Road, Babbacombe, Torquay. Killed in a military training accident. May 10th. Already greatly missed.’

  A local lad and an address as well. Kelly could not have hoped for a better result. He told himself that this was fate, that he was destined to continue with his inquiries, at least until the next stage.

  ‘Thanks a million, Sal,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe you managed to find a death notice. That’s bloody brilliant.’

  ‘Yes, well, the computer system is actually extremely efficient, as long as the information has been pumped into it, you can always get it out easily enough,’ said Sally. ‘The problem is it can only tell you what somebody has already told it, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Ah, but nobody knows how to work the system better than you, Sal,’ responded Kelly.

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, shall I?’

  ‘Please do. It was meant as one. Well, very nearly …’

  ‘If I were you Kelly, I’d quit while you’re ahead.’

  ‘I will. And thanks again, Sal.’

  ‘Right. Do you want me to fax you the inquest report and the other story?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ He gave her his fax number.

  ‘I owe you one, Sal, I really do,’ he said.

  ‘One? You owe me one? I’ll send you an invoice, shall I?’

  ‘Yeah, if you like, but you know better than most what I’m like at paper work …’

  She was chuckling as he said a genuinely fond goodbye and ended the call. Sally, and the familiar banter between them, was one of the aspects of newspaper life which Kelly sorely missed. But there were even more which he was extremely glad to see the back of, he reminded himself.

  He dialled directory enquiries. He knew, of course, that the service did not give out addresses. It was, however, an easy enough trick to ask for a P. Foster and pick a street number at random. Kelly asked for a P. Foster at number 7 Grange Road.

  The reply came automatically, just as Kelly had hoped it would. ‘I have a P. Foster at number 16, sir.’

  Another result. Kelly switched off his phone, settled back into his seat, and within minutes was once more asleep.

  He arrived back at Newton Abbot at around twenty past five, only a few minutes behind schedule. A miracle, he thought. With a bit of luck he could be at Babbacombe by around six, even in the rush-hour traffic, and he decided to go for it. Indeed, the truth was that he just couldn’t resist.

  He had automatically decided on the same surprise approach. It meant going in cold, but as an old Fleet Street hand Kelly knew well enough that the advantages of so doing almost always outweighed the disadvantages.

  The traffic was reasonably light, with the bulk of it heading out of Torquay towards him as he made his way along the A380 through Kingskerswell and swung a left by the hospital out towards Babbacombe, which lay on the north side of the town, just a little nearer to Torquay town centre than his own district of St Marychurch.

  Grange Road was a neat street of small pre-war semis in the heart of Babbacombe village, set back from the seafront. The whole area was in stark contrast to Belle View. Almost every house had a tidily manicured front garden and fresh paintwork.

  It was already dark, and a reproduction Victorian carriage lamp attached to the wall next to the front door of number 16 caused Kelly to blink very rapidly. It shone directly into his eyes as he stood on the doorstep. He glanced over his shoulder. The street was very quiet. Yet again he had that feeling of being an intruder. Yet again he conquered any such misgivings, with the alacrity which came with years of experience as a professional intruder into other people’s lives.

  There was no doorbell. Instead, a brass ring doorknocker gleamed in the centre of the white painted door. However, Kelly did not need to use it. The door opened even before he had raised his right hand to the brass ring.

  Before him stood a very thin, slightly unwell-looking woman, with unnaturally dark hair, dressed entirely in black from head to foot.

  ‘Mr Stiles?’ she enquired at once.

  ‘Uh, no,’ said Kelly hesitantly. He started to introduce himself.

  ‘I’m—’

  ‘But you are from Stiles & Merchant?’ she interrupted swiftly.

  ‘Uh, no,’ Kelly repeated.

  ‘Oh.’ She looked puzzled.

  ‘The undertakers,’ she said, as if prompting him. ‘Aren’t you from the undertakers? I’ve been waiting all afternoon …’

  It was Kelly’s turn to look puzzled. Craig Foster had died more than six months ago, according to both Gerry Parker-Brown and the death notice in the Argus. Kelly didn’t quite know what to say, so he merely shook his head.

  ‘Oh,’ the woman said again. ‘I was expecting the undertakers …’

  Her voice trailed away.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Kelly, making a conscious effort to regain both his brain and his voice. ‘I didn’t realise there had been a recent bereavement here. I wouldn’t have come—’

  She interrupted him then, staring at him curiously.

  ‘Who are you, then? And what do you want?’

  ‘I came about Craig. Your son. I’m so sorry. I’ll come back another day.’

  She stared a little longer, looking uncertain at first, and then appeared to make a decision.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t go. Not if it’s anything about Craig. Phillip wouldn’t want that. I know he wouldn’t. Please come in.’

  Kelly was even more puzzled.

  ‘I-I don’t want to intrude,’ he stumbled. He did, of course, but he didn’t want to risk messing up the one and only opportunity he would probably have to get through to this woman.

  ‘No, we’ve been wanting you to come,’ she said, and opened the door wide for him to enter.

  He did so at once. He realised that Mrs Foster must have mistaken him for someone else, but naturally he couldn’t resist the invitation.

  She led him into a small tidy kitchen and gestured for him to sit down at a very shiny, new, pine table. A black and white spaniel curled up on the mat by the back door, opened one eye and closed it again. Some house dog, thought Kelly, as he accepted Mrs Foster’s offer of a cup of tea.

  She poured from a teapot already on the table. The tea was a deep brown in colour, and Kelly could feel from the temperature of the mug she passed to him that it was only just warm. He reached for the sugar bowl and helped himself to four spoonfuls to be on the safe side, rather than his usual three. But the cool tea still tasted unpleasantly bitter and Kelly had to force himself to drink it.

  ‘So, what have you come to tell us?’ enquired Mrs Foster, and she sounded quite accusative.

  ‘I was rather hoping you may have something to tell me,’ responded Kelly.

  She looked annoyed then.

  ‘My husband spent the last six months of his life writing letters. All he wanted was to know exactly what happened to our Craig. That wasn’t much to ask, surely? So far, we’ve not heard a word from the army since the first couple of weeks. And even then we got short shrift. My Phillip didn’t want to make trouble, he wasn’t that sort of man. He just wanted information, that’s all. Somebody to talk to him properly.’ Her voice softened. ‘He worshipped our Craig, honestly, he did.’

  Kelly thought quickly. Mrs Foster’s attitude seemed very different to that of Neil Connelly, but, of course, six months later, she would at least have got over the initial shock of her son’s death. He decided that he would almost certainly achieve more from this meeting if he was absolutely honest from the start.

  ‘Mrs Foster, I’m not from the army,’ he said.

  ‘Not from the army?’ Now, she looked more than puzzled. She looked alarmed. Kelly felt slightly guilty about even being in her home. But he had no intention of stopping.

  ‘No, Mrs Foster.’ He appraised the woman sitting opposite him. She looked drawn and worn out, as if life had dealt her one blow too many. Her eyes wer
e dull. Kelly took a deep breath and started talking.

  ‘Mrs Foster, I came to talk to you about how your son died. Look, I may be bothering you for nothing, and if so I apologise in advance, particularly at what is obviously a distressing time. But there has been another alleged accidental death at Hangridge—’

  Kelly was about to tell the whole story, to explain how he had met Alan Connelly and what the young man had told him just minutes before he died. But Mrs Foster interrupted him.

  ‘Another death?’ she said, and her eyes were suddenly bright. ‘That’s three, then. Three in not much more than seven months, it must be.’

  Kelly was completely taken aback.

  ‘What do you mean, three?’ he queried.

  ‘Didn’t you know?’ Mrs Foster picked up the mug of tea on the table in front of her and sipped it gingerly, as if it were considerably hotter than Kelly knew it to be.

  Kelly shook his head.

  ‘Oh.’ Mrs Foster took another sip of tea. She didn’t seem to be in a hurry, but then, in spite of the instant spark of interest she exhibited when Kelly had begun to tell her about Alan Connelly, she didn’t look like a woman who was capable of hurrying any more. Kelly realised that he must not put any pressure on her. He waited.

  After a few seconds she started to speak again.

  ‘Jossy was the first,’ she said. ‘The first we knew of, anyway. Jocelyn Slade, but they always called her Jossy. Craig did, anyway. She was Craig’s girlfriend. Well, they hadn’t known each other long and I’ve really no idea how serious they were about each other …’

  ‘And she was stationed at Hangridge?’ Kelly was puzzled and unwittingly echoed Karen’s remark to Gerrard Parker-Brown. ‘I didn’t even know there were women in infantry regiments.’

  ‘There aren’t. Jossy was in the Adjutant General Corps. She was at Hangridge for infantry training before being sent to Northern Ireland with her own regiment. That’s how she met our Craig—’