No Reason To Die

by Hilary Bonner

  She put both arms around him then and held him very tightly, still saying nothing.

  ‘It’s all mixed up in my head,’ he muttered through the tears. ‘Moira’s death, Hangridge, not being able to write. Did I tell you? Barely two fucking chapters, that’s all I’ve managed. I didn’t tell you that, did I?’

  ‘No, Kelly, you didn’t,’ she said quietly.

  ‘No. I haven’t told anyone. I can’t do it, Karen. So much for becoming the great bloody novelist. I can’t fucking do it. You have to go into your head to write fiction. I don’t like what’s inside my head, and I can’t cope with it either. Not now I can’t. And as for Hangridge, well, I’ve been as absorbed with that over the last few weeks as I have with Moira. And that makes me feel guilty. I just feel so guilty. I can’t sort myself out. It’s all such a muddle … such a desperate, fucking muddle …’

  He clung to her.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’ He repeated the words over and over again, in between great wrenching sobs.

  ‘It’s all right, Kelly,’ she said, in a way that she hoped was soothing. ‘It’s all right. It’s allowed to show grief, you know. You’re allowed to cry. So do so. Go on. Cry. As much and for as long as you like.’

  After a bit, he stopped even attempting to weep quietly. He gave in to it and stopped trying to control the tears. It must have been fully two or three minutes before the sobs became less violent, but he still held onto her. Like a child, she thought. Then he said it again.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Really.’

  ‘Don’t be, please don’t be,’ she said. ‘I’m honoured.’

  She took a paper tissue from the pocket of her jeans and gently wiped his face with it with one hand. With the other, she stroked his forehead. Suddenly she felt very tender towards him.

  And then it happened. Something changed in his body, and to her surprise, and perhaps also to her dismay, she felt it change in her own body too. Maybe it was the display of tenderness that brought about the change, maybe it was something else, something beyond both their comprehension. She wasn’t sure. But, suddenly, John Kelly was no longer a child seeking nothing more than comfort.

  His arms tightened around her and he began to kiss her face, her forehead, her eyes, and then, finally, her mouth. His lips sought hers with a kind of desperation. She didn’t mean to respond, but somehow could not stop herself. He pressed his lips against hers and his arms began to move over her body, stroking and caressing her. Then she found that she was doing that to him too. He eased her lips apart with his tongue. She did not resist, instead she opened her mouth for him. For several seconds they stood like that, wrapped around each other, straining to make the kiss deeper and deeper, more and more demanding.

  Then, all of a sudden, a moment of sanity hit her. What they were doing was madness. Total and utter madness. And she had had enough of such madness in her life. Kelly had buried his partner only the day before. His emotions could not be trusted, and neither, she suspected, could her own. Also, this was, at the very least, totally crass behaviour. Worse than that, it was quite horrible behaviour. And she could not live with it, even if he could. In addition, this was John Kelly. Her old friend and sparring partner. He had never been, and never could be, her lover. Not under any circumstances, she told herself, and certainly not under these circumstances. She was disgusted with herself.

  Immediately, she jerked her head back, pulling away from his kiss, and at the same time struggled to push him away. It wasn’t much of a struggle. She felt his grip slacken and sensed him beginning to back off, even before she put both her hands on his shoulders and pushed. They both stepped back and stood, breathing heavily, looking at each other.

  Kelly bowed his head slightly. She suspected he felt much the same way as she did.

  ‘Now I really, really, am sorry,’ he said eventually. ‘I just don’t know what came over me. That was a disgraceful thing to do. I’m just—’

  ‘No,’ she interrupted him. ‘No. It takes two. I played my part, all right. And I don’t know what came over me, either. At least you have an excuse. You’re on an emotional roller coaster at the moment. You’ve just lost the most important person in your life, you’re in a muddle, you said that. You hardly know what you’re doing …’

  ‘Don’t I?’ he responded quietly. ‘No. No. You won’t make me feel better. I have no excuse at all, just a lot of reasons why I should not have done that. Look, I really had better go.’

  She felt almost as emotionally drained as she was sure he was. Certainly, she had no energy left to try to further rationalise either his behaviour or her own. She just wanted to be left alone, to at least try to come to grips with what had happened. Or rather, she supposed, what had nearly happened.

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I think you better had go.’

  She made no effort to see him out. He knew the way well enough. And he went at once, without saying another word. Perhaps, like her, he did not know what more to say.

  She remained standing at the window and watched as his little MG pulled out of the car park and began to move slowly along the seafront road.

  Sophie was at her feet, brushing against her, trying to wind herself around her legs. It was funny how, on the one hand, she was a typically selfish cat and, on the other, so sensitive to Karen’s moods that she almost invariably seemed to know when her mistress needed comfort.

  Karen bent down and picked up the cat, scratching the back of her neck as she lifted her against one shoulder. Sophie’s more or less constant purring grew louder and louder in her ear.

  ‘You know what, Sophe,’ Karen murmured. ‘Your Uncle Kelly and I very nearly did something extremely stupid.’

  Karen realised she was almost in a state of shock. Fond as she was of him, she had never considered Kelly in any sort of romantic or sexual way before. It had just never occurred to her.

  And she was grateful that they had both come to their senses before that extraordinary moment had developed into something more. She was extremely glad they had stopped. But only because she had felt it was wrong. After all, the timing had been just terrible.

  But the man, when his arms had been around her and his body pressed against hers, had not felt wrong at all. He had been both tender and exciting at the same time. As for the kiss, well, the kiss had been fabulous. Quite fabulous. She didn’t want to admit that, but it was true.

  She could still taste it, still feel it. It had been a very special kiss indeed, and she was quite astonished. She had never thought there could be anything like that between her and Kelly.

  None the less, it must go no further. She did not need any more man trouble, and Kelly was always, always, trouble. Also, she valued their friendship a great deal, and romance – or perhaps she really meant sex – was, in Karen’s experience, all too often inclined to render friendship dead in the water.

  ‘There’s only one thing for it, Sophe,’ she muttered to the still-purring cat. ‘Your Uncle Kelly and I just have to forget all about that little incident and go back to exactly the way we were before.’

  Fifteen

  Kelly’s whole body was trembling as he drove home. Like Karen, he had found their kiss very special. It had woken up his senses again. He had always found Karen attractive, but in an abstract kind of way, and it had simply never occurred to him before that their relationship could ever become anything other than it was. And now, like Karen, he believed that what had happened between them had been very wrong, particularly at this time. The fact that he had so actively enjoyed kissing Karen, just one day after he had buried his partner, made him feel quite sick. In effect, what he had done was little more than to make a clumsy pass at Karen Meadows, quite possibly destroying a friendship he cherished. And then there was their professional association. Had he destroyed that too?

  Normally, even at a difficult time like this when he was coping with grief, he would be feeling elated to be on the threshold of an investigation like the Hangridge one. And, indeed, he h
ad been truly excited by the information which Karen had handed him on a plate. It was, after all, potential dynamite. This was the kind of story the old hack in him lived for. And now he had spoilt it all. Not only had he killed the thrill of it for himself, but also, for all he knew, Karen Meadows might not even be prepared to continue with the information-sharing scheme she had presented to him. At the very least she must consider him dangerously unstable, he reflected.

  He muttered a few expletives as he parked the MG. Why was he such a fool? But then, perhaps he had always been dangerously unstable.

  The house looked particularly dark and empty that night. He hurried to unlock the door, get inside and switch on the lights. It was almost as cold in the house as it had been outside.

  He checked the central heating boiler. The timer had been playing up. The system had closed down a good couple of hours earlier than it should have done. Cursing some more, Kelly switched it on again, made himself a mug of tea and wandered upstairs to check his answering machine.

  There was a message from Margaret Slade. Brief and to the point.

  ‘Neil Connelly has just phoned. Whatever you said to him worked. He’s come round in a big way. I think he’s going to join the campaign. Call me.’

  Kelly smiled. At least this would give him something else to think about. Still marvelling at the change in the woman, he returned Margaret Slade’s call at once.

  ‘I told him all I knew and I reckon he’s prepared to go all the way with us,’ she said. ‘He’s a solid sort of man, too, I think. It’s just journalists he doesn’t like.’

  ‘I’m not a journalist.’

  ‘Yes, well that’s the sort of prevarication that puts him off ’em, I should say.’

  Kelly chuckled.

  ‘You’ve got an answer for everything, all of a sudden, Margaret. And, by God, you’re going to need to have, taking on the military. You should know that the police, although aware of a big question mark hanging over these deaths at Hangridge, are not going to be investigating. Not at the moment, anyway. The official view is that these deaths have already been properly investigated by the SIB.’ Kelly paused. ‘Even though we now have four deaths to consider. I’ve found out about the squaddie called Trevor. And what you were told has turned out to be absolutely right. His death was another alleged suicide, very similar to your Jossy’s, as it happens. His full name was Trevor Parsons and I have his last civilian address.’

  ‘That is progress, John.’

  ‘Yeah. Look, you should know that I do have a very good long-time police contact, Margaret.’ Kelly paused again. The thought continued to lurk in the back of his mind that Karen Meadows might no longer be quite such a good contact. Not after what had happened that night. But he certainly had no intention of discussing any of that with Margaret Slade.

  ‘I’m not going to tell you who it is, but, suffice to say, we are talking about a senior police officer who has basically been refused permission to pursue matters with the army, and that this officer is actually angry enough about that to be prepared to pass on information to me.’

  ‘Wow! You are good, John, aren’t you?’

  ‘Umm. We’ll see. But what about you? I think I’m only just beginning to get the hang of you. No doubt, you’ve got your next move planned?’

  ‘Well, sort of. We’re going to call for a public inquiry. You have to be focused, don’t you, and it’s no good making a lot of noise without knowing what you’re aiming for. We thought we might march on the House of Commons, or something like that, but I’d like more ammunition.’

  She broke off. ‘If that isn’t an unfortunate choice of words under the circumstances,’ she said.

  Kelly smiled again. Black humour. All the best fighters, in any kind of battle, were inclined to indulge in black humour, he reckoned.

  ‘Anyway, I don’t think we’ve got enough to throw at Parliament yet, do you, John?’

  ‘Probably not. We need to co-ordinate everything, find out all we can and then make our move. The march sounds great. And I’ll handle the press side, when you decide to do it. I’d like to have a proper story ready to drop simultaneously. I do already have something to go on.’

  He told her then, in some detail, about the inquest reports, and the various anomalies. ‘I also have an address for a young man who was called as a witness at the inquest into Jossy’s death. The other sentry. James Gates. Didn’t you go to the inquest, Margaret?’

  ‘I did, yes. But I was drinking then, wasn’t I. I hardly remember anything about it. Don’t forget, it never occurred to me to query that Jossy had killed herself.’

  ‘So you don’t remember Gates’ evidence.’

  ‘Vaguely. Now you mention it. Very vaguely.’

  ‘Well, it seems the coroner was more than a little vague too.’ Kelly gave Margaret Slade a summary of James Gates’ evidence. ‘It should have rung extremely loud warning bells. But the coroner challenged nothing and passed a suicide verdict, almost as directed by the army. Fucking disgrace, actually.’

  ‘Ah. So your next move is to talk to Gates?’

  ‘Absolutely. Him, and Trevor Parsons’ family, of course. I may find you some more campaigners there, Margaret. James Gates could be trickier, though. It’ll be a question of whether or not I can get to him, I reckon. He’s probably still a serving soldier. If he really thinks there was anything dodgy about those deaths, he’s likely to be pretty nervous about speaking to me or anyone else.’

  Kelly thought for a moment.

  ‘I will tell you something I want from you, Margaret. A signed letter authorising me to act on behalf of the families. I’ll certainly need something like that if I’m going to get anywhere with the army, and it could be useful to show to all kinds of people. I suggest you list the other families involved so far, mentioning briefly what happened to their sons, and, of course, include your own details. Can you do that?’

  ‘Of course. I’m a drunk, not an idiot.’

  ‘A permanently sober drunk, I hope.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Indeed. So can you fax it to me? Have you got a fax machine?’

  ‘No. But there’s one I can use at an office equipment shop just down the road. I’ll send it as soon as they open in the morning, at eight, I think.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘John, reassure me, we’re not just imagining some kind of conspiracy, are we?’

  ‘No, Margaret, I’m damned sure of it. Actually, I get more and more sure with every step we take. And, for what it’s worth, my police contact, who is someone with very well-developed intuition in these matters, is damned sure of it too. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be getting anything like this level of cooperation. Something’s going on, and it’s very nasty indeed.’

  ‘It’s pretty hard to get your head around, isn’t it? I mean, I keep going over and over in my mind what we are talking about here. If it really is murder, who on earth would want to kill a load of young soldiers? And why?’

  ‘I don’t know, Margaret. And, if I’m honest, I don’t know if we’ll ever know. But there is no doubt that the army has successfully covered everything up so far, and one thing we can do is blow that cover-up wide open.’

  ‘You’ve said it, John. And how!’

  Kelly found he was smiling broadly again as he ended the call. Margaret Slade was turning out to be some woman. He liked feisty, intelligent women who were not afraid of a fight. And that thought led him back to Karen Meadows and the somewhat disastrous end to their evening together, which caused him to stopped smiling at once.

  Karen had been right. He was on an emotional roller coaster. He just couldn’t sort his feelings out at all.

  Margaret Slade was as good as her word. The fax came through shortly after eight. Kelly folded it and tucked it into the top pocket of his suede bomber jacket. He had been waiting for it. He was all ready to leave the house and drive to Exeter to visit the last civilian address listed for Trevor Parsons. Once he was involved in an investigation, Kelly didn’t
waste any time.

  The drive to Exeter took little more than forty-five minutes, and it was still only just nine when Kelly pulled up outside a big, rambling, old house on the outskirts of the town. Two small boys, scruffily dressed but somehow well-scrubbed-looking, rosy-cheeked and apparently brimming with good health, were squabbling over a broken tricycle on the pavement right outside.

  As Kelly stepped out of his MG, a large woman, in her early fifties, opened the front door.

  ‘Inside, you two, before you have an accident out there in that street,’ she ordered.

  There was a chorus of ‘Oh, Mams’ and a pleading to stay in the street for just a bit longer, but the two boys none the less obeyed readily enough. They looked about the same age or thereabouts, and although Kelly wasn’t very good at guessing children’s ages, he was pretty sure this pair were both under five. That, of course, was an educated guess. It was term time after all. If they were any older than that they should have been at school. And glancing at the woman they had called Mam, Kelly didn’t think she would be someone who would take any nonsense on such matters. It did occur to him, though, that she was a little old to be the mother of these two small boys.

  He became aware that the woman was studying him curiously now, which was hardly surprising. After all, a strange man had parked his car outside her front door and was now standing on the pavement, staring at her shamelessly.

  ‘Mrs Parsons?’ he enquired.

  She looked puzzled

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You’re not Mrs Parsons?’

  The woman shook her head. She was tall, broad rather than plump, and had long greying-brown hair which framed a strong kind face.

  ‘Oh. Perhaps I have the wrong address. I wanted to talk about the death of Trevor Parsons.’

  ‘Trevor? But I thought that was all over. I mean, it was more than a year ago that it happened, wasn’t it …’

  The woman’s voice trailed away.

  ‘So you are Trevor Parsons’ mother?’