No Reason To Die

by Hilary Bonner

  Several times Nick had left messages. They were all the same. Slightly anxious for his own skin, no doubt. Slightly whining. And calling, although only in the most general terms over the open air waves, for his father’s understanding, for a resumption of their previously warm relationship.

  There was absolutely no chance of that. Kelly never wanted to see Nick again for as long as he lived. It did occur to him once or twice that he might still be in danger, but not directly from Nick, he didn’t reckon. As his son had said, he had already proved that he wouldn’t harm his father. Or more or less. And Kelly thought that the moment would have passed, as far as Parker-Brown was concerned.

  Nick had not told him how Parker-Brown had reacted when he’d learned that Nick had failed to kill Kelly. And Kelly had not asked. He assumed that the army officer had taken it as part of the fortunes of war, or something like that. From what Karen had told him at Alan Connelly’s inquest about Parker-Brown’s attitude, the colonel remained pretty convinced of his own invincibility.

  Meanwhile, Kelly had not yet been able to come to terms with the consequences of revealing the truth about Nick. One half of him, John Kelly the man, John Kelly the journalist, John Kelly the human being, had already wanted many times to tell Karen Meadows all. But the other half, John Kelly the father, had been unable to do that, unable to face the prospect of standing in court and giving evidence against his only son. Even though, in allowing his son to – quite literally – get away with murder, he was aware that he was also letting off a host of other murderous bastards. Including Gerrard Parker-Brown. Not to mention the monstrous Irishman, a man still without a name.

  Kelly was not impressed by sweeping statements about protecting national security. He didn’t give a damn what had initially provoked Parker-Brown, the lunatic Irishman and his own son to embark on a course of action he considered to have been quite evil. He had never subscribed to the view that the end can always justify the means.

  But neither had he so far been able to throw his own son to the wolves, send him almost certainly to jail, to life imprisonment. He had chosen instead to withhold evidence in order to protect Nick, and it was that really, perhaps oddly, rather than what Nick had actually done, that had led him to so nearly take his own life.

  He splashed more water on his face. The bruising and discoloration on his forehead and around his eyes had long since faded, but the mental scars would last for ever.

  He thought about Karen and her honest, old-fashioned enthusiasm for catching criminals. He thought about Margaret Slade and how the campaign to seek justice for her daughter, and the other dead young soldiers, had turned her into a whole new human being. He thought about Jocelyn Slade, killed with her own rifle and earlier raped, something her mother had yet to learn about. He thought about Craig Foster, James Gates, Alan Connelly and Robert Morgan, the oldest of them only nineteen, and how their lives had been summarily snuffed out.

  And then he thought about how he had let them all down.

  Coming face to face with Karen that evening, knowing that so much still rested with him, knowing that he was one of the very few people alive who had any idea what had really happened at Hangridge, and that he was certainly the only person alive even remotely likely to do anything about it, made Kelly realise that the time had come to act.

  Perhaps it was inevitable. Having taken the decision not to end his own life, he could not live for ever with his terrible knowledge. He would have to sacrifice his son, and only now did he feel able to do that. It cut to the core, even though he knew that Nick did not deserve any better. His son was a cold-blooded murderer, and in Kelly’s opinion, a truly wicked man. Kelly could no longer cover up for him. He could no longer cover up for any of them. The moment had indeed come.

  He could only imagine how it would feel to give evidence in court that would condemn his own son, and in so doing quite possibly be forced to reveal his own failings – the way in which he had abandoned in childhood the boy who grew up to be a killer. But he was prepared to do so now.

  He felt much stronger than he had at the time of Alan Connelly’s inquest. He had at least come to terms with Moira’s death, more or less. And, although his spirits were low, he was certainly no longer suicidal.

  Kelly dried his face and hands very deliberately, and then made his way downstairs again. Karen was standing in the hall waiting for him. She looked up at him expectantly. His heart gave a little lurch. She was quite probably his best friend and he had missed her over the last few lonely months. Like her he remembered their one kiss with considerable pleasure, and he couldn’t help wondering if perhaps one day, with better timing, just perhaps …

  No. Yet again this was not the moment, not the moment to even think about such things.

  Kelly had something to say, and he could no longer put it off. He came straight to the point.

  ‘I think we should forget dinner, Karen,’ he said. ‘There’s something I have to tell you. Indeed, there’s an awful lot I have to tell you. I think you’d better sit down again.’