by Braven
“Karen?” There was both curiosity and anxiety in Talbot’s voice now. He had started thinking too, it seemed. “Karen? Are you there? You don’t think Kelly had anything to do with it, do you? Surely not…”
Karen interrupted him then. She wasn’t going down that road. Not yet. Not with anyone. Not even with Bill Talbot.
“For God’s sake, Bill. I’ve had people going through all the files on this case over and over again. How could they have missed the headmistress’s suicide? Was it there? Was it properly recorded?”
“Well…” Bill sounded disconcertingly unsure of himself. “Yes, it must have been. Everything was. It’s just that the enquiry was so disjointed. After we launched the initial investigation, and then had to let Marshall go because we didn’t have enough on him, well, everything went pear-shaped really. People kept coming up with theories, with their slant on things, you know how it is…you’ve moved on to something else by then—”
She interrupted again. “Bill, are you trying to tell me that Mrs. Kelly’s suicide and its probable cause wasn’t properly recorded?”
“No, of course not. It must have been. It’s just that there was so much, and so much after the event, if you see what I mean—”
“No, I don’t bloody see what you mean, Bill,” Karen stormed. “No wonder this fucking investigation has made the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary a laughingstock. Problem is, I just got the tail end of it and now I’m the one taking all the shit full in my face.”
She pushed the end button then. She knew she’d been unfair, really, but she couldn’t help it. The whole investigation had been a series of disasters from the very beginning, at least one of which she shared the blame for, and nothing seemed to be changing. But this was another development which hit her hard personally. She cared about Kelly. Not only that, she had to admit to herself, too many people knew of her close friendship with him. In fact, before her relationship with Phil became the focus of station gossip, she knew there had always been talk of her and Kelly having an affair. That had actually never been the case. Nonetheless Kelly was already a suspect character.
Not that long previously Karen had been instrumental in arresting John Kelly and of actually charging him with a murder during the investigation of another case, which she had always considered never to have been satisfactorily resolved. And that had been the case which had at one stage threatened to scupper her promotion to detective superintendent, or worst, at least partly because of her association with Kelly. Kelly had fallen under the spell of the mesmerizing Angel Silver, the high-profile widow of a rock star. And although he had been proven innocent before the case had even got to court and all charges had been dropped, he had only got himself into such a situation because of his tendency towards allowing his emotions to take control of him. It was true that his behaviour then had probably been accentuated by excessive use of drink and drugs, and, as far as Karen knew, Kelly was now clean, but nonetheless he had shown little self-control over anything much over the years.
Karen took yet another cigarette from her packet and lit it with the glowing end of the first. She inhaled deeply.
She had to admit to herself that if there was one man in the world who she knew was capable of acting in a thoroughly out-of-character way because he had allowed his feelings to run out of control, it was John Kelly. Fond as she was of him, she had believed before that under certain circumstances he could be capable of murder. She still believed it. And with his healthy list of criminal contacts Kelly was another man who would have no trouble at all getting hold of a gun if he wanted one.
She picked up her phone again and called Torquay Police Station.
“I want a national alert put out on John Kelly,” she said. “I want him found. And I want him found fast.”
“And if he won’t cooperate, if he won’t come quietly, I want him arrested on suspicion of murder.”
Chapter Eighteen
It did not prove necessary to arrest John Kelly after all.
Karen arrived back at Torquay Police Station just as the call came through from the Met. Kelly had turned up at Hammersmith Police Station less than an hour earlier. He had wanted to report the discovery of a body. The body of a young woman believed to be Jennifer Roth.
Karen felt yet again as if she’d been punched in the stomach. What was going on here? The whole scenario was becoming more and more complex and confusing by the second. What on earth had happened to Jennifer Roth? How had she died? And why had John Kelly of all people, a Torquay-based reporter, found her body in West London? She and the entire might of two police forces hadn’t even had a clue where to find Jennifer Roth.
She grabbed the phone from the hand of the detective sergeant who had taken the call.
“Detective Superintendent Meadows,” she announced in a loud clear voice which she hoped would indicate to whoever was on the end of the line that she was in charge and which, as ever, totally belied the way she was feeling.
“DS Farthing, Hammersmith,” came the response.
“Right, DS Farthing,” commanded Karen, “I want you to start at the beginning and tell me everything that has happened.”
“Well, it’s a bit confused still, ma’am,” began the detective sergeant. “But one thing that is straightforward is that a young woman, whom it seems is almost certainly Jennifer Roth, was found lying in a pool of blood in her own flat with half her head blown off and a handgun by her side.”
“This chap John Kelly came in here to say he’d found her. He was in a dreadful state, and he still is. Could hardly get the words out. He kept saying: ‘She’s topped herself, she’s topped herself.’ Now that could be the case, but we just don’t know for sure yet what happened.”
“Anyway, one of our lads, who recently transferred to the Met from down your way, remembered Kelly at once from that big case you had a couple of years back involving that rock star’s widow, Angel Silver. He also remembered that John Kelly had actually been charged with murder at one point, so we reckoned we could at the very least have a suspect character on our hands. Then we realized who Jennifer Roth was, and who her father was—and, well, we thought we’d better get in touch with you guys at once.”
Karen took a deep breath and did battle with herself to stay calm.
“I’m grateful for that,” she said. “You still have Kelly, I presume?”
“You bet, ma’am. We’re holding him for questioning. That man’s going nowhere till we are quite sure we know how Jennifer Roth died. For a start it looks pretty certain that he broke into her flat this morning. Or if he didn’t somebody else did. A window’s been smashed round the back. We’ve got the SOCOs there, of course, and our pathologist, so we should be getting some basic facts soon. Meanwhile we’re getting a doctor in for Kelly. Whatever he may or may not have done, he’s in total shock and we just can’t get any sense out of him.”
“Right,” said Karen. “I’d really like to talk to John Kelly myself, if that’s all right. I have a history with Kelly; I think I’d stand a better chance than most. Can you square it with your governor?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem, ma’am. He knew I was calling you guys and agreed it was the best thing. To tell the truth, this John Kelly has actually been asking to speak to you, and he doesn’t seem willing to even attempt to talk to anyone else. You’d better fax over a request in writing, for the record, but I can promise you that’ll just be a formality. Any help you can give with sorting this lot out would be greatly appreciated. You can move the crime scene down to Torquay if you want.”
Karen chuckled. “We have quite enough crime scenes of our own, thank you very much, Sergeant,” she replied. She glanced at her watch. “I’ll get the fax organized, then I’ll be on my way. Should be with you by about six, I’d hope.”
She rang off then and turned to Tompkins.
“Right, Chris,” she said. “You’re with me again and you’re driving. I’ve done enough of that already today. And by the time this day’s over I’m
going to be out on my feet, I reckon.”
They arrived at Hammersmith Police Station, just off the main shopping street, at ten past six. Pretty good timing, Karen thought. She’d been just ten minutes out. But then she had been pushing Tompkins to drive to the limit all the way.
DS Farthing came to meet her almost as soon as she walked into the front office. She immediately expressed her gratitude to him for the speed with which he had contacted the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary and for the way in which he had arranged for her to join in the operation. That kind of cooperation between the Met and a county force was rare indeed. Under the present happy circumstances, Karen didn’t make a point of that, of course. But then she didn’t need to. She and DS Farthing were both experienced long-serving police officers. They knew the score.
Karen didn’t feel she had time for any preamble. “I’d like to see Kelly straight away if I can,” she said.
“No problem, he’s in an interview room already, waiting for you.”
Karen raised both eyebrows. This was cooperation of an unprecedented level. She could only assume that the Met in Hammersmith had more work than they could cope with, because they were certainly content to unload all they could of this case.
Kelly was sitting at a table in a small windowless interview room, looking much the same as he had when she had last seen him in a similar situation. Rather disconcertingly, his eyes seemed to be somewhat glazed. She did not treat him to the courtesy of any preliminary greetings. Instead she sat down smartly opposite him, gestured for the uniformed constable already in attendance to switch on the tape recorder, and began.
“Right,” she said. “Let’s start at the beginning. How did you come to find the body of Jennifer Roth?”
Kelly looked startled, as if he had expected a different, more sympathetic approach, perhaps, from his old friend. Well, that was tough, thought Karen, because he certainly wasn’t going to get it. Kelly seemed to be beginning to make a habit of this kind of thing. He had put her at risk professionally before, and she wasn’t going to let him do it again. He may have done her a big favour once, but that was a very long time ago, and it was a favour which she felt had been called in on more than one occasion already.
She noticed that Kelly had not shaved that day, that his eyes were red-rimmed, and that his hands on the table before him were trembling. He was staring hard at her. For a moment she thought he was going to ask her for some sort of favour. Then he just seemed to slump in his chair, and at the same time he began to speak.
“I travelled up to London yesterday as soon as I heard the news of Marshall’s death,” he said. “I had to see Jennifer straight away. I took the train to Paddington and then the tube back to Hammersmith. I went to her flat but there was no reply. I tried a few times, then I booked myself into a pub round the corner that does B and B. I had her phone number and I kept calling. I even called in the middle of the night. Still no reply.”
“So this morning I went around to the flat again and when I still couldn’t raise her I decided to break in and have a look. I was worried, and I was right to be, it seems. I felt responsible, you see, I had a dreadful feeling that I knew what might have happened. And I also had a dreadful feeling it was down to me.”
Kelly paused and wiped the back of one hand wearily across his eyes. Karen did not speak. She had no intention of putting him out of his misery.
“As you probably know now, it’s a basement flat in one of those big old terraced houses just off the North End Road,” Kelly continued. “I went round the back and broke a pane of glass in the kitchen door. It only had a Yale lock so once I could get my hand inside all I had to do was open it. Some security, eh?”
“Get on with it, Kelly.” Karen had no more time for diversions than she had for social niceties. She was deliberately brusque even though she knew it was only nervousness which had made him make the remark about security in the first place.
“Well, I went into the flat and I called out for her and then I just went through the rooms. I found her in the bedroom…”
His voice tailed off. He looked as if he might be about to be sick. He ran his tongue around his lips.
“Can I have a glass of water?” he asked.
Karen nodded and gestured to the uniformed constable to do the honours. She was, however, not in the mood to show a great deal of compassion for Kelly. God knows what mess he had managed to get himself in yet again, but this time she was determined she was not going to join him in it.
“She was spreadeagled across the bed. That damned gun beside her. I can’t remember when I last saw so much blood…”
Kelly stopped again.
Karen was not going to give him an inch.
“Go on,” she instructed.
“She’d blown her fucking head off, hadn’t she?” Kelly leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and grasped his head with both hands, covering his face. For a moment Karen thought he was going to pass out. She still showed him no mercy, gave him no encouragement. Instead, once again, she waited in silence for him to continue to speak.
“I didn’t need a doctor to tell me she was dead, that’s for sure,” he said eventually. “I dialled 999, and the rest you know, I expect.”
“The rest I most certainly do not know. You are aware that the Met regard you as a suspect, I suppose?”
“Yes, and they’re dead right to,” responded Kelly instantly. “I am responsible for her death, I reckon.”
Karen sighed wearily. “Not again, Kelly,” she said. “We seem to have been down this road once before, I recall. Will you please stop playing games with me, and tell me in plain English what exactly you mean by that remark.”
Kelly leaned forward and bowed his head over the table. Karen could see the tension in him. His hands were trembling even more. Under different circumstances Karen might have felt sorry for him, but the way things were she had neither time nor inclination for any sympathy at all.
“Well, if it hadn’t been for me, if I hadn’t done what I did, I reckon she’d still be alive—”
“For Christ’s sake, Kelly,” Karen interrupted in a stentorian roar that caused both Chris Tompkins, and the young Met constable who had just returned with the requested glass of water, to look extremely startled. She was aware that she was conducting this interview in a far-from-textbook way, but she couldn’t help it. This was John Kelly, after all.
“All right. All right.” Kelly knew perfectly well what was required of him, Karen suspected, and from his demeanour it seemed that he might at last be prepared to give.
“I’ve been in touch with Jennifer Roth for some weeks, well, since just after I went to Jimmy Finch’s retirement do, actually,” he said, glancing at Karen rather sheepishly. She feared that she could guess what was coming next, and she also had a dreadful idea that she knew exactly where it was leading.
“Go on,” she prompted for what seemed the umpteenth time.
“Well, she’d already moved from Poole to Hammersmith. I tracked her down through the marina office. She’d left a forwarding address, simple as that.”
Karen shut her eyes briefly, then opened them again. She wondered how long it would have taken Dorset CID to think of that. And she should have arranged for such a simple enquiry herself, too.
“She’d found herself a job in an office,” Kelly went on. “A surprisingly good job, she said, but I think she also wanted to get away from her father, at least for a bit.”
“Anyway.” He stopped and glanced at Karen. “You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?” he asked.
Karen thought that she might. She wondered if Kelly was ever going to stop playing games. And she also wondered if it was really just nerves that was making him behave like this or if he was covering something up. Mind you, she reckoned, if he was, then it was probably only his own thoughtless behaviour.
“Kelly, for Christ’s sake,” she said yet again.
He continued straight away then. “Well, I sought her out because I
wanted to tell her what Jimmy Finch had said about Marshall confessing to him.”
“You did what?”
“I told her that Marshall had more or less confessed to killing her mother,” Kelly repeated a little sheepishly. “Not just about her mother’s death, but also implying that he’d killed her sister, too.”
“Terrific,” said Karen. “Absolutely terrific. And how did she respond to that, as if I couldn’t guess?”
“Look, I actually had a purpose in telling her what I did.” Kelly was on the defensive now. “I’d got the name of this doctor who was an expert on Recovered Memory Syndrome. You know about it?”
“Of course.” There’d actually been a conviction based on the highly controversial condition the previous year up in Merseyside which involved a young girl witnessing her father kill her mother in 1978. The girl, by then a twenty-nine-year-old woman, underwent intensive counselling sessions including hypnotherapy which had allegedly caused her to recall scenes that she had previously blanked out of her mind.
“Well, I suggested to Jennifer that she should see this doctor and undergo therapy, so that if she had any doubts at all about her memory of what happened she could at least be reassured. Well, that was the way I put it to her…”
Kelly paused. Karen smiled tightly. “Reassured” was a word that slipped rather too easily off the tongue of a one-time tabloid hack, she thought to herself. This time she waited a little more patiently for Kelly to start talking again.
“She listened to me but she didn’t seem all that keen; then she called me to say that she had made an appointment. I think she just wanted to talk to someone. Also, when you and the prosecuting counsel had all gone on about how she could have been disturbed as a child and that her memory, prompted by Marshall, might not be one hundred percent, I think something did seep through even though she wouldn’t have it at the time. I think she already had her doubts and I provided her with a way of putting them to rest. Or at least that’s what she hoped would happen.”
