For two days he did not even catch a glimpse of Angel, not even the twitch of a curtain indicating that she might be looking out, and certainly no shadowy view of a figure watching from a window.
Then at about 11 a.m. on the fourth day after Kelly’s trip to London, Angel appeared suddenly on the steps to Maythorpe and was hustled into a squad car by two policemen and a policewoman. This time there was not even the merest illusion of eye contact. Not for him, nor for anybody else, he suspected. Angel kept her head bowed. She was wearing a big black hat with a wide brim. He could not even see her face.
The gates to Maythorpe opened and the squad car sped through. Angel was sitting in the middle of the back seat flanked by the two policemen. Kelly caught another glimpse of the hat, and that was about all he could see of her.
One of the local agency snappers had managed to park his motorbike virtually in the hedge just opposite Maythorpe. He ran to it and took off with a squeal of wheels after the police vehicle. Kelly watched with amusement. He was in any case too old for car chases. And he would hazard an educated guess that Angel was being taken to Torquay Police Station again. He tried to call Karen Meadows to confirm but her mobile was switched to voice mail and Kelly didn’t think there was much chance of her having either the time or the inclination to call him back. None the less, he decided to follow his hunch, like he always did. The Argus Picture Desk had decided they could no longer keep a snapper outside Maythorpe, so, as he made his way down the hill towards the Volvo, Kelly called them and told them to get Trevor Jones to the police station smartish. His success gave him a little bit of authority for a change, he thought, as he drove as fast as he dared into central Torquay.
When he got to the station he found that there was quite a buzz among the small group of journalists already gathered outside. Kelly’s hunch had been right: Angel was already inside, and the word that something was happening at last had got around fast. Within an hour of Kelly arriving at South Street, several more reporters and photographers turned up, including Trevor Jones and two TV crews. The group waited for a further two hours before Karen Meadows, as senior investigating officer, accompanied by the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary’s chief press officer, came out on to the station steps to give a statement.
‘I can tell you that Mrs Angel Silver has been charged with the manslaughter of Terry James,’ she announced. ‘She will appear at Torquay Magistrates’ Court tomorrow morning to be formally charged before the Bench. She has been released on police bail and for your information, ladies and gentlemen, I understand that she has already left the station so there is no point in hanging around.’
Kelly tried to edge forward in an attempt to get a private word with the tall detective inspector, who politely refused to answer any of the questions which were thrown at her. But she was having none of that either, and merely turned smartly on her heel and retreated back through the police station’s big double doors.
The news came as no surprise. Karen had looked cool and in control as she spoke, but then she invariably did, thought Kelly. He knew that she must be into her early forties now, just a couple of years or so older than Angel, and he reckoned that as well as being a highly impressive woman, she had also become a first-rate copper. None the less, he didn’t believe for one minute that Angel had departed without being spotted. Kelly knew that the snappers had done a deal with each other. There were at least a couple of guys watching the only other entrance. It was just conceivable that Angel could have been hidden in one of several cars which had left through the gates to the yard round the back earlier that afternoon, but Kelly didn’t think so, not unless she had been lying on a car floor or something, and that wasn’t Angel Silver’s style. Not even when charged with manslaughter.
The TV crews were children nowadays. They filmed Karen, then immediately started moving away, as did several of the other journalists. Kelly and one or two of the old hands exchanged glances. Kelly walked up the street a short distance and quickly filed the latest development to the Argus on his mobile, giving Karen Meadows’ statement very nearly verbatim. He had retained his excellent short-term memory even if his long-term recollection, which had once been brilliant, was not quite what it was. On the way back he stopped at an Argus news-stand on the corner and bought a copy of his own paper. Then he walked casually back, half reading the paper as he did so, half looking over it, watching the doors to the station. He was sure she was still in there. And he had his own personal reasons for wanting to get close to her. If they bundled her into a vehicle round the back he might still see her but he had no chance of getting close. He remained convinced that Angel Silver wasn’t a back-door girl. The police might be trying to protect her, but he didn’t think she’d let them make her look as if she were hiding away.
He positioned himself so that he hoped he was close enough to get to her should he be given the opportunity, but in such a way that he didn’t look too conspicuous. And certainly not threatening. He saw that the others were trying to do much the same and that Trevor Jones had set himself up with a 1000-mil long tom in a shop doorway opposite. Smart lad that, he thought approvingly. Grafter too.
Over an hour later, just as Kelly was beginning to think maybe he and the few other know-alls who had stayed at the station stakeout had got it wrong after all and that Angel had been smuggled away, she came out.
Two policemen were alongside her plus two other men. Kelly recognised one of them easily enough. It was Jimmy Rudge again, Scott’s business manager. He guessed that the other was probably Angel’s lawyer. He looked the type, Kelly thought, but he wasn’t really interested in Angel’s escorts. Just in her.
Her head was no longer bowed. She held the wide-brimmed black hat in her hand and was staring straight ahead, looking neither to the left nor right. The violet eyes shone. Her face was paler than ever. That translucent skin looked paper-thin, almost as if at any moment it might split over those sharp cheekbones. As usual she wore very little makeup, just the familiar slash of vermilion lipstick.
She was dressed in tailored black trousers with turn-ups, very high-heeled shoes, and an expensive-looking black coat open at the front to reveal a simple white cotton shirt with the collar turned up. The effect was stunning. And even at this surely quite devastating time in her life, Kelly felt quietly certain that she knew it.
The motor-drives of the cameras belonging to the handful of snappers who had remained whirred busily. Kelly lurched forward, much faster than any of the others, even though he was probably the oldest. He was also probably the only one who knew exactly what he was going to do. After all, it was highly unlikely that Angel Silver would talk – and even if she did, nobody could print anything much, not now that she had been charged.
Before the police or the other two men accompanying her could stop him, Kelly was by Angel’s side thrusting his letter into her hand.
‘This time, please read this and get back to me,’ he commanded. ‘We need each other.’
He backed off at once, before he was manhandled out of the way, surprised partly by his own vehemence and also by realising that he meant the line he had spun her.
She turned and looked at him. That same look he had first experienced all those years ago when she had been half out of her head in that awful hotel bar, pulling anybody who’d have her to fund her drug habit. It was a look that had haunted him for seventeen years, he realised.
A look that said, ‘Can this really be happening to me?’
A look that said, ‘I’m not what I seem, really I’m not.’
A look full of vulnerability and contradiction, part hard and streetwise, part cool and controlled, part little girl lost.
It did for him. Just like before.
Eight
Early next morning Kelly was awakened by the sound of smashing glass.
‘Stay where you are,’ he ordered Moira tersely as he jumped out of bed. He opened the bedroom door and stood for a few seconds listening. Nothing more. He made his way swiftly down
stairs. The noise had come from the front of the house. But there didn’t seem to be anything amiss in the hallway. Cautiously Kelly opened the living-room door.
There was shattered glass all over the carpet along with a couple of broken china ornaments which had previously stood on the windowsill. Kelly glanced towards the bay window which looked out over Crown Avenue. All that remained of the central panel was a few jagged edges. And in the middle of the debris on the floor was a rather large brick loosely wrapped in a sheet of paper held in place by strips of Sellotape.
Kelly had no shoes on. He stepped gingerly forward, leaned over and stretched out an arm to pick up the brick. He removed the sheet of paper which carried a message stuck to it from letters and words cut out of newspapers. There was, of course, no signature.
Kelly smiled grimly. He hadn’t thought anybody used newsprint to form anonymous threatening messages any more. The sentiment expressed was clear enough, though, if a little simplistic: ‘Lying bastard. We’re going to get you.’
It had to be the James clan, surely, thought Kelly. Then he heard Moira, who naturally hadn’t stayed in the bedroom as he had told her to, call out to him from the stairs.
‘John, John, are you all right? What’s happened?’
Kelly let the brick drop to the floor again and hastily stuffed the note into his dressing-gown pocket as he made his way gingerly out of the room and into the hallway.
‘Don’t go in there,’ he told Moira. ‘Not with bare feet anyway. There’s broken glass everywhere.’
He opened the front door and peered out. It was only 6 a.m. and there was no sign of anyone at all in the street outside. He glanced towards the Volvo, still parked by the kerbside where he had left it. The car did not seem to have been damaged. Well, it wouldn’t have been, would it, he thought. Whoever threw the brick through the window would almost certainly have had no idea that the vehicle was anything to do with him. The MG was still at Classic Motors. Kelly thanked his lucky stars for that. He dreaded to think what damage might have been caused to his beloved old car had it been parked outside.
He was vaguely aware of Moira standing in the hall now peering into the living room.
‘Oh my God, John!’ she cried. ‘Someone’s chucked a brick through the window. Who on earth would do such a thing?’
‘Just mindless vandals, I expect,’ said Kelly, who had no intention of letting Moira anywhere near the note he had secreted in his pocket.
‘Aren’t you going to call the police?’ asked Moira.
‘I don’t see the point,’ replied Kelly.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ said Moira irritably. ‘Of course there’s a point. It might happen again. And in any case, if you don’t call the police you’ll have insurance problems.’
Kelly sighed. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Will you do it, though? You’re off again today, aren’t you? I really have to get in to work early.’
‘Oh John, I told you Paula’s coming down from London for the day. I really don’t want to be hanging around here.’
Paula was Moira’s married eldest daughter. Kelly had completely forgotten about her planned visit, but he did know how close Moira was to all her girls. Yet she hadn’t seen Paula, who had a demanding toddler, for months. And her second daughter, Lynne, was off back-packing somewhere exotic, much to her mother’s constant concern.
None the less Kelly had no intention of being diverted from his day’s work.
‘Please yourself,’ he said casually. ‘But I really would appreciate it if you could get hold of a glazier.’
Moira studied him without enthusiasm.
‘Oh, all right,’ she said eventually.
Kelly dressed quickly and left the house, doing his best to avoid any further conversation with Moira. He had been threatened before, of course. That was inevitable during a lifetime of the kind of journalism Kelly had been involved in. But he still felt shocked. There was a hollowness in his belly and the palms of his hands were clammy.
He had transferred the threatening note to the pocket of his trousers. He supposed he had concealed it from Moira because he didn’t want to frighten her. Not that she frightened very easily, he had to admit. She was a nursing sister, after all.
Also he didn’t intend to hand the letter over to the police. He didn’t quite know why. He just knew he wasn’t going to, that was all.
Later that morning Kelly sat at the press bench in Torquay Magistrates’ Court doodling in his notebook while he waited for Angel Silver to be brought in and formally charged.
Her arrival brought a low murmur from the packed public benches. She looked as pale and as beautiful as ever. Her hair was slicked back off her face. She wore a neat grey suit, classic in design, old-fashioned even. Only on her it looked sensational.
She spoke just once during the brief hearing, when the chairman of the magistrates asked her how she pleaded to the charge of manslaughter.
‘Not guilty,’ she replied simply. Her voice was loud and clear. Surprisingly so. She stared straight ahead and her expression gave nothing away as she was told that she would be sent for trial at Exeter Crown Court and remanded on bail until then.
No surprises there, thought Kelly. He knew that Angel had already given statements to the police admitting that she had killed James in self-defence, but nobody in their right mind could imagine that she would be a danger to anyone else, which was supposed to be the main criterion for remand in custody.
At one point during the proceedings Angel looked across at the press bench and Kelly experienced what he was now beginning to accept as an inevitable reaction. He was sure she was looking at him. Directly and particularly him. But the big violet eyes were blank.
Afterwards they took her out of the court’s back door where a car waited for her in the private parking area where neither Kelly nor anyone else could get close to her. She had arrived at the court in the same manner. Maybe even Angel had been unable to face any more press attention. Or maybe the police had insisted. The court had been full to bursting point, of course, and at least a couple of hundred fans were outside along with twenty or thirty photographers, several TV crews and a handful of reporters who had been unable to gain access. In spite of police efforts to control them the assorted crowd spread untidily across Union Street, and the flow of traffic, never very fluent at the best of times in Torquay, was seriously disrupted.
Kelly assumed, as did most of the others, that Angel would be taken home again and he drove out to Maythorpe Manor. A few fans still remained, although it seemed that most of them had either gone home now or decamped to the court. Nobody had removed the flowers around the gate, which were now wilted and decayed. A handful of other reporters and photographers were already there, standing around looking slightly lost. The house had a closed, forbidding look about it. There were no police on duty.
And that, of course, was the giveaway.
Kelly was unsurprised when one of the other hacks told him that nobody had spotted Angel since she’d left the court. The word was that she had gone away and would not be returning to Maythorpe for some time. Judging from the lack of police presence she was not expected.
Kelly found that he didn’t like not knowing where Angel was.
Eventually Kelly made his way back to the Argus office and started putting together his background, the material that could not be used until Angel was tried but which would be printed as soon as her trial was over.
In spite of Kelly’s triumph with Angel’s mother in London, Hansford had been prickly with him ever since he had gone over his head to the editor. Kelly couldn’t have cared less. If you weren’t in a position by the time you got to his age to go over the head of a pipsqueak like Hansford then you really were a seriously sad case, he thought.
The news editor kept trying to read over his shoulder, which Kelly found very irritating. Each time Hansford approached Kelly exited the Silver file on his screen.
‘You’ll copy me in when you’ve finished, won’t you?’ instructed Ha
nsford in that irritatingly authoritarian way of his.
‘Naturally, boss,’ said Kelly.
Hansford gave him a hard look. Kelly kept his face expressionless. Like Angel Silver. Only he wasn’t going to think about her any more. Writing the copy was one thing. Getting obsessed with some silly cow who was famous for being famous and nothing much else any more was quite another, he told himself sternly.
It was mid-afternoon before he had put together just about all the material he had amassed so far in one consummate piece. Unknown to Hansford, of course, he had been working on disk and when he had finished he removed the disk and slipped it in his pocket. And, naturally, he didn’t copy Hansford in. After all, that kind of secrecy was second nature to Kelly.
Just before leaving the office he called Moira. He knew that he’d been preoccupied and neglectful ever since the Silver story had begun, and that she was probably still shaken from the events of the morning.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked.
‘I’ve had the window replaced and the police have been round, if that’s what you mean,’ she replied, in a not particularly friendly manner, he thought.
‘Great. What did the police say?’
‘Much the same as you did.’
‘Told you so. Just mindless thugs at play.’
‘John, are you sure there isn’t something you’re not telling me?’
‘Course not.’
‘It isn’t to do with the Silver case, is it?’
Kelly hesitated. Moira had always been perceptive.
‘Shouldn’t think so for one minute,’ he replied as lightly as he could and decided to change the subject. He wanted to take her mind off things, and make up a bit for what had happened.
‘Do you fancy dinner at the Grand?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Paula’s here, I keep telling you.’
Damn, he’d managed to forget again.
‘But she’ll be going back on the last train, won’t she?’ he replied, making a pretty good recovery. ‘I thought you might like to go out after she’s gone.’
A Moment Of Madness Page 13
