Authors: Hilary Bonner
‘I haven’t decided,’ he said, leaning against the front door for support. ‘What would you do if I told you that I was going to the police – kill me?’
‘You know I couldn’t. I have already proved that.’
Kelly opened the door. Suddenly, he really could not stay in the same room as his only son for a second longer. As he left, he had the last word.
‘Yes, well, I haven’t made up my mind what I am going to do yet. So, you’ll just have to live with that for the time being, won’t you? Which is, of course, a luxury your various victims have been permanently denied.’
Meanwhile, at Hangridge, Karen left Cooper, Tompkins and the rest to methodically interview the entire barracks, if necessary, and headed back to Torquay police station, driven as earlier by PC Mickey Turner.
On the way, she tried to call Kelly but both his phone at home and his mobile were on voicemail.
‘I hope you’re still sleeping, Kelly, and not doing anything daft,’ she said in her message. ‘I just wanted to touch base with you. Guess what, Parker-Brown has flown the nest. Call me as soon as you can to let me know you’re all right. Let’s keep in touch.’
Back in her office, she learned that the patrol car which had just made a routine check on Kelly had reported that his borrowed Volvo was no longer there and his house appeared to be empty.
‘Damn the man,’ muttered Karen. He undoubtedly was doing something daft, and she was worried. His life could well still be in danger.
But, after instructing uniform to continue to look out for Kelly, she did her best to put him out of her mind. There was nothing more she could do.
She then contacted Tomlinson to bring him up to speed. Her call was double-edged. Parker-Brown had been transferred out of immediate harm’s way with extraordinary swiftness, she felt, and with interesting timing – just as she had been given the go-ahead to
launch a full investigation into the Hangridge deaths.
Karen suspected that he had been tipped off. And she had a pretty good idea that Harry Tomlinson, under those damned clubby, all boys together, rules again, had called Parker-Brown and told him what to expect. She was pretty damned sure, though, that the chief constable would not for a moment have considered the possibility of Parker-Brown promptly doing a runner. After all, that was not playing the game. And, even if it was a bit childish, she was somewhat looking forward to telling Tomlinson about that.
And indeed, when she explained to him the situation which had confronted her at Hangridge that morning, he sounded both shocked and let down.
‘What? He’s just gone? And without telling anyone?’
Karen knew that what the chief constable meant was that Parker-Brown had not notified him that he was about to stage a disappearing act. And that, of course, no doubt broke all the rules of Tomlinson’s damn silly code of honour.
‘That’s right, sir,’ she responded expressionlessly. ‘And, naturally, a top priority of this investigation now is to find Parker-Brown. All I have been told so far is that he has been transferred, that he’s on special duties, and that his whereabouts are classified. The whole thing stinks of a cover-up, quite honestly, sir. Anyway, I was hoping you might be able to help, put some pressure on the MoD to tell us where he is, that sort of thing.’
‘Umm. I’ll do my best.’
For once, the chief constable did not argue. Karen reckoned he probably didn’t dare. He certainly
wouldn’t want it ever to become public knowledge that he had given Parker-Brown any kind of warning about the impending investigation, as Karen suspected he had.
‘Thank you sir,’ she said.
‘He could already be a long way away, of course. We’ve still got dammed near a war situation in Iraq, after all, and that would certainly put him out of our grasp for a bit.’
‘It’s possible, sir. Yes.’
‘On the other hand, he might have gone nowhere at all. If you’re right about all this being another military smokescreen, well, he might just have gone home to put his feet up for a bit.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Karen sat very still for a few seconds after she ended the call. The chief constable had the previous day guessed straight away that she had set up Phil Cooper and the MCIT to support her bid for a formal investigation into Hangridge, and now once again she may have underestimated Tomlinson. Of course. Parker-Brown could well be at his home. Why on earth hadn’t she thought of that?
Within seconds of hanging up she patched herself through to Middlemoor again, on the line which she knew would connect her directly with Tomlinson’s secretary.
Joan Lockharte was her normal cool self. Karen responded merely by being brisk and businesslike.
‘I wondered if you happened to have a home address for Colonel Parker-Brown?’ she asked.
‘I might have,’ replied Joan.
Karen counted to six. ‘Could you look for me?’ she continued pleasantly.
There was a silence lasting little more than thirty seconds, while Joan presumably checked her computer database.
‘The Old Manor, Roborough,’ she recited crisply, when she picked up her phone again.
Karen may never have liked the woman, but she had always admired her efficiency. And had she been in the same room instead of on the end of a telephone line, she might have been tempted to give her a big hug. As it was, she settled for a very genuine thank you.
She was a little puzzled, though. Roborough was a village on the outskirts of Dartmoor, conveniently just a few miles from the centre of Plymouth, which had become extremely fashionable in recent years. And the Old Manor sounded a fearfully grand address to Karen. Parker-Brown had told her that he had married a rich wife, but he’d indicated that since the break-up of his marriage, his finances had been drained. Also, while she and Gerry had somehow never got around to discussing where he lived when he wasn’t in residence somewhere with his regiment, the Old Manor did not sound like the sort of house a man on his own would choose.
Kelly did not pick up his messages, not from Karen, not from anyone. He kept his mobile switched off while he was travelling to and from London and did not bother to check his answering machine when he finally arrived home.
It had been a nightmare journey. He still felt far from well. Kelly had been fortunate enough to pick up a cab almost immediately upon leaving Nick’s apartment block and stepping out into the street,
which had been all for the best, because he had feared that he might be about to collapse.
He had recovered slightly on the drive across London to Paddington railway station, but none the less had been in something of a daze throughout the train journey to Newton Abbot. Appalling images of death and destruction, some that he had experienced during his long years as a globetrotting journalist, and some which were merely the product of a feverish imagination, kept flashing across his mind.
Somewhere around Taunton, he had finally fallen into a fitful sleep but that had brought no relief. Instead, he had dreamed that he was back in Northern Ireland in the 1970s, and that he had been taken blindfolded to some secret destination in order to interview an IRA leader.
But when the blindfold was removed, his son Nick stood before him, holding an automatic rifle aimed straight at Kelly’s head.
‘You don’t fucking understand,’ shouted Nick, but he spoke not in his own voice but in a broad Ulster accent. Then there was a huge bang and a blaze of light, and Kelly woke up in a cold sweat, just as the train pulled into Newton Abbot station.
Yet again Kelly had driven, although only the few miles to the station, when he knew he really shouldn’t have done, and now he had to drive home – very aware that the effects of that bash on the head remained a long way from wearing off. And to make matters worse, he was still driving the big cumbersome Volvo because he had not had the time or the inclination to swap it for the MG, even though he knew his little car was now ready. He had to concentrate very hard merely on focusing, as he made
his way slowly to St Marychurch.
Once back in the comfortingly familiar surroundings of his home, he slumped into his armchair in the bay window and closed his eyes. He was neither asleep nor fully awake. The phone rang several times. He ignored it. There was nobody in the world he wanted to talk to. Nobody at all.
His doorbell rang. He peered out of the window. A police patrol car was parked outside and two uniformed constables stood at his door. Kelly sighed. He knew that if he tried to ignore them they wouldn’t leave him alone.
‘Are you all right, sir,’ asked the older of the two PCs when he opened the door.
‘Fine, yes.’ Kelly was abrupt. He just wanted them to go away.
‘Do you mind if I ask you where you’ve been, sir?’
‘Oh, just some shopping.’
‘Quite a long shopping trip, wasn’t it, sir?’
Kelly shrugged.
‘Right. Well, just don’t go out again without letting us know, OK, sir?’
‘I’m not planning on going anywhere, Constable,’ said Kelly. And this time he meant it. He had nowhere left to go.
Little more than an hour or so later, Karen and Mickey Turner arrived in Roborough. The Old Manor turned out to be a huge granite pile on the outskirts of the village, with sweeping views across the moor. Karen had been right. The house, with its tree-lined private driveway and apparently extensive grounds, was extremely grand indeed. It
also looked well cared for. Indeed, it stank of money.
Karen looked around her with interest. A property like this must surely have been acquired thanks to Parker-Brown’s wealthy wife, she assumed. You certainly would not get even close to this place on an army officer’s salary. But what kind of woman would walk away from all this and leave her husband
in situ
, she asked herself? In any case, hadn’t Gerry Parker-Brown indicated that his marriage break-up had left him in some financial difficulty.
Still studying the imposing surroundings as she and Turner approached the tall, porticoed entrance to the house, she stood back to allow the young PC to ring the doorbell.
A tall, elegant woman, quite possibly in her early forties, but meticulously well preserved, answered the door.
‘Yes?’ she enquired coolly, flicking a strand of coiffured blonde hair away from her face, and apparently completely unconcerned by the presence of a uniformed police officer on her doorstep.
Karen, who had been even further taken aback by being confronted by a woman, allowed Turner to do the introductions.
‘We’re looking for Colonel Gerrard Parker-Brown, madam,’ he announced.
‘My husband? Is he expecting you?’
Her husband? Not for the first time during the course of this investigation, Karen felt as if she had been kicked in the belly by a mule. If the truth be known, she had begun to suspect such a possibility from the moment Joan Lockharte had supplied her
with Parker-Brown’s address. But, my God, that man had done a number on her.
‘Is he here, Mrs Parker-Brown?’ she interrupted sharply.
‘Well, yes …’
‘In that case, please get him at once, will you?’
Within a couple of minutes Gerrard Parker-Brown arrived at the front door. He was wearing jeans and an England rugby sweater. He looked as handsome as ever, and if he was anything like as disconcerted by her unexpected visit as he should have been, then he was not showing it. But then, Karen remembered that the man was a consummate actor. Or that was one word for it. She was beginning to prefer words like charlatan and con man.
‘Karen,’ he began, smiling at her. ‘What an unexpected pleas—’
‘Detective Superintendent, to you,’ she snapped. ‘I’m here to formally interview you, Colonel, concerning a number of suspicious deaths within your regiment.’
‘Ah. I’m afraid you’re too late.’
‘I’m sorry …’ Karen was about to blow her top.
‘Yes. As soon as I heard that a police inquiry had been set up, I realised that I would have to make a statement. So I sorted it out through the top brass and I gave a full statement to two officers from the National Crime Squad, who drove down here early this morning. Apparently, there has been rising concern at the Ministry of Defence regarding the number of suicides at certain army bases, and an inquiry has been set up to look at the problem as a whole across the country, which is why the National Crime boys are already involved. As I told you,
Detective Superintendent, we do take the welfare of our soldiers extremely seriously. No doubt, that statement will be forwarded to you in due course. They told me that was all that would be necessary.’
I bet they did, thought Karen. She had never heard of an inquiry anything like the one Parker-Brown had referred to, and she rather suspected that it had probably been set up within the last twenty-four hours. In as much as it existed at all. Aloud, she said:
‘I see. None the less, Colonel, I am the senior officer in charge of this investigation here in Devon, and I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you to go through that statement again, right away, with myself and PC Turner, and to answer any additional questions we may have. So perhaps you would invite us in, please.’
Parker-Brown did not move an inch from the doorway. As so often with him, she now realised, his face and eyes were giving nothing away.
‘I’m so sorry, Detective Superintendent. I have been instructed by my superiors at the MoD to give no further interviews to the police. It is felt that I have already fulfilled my every obligation.’
‘I’m afraid I do not agree with that, Colonel, and I must insist.’ Karen struggled to keep her voice calm. She was absolutely furious.
‘Oh. Are you planning to arrest me, Detective Superintendent?’
Parker-Brown was so cool that Karen wanted to slap him.
‘Not at this moment. No.’
‘In that case, Detective Superintendent, I am sure you will forgive me if I prefer to follow the orders of my superiors.’
Karen stared at him for several seconds. If she had
thought there was any way she could have got away with it, she really would have hit him. She was trapped and she knew it. Gesturing to Turner to accompany her, she turned on her heel and began to walk away from the house.