No Reason To Die (4 page)

He started the engine, switched on the headlights and pulled out onto the main road. The visibility was dreadful. And when you drive an ancient MG in such conditions, you have an extra disadvantage. Kelly felt as if he were enclosed in a small black box. The windscreen was just a narrow slit between the dashboard and the hood, and in these conditions the headlights seemed to be no more effective than flickering gas lamps.

Kelly, who had only just got his licence back after three years off the road, following one of the more extreme acts of irresponsibility which littered his chequered past, drove with extreme care, concentrating every ounce of his being on the road ahead.

Even so, when, on a blind corner only about a mile or so away from The Wild Dog, a figure in a luminous
orange waistcoat, waving a torch, materialised out of the gloom, Kelly thought he was going to hit it.

He slammed on the brakes and hoped for the best. The old car did not have the benefit of a modern anti-locking braking system, and its long low design had definitely not been conceived with emergency stops in mind. The tyres screeched in angry protest and Kelly felt the MG’s rear end swing wildly from side to side, but somehow or other the little car shuddered to a halt just a few feet from the orange figure. Kelly slumped across the steering wheel in relief. He could see now that the orange figure was a police officer, and wondered what on earth was going on. Then, as the policeman approached, he wondered if he was about to be chastised for the erratic manner in which he had pulled to a halt.

He cranked down the driver’s window and waited for the officer to speak first.

‘You’ll need to wait here for a moment, sir, afraid there’s been an accident, and the road ahead is blocked.’

‘I see. Right.’

There was no mention of Kelly’s driving. It seemed the policeman had other things on his mind. The MG’s engine was still running and Kelly had yet to switch off the headlights and the windscreen wipers. He peered into the gloom, straining his eyes. Gradually, he became aware of a big black shape fifty yards or so away, and realised that a large articulated truck was indeed blocking the road. To one side of it he could also see a dimly flashing light, probably from this officer’s police car parked beyond the truck, the bulk of which, even more than the poor visibility, prevented him from seeing what else was going on.

Well, Kelly reflected, at least he had a good excuse now for failing to visit Moira, his seriously ill partner. He was thoroughly ashamed of the thought as soon as it entered his head, but had, as so often seemed to be the case, been quite unable to prevent it doing so.

‘Have you any idea how long it will be before the road will be cleared, Constable?’ he asked.

The constable shook his head. ‘Not at this stage, sir. Unfortunately, we have a casualty and we are waiting for the ambulance service to arrive.’

‘Right.’

The policeman, shoulders hunched against the weather, walked away from the car and took up a position on the most acute angle of the corner which Kelly had just negotiated. Kelly suspected that having witnessed the way in which he and his little MG had so precariously slewed to a halt, the constable was probably trying to give himself a better chance of survival as he stopped any further traffic. He hadn’t looked very happy. Kelly didn’t blame him. He could just see the glimmer of the man’s torch in the misty darkness.

He switched off his engine and settled down for a long wait. If there were casualties, the police would not be able to do anything about any of the vehicles involved until a medical team arrived on the scene. He could have turned and driven back to Two Bridges, then right across the high moorland to Moretonhampstead and on to Newton Abbot and Torquay, but that was a major detour which, in these conditions, Kelly didn’t fancy at all. On balance, he preferred to wait. Automatically, he reached into his pocket for his tobacco and began to make himself yet another roll-up. He was adept at rolling cigarettes.
He didn’t need to put a light on, which was all for the best as the MG’s interior light was totally ineffectual.

After a bit, he was aware of another set of headlights coming round the corner and the policeman waving his warning torch in the air. The vehicle pulled to a halt directly behind his MG. The policeman approached it and, silhouetted by his torch, Kelly could see a figure in a raincoat stepping out, then leaning back into the car to retrieve what appeared to be a briefcase.

The policeman seemed to speak to him briefly, then began to escort the new arrival towards the scene of the accident, using his torch to light the way. As the two figures passed Kelly’s car, the man with the briefcase turned his head towards the little MG, and was illuminated enough by the torchlight held in his companion’s hand for Kelly to be able to recognise him. It was Audley Richards, the regional Home Office pathologist.

So, somebody’s bought it, thought Kelly. That would seriously slow up any chances of the road being cleared in the near future. He sighed and, taking a long pull on his roll-up, settled down in his seat.

After just a minute or two the torch-bearing policeman returned to resume his sentry duty, and Kelly began to feel just a flickering of journalistic interest. He may have retired from the game in any sort of fulltime capacity, but he had no objections to earning a few bob out of the odd freelance opportunity. In any case, under the circumstances it was probably an extremely good idea to keep his hand in. If he didn’t very soon get to grips with the novel he was writing, which was, of course, destined to transform his life
J.K. Rowling-style, he might well end up back on the road all over again. This time as an even more tired old hack.

Kelly knew that – particularly given the dreadful driving conditions – the odds were on this being merely a routine traffic accident involving people whose death would be of no interest to anyone other than their own family or friends. But, on the other hand, he also knew you could never be quite sure of that. Kelly had not so long ago made a few enquiries at the scene of a relatively minor road accident, only to discover that the driver of one of the vehicles involved was a senior Church of England bishop and that the woman who had been accompanying him, and who, in an apparent state of shock, was demanding rather demonstrative comfort from him, was not his wife. That one had brought in a nice few bob in linage from the nationals.

And so, aware that his pay-off from his old job was close to running out and that his bank manager was unlikely to further fund his writing career without at least some indication of progress, Kelly, with slight reluctance, stepped out of his car. Within seconds he was drenched, his light suede jacket given yet another soaking from which, he felt, it was unlikely ever to fully recover. The lashing rain cut straight through his thinning hair and felt icy-cold against his scalp. None the less, he made himself join the policeman a little further up the road, his feet making unpleasant sloshing sounds on a road running with water. If Plod could cope with these conditions, then so could he, he told himself.

Out loud he said: ‘What’s happened, then? You’ve got a fatality, I presume.’

In the arc of the flashlight, the young policeman’s eyes looked overly big.

‘How do you know that?’ he asked sharply.

Kelly shrugged. ‘I saw Dr Richards arrive,’ he said. ‘I’ve known him for years.’

He smiled wryly and stretched out a hand. ‘John Kelly,’ he said. ‘I’ve been, I mean I was, a journalist for more years than I care to remember. This was my patch.’

Kelly could see the policeman relaxing. In high places, the tension between police and press was considerable and led to all sorts of much publicised confrontation. On the road, the foot soldiers of both professions shared a natural affinity. More often than not they rather liked each other. Certainly, they understood each other’s way of life and shared many of the same sort of experiences – standing around in the cold and wet, waiting for something to happen, being merely one example.

‘So, some poor sod’s bought it?’ Kelly said questioningly, looking at the policeman sideways.

The constable paused only for a second. He was wet through and the night was yet young. It wasn’t just struggling scribes who welcomed displacement activities.

‘Yeah, only a kid too,’ the police officer replied. ‘We’re not sure exactly what happened. The lorry driver’s in total shock, can’t tell us much at all. Apparently he should have been on the Okehampton bypass, on his way overnight down to Cornwall, but he took a wrong turning and got totally lost. He’s miles out of his way. Not surprising in these conditions.’

The constable waved his arms at the murkiness
around him and narrowed his eyes as if imagining what it would be like to drive a large, articulated truck over Dartmoor on such a terrible night.

‘We’ve got the SOCOs coming out, and we’re still waiting for the ambulance from Ashburton. It was a bit of a surprise, actually, that Dr Richards got here first.’

‘Yes, well, he lives for his work,’ said Kelly, a little caustically. He had clashed with Audley Richards, a doctor of the old school, very aware of his professional status and an extremely precise, taciturn character, more than once during his days on the
Evening Argus
.

The constable shot him a questioning glance, unsure how to take the remark. Kelly made his face expressionless.

‘So, you don’t know what happened, then?’

‘Not really. It looks like the kid could have been drinking, though. He’s still reeking of booze and all the lorry driver keeps saying is that he suddenly loomed up in front of him.’

‘Loomed up in front of him,’ Kelly repeated. ‘You mean he was on foot?’

‘Yeah, didn’t I say? He was on foot. And you don’t get many pedestrians out here on a road like this. Not at night, anyway. Bad luck, though. Not much traffic either … I mean, who’d want to drive over the moors in these conditions …’

Kelly stopped listening. A kid. A pedestrian. A drunken pedestrian involved in a road accident so close to The Wild Dog. Kelly had a quick brain, always had had, but he didn’t need to be very quick at all for an obvious possibility to occur to him. His mind began to whirl. Could the casualty possibly be
his young friend from The Wild Dog? On the one hand it seemed quite likely, but on the other, the Scottish squaddie had not left alone. He had been escorted out by two men, men whom Kelly had felt quite certain were army mates who had come looking for him in order to take him safely back to base. They wouldn’t have let him come to harm in his drunken state, surely? And yet, and yet … Kelly didn’t know what to think. Young Alan had looked frightened, after all, hadn’t he?

‘Look, Constable, I was in the pub back up the road – The Wild Dog – with this lad, just a kid, like you said … He’d had a real skinful. I wonder if it could be him?’

‘Well, I’ve really no idea …’

‘It might help if I could see him?’ Kelly persisted.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ hesitated the policeman. ‘I’m not in charge.’

‘Then perhaps I could speak to whoever is?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘It may be somebody I know,’ ventured Kelly hopefully.

‘Ron Smythe,’ added the policeman. ‘Sergeant Ron Smythe. The lorry driver called 999 on his mobile and the sarge and I were only down the road in Buckfastleigh on a domestic …’

‘I really think I could help,’ repeated Kelly. Being a displacement activity for a bored wet policeman was one thing, but Kelly himself was by now so wet he was afraid he might drown if he had to stand around in this downpour for much longer.

Without saying any more, the constable gestured for Kelly to follow and led the way through the narrow gap between the rear end of the articulated
lorry and the stone wall to the right of the road. Kelly could see now that the big artic’, which he guessed would have been travelling in the same direction from which he had arrived on the scene, had jackknifed and the wheels of the cab were dangling precariously over the ditch on the other side of the moorland road.

Beyond the artic’ Kelly could just make out a figure laying in the middle of the road, limbs sprawled at unnatural angles, and another figure crouched by its side. That was Audley Richards, the pathologist. A third figure was silhouetted against the bright headlights of a parked police car, presumably left on to illuminate the scene. As Kelly and the police constable approached, the third figure, momentarily turned into a giant by the huge shadow he cast across the ground as he moved, strode towards them in an authoritative way.

‘Who’s this, Dave?’ he asked.

‘Name’s John Kelly, says he’s a journalist, Sarge.’

The sergeant, whose long bony face was now brightly lit up down one side, giving him a curiously skeletal appearance, studied Kelly with a complete lack of interest and no recognition, which in Kelly’s case was a mixed blessing. He knew a lot of police officers, but had not necessarily made the acquaintance of all of them in the most desirable of manners. Kelly had had a varied relationship with the police over the years.

‘No press,’ said the sergeant sharply, looking directly at Kelly. ‘The only information you’re going to get is through the press office, mate.’

He turned on his heel, glancing towards the constable as he did so. ‘And you should know that, Dave,’ he finished.

‘I’m not making a press enquiry,’ Kelly interjected swiftly. ‘There’s just a chance I might be able to help. It’s possible that I could have been with your victim earlier, in The Wild Dog.’

‘Really.’ Sergeant Smythe did not sound particularly interested, but he did pause as if considering what might be his next course of action. Then the wail of approaching emergency vehicles, rising above the noise of the wind and rain, demanded his attention. Smythe turned his back on Kelly as a second police car and an ambulance came into sight, sending showers of water into the night air as they pulled to a halt at the accident scene.

The two-man ambulance crew emerged swiftly from their vehicle and, carrying their medical equipment with them in boxes and bags, hurried towards the prostrate figure on the ground, slowing up when confronted by the crouched form of Audley Richards, whose presence indicated much the same to them as it had to Kelly earlier.