Хилари Боннер - A Moment Of Madness

As ever he looked carefully around him, taking in the scene, watching out for those little details which can take a story into another dimension. He didn’t know if he was being fanciful, but it seemed to him that the crowd was giving off a kind of steamy haze. It was one of those very English wintry days that threatened never to become fully light. Cigarette ends glowed in the gloom. He seemed to be the only journalist there. He wasn’t surprised. It was 7.30 in the morning, most of the daily guys would reckon they didn’t need to be there until later, even if their News Desks thought differently, and his was the only evening paper in the area. He walked nearer to the railings to have another look at all the flowers. Involuntarily he glanced at the spot by the gates where that rather strange-looking young woman had stood alone last night. She was no longer there, though he did notice that there were two pints of milk in a box by the locked gate.

A minor commotion behind him alerted him to the arrival of the day’s first TV news team, probably putting together a piece for breakfast television. Kelly observed with a jaundiced eye. An eagerly bright-eyed young woman reporter puffed up with self-importance was leading a harassed-looking cameraman through the throng towards Kelly, who instinctively shuffled his feet out of imminent danger.

The duo passed by him without incident or damage, and Kelly turned his attention to Maythorpe. Nothing seemed to be moving in the house or its grounds. The big Georgian building had a sleepy locked-up look about it. Kelly always had the feeling that houses could speak to you if you let them, although he was rarely inclined to share that thought with any of his fellow newspapermen or women, who would merely reckon he had completely lost it. Kelly stared hard at Maythorpe. The old house didn’t want to wake up that day, he was sure of it, and he was equally sure that the woman inside, the woman who had somehow survived a night of unspeakable horrors only to be forced to spend an entire day detained in a police station, would not want to wake up either.

He took a few steps towards the huge wall which surounded Maythorpe, interrupted only by the iron-railed gate area, and leaned gratefully against it, as usual hunching his shoulders inside his inadequate coat. When would he ever learn, he wondered, glancing down at his lightweight leather-soled shoes as he settled for a long wait. Half an hour or so later a familiar red van arrived and a slightly bemused-looking postman unloaded two mail sacks and carried them to the gate. The large police officer, who had dealt with Kelly in such a perfunctory way when he had attempted to park outside Maythorpe, punched a code into the control panel by the gates, which swung slowly and silently open, allowing the postman to pass the mail inside. Letters of condolence from fans, Kelly assumed. Two sackloads of them already. His thoughts turned to Angel, yet again. Scott Silver’s mesmerising, captivating widow. Would she want to see the letters, let alone read them, he wondered, as the big gates swung closed again with a small but forbidding clunk.

And would she, he wondered, want to see the letter he had written, which was tucked in the inner pocket of his Barbour? Even less, he guessed. He glanced towards the letter box inset in the end of the wall to the left of the gate, only an arm’s length away. Well, he had nothing to lose, he supposed. He reached inside his coat, removed the envelope containing his letter, stretched out and posted it into the box. The letter simply asked Angel for an interview, which, in common with all the rest of the press, was what Kelly wanted more than anything else. But Kelly had met Angel before, and it had been an unusual meeting to say the least. They had a brief but maybe exceptional shared history, of which he reminded her in his note. In spite of this he knew how heavily the odds were stacked against him. He also knew what a full talk with Angel Silver would be worth. It would be a seriously hot property. If Angel was charged with manslaughter within the next few days, which he had already been told by Karen Meadows was the most likely outcome, no newspaper would be able to print such a story until after her trial because it would be sub judice . But if Kelly got that lucky he would not find it difficult to be patient.

He realised suddenly that he had been fantasising and forced himself to return his attentions to reality. For a while he concentrated on trying to put another early background story together in his head — something that could be used right away, something that could be published now, before Angel was charged. If indeed she was charged.

Suddenly, at around 8.30 a.m. the monotony was momentarily broken. A police car arrived. All the gathered journalists pushed forward trying to see who was inside. Kelly managed to get quite a good look at the four people the car contained. In the back were two men wearing nondescript grey jackets and ties, almost certainly CID, although Kelly didn’t recognise either of them, and in front Karen Meadows, wearing something red to add a flash of colour, sat next to a uniformed driver. The DCI was staring straight ahead, her chiselled features stern beneath her glossy dark hair, which was shaped, as usual, into an almost geometric, rather seventies-style bob. Although she remained an attractive woman, Karen Meadows’ appearance invariably gave an impression of severity, which Kelly always assumed was her intention. The policeman by the gate turned his attention to the control panel again as the squad car approached and the electronic gates opened, allowing the vehicle to sweep through.

Two women fans made a half-hearted attempt to run after the car. The big policeman merely put out one arm and stared them down. He had about him an air of slightly bored authority. You knew there was no point in quarrelling with him. The fans retreated meekly, as indeed Kelly had done earlier when confronted by the same approach. A few spots of rain began to fall. Kelly felt them not only on his forehead but also through his thinning hair as usual. He sighed in glum resignation as he looked up at an increasingly threatening sky.

He forced himself to retreat into the half-trance he had developed over the years in order to get him through long, tedious, and often seriously uncomfortable doorstepping sessions. After a bit he virtually ceased to notice the steadily falling rain and nearly an hour passed before he checked his watch again. It was almost 9.30 a.m. His deadline would shortly become pressing, but he decided to give it until eleven before leaving the scene. None the less he suspected that, at the best of times, Angel Silver would be a night bird, unlikely to surface much before the afternoon — and that didn’t bode well for an evening paper man.

However, just before 10.30, during a break in the rain, a tall bearded man wearing jeans and a leather jacket emerged from the house and made his way up the drive towards the gates, which opened as if by magic as he approached them, so that his stride did not even have to falter. They must have been operated from inside the house, thought Kelly. The tall man seemed to be framed by the slowly parting gates as he strode through, the massively imposing house looming behind him. Suddenly, as if on cue, the black clouds overhead parted momentarily and a brief shaft of pale autumn sunlight, much the same as Kelly had witnessed lighting up the sea the previous day, illuminated the man, causing his reddish hair and beard to gleam. The wonders of English weather, thought Kelly. Yet again it was almost as if the scene had been stage-managed.

Kelly was amused; Scott Silver had been renowned as a wonderful showman. Kelly felt that he should know who the tall bearded man was. He seemed to have been cast from the same mould as the legendary rock star — there was certainly something theatrical about him. There was, however, also something indefinably camp about him, quite unlike the legendarily heterosexual Scott, and as he stepped out into Rock Lane, his fairly flamboyant body language made it clear that he wanted to speak.