Хилари Боннер - A Moment Of Madness

‘What are they saying?’ asked Mrs James, and Ken opened the door a few inches, freeing Kelly’s foot altogether. The reporter removed it swiftly. There was a limit. The way things were going in the foot department that day he was likely to end up unable to walk at all if he didn’t watch it.

He could see Mrs James quite clearly beneath her son’s arm, which Ken had stretched across the gap in the doorway, just in case Kelly was mad enough to attempt to barge in — which, in spite of a fairly cavalier track record, he most certainly was not. The woman’s glance was almost pleading.

‘Well, if you let me inside, I’d tell you everything,’ Kelly remarked in his ‘I’m a really reasonable and helpful bloke’ voice.

In response Ken James glowered at him with even more hostility. ‘The only reason we’ve got to talk to you lot is for cash, and lots of it,’ he growled.

His mother rounded on her son then. ‘You’ll not make money out of your brother’s death, Ken,’ she said, not loudly but with a force and an authority which surprised Kelly. ‘Not while I’m alive, at any rate.’

Ken James did not reply but bowed his head slightly as if in acknowledgement.

‘You’d better come in,’ said Mrs James to Kelly.

Her son stepped back, albeit with apparent reluctance, removing his arm and allowing the door to swing fully open again. Mrs James was little more than half the size of her son but there wasn’t much doubt about who was in charge in this household.

She beckoned Kelly into the hall. He was struck at once by the extreme cleanliness and order of the place, which came as something of a surprise after the neglected exterior. The floor of the hall was covered in plush dark red carpet which looked freshly vacuumed, the walls washed plain cream and covered in family photographs. Mrs James led him to an unexpectedly large kitchen at the back of the seemingly small terraced house. The kitchen was smart, modern, well equipped and gleaming. Obliquely Kelly found himself wondering where all those shiny new white goods might have come from. A second, younger woman was sitting at the table. She was sobbing gently into a wodge of tissues and barely looked up as Kelly entered. More than likely a sister to Terry and Ken, Kelly guessed. He knew the James lot were a large family. Two small boys, possibly the younger woman’s sons, appeared to be fighting to the death in front of the washing machine. Kelly was aware of the towering figure of Ken James right behind him, literally breathing down his neck. Nobody else in the room seemed to notice the huge commotion the two children were making.

‘Hello,’ he said to the woman at the table, putting on his ‘I’m a nice journalist’ face. ‘John Kelly, Evening Argus . So sorry to intrude at such a sad time.’

‘Like fuck,’ said Ken James loudly.

Kelly ignored Ken. The woman ignored Kelly.

‘May I sit down?’ he enquired, doing so without waiting for anyone to reply. He knew how to get himself established inside somebody’s home well enough.

‘So what are they saying about our Terry?’ asked Mrs James for the second time as she lowered herself into a chair opposite Kelly.

‘They’re saying that Terry broke into Scott Silver’s house, that he was disturbed by the rock star, whom he then stabbed to death in a struggle, and that Scott’s wife, Angel Silver, then killed Terry in self-defence,’ explained Kelly succinctly. He hadn’t been a top tabloid hack for nothing.

‘We fucking know that,’ growled Ken, who appeared to use only one adjective.

‘Yes, but do you believe it?’

‘No we don’t,’ said Mrs James. ‘Not for one minute. My Terry wouldn’t have hurt that Scott Silver. Never.’

‘He never hurt anyone, not Terry, except maybe in the pub or summat,’ interrupted Ken in what for him was presumably a normal sort of voice. ‘Even then the filth never got it right. He only ever fought back when people picked a fight with him, did Terry. There’s a sort who like to show how tough they are after they’ve had a few beers. They like to push big blokes like Terry. I know. I get it too. But Terry never wanted it, never went looking for it. Not like me. I can be an evil bastard, me.’ Ken looked quite pleased with himself at the thought and uttered the last words with considerable pride.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ replied Kelly as pleasantly as he could manage. Very casually he slipped a hand into one of the side pockets of his Barbour and withdrew a small tape recorder and a notebook. He put the recorder on the table and switched it on. Nobody objected, which was a result in itself.

‘But Terry does have a record both for grievous bodily harm and for theft, doesn’t he?’ Kelly continued conversationally.

‘Yeah, but you can always make things sound worse than they really are,’ responded Mrs James. ‘You heard what our Kenny said. When he got done on that grievous bodily harm charge it wasn’t Terry’s fault at all. There was a load of lads down the Pier Arms who decided to take him on and my Terry sorted the lot of ’em out. Then he was the one got done. He wasn’t into violence. He didn’t like it.’

Kelly sighed. ‘So why was he carrying a knife when he broke into Scott Silver’s house, Mrs James?’

‘I don’t believe he was. I’ve never known him carry any kind of weapon, have you, Ken, honestly now?’

‘No,’ said the big man. ‘Definitely not. It weren’t Terry’s style. He must have been fitted up.’

Kelly sighed again. He wasn’t getting very far. Classic denial. Strange how often it was that the seriously dodgy families were the ones who could kid themselves best.

‘Look, your Terry was surprised in the middle of the night while breaking into the Silver home. I understand the police found a suitcase he’d already filled with stuff. I’m not saying he meant to kill Scott Silver, but there doesn’t seem to be any doubt that he did.’

‘Kill Scott Silver?’ Mrs James produced a hollow mirthless laugh. ‘He’d never have done that. He wouldn’t have stolen from him either.’

Kelly had his notebook on his knee now and a Biro in his right fist, but so far the only mark he had made on the page was an uninspired doodle of something vaguely resembling a cat. Kelly liked cats.

‘Well, what do you think your son was doing in the Silver mansion last night then? He wasn’t exactly an invited guest, was he?’

‘Look, Mr Kelly, Terry was not the brightest of my boys...’

Kelly made a huge effort not to look at Ken. The thought of an even less bright version was a disturbing one.

‘He was a big softy, though. That was my Terry. He had a heart of gold. He didn’t go round hurting people, and that Scott Silver — well, Terry really loved him. Honest he did.’

Terry James loved Scott Silver? What the hell did that mean? Kelly was alert now. He wasn’t sure where Mrs James was leading but this was beginning to get interesting at last.

‘Look, let me show you something,’ the woman continued.

She ushered Kelly out of the kitchen, along the red-carpeted hallway, up the similarly red-carpeted stairs, past more immaculate cream walls dotted with yet more family photographs, and led the way into a small bedroom overlooking the street.

As she opened the door Kelly felt the familiar tingling sensation in his spine that he always got when his journalistic antennae were waggling on overdrive.

The room was a shrine to Scott Silver. Every inch of the walls was covered with posters and photographs of the rock star. If it hadn’t been for bare patches indicating that several photographs had been recently removed, almost certainly by the police, Kelly thought, you wouldn’t have been able to see the mid-blue-painted walls at all. There were old concert tickets drawing-pinned to the front of the wardrobe, piles of Scott Silver LPs in one corner and a neat stack of his CDs next to the state-of-the-art music centre. Even the rug thrown over the bed bore Silver’s picture.