Ken McClure - Dust to dust

The door was opened by a woman who immediately changed her mind and said, ‘We’ve nothing more to say to the papers. Please go away.’ She made to close the door and Steven stopped her by putting his hand against it, moderating his action with what he hoped was a friendly smile. ‘I’m not from the papers, Mrs Kelly. My name’s Steven Dunbar. I’m trying to establish the truth about your son’s death.’

May Kelly still seemed suspicious. ‘How do I know you’re not lying?’ she asked.

Steven took out his ID with one hand and showed it to her.

‘It says here you’re a doctor.’

‘Yes, but I work as an investigator. I really am trying to find out the truth about Michael’s death.’

May Kelly relented. ‘You’d better come in.’ She showed him into a small sitting room and gestured to him to sit down.

‘I take it Mr Kelly’s at work?’

‘Sleeping.’

‘Sleeping?’

‘Off sick.’

‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

‘A couple of Rangers guys gave him a doin’.’

Steven made a face. ‘I take it he’s a Celtic supporter?’ He was well aware of the loathing between supporters of Glasgow’s two biggest football clubs. His wife had been a Glasgow girl.

May nodded. ‘Everyone is round here. He was wearing his Celtic top coming out of a pub and these guys jumped him, gave him a right goin’ over.’

Steven shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose you know what I’m going to ask you?’

‘Same as the others. Where did we get our information about Michael’s death not being as straightforward as they were making out.’

Steven nodded. ‘More or less. In particular, what makes you think your son was back here in the UK on a “secret mission”, as the papers called it?’

‘I can’t tell you that,’ said May. ‘The guy who told us would get into big trouble. But take it from me, he knew what he was talking about.’

Steven was about to say something when he was interrupted by the opening of the room door and the appearance of Brian Kelly in a Celtic top and his underpants: his bulk filled the doorway. ‘What did I tell you about talking to these buggers?’ he asked May.

‘He’s no’ the papers,’ said May. ‘He’s an investigator.’

‘Investigator my arse,’ stormed Brian, the heavy bruising to his face making his anger appear even more ferocious. He made a grab at Steven, who rose expertly from his seat, avoided Brian’s grasp and put him in an arm-lock. Lowering him very slowly and gently into the chair he had been sitting on he said, ‘I’m Steven Dunbar of the Sci-Med Inspectorate. I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr Kelly.’

Kelly looked balefully at his wife and said with an air of resignation, ‘Make us some tea, will you?’

May left the room and Steven sat down opposite Kelly, and took in the state of his face. ‘God, you have been in the wars.’

‘Rangers bastards,’ said Kelly, touching his bruises. ‘I take it you’re here like the others tae find oot who blew the whistle on those lying bastards at the MOD? Well, we’re no’ talkin’.’

‘It might help me find out a bit more about your son’s death.’

‘No it wouldnae,’ said Kelly. ‘We’ve told everyone all they need to know to get the answers we want but they’re a’ more interested in getting hold of the guy who told us.’

‘Well, he’s obviously the one who knows what really went on,’ said Steven. ‘You could have made the whole lot up.’

‘Yer arse,’ said Kelly angrily.

‘No matter,’ said Steven. ‘Your wife’s already told me that you folks aren’t going to say anything about your source so I’ll have to respect your decision.’

Kelly looked at Steven and Steven was surprised to see fear in his eyes. ‘We promised,’ he said. ‘We promised the guy we wouldn’t tell anyone…’

‘Of course.’ Steven sensed there was more going on inside Kelly’s head. ‘But?’ he prompted.

‘That’s what those Rangers bastards wanted to know,’ mumbled Kelly.

Steven felt stunned. ‘What?’ he exclaimed. ‘The men who attacked you wanted to know who told you about Michael’s death not being straightforward?’

Kelly remained silent and looked at the floor.

‘I take it your silence means that you told them?’

‘I had to; they were kicking eight kinds o’ shit out of me.’

‘So the cat’s out of the bag anyway.’

Kelly appeared ashamed. ‘It was Michael’s pal,’ he said. ‘Jim Leslie.’

‘He’s a marine too?’

Kelly nodded. ‘He asked us no’ tae tell anyone it was him but he was well pissed off over what happened to Michael.’

‘And what exactly did happen to Michael?’ Steven probed gently.

‘Jim said Mick was called back to the UK but he didn’t know why; it was a secret. Michael said he couldn’t tell him. The next thing Jim knew, Michael was back in Afghanistan, lying in a field hospital. They said he’d been injured by shrapnel and the wounds had turned septic but nobody knew anything about the incident and Jim didn’t get to see Michael… until it was too late.’

‘Too late?’

‘They let him pay his last respects after he died.’

Steven had to make absolutely sure of his facts. ‘So Jim Leslie saw your son’s body in Afghanistan after he died?’

‘That’s what I just said,’ said Kelly. ‘And now he’s goin’ tae get in real trouble because I blabbed.’

‘I don’t think you had much choice in the circumstances, Mr Kelly,’ said Steven, but he saw it was cold comfort.

May Kelly returned with three mugs of tea and three chocolate biscuits on a circular metal tray with a picture of the Grand Canal in Venice on it. She looked suspiciously at each of the two men in turn as if trying to work out what had been going on. They had their tea and biscuits in an uneasy silence before Steven said, ‘Well, I’m sorry you can’t help me with my investigation, Mr and Mrs Kelly, but of course I do understand.’ The look he got from Kelly was thanks enough. ‘And I’m very sorry for your loss.’

Steven left the Barony flats. It was his intention to walk until he found a main road and catch either a bus or a taxi back to town, depending on which came along first. He felt like a deer in a concrete forest; the eyes of the hunters were on him, and he had to stay alert. A group of three youths standing in a doorway looked as if they might consider bidding to become the new owners of his wallet and mobile phone, but perhaps the fact that he was over six feet and in good physical condition caused them to reconsider. He kept up his quick pace, however, anticipating a possible call for reinforcements; he’d seen one of them talking into a phone inside his hood.

In the event, he made it to a main road without incident and got on the green and yellow bus that turned up shortly afterwards. Up on the top deck, he thought through what he’d learned from Brian Kelly on the fifteen-minute ride back into the city. The fact that Kelly had been beaten up for reasons other than football rivalry or sectarian bigotry was scary. The real motive had been to find out where he’d got the information about his son’s death and that could mean that Marine James Leslie was in real danger. He’d alert Sci-Med as soon as he was somewhere less public. On a more positive note, he could now be sure that Michael Kelly had died in Afghanistan; Jim Leslie had seen his body there, which removed the lingering possibility that Kelly had met his death back in the UK. Even if John Motram had been right about his being the donor — and plenty was pointing to that — he must have returned to Afghanistan immediately afterwards.

But then what? Sheer bad luck? Had he been killed as soon as he’d stepped off the plane? He hadn’t had time to return to his unit. Apart from that, no one knew anything about the incident in which he’d supposedly been injured, according to Jim Leslie… who’d seen Kelly’s dead body lying in Camp Bastion… Kelly’s dead body… Kelly’s dead body.