Hilary Bonner: When the Dead Cry Out

Karen chuckled. “We have quite enough crime scenes of our own, thank you very much, Sergeant,” she replied. She glanced at her watch. “I’ll get the fax organized, then I’ll be on my way. Should be with you by about six, I’d hope.”

She rang off then and turned to Tompkins.

“Right, Chris,” she said. “You’re with me again and you’re driving. I’ve done enough of that already today. And by the time this day’s over I’m going to be out on my feet, I reckon.”

They arrived at Hammersmith Police Station, just off the main shopping street, at ten past six. Pretty good timing, Karen thought. She’d been just ten minutes out. But then she had been pushing Tompkins to drive to the limit all the way.

DS Farthing came to meet her almost as soon as she walked into the front office. She immediately expressed her gratitude to him for the speed with which he had contacted the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary and for the way in which he had arranged for her to join in the operation. That kind of cooperation between the Met and a county force was rare indeed. Under the present happy circumstances, Karen didn’t make a point of that, of course. But then she didn’t need to. She and DS Farthing were both experienced long-serving police officers. They knew the score.

Karen didn’t feel she had time for any preamble. “I’d like to see Kelly straight away if I can,” she said.

“No problem, he’s in an interview room already, waiting for you.”

Karen raised both eyebrows. This was cooperation of an unprecedented level. She could only assume that the Met in Hammersmith had more work than they could cope with, because they were certainly content to unload all they could of this case.

Kelly was sitting at a table in a small windowless interview room, looking much the same as he had when she had last seen him in a similar situation. Rather disconcertingly, his eyes seemed to be somewhat glazed. She did not treat him to the courtesy of any preliminary greetings. Instead she sat down smartly opposite him, gestured for the uniformed constable already in attendance to switch on the tape recorder, and began.

“Right,” she said. “Let’s start at the beginning. How did you come to find the body of Jennifer Roth?”

Kelly looked startled, as if he had expected a different, more sympathetic approach, perhaps, from his old friend. Well, that was tough, thought Karen, because he certainly wasn’t going to get it. Kelly seemed to be beginning to make a habit of this kind of thing. He had put her at risk professionally before, and she wasn’t going to let him do it again. He may have done her a big favour once, but that was a very long time ago, and it was a favour which she felt had been called in on more than one occasion already.

She noticed that Kelly had not shaved that day, that his eyes were red-rimmed, and that his hands on the table before him were trembling. He was staring hard at her. For a moment she thought he was going to ask her for some sort of favour. Then he just seemed to slump in his chair, and at the same time he began to speak.

“I travelled up to London yesterday as soon as I heard the news of Marshall’s death,” he said. “I had to see Jennifer straight away. I took the train to Paddington and then the tube back to Hammersmith. I went to her flat but there was no reply. I tried a few times, then I booked myself into a pub round the corner that does B and B. I had her phone number and I kept calling. I even called in the middle of the night. Still no reply.”

“So this morning I went around to the flat again and when I still couldn’t raise her I decided to break in and have a look. I was worried, and I was right to be, it seems. I felt responsible, you see, I had a dreadful feeling that I knew what might have happened. And I also had a dreadful feeling it was down to me.”

Kelly paused and wiped the back of one hand wearily across his eyes. Karen did not speak. She had no intention of putting him out of his misery.

“As you probably know now, it’s a basement flat in one of those big old terraced houses just off the North End Road,” Kelly continued. “I went round the back and broke a pane of glass in the kitchen door. It only had a Yale lock so once I could get my hand inside all I had to do was open it. Some security, eh?”

“Get on with it, Kelly.” Karen had no more time for diversions than she had for social niceties. She was deliberately brusque even though she knew it was only nervousness which had made him make the remark about security in the first place.

“Well, I went into the flat and I called out for her and then I just went through the rooms. I found her in the bedroom...”

His voice tailed off. He looked as if he might be about to be sick. He ran his tongue around his lips.

“Can I have a glass of water?” he asked.

Karen nodded and gestured to the uniformed constable to do the honours. She was, however, not in the mood to show a great deal of compassion for Kelly. God knows what mess he had managed to get himself in yet again, but this time she was determined she was not going to join him in it.

“She was spreadeagled across the bed. That damned gun beside her. I can’t remember when I last saw so much blood...”

Kelly stopped again.

Karen was not going to give him an inch.

“Go on,” she instructed.

“She’d blown her fucking head off, hadn’t she?” Kelly leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and grasped his head with both hands, covering his face. For a moment Karen thought he was going to pass out. She still showed him no mercy, gave him no encouragement. Instead, once again, she waited in silence for him to continue to speak.

“I didn’t need a doctor to tell me she was dead, that’s for sure,” he said eventually. “I dialled 999, and the rest you know, I expect.”

“The rest I most certainly do not know. You are aware that the Met regard you as a suspect, I suppose?”

“Yes, and they’re dead right to,” responded Kelly instantly. “I am responsible for her death, I reckon.”

Karen sighed wearily. “Not again, Kelly,” she said. “We seem to have been down this road once before, I recall. Will you please stop playing games with me, and tell me in plain English what exactly you mean by that remark.”

Kelly leaned forward and bowed his head over the table. Karen could see the tension in him. His hands were trembling even more. Under different circumstances Karen might have felt sorry for him, but the way things were she had neither time nor inclination for any sympathy at all.

“Well, if it hadn’t been for me, if I hadn’t done what I did, I reckon she’d still be alive—”

“For Christ’s sake, Kelly,” Karen interrupted in a stentorian roar that caused both Chris Tompkins, and the young Met constable who had just returned with the requested glass of water, to look extremely startled. She was aware that she was conducting this interview in a far-from-textbook way, but she couldn’t help it. This was John Kelly, after all.

“All right. All right.” Kelly knew perfectly well what was required of him, Karen suspected, and from his demeanour it seemed that he might at last be prepared to give.

“I’ve been in touch with Jennifer Roth for some weeks, well, since just after I went to Jimmy Finch’s retirement do, actually,” he said, glancing at Karen rather sheepishly. She feared that she could guess what was coming next, and she also had a dreadful idea that she knew exactly where it was leading.

“Go on,” she prompted for what seemed the umpteenth time.

“Well, she’d already moved from Poole to Hammersmith. I tracked her down through the marina office. She’d left a forwarding address, simple as that.”

Karen shut her eyes briefly, then opened them again. She wondered how long it would have taken Dorset CID to think of that. And she should have arranged for such a simple enquiry herself, too.