French Leave (6 page)

‘
You'll
be going to Afghanistan?'

‘Not until October, darling. I'll get over to see you before then and we'll make up for lost time. That's a promise.'

‘Look, I've got to go. I've overstayed my lunch break and I've two manicures and a facial booked in for this afternoon.'

‘Can't wait to see you, Trish,' he said with feeling. ‘I was so worried before you called.'

‘About the soldier who ran off? Surely it's obvious why he went. If you've got any sense, you'll do the same.'

The line went dead.

THREE

B
y the end of that Friday afternoon the SIB team had interviewed most of 3 Platoon, and the few men in 1 and 2 whom Melly had been told spoke with a Brummie accent. The Staff Sergeant was the first to outline his day's work as soon as they had all gathered.

‘We can discount the men from 1 and 2 Platoons as possible killers of Smith because they held the centre and right flank positions during the assault. They wouldn't have been near enough to attack him. The assault was mounted over a broad front and in two waves, which meant the troops were never closely bunched. If anyone did for Smith it would have to have been a person advancing close to him.

‘However, I spoke to the three men with natural Brummie accents who could have made the phone call. Their knowledge of Smith was negligible, their concern for his welfare non-existent. Instinct told me they had played no part in whatever happened. Clues will only be found within 3 Platoon.'

Tom nodded. ‘It's not unusual for the men in a company to know and pal up with others in their own platoon, having little to do socially with the rest unless they're members of a team activity – sports, pub quiz, camera club, go-karts.' He glanced around at the team, who had all made the effort to look professional by wearing fresh shirts. ‘Any input on that?'

The two women sergeants offered up what they had found by speaking to Smith's companions inside the Warrior. ‘The usual mix,' said Connie, ‘although our impression of two likely lads named White and Corkhill is that their strong dislike of Smith is largely based on the fact that he replaced an all-round good guy killed in Basra. Smith's subsequent attempt to make his mark with the dead man's best mate put him beyond the pale.'

Heather said, ‘We didn't manage to track down Lance Corporal Mason, but he's certain to be totally biased against Smith for that reason. We attempted to speak to Private Ryan in the sick bay, but were denied access to him by the MO.'

‘An MO-ess,' volunteered Piercey. ‘The lads'll be queueing to show her anything from a splinter in their finger to a blister on their heel.'

Connie wagged her head. ‘No, Phil, sick parades will suddenly fizzle out, the lads preferring to suffer rather than risk the lady producing a hypodermic syringe, or asking them to drop their underpants.'

‘She won't
ask
– she'll
order
them to,' put in Max with a hint of amusement. ‘I met Captain Goodey at lunch. Not a lady to be trifled with. By
anyone
.'

Heather had more to say. ‘Although we read signs of overwhelming general dislike of Smith, we feel that eight months should have been long enough for initial resentment over a poor replacement for a platoon hero to merge into acceptance. Squaddies are fairly resilient, gregarious creatures who almost always unite in a common cause, knowing they all depend on each other in this demanding job that they do. We believe the answer lies in something that happened just before the action took place, or at some point during it. It's the only explanation for why Smith vanished on that particular day.'

‘I agree,' said Max. ‘I didn't need Lieutenant Farley pointing out that any man planning to go AWOL would never choose to do it when Smith did. If the man went by his own design, it must be because he felt he had no choice.'

Tom then revealed the interesting fruits of his own labours, adding that he had decided not to pass the info to George Maddox.

‘It struck me that if Smith had been dealing with an outside supplier, he could be using that connection to lie low until the heat is off.'

‘Not if the German dealer's putting the frights on him,' Piercey reasoned. ‘I wager that's the explanation. Jerry came on heavy about money owing, goods not shifting fast enough. Threatened to send a “persuader” unless Smith toed the line.'

Always scathing about Piercey's lurid hypotheses, Heather said, ‘How did the German issue the threat in the middle of a military exercise?'

Piercey was ready with an answer. ‘Smith had it on the eve of departure. Knew he would be safely out of reach for at least ten days, then he eventually realized he daren't return to base, and skedaddled.'

For once, Tom saw a thread of sense in Piercey's suggestion, and elaborated on it. ‘His room-mate asked why Smith would wait so long to run off when he had equal opportunities to go earlier in the exercise. A build-up of dread could be an explanation.'

Connie said thoughtfully, ‘He could have hung on, hoping the weather would break. A decision that worked against him. By the time he had no choice but to go, he must have been a great deal more exhausted.'

‘I've had Smith's personal possessions, along with the booty, impounded until we have a clearer idea of where Smith is,' Tom continued. ‘Under one of the stacks of DVDs we found a key of the type used to open small safes or individual lockers. Spanner told me he had no knowledge of Smith belonging to any sports clubs, the usual reason for a locker key, so it could be for a bank safety deposit box, in view of his lucrative sideline. No chance of following that up until Monday. If we draw a blank there, the item will prove a time-waster unless we come across something the key fits.'

‘It could be for a container in his room at home,' suggested Melly. ‘Do we know if he still lives with his parents?'

Max nodded. ‘His given home address matches that of his father in Bournemouth.'

Piercey had been loath to give his report on the interview with Sergeant Miller, but Tom then asked for it and he bluffed his way through an encounter he had not enjoyed.

‘If anyone did for Smith I'd say Miller's the clear suspect. Hates the man's guts with an excess of vitriol. A bully of the first order who'd enjoy tormenting little runts persecuted by the entire platoon. He's the type who's never got over a boyhood glee at putting firecrackers up a cat's arse, or cutting off a dog's tail.'

‘Which did he do to you, Phil?' asked Heather slyly.

Piercey cast her a malevolent glare. ‘Miller needs talking to again. Here at Headquarters. Make it more official. He knows something. Why else would he be so certain Smith had absconded?'

‘I'll pull him in tomorrow,' Tom said, ‘and you can busy yourself checking all the stores in town selling DVDs. Find out if any have stuff going missing on a regular basis. Smith's hoard could have come from one of them.'

Max then told them that the scaled-down search for Smith was continuing. ‘George is personally hoping for reports of sightings by any one of the usual sources so he can call his men in. Until we have proof that Smith is alive somewhere, they have to keep looking for a body.' He turned his attention to Connie and Heather, who were seated together. ‘In the morning, check with the several stores in the area that sell guns and military-style gear for enthusiasts. Push them hard. Find out if they've been offered a rifle or any genuine equipment during the past three days. If they deny it, get the details of their suppliers from them. Threaten to call in the
Polizei
to make an in-depth investigation into their business activities, if they turn nasty.

‘I'll attempt to locate Lance Corporal Mason. He could have a hang-up over the death of his friend, which created in him an unhealthy resentment of his replacement. I'll also have a word with the Company Commander about Sergeant Miller and the other NCOs. You stated that Miller was vitriolic about Smith,' he said, giving Piercey a faint smile. ‘Well, even taking account of the well-known myth that sergeants occasionally eat squaddies as a mere snack, there has to be a reason for such hatred of that particular one. I'll dig out what's behind it from men who know more about Miller than he'll ever volunteer to us.' He stood. ‘Get what rest you can over the weekend. We'll meet at eight thirty on Monday. With luck, the heatwave will be over.'

On his way to his room, Max passed Clare Goodey in the vestibule. She was studying a large envelope she had presumably taken from her pigeon hole. It bore a UK stamp, and an official-type address on the left-hand corner. Making no attempt to open it, she appeared deep in thought. Not the right time for small talk or a request to interview her West Wilts patients, Max decided.

After showering and dressing in chinos and a pale green shirt he went down to the dining room, feeling his appetite was now sharp enough for a decent hot meal. He sat in solitary state at the end of one long table, unwilling to join a small group of regimental men and women gathered at the second table. They made no effort to encourage him.

He had given himself tasks for the next morning, but the remainder of the weekend was set to be lonely. He should now have been in Livya's flat preparing to leave for dinner and the theatre. It was too early to call her. In Washington it was still the middle of their working day. When she was on duty with Brigadier Andrew Rydal it was wisest to leave her to make contact. Her call often came around midnight. He had no idea when she would come through tonight, but he hoped she would. Her message from Heathrow had necessarily been brief.

Munching his way through chicken pie with an assortment of vegetables his spirits suddenly dropped. How could they conduct a realistic relationship situated as they were? Love at long distance was all very well when there was a home, maybe a child: roots to bind two people together, a dwelling that belonged to them both. He was presently eating alone in a communal dining room; sleeping alone in a single bed, maintaining monk-like celibacy.

Livya, on the other hand, was at the Pentagon with an acknowledged charmer (Max still had a flutter of suspicion about the true relationship between his father and his ADC), and she was most probably being chatted up by flamboyant, extrovert CIA braggarts. She certainly would not be dining alone and, from what he knew of American bedrooms, Livya would spend her nights in a bed vast enough to hold an entire baseball team. He hoped she would be the only sleeper in it.

Why was he
hoping
? he asked himself. Why have doubts? When they were together he had none. Once more he wondered if he should request a transfer to the UK. He could be lucky enough to be posted in the South, which would make it possible for them to be together every weekend. Dropping his knife and fork on the plate in frustration, he faced the holes in that flimsy plan.

He would still live in a small room in a military mess all week, then become a weekend lodger in Livya's London apartment. What would he do on occasions like this present one, when the charismatic Brigadier demanded her presence? Would she want him there in her absence? Would he want to be there on his own? If they shared a house it would be different. If they shared a house he would want them to marry and make it their home.

His spirits dropped further. Until Livya was ready to make that commitment the situation would continue as it was now. He pushed his plate away moodily, appetite gone.

‘And there was I thinking you had climbed a rung by tackling a chunk of pie. You'll slip down again if you don't finish it.'

Clare Goodey held a plate bearing a small helping of vegetables and a minute lamb chop. ‘May I join you?'

Max half stood, coming back from his gloomy thoughts. ‘Please do.' He resumed his seat once she was settled. ‘Sorry to disappoint you over the pie.'

Her smile seemed a little strained. ‘A bottom-rung companion is a better prospect than that jolly crowd of khaki-clad extreme youth on the other table.'

He looked across at them. ‘I suppose we must have been like that five years ago. How soon that phase passes.'

Her smile faded. ‘Oh God, a maudlin policeman. Maybe I should have fraternized with merry youth after all.'

‘Prescribe a tonic, ma'am, and you'll mark the difference.' Even as he said it, Max recognized the boost to his mood she had made just by sitting opposite him. Her hair was fluffy from the shower, which softened her finely-moulded features, and she looked attractively fresh in a white linen tunic with a V-neck and pale blue stitching that matched her skirt.

‘The only tonic I can prescribe out of surgery hours is to be found on a bar stool.'

He watched her carefully separate the meat from the bone. Surely no more than a mouthful. ‘Sometimes you can grow even more maudlin on a bar stool.'

Her blue gaze rose to meet his. ‘Not if you're with a compatible companion.'

‘No, not then,' he said, wondering where this conversation was heading.

She set down her cutlery. ‘How d'you feel about testing that theory?' When he glanced towards the bar, she said swiftly, ‘Not in there. Don't you know somewhere in town that would answer the purpose?' Pushing away her plate, she got to her feet. ‘Let's get shot of this place hung with paintings of men in scarlet uniforms killing and being killed, and mix with the living. What d'you say?'

With surprise, he realized he was being chatted up by this decisive woman. ‘Fine with me. I'll fetch my car keys.'

‘I'll fetch mine. It needs a decent run. Outside the side entrance in five.'

She was off before Max could say anything more, but he went upstairs to collect his wallet, feeling brighter than he had all day since receiving Tom's call on the river. He knew just the place for a quiet, reflective drink.