Indian Summer (25 page)

Turning on to the drive he cut the engine and sat deep in thought. Was he losing his touch? Frank Priest had mentioned that business in Iraq two years ago, but he had neglected to follow up on it. Hearing about Starr's use of cocaine, should he have ordered a comprehensive search of the Keanes' house for her supply? Had he failed to coordinate evidence with his usual acumen and allowed his team members to take command? He had not yet even worked out the significance of that bloody jellyfish. Olly Simpson might get there just ahead of Max on that, when that dumbo Tom Black would realize it had been staring him in the face all along.

Raising his unseeing gaze from the steering wheel, he then focussed on Nora's car neatly parked in the open garage. The sight gave him little comfort. She had made him ineffective at home, too. After shaming him into accepting the task of ruling on the subject of owning a puppy, she had then told the girls they could have it. It had been making itself at home in the garden when he had arrived home prepared to be firm with his refusal to them.

Rising resentment ebbed away as he recalled his fears over why Nora might have decided they should have the little dog's company. Taking a deep breath, he determined to take that situation by the horns and resolve it without delay. He had been presented with the perfect opportunity. Their daughters were at school and six hours lay before him without the possibility of interruption. He would switch off his mobile; put the bloody thing in a cupboard while he got to the nub of whatever Nora was witholding from him.

She was in the kitchen putting away the things she had bought on her way back from seeing Clare Goodey. She glanced up as if startled from absorbing thoughts by his entry.

‘Whatever are you doing here at this time of day?'

‘Case solved,' he informed her with feigned lightness of tone. ‘The Doc discovered the identity of the perpetrator. We can't charge him and incarcerate him in the glasshouse because he died during the execution of his crime. Max has given us all a day off so we two are going to make the most of it.' He pulled her against him and kissed her before she suspected it. ‘I'll finish putting this stuff away while you go up and put on your glad rags. I'm taking you for lunch at the riverside inn Max is so fond of, and I'll not accept any excuses about being too busy. I don't care what else you might have planned, we're going to have a carefree day out. Go on, look lively!'

Hesitating for barely a moment, Nora went without a word, leaving him to stack her shopping in the fridge and cupboards. Tom then joined her in the bedroom to change his formal suit for casual trousers and shirt. Nora was buttoning a cotton skirt she had had for longer than he could remember. With three growing girls to clothe she rarely bought anything new for herself, yet she spent hours making beautiful dresses for weddings and other joyful occasions. She loved the work, but it now struck Tom that it was always for other women.

‘So tell me about the case. Who killed Corporal Keane?' she asked, starting to brush her brown shoulder-length hair.

‘A bee.'

‘
What?
'

‘I'll elaborate in the car,' he said, knowing he must clear that subject from the agenda before tackling the vital one.

Having done just that by the time they arrived at the inn, Tom suggested they walk beside the river until they grew hungry enough to tackle the large lunch he planned to order at one of the tables in the gardens running down to the water's edge. Nora agreed with what Tom thought was a suggestion of resignation, which worried him anew. Now he had set the scene he was anxious about how to broach what he was afraid to hear.

As they walked, Nora suddenly slipped her hand around his and gripped it tightly. ‘This is like old times. When we were young.'

Rubbing his thumb caressingly over the back of her hand, he said, ‘We're not exactly on our way out yet, love.' The minute he had made the light-hearted comment he read something fearful into it, and further words stuck in his throat.

‘Remember that day in Lyme Regis, when we tramped to the highest viewpoint with four heavy bags because I was determined to have an old-fashioned picnic? No Tupperware boxes of cheese sandwiches and jam tarts for me.
I
was going to spread a tablecloth on a tartan rug, use regular cutlery and china plates, boil water to make tea in a china pot with
leaves
not the despicable teabags. I took bridge rolls, paté, smoked salmon, chicken patties, petits fours and a charlotte russe.' She gave a faint chuckle. ‘In a cut-glass bowl!'

Tom gazed reflectively at the shadow patterns on water running deep along this stretch of river where Max hired his skiff on Sunday mornings. ‘I was then convinced you'd never take on an ordinary bloke like me, who
always
had cheese sandwiches and jam tarts, with teabags in chunky mugs on picnics. I was scared stiff I'd get my finger stuck in the handle of one of those fancy bone china cups you'd brought.'

Nora glanced up at him. ‘That's the first time you've admitted that.'

He met her eyes. ‘Forgotten beneath the major events of that day.'

They walked in silence as they recalled the violent storm that had broken soon after Nora had set everything out on her starched tablecloth; a cloud burst that had made the cliff edge dangerously unstable.

‘I wasn't really sure you were the one I wanted until you went down after that stupid lad who ignored your warning,' she said quietly. ‘You could have taken the easy option and waited for the Yellow Hats to arrive.'

He shook his head. ‘You know that wasn't an option, love. He was dangling from a ledge over a forty-foot drop and would've crashed on the rocks before the rescue helo had time to get there.'

‘You could've crashed on the rocks with him.'

He grinned at her. ‘The dilemma about whether I was the one you wanted would have been settled very decisively, in that case. Wonder where he is now, and what kind of man he's become. One thing's certain, he ruined your posh picnic.'

‘And Mum's best cups and saucers were scattered by the rotor's downdraught. Wonder where those two missing cups ended up.'

‘I told you; in some startled chough's territory.'

She smiled up at him. ‘I had no idea what a chough was. I thought it had something to do with the Army.'

‘That's the first time
you've
admitted
that
,' he returned slyly.

Nora stopped walking and gazed across the sparkling river to the meadows beyond. ‘It's been such a beautiful autumn. You don't know how often I've longed for us to have time to try and recapture that heady period before Maggie came along.' Her voice grew slightly unsteady. ‘The years are rolling past so fast, Tom. I've forgotten what it was like to be a carefree girl flirting with a good-looking young soldier. Weather like we're having now, glorious sunshine that lights the vivid colours of the leaves, has set me yearning for that girl who wanted a posh picnic to impress or daunt the persistent Tom Black. The yearning is there, but that girl has gone forever.'

‘No!' cried Tom, reading something terrible into her words and seizing her arms. ‘You'll always be that girl to me.
Always!
' Spotting a wooden bench a few yards ahead, he led her to it and induced her to sit there with him. Now the moment had come he grew surprisingly calm.

‘We're not moving from here until you tell me what you've been keeping to yourself all this week. What did Clare Goodey say to you this morning? The whole truth, love.'

She gave a heavy sigh. ‘I
am
anaemic . . . but I'm also pregnant. Our fourth child should arrive in early June.'

He stared at her in emotional hiatus. ‘You
can't
be pregnant.'

‘I am, Tom.'

‘Did you stop taking the Pill?'

‘Of course not! I didn't want this. It's one of those freak conceptions.'

‘Oh God!' Hearing the dismay in his voice, he was reminded that he had believed she had a terminal illness and should be rejoicing. Trying to come to terms with the thought of broken nights, dirty nappies, teething grizzles and laboured feeding sessions once more after a gap of seven years, he asked, ‘She couldn't have made a mistake, could she?'

Nora's slow shake of the head dashed that hope. ‘I did a positive test before I saw her, and I've missed two months. Morning sickness will arrive shortly.'

It suddenly dawned on Tom what this meant for
her
. Before the return of all he had regarded with dismay
she
had first to endure the trials and tribulations of pregnancy again. Morning sickness, swollen ankles, swollen stomach, tiredness, aches and pains and the actual birth. All that in addition to what she already did for three lively girls aged nine, eleven and thirteen.

Reaching for her he held her close and stroked her hair. ‘The Keane case is virtually over. I'll invite Mum and Dad for a couple of weeks, then you and I'll do what Max had planned; drive off and stop wherever we fancy. You can be a carefree girl flirting with a soldier again. We'll even have a posh picnic.' As an afterthought, he murmured, ‘With luck we'll manage it before the morning sickness starts.'

They sat in silent reflection, now sharing the impact of this unforeseen complication to their lives. Through the cloud of dismay Tom's kaleidoscope of thoughts eventually settled on a picture of two children who had just been orphaned and taken off by strangers while more strangers decided who should give them the home and love they deserved. In the centre of this picture was a large brassy woman in deep distress, crying, ‘They're all I have left of my lovely girl. She'd want her mum to have them, see them grow up,
love
them. She'd
want
that. I can't let her down.' He frowned. How could he regard this Blackie embryo as unwelcome? Every child should be loved unreservedly, and this one would become one of a close happy family.

His spirits began to lift. Maybe it was a boy this time. Soon, Tom was imagining all the father–son pleasures ahead; things he had so often wished for when the overwhelming feminine activities at home excluded him. Maybe he would follow his father into the Army.

TWELVE

R
eturning on the late flight, Max had then driven through rain and a chilly, gusting wind which showered the road with those leaves that had presented such a colourful spectacle when he had travelled that way earlier in the day. The Indian summer had come to a stormy end.

On reaching his apartment he had been too engrossed in seeking the facts he needed to prepare for the morning for thoughts of Livya to bother him. When he eventually went to bed he set a favourite
CD
of Paraguayan harps on the bedside player, but he fell asleep after just two tracks still thinking about that jellyfish.

It was with faint surprise that Max sensed his call to Tom at seven thirty from his office the next morning had woken him. How often had he been told Tom hastened to the kitchen for his breakfast while the female majority created chaos on the upper floor? From the background sounds he appeared to be in the midst of it right now.

‘Late night, Tom?' he asked dryly.

‘Apologies,' came the unabashed reply. ‘I didn't realize there was any longer an element of urgency. Be with you in thirty.'

Max laughed. ‘No reason to miss breakfast.
HQ
at nine will be soon enough. I'm having two people brought in for questioning. You'll find it interesting, I promise.'

His next call half an hour later was answered by John Sears just as Max made to hang up. He sounded breathless and, on being told who was calling, said testily, ‘Kicking off right on the dot, aren't you? Is it that urgent?'

‘Yes,' Max snapped, with the impatience of a man who had been up and active for two and a half hours expecting everyone else to be as keen. ‘And I'm afraid you're not going to like what I have to say.'

He was right. Sears reacted vigorously, and gave out the information with a bad grace. It was expected that a commander should defend his men – Max did not blame him for that – he just took exception to the man's attitude. After disconnecting he wondered if it was because he was still feeling bruised, and had overreacted to the kind of resistance the Redcaps encountered on a regular basis. However, his third call brought the delighted response he had expected from Heather Johnson.

Tom arrived ten minutes before nine, by which time Max had sent out the team to search for further samples of cocaine ostensibly distributed by the Walpole brothers. Over mugs of coffee in his office, Max related the gist of his meeting with Jim Collingwood which had led him to what he believed would clear up the remaining aspects of the Keane case.

‘I chased an entire flock of
WG
s this time, Tom. I admit I let my imagination run riot when I should have listened to my guts which were telling me that the jellyfish was the key.'

Tom frowned. ‘Surely the
bee
was at the centre of this case. I still don't see . . .'

The sound of someone arriving brought an end to their conversation, and they went out to conduct the sober-faced, muscular sergeant to an interview room. Once seated, Max asked if the man knew why he had been summoned.

‘No, sir,' he replied crisply, although wariness in his eyes suggested the opposite.

‘You're aware that we're investigating the death of Corporal Philip Keane?'

‘Yes, sir, but it's all over the base that he got stung by a bee. He wasn't murdered.'

‘That's correct. He died from an anaphylactic fit following that sting. You are here to tell us how his body got in the tank with the synthetic jellyfish you made tied tightly around his throat to simulate strangulation.'

Looking at Tom, he said, ‘Like I told you the morning after, I didn't know Keane, Never heard of him till that happened.'