Troubled Midnight (16 page)

They were spy chasers if he knew anything about it. They just sat and listened, watched, the pusher staring at his hands. Didn’t ask questions, but listened and watched intently. Watchers were fucking dangerous and he knew immediately that he’d have to do something about them. Go talk to Linnet. Linnet could fix it, set it up and do it now. Now, now this minute.

There’d be a stink of course and the coppers would be chasing around for days. But how could they possibly find out. If they were any good they’d only work out who Linnet was. Trail’d go cold after that.

Couldn’t touch him, Sadler.

*   *   *

THE OBSEQUIOUS SERGEANT MAJOR Hardy was hanging around the mess when they finally wound up the little conference following the last interview. Cathy had been told to find out where the Land Army girls lived. “Track ’em down,” Tommy told her. “Embarrass the hell out of them. No doubt it’s all okay, but we’ve got to follow up the nookie.” Tommy being really unpleasant.

He also took Ron to one side and told him to liaise with Dennis Free and check on all the other alibis. “Apart from that strange sergeant major, these are intelligent men. Put all their stories through a sieve. If necessary we’ll come back and take them through it again tomorrow, okay? This is where Colonel Weaving lived and worked and I don’t trust all this best-soldier-whoever-breathed lark.”

Ron was to double check on anything he felt uncertain about.

In the mess bar, Dennis Free, Shirley Cox and Laura Cotter hung around trying to avoid talking to the Sergeant Major who loudly informed Tommy Livermore that there were a couple of jeeps outside waiting to ferry them to the officers’ mess. The way he said it sounded more like, ‘A payer of japes waiting to ferrayew…’

The jeeps were manned by RAF drivers because the GPR had only one jeep, the CO’s transport, usually driven by Monkey Gibbon.

Curry and Suzie climbed into the rear of the second vehicle.

“We’ll give it one drink and a ham sandwich then we’ll ease out,” Curry said. “I’ve got a few ideas of my own and we can always come back with Tommy tomorrow. Priority is getting you to meet Elsie Partridge, right?”

“Whatever you say.”

The mist and fog had burned off leaving a clear cobalt sky, a beautiful morning with a sharp tangy chill in the air. Out on one of the frying pan hard-standings a Wellington ran up its engines, making the air tremble. Someone had said that the Wimpies at the Operational Flying Training Unit at Harwell used Brize as one of its satellite aerodromes.

Suzie couldn’t follow the route to the officers’ mess, and when they finally arrived in front of the semi-permanent building she took a deep breath, looking around in an attempt to identify exactly where they were. The building fronted the main road, some fifty yards away: high barbed wire fences ran along the perimeter, and traffic, mainly military, hummed defiantly past. On the other side of the road, over the hedge, a long and wide meadow sloped up towards a horizon dotted with clumps of trees and, to the right, a group of buildings huddled around a grey stone church.

Suzie took in the view and was just turning away to follow the others into the mess when something caught her eye, a shimmer, unnatural movement among a group of low trees and bushes some two hundred yards up the slope away from the road.

She was aware of the first two cracks and thumps and her mind took in what was happening. Tommy, in an idle moment, had fully explained the theory of crack and thump. It you are being shot at the crack is from a bullet cleaving the air somewhere near you; while the thump is the actual discharge of the weapon.

She heard two cracks and two thumps, followed by a third one.

Then something hit her with force on her back, knocking the breath out of her and she went sprawling to the ground, her head glancing off the jeep’s bonnet. For a few seconds her world filled with electric blue pain.

Chapter Ten

SHE CAME BACK as though from several fathoms, breathless and lying on a leather settee in a neat room with paintings of aeroplanes on the walls, a big fireplace with a marble surround, that seemed out of place, and windows looking out towards the road. In the distance she saw a white coated orderly hovering with a glass on a silver tray. Nobody else around except for Curry Shepherd.

“You okay, Suzie?” he leaned over her and she moved experimentally, feeling bruised around her back and shoulders. “You okay?” He asked again.

“You get the license number of the truck?” It was a line she remembered from a Laurel and Hardy film. Curry gave a little half laugh, unconvinced.

“What happened,” she asked. “Where are the others?”

“We got shot at.”

“Where am I…?”

“In the GPR officers’ mess ante-room.”

“Where’m I hit?”

“You’re not.”

“But something knocked me flying. I heard the crack and thump and…”

“You know about crack and thump?”

“Yes. Why? Is it a secret from women? Where’m I hit?”

“Haven’t met a girl who knows about crack and thump before.”

“You have now. One of the many mysteries Tommy unveiled for me. Where’m I hit?”

“You’re not.”

“Something knocked me to the ground. Of course I was hit.”

“No. That was me. I wanted you to get down: avoid the bullets. Whoever was doing the shooting was trying to remove
us
– you and me, Suzie. Nobody else.
We
were the targets.”

“Crumbs.”

“Crumbs indeed.”

“So I’m not wounded?”

“No. Probably bruised a bit. I leaped on you from behind.”

“Chance would be a fine thing,” she muttered.

“What?”

“I said it must have been a near thing.”

“It was. He fired four shots. The last one put out the jeep’s engine.”

“Lucky you didn’t bring your car over then. Where is everybody?”

“The shots were fired from half way up the meadow opposite. Everybody’s gone to get the would-be assassin. Every officer here and Tommy with his people. I reckon the sergeant instructors as well, and a posse of RAF Regiment. Armed to the teeth.”

She tested her back again, wiggling her shoulders against the leather, shifting slightly. “I think you’re right,” she looked up and wiggled some more. “No, I don’t think I
am
wounded.” Wiggling as far as she could move back. He looked terrific, bending over her, his hands on either side of her shoulders. He doesn’t half look jolly good, she thought. Toyed with the idea of giving yet another wiggle of encouragement, decided against it.

She felt warmish under her clothes, shifting her thighs gently, rubbing them together a little, hardly moving.

You want to kiss me, she thought. Then, aloud he asked if she was sure she was okay.

“I’m okay.” She pulled herself into a sitting position and thought, well that’s that. All over now. He’s out of reach. Gone and never called me mother.

“Want a drink?” Curry asked. The mess orderly came over with the silver tray and the little glass with the amber liquid. “Drop of brandy? How about that? Drop of brandy’ll do you the world of good.”

Curry took the glass, leaned over again and held it to her lips. Her mouth, then her throat filled with fire and she spluttered.

“Sorry,” he grinned. “Probably not used to brandy.”

“I’m very used to brandy,” a challenging flair in her eyes. “When I was little some stupid nun made me help carry chairs over the Lax pitch to the Pav in the freezing cold. Said it’d do me the world of good, brace me up. I got home that evening with chilblains, fingers swollen and red raw, me shivering. Daddy gave me some brandy. Just a sip but I never forgot it. Warmed me up a treat.” Those wonderful days of safety. Peter Pan had the right idea.

She took another swallow, felt the fire course down her oesophagus and explode in her stomach, making her feel much better so she sat up, struggled out of her burgundy coat and handed it to the mess orderly who sprang forward to help her but Curry beat him to it and passed the coat on to him. She was sitting properly now, feet on the floor, skirt adjusted and everything.

“We could make our getaway,” she tried.

“Yes we could, but I rather think they’ll want to ask questions. At least Tommy will.” He frowned as though remembering something important. “Funny, I was with Tommy when we first learned about crack and thump. School. The army came over to give the Corps a day’s training. We had to dig a slit trench then stand in it in pairs while they fired over our heads. I was with another boy called Osteritter: Bugs we called him because he was an amateur lepidopterist or some such, Bugs Osteritter. That was quite a thrill, having live rounds fired over our heads. Different when it’s for real of course.”

“I know, we’ve just had it done.”

“Lax?” he said, going back a snake. “You used to play Lacrosse, didn’t you? That’s what Lax is, right?”

“A very dangerous game, but the nuns said it was character building.”

“The nuns played?”

“No, we had a Games Mistress, Miss Druit. Used to hang around the showers and changing rooms, flicked our bottoms with a wet towel when we misbehaved. Sometimes when we didn’t. A real sadist that woman. Miss Monica Druit.”

“And the showers and changing rooms were in the Pav, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“Just wanted to get the lingo straight. Like to be able to follow you.” He grinned to show he was having a bit of a joke.

She swigged down the last drop of brandy and was relieved that her throat seemed to have become accustomed to the spirit: cauterised it she presumed. “Who’d want to shoot at us, Curry?”

“That’s the big question; don’t really know the answer. Got an idea, but not quite certain.”

“It was just
us?
Nobody shot at Tommy?”

“Just us. No doubt about that. Tommy was almost at the mess door. There’s no justice anywhere, Suzie. Neither a jot nor tittle.”

“Narrows things down though, doesn’t it?”

“You mean it possibly puts Colonel Weaving’s killer here, with the regiment?”

“That’s what I was getting at.”

“Unless the weapon was from outside the aerodrome. But on the whole it probably narrows the field. Why us though?” He shook his head and twisted away, standing up as they heard voices coming into the mess entrance hall. There were people outside, Suzie glimpsed them through the big windows and they began to come into the ante room: Major Hutt with Tommy, followed by Bomber Puxley and Wilson Sharp with the remainder of Tommy’s crew bringing up the rear.

Curry immediately asked if they’d had any luck.

“Found where the blighter was lying: in that little stand of trees, half way up.” Tommy’s face was red and his breathing irregular. Making you run for your money, Suzie thought and had a picture in her head of Tommy stripped to gym shorts and vest, wearing white gym shoes, doubling around a field being shouted at by a fiery little PTI, all bounce and swearing.

“What was he shooting at us with? A Bazooka?” Bazooka was a new word to Suzie. She had read about the Americans having an anti-tank weapon called a Bazooka, but hadn’t a clue what it was.

“I’ve got Ron digging the bullets out of the mess wall. Then we’ll know. Bazooka would’ve done for you.” Tommy actually looked at her as he spoke. “You alright?”

Oh, he still cares,
she thought. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“Whoever it was he was a careful bugger. Cleaned up after himself. Took all the cartridge cases with him. Picked them up.”

At that moment Shed Hutt came up, rubbing his hands together in that swift concentrated manner some men use to cloak nerves when addressing a woman. “Well, well, how’s the little lady then?” Big smile all teeth and tonsils.

“I am not a little lady,” she began, a healthy dollop of rancour sliding into the way she spoke, causing Major Hutt to take a couple of steps back. “I’m sorry, sir,” she added, “But I’m a trained and tested police officer and I don’t like being addressed as a ‘little lady’.”

“Sorry, I’m sure,” Hutt took another step back. “Only anxious for you. How you’re bearing up, that sort of thing. After all, you nearly caught a packet, almost bought it.”

“Thank you, but shouldn’t we get on? Pin down who was shooting at us.” Pause, count of four, “and why?”

“Some idiot with a gun having some fun, my guess,” Tommy joined in, swaying back on his heels. “Not a good shot after all. Think it was an impulse: out potting rabbits and saw some people moving below him, thought he’d have some fun.”

Tommy had raised his voice. Wants everyone to hear him, Suzie imagined, wise in the ways of Tommy Livermore. Shed Hutt drifted off towards the bar.

“You’re not really asking us to believe rubbish like that, Tommy?” Curry moved in quite close. From where Suzie sat it looked almost threatening.

“Of course not young Shepherd,” all but whispered. “But we should try and keep these brown jobs happy.”

Curry turned towards Suzie. “I’ll go and get the car and we can start making tracks for London.”

“You leaving us, then?” Tommy sounded happy about the prospect.

“Only temporarily. Back before you know it.”

“Need to talk to you both, privately before you go. Right?” Tommy smiled as if to cover the seriousness of what he was saying.

Nearby, Bomber Puxley had overheard them, “Not leaving without something to eat, I trust. Small mess this, but we do ourselves proud.” He bent down and laid a forefinger alongside his nose, “Pinched the best cook on the ’drome.” Grin, two-three, eyebrows up, two-three, relax.

“A little something eggy on a tray’ll do for me.” Suzie made sheep’s eyes in Curry’s direction and he was just turning away when there was another bustle in the hall, the ante-room door opened and a dazzling figure appeared.

He was around six foot two or three inches tall, broad and muscular in the shoulders slimming towards the waist, immaculate in a tailor-made battledress with two or three ribbons over his left breast pocket, above them the Army wings, plus the parachute wings on his right sleeve, Airborne flashes high below his shoulders. On his epaulettes were a crown and pip, signifying Lieutenant Colonel. He had the face of a gentleman farmer, ruddy cheeks and clear eyes while his head was thatched with a beautifully maintained, crisply cut, crop of corn-coloured hair.