French Leave (12 page)

Connie looked very interested. ‘You think the call was meant to instigate an in-depth investigation of Smith?'

‘Isn't it obvious?' said Melly.

‘Someone who's aware of the wheeler-dealing and wants to stop it without sticking his neck out as the one who ratted on a fellow squaddie?' mused Heather thoughtfully.

‘So we're ruling out murder now?' demanded Piercey.

Tom called them to order. ‘Until we discover who made that call . . .'

‘Bloody unlikely,' murmured Piercey.

‘
And
until we trace Smith, dead or alive,' Tom continued forcefully, ‘we can't progress this case.'

‘What we haven't delved into yet,' said Max, ‘is who was buying the goods Smith was selling. Judging by the stuff in his locker, he was shifting large amounts and was confident of customers. Find some of them and we might come across one who feels he was cheated, swindled, well and truly conned. Maybe he put an end to Smith during that mock assault, when he was hyped up and aggressive and there was a time when he and his victim were temporarily out of sight of the rest. As Mr Black says, until Smith is traced we can't focus on a case of murder or simple AWOL. All we can do now is to investigate Smith's sideline. Get out and find who bought things from him, and who had an axe to grind.'

At that moment George Maddox walked in, smiling. Max turned to him. ‘I hope that daft grin indicates good news. Has Smith been seen somewhere?'

The big, burly Redcap sergeant shook his head. ‘My grin would have been even dafter. But we do have a lead, sir.'

‘Shoot, as they say in the good ole US of A,' drawled Piercey, earning a dark look from Tom.

Settling his large backside on the edge of a desk, Maddox said, ‘Lieutenant Farley, Smith's Platoon Commander, decided to join the RMP over the weekend and go in search of his missing man. Hired a quad bike, took a tent and rations for a couple of days, and hied out to the exercise ground.'

‘Shades of Ben Steele,' murmured Max, recalling another lieutenant who had decided to become a gumshoe and put himself in danger during a complex case last year. ‘What is it about subalterns that they feel they can do better than us?'

‘In this case, he did,' confessed Maddox. ‘But only by luck or the hand of God. Caught up in the heart of the storm and threatened by flash floods, he managed to take cover in that wooded stretch well away from the area used during the exercise. Tangled in undergrowth, half-submerged by swirling water, he spotted an SA80 and a helmet bearing the badge of the West Wilts. It's Smith's.

‘He came in around 04.00 after being marooned for thirty hours and reported his find to us. He looked a real sorry sight,' Maddox revealed with obvious delight. ‘Plastered with mud and shivering in the vastly lower temperature, but he produced the equipment like a cat proudly produces a mouse to its owners.'

Tom asked sharply, ‘Just the rifle and helmet?'

‘Said it was too deep under water there to spot anything else, and lightning had brought down a number of trees that were blocking the easier ways through. He seemed confident that he'd have seen a body if it was lying near the equipment. Claimed he carried out as comprehensive a search as he could manage, under those circumstances.'

‘That wood is too far from the action that day for someone to have killed him during the exercise,' ruled Max. ‘I think this points towards voluntary desertion. Smith scarpered and dumped his kit in the wood.' He smiled at Maddox. ‘Buck passed back to you, George.'

Over the next three days Maddox, his team (including dog handlers), and twenty men from Purbeck Company, searched the wood for further evidence of Smith's presence. It was exhausting work. Fallen trees had to be sawn up and cleared away, undergrowth thinned, and paths minutely examined. One by one small items were discovered, showing that he had discarded anything marking him as a soldier. In the absence of his body, there was only one conclusion to be drawn. Private John Smith had deserted; gone, with no intention of returning.

Fanshawe held an inquest with the three Platoon Commanders and their NCOs, asking how the hell one of their men could have slipped away during a daylight action without anyone noticing his absence until it was over. The question was met with silence. They all knew it was possible. During simulated battle each man concentrated on the task in hand, keeping his eyes on the relevant NCO who, in turn, was watching the Officer.

What was hard to believe was that Smith had survived the heat and got clean away. The general consensus was that he had had a civilian contact waiting in the wood with transport, and he was hiding out with him, or her, until he could be smuggled out of Germany. Although Fanshawe conducted the meeting in a serious vein, each person present privately thought the loss of John Smith was no bad thing. He would eventually be caught, given a custodial sentence and officially discharged from the West Wiltshire Regiment. Meanwhile, they were better off without a rat who might scuttle away on the eve of departure to a war zone.

When the rest dispersed, Dan Farley remained. ‘Could I have a word?'

Fanshawe grinned in more relaxed manner. ‘If you want further thanks for your sterling work in pinpointing the wood, you're out of luck. That comprehensive search has disrupted Purbeck's schedule for three days, and it's useless trying to make up the time. It's Friday tomorrow. By noon, everyone's mind will be on what they're doing at the weekend now the weather's behaving itself, and
you
are to blame.'

Taking those words as lightly as they were spoken, Dan said, ‘Instead of a pat on the head and a lollipop for aforesaid sterling work, I'd really like tomorrow off. I need to go home for a couple of days, Will. I could catch a flight tonight and be back on Sunday evening.'

‘Grandmother's funeral?' quipped Fanshawe, leaning back and clasping his hands behind his head. ‘That girl's got you by the short and curlies, lad. It's never going to work. You're a soldier; she hates the fact. Face the truth. A weekend of lust and laughter won't change anything.'

‘I think it will,' Dan argued eagerly. ‘
She
called
me
, begging me to take her back. She's ripe for persuasion right now. If I have to wait until we get leave before the off to Afghanistan, I'll have lost the chance. This way I can cash in on her present mood, then consolidate my advantage during the October leave.'

‘We'll be away for six months,' Fanshawe reminded him. ‘It had better be some consolidation for it to keep her sweet until we get back.' He nodded. ‘OK, piss off tonight, but make sure you're on parade Monday morning early, even if she needs further persuasion.'

As Dan mumbled his thanks and headed for the door, Fanshawe added, ‘If you spot Smith at the airport, grab him and haul him back here.'

Max was deeply frustrated. The curious case of Private John Smith had gone off the boil as far as SIB was concerned. George Maddox had regained command of the business of tracing the whereabouts of a soldier who had absented himself without official permission, and Klaus Krenkel's men were looking into the activities of known pirate traders who might have supplied Smith.

Max guessed the
Polizei
would not expend much effort on the case. Their time was heavily occupied with crime amongst German citizens, so a vague suggestion of British military involvement in a backstreet trade impossible to stamp out would be put on a back burner.

With very little on the go for 26 Section at present, Max had sent his team out, with the task of tracking down the men and women on the base who had bought items from Smith. All this would do was indicate how long he had been engaged in his sideline, and the amount of goods that had passed through his hands. So far, no single person had admitted buying from Smith. Almost everyone on the base had DVDs and CDs and iPods, but there was no way of proving these had not been bought from the legitimate stores, or from the itinerant street vendors.

The discovery of Smith's rifle and kit removed any question of a charge of theft of MoD property. SIB would hardly mount a case against him for stolen trousers and a shirt. Tom's interview with the bank manager had revealed that only Smith's normal payments passed through the account, which meant that the proceeds of his undercover business must be going to an account in the UK. Or anywhere else. Was Smith enough of an entrepreneur to stash funds in any European country with euro currency?

With his usual penchant for pointing out the annoyingly obvious, Piercey had suggested that the stuff in Smith's locker might be the results of his first adventure into sub-trading, and the universal denial of buying anything from him, the truth. They had no evidence to the contrary and, since it was all still there in his locker, Smith could not even be accused of making away with it. In short, were they not chasing a
dead
wild goose? The Sergeant's last words were a dig at Max, who made a habit of chasing wild geese, usually successfully. The whole team saw the sense in Piercey's reasoning, and the last dregs of interest in the John Smith drama drained away.

Adding to Max's frustration was his inability to take part in energetic exercise. The strapping around his chest limited movement, and Clare Goodey had instructed him to take life easy until she looked him over at the end of this week. He had an appointment on the following day, but was determined to break out for the weekend. Surely he could get on the river, even if he merely paddled a canoe very slowly. The river was his escape from military claustrophobia; his venue for putting thoughts and ideas in cohesive order.

On this Thursday evening he was in his room trying to relax with the biography of Sir Edmund Hillary. His mind was only half on what he was reading because he was waiting for a call from Livya. She had sent an e-mail from Washington on Tuesday outlining the overloaded schedule of meetings she and his father had attended, careful not to elaborate on the work they were doing for the Joint Intelligence Committee. Computerized messages could be retrieved and used as damning evidence, as had been so devastatingly demonstrated in the past few years.

She had made plain her relief that the tree had fallen when it had, and not a split second later, and sent loving commiserations for his injuries. The second e-mail yesterday had been a brief comment that they would be flying home overnight, and she would telephone as soon as she had caught up on what had come in while they had been away. It was now nine thirty. Surely she was not still in the office?

Max was not an advocate of e-mails when it came to communicating with the woman he loved. Words on a screen were so
cold
, no matter what they implied. Inflections in a voice, subtle tones, made those same words infinitely more meaningful. Livya's voice was low-pitched and very attractive. On occasion, it had even made his toes curl with excitement. Over the years he had learned a lot from voices; how to judge the truth or value of what people told him. When Livya spoke words of love, he knew they came from the heart. He waited impatiently to hear some tonight.

He heard the phone ringing while he was showering and carefully washing his hair around the row of stitches. Swearing softly he walked, dripping water, to pick up the receiver.

‘In the shower, honey. Call you back in five.'

‘It's not honey,' said Clare. ‘Saw your light on and thought I'd remind you I need to look at that head wound tomorrow. Get some sleep. She won't ring until two a.m.' The line went dead.

Max was, indeed, drifting off when Livya called at eleven thirty.

‘Hallo, darling. Sorry it's so late. Such a load to catch up with after a week's absence. Andrew's still at it. No way could I persuade him to go home.'

Holding back from asking which methods of persuasion she had used, Max struggled to a sitting position and mumbled that it was great to hear from her. ‘Missed you like crazy.'

‘I'd love to be able to say the same but, by God, the Yanks don't let a minute go by unchallenged if business can be done during it. I'm bushed, Max. Good thing we're not on a webcam. Hair wants washing, nails need a decent manicure, eyes are puffy from lack of sleep and each yawn's as wide as a chasm. Not a pretty sight, believe me.'

Max smiled. In his eyes she was always a pretty sight. ‘I'll refrain from describing what
you'd
see on a webcam. A bushed woman can do without further shocks. How did it really go over there, honey? Did you both sock it to the CIA?'

‘At times I felt like literally socking them. They're so bloody aggressive and superior. They come dangerously close to regarding the UK as another US state. Andrew's wonderful. He handles them with just the right mixture of deference, resolution and British sangfroid; cuts through their frenzy of superlatives and dire predictions to create calm from the storm.'

Knowing she needed to share the frustrations and successes of the visit, Max let her talk without interruption. If her account put too much emphasis on Andrew Rydal's many splendid qualities, he tried to accept it as hyperbole after a difficult and taxing week spent with men trained to browbeat any dissidents into accepting what they considered to be the correct action.

Eventually, Livya asked about the missing soldier. After the high-powered account of her week, Max felt the burst balloon of his own was hardly worth recounting. He swiftly dispensed with the subject and returned to more intimate considerations.

‘Any chance of you coming over? After that punishing session with the CIA, you're surely entitled to a break. Andrew can't expect you to be on call twenty-four seven.'

‘Oh Max, there's not a chance of getting away for several weeks, at least. It'll be up to you to come here, as usual.'