Czech Mate (14 page)

‘Or repulsed sexual advances. Clegg's build is small, like Kevin's, and if music was his passion it hints at an artistic nature. Maybe a male killer was attracted to him.' The snow was falling faster now, settling like a shroud on the curled-up body. ‘How come you found him, Tom? I thought you were heading home when I left the office.'

‘I went,' he replied, pulling up the hood of his anorak. ‘Maggie had a party invitation, so I brought her in as far as the married quarters. I drove this way back hoping I might get some inspiration in the Recreation Centre. Didn't know it was closed. I almost drove past until I noticed that one of the toppled figures looked human.' He glanced down at Clegg's frosted body. ‘Poor little kid.'

Mavis McRitchie sat on the settee made bright with the patchwork throw she had sewn and listened to the happy voices upstairs. Greg was tucking Shona and Julie in their beds and helping them to choose a story for him to read before ‘lights out'. It should have been a gratifying family time: a father who had been working all day, bonding with his children while the mother prepared supper for them both to share in the tranquillity following bedtime. There would be no tranquillity; there would be fireworks.

Greg had been holding down his anger for two hours, which would make its release all the more explosive. Couldn't mouth off in front of the little darlings, Mavis thought bitterly. Might scare them. Might affect them in later life. Huh, she reflected, more likely open their eyes to what ‘Dadda' was truly like.
That
was what he was really avoiding.

Too agitated to take up her sewing, Mavis listened to her husband's deep voice, now and again interrupted by one of the girls asking a question about the story. They were carefully vetted before Greg would have books in the house. He would not allow anything he considered to be rubbish or a bad influence to assail his darlings' ears. They appeared to love the harmless tales he read and begged for their favourites time and again. It was another of those private things they shared, which shut Mavis out.

Hearing Greg's gentle goodnight before his heavy tread on the stairs, Mavis got to her feet and waited for what was certain to come. His face was flushed and working with anger as he crossed from the foot of the stairs to where she stood.

‘You've done it again! You've bloody done it again, haven't you?' he accused in a violent undertone low enough not to reach the upper floor. ‘You
know
my rules. Your duty is to be here when school's over. You're their
mother
. It's your job to keep them safe.'

She stepped back from his thrusting face and offered her defence.

‘The bus from the hospital was late. There'd been a pileup at that five-way junction. Police were still clearing the wrecks away.' She tried boldness. ‘You only drive around the base. The roads outside are icy and treacherous, Greg.'

He advanced on her. ‘As you're so bloody knowledgeable about the roads, you should stay off them. Three times this week you've ignored the rules.' His expression was coldly vicious as he said, ‘That little wimp of yours is being cosseted and watched over twenty-four seven. Yet you go to him and abandon your two daughters, who are half his age and open to all kinds of danger. What sort of mother are you, for Christ's sake?'

Mavis sat abruptly on the settee to escape her dread of being seized and shaken – not that he had ever manhandled her – and protested vehemently. ‘I didn't
abandon
them. Jean Slater knows my situation and takes the girls home with Bobby and Amanda if I'm not there on time. The girls aren't left alone. Not in any danger.'

‘Yes, they are,' he argued, thumping the arm of the settee with a clenched fist. ‘Those Slater kids are wild, they run rings around their mother. And their language! Mick Slater has the foulest mouth in the platoon, and he laughs when his kids copy him. I've told you time and again I'm not having Shona and Julie mixing with the dregs on this base.' He leaned forward so abruptly, she pressed her body into the soft back of the seat. ‘You're not to visit the hospital, understand?'

‘He'll look for me,' she said tearfully. ‘He'll be anxious.'

‘Do him good to realize there are others in this family you have a duty to serve.' Greg straightened up. ‘He's had things easy too long. When he gets back he'll find there's a whole new set of rules in place.'

She stared at him. ‘Like what?'

‘Like that guitar has been chucked out and he gets down to some real book learning, for once. Time he found out the hard way that he has to knuckle down to discipline in order to make something of his life. No son of mine will shame me by becoming a drop-out.' He pointed at his wife. ‘And
you
are going to stop fussing over him and start concentrating on my girls. They'll soon reach the age when they badly need a mother's guidance. Forget Kevin.
They
are the important members of this family. Time you realized that.' He turned and began walking towards the kitchen. ‘Now, what's for supper . . . or did you also get back too late to make any for me?'

There was a football game on TV so Greg ate his chicken and chips watching it. Mavis felt that food would choke her, but he failed to notice that she had only a cup of tea and a biscuit. She was sewing dolls' dresses for the girls' Christmas presents, so she worked on them for half an hour, then went upstairs to have a bath. The commentator's frenetic voice penetrated the floorboards as she lay in the warm water, crying.

Even when angry Greg was overpoweringly attractive. It had been like that from the first meeting. Marrying him had been an impossible dream come true. Giving him a son had been her greatest gift of love. But baby Kevin had created a division between them; the girls had completed it. Shona and Julie had robbed her of her dream lover. They now owned him. Kevin had been thrust back at her as a substitute for what she had lost. He wasn't. Nobody could replace the man who remained with her in person, but who had gone from her in spirit.

Wherever Greg had been posted, Mavis had made the temporary home bright and extremely comfortable. She cooked all the food she knew he liked. She dressed neatly and always tried to look pretty for him. She never complained when he had extra duties, or had the occasional night out with his mates. She went every Saturday to the Badminton Club, although she hated the game and was useless at it. What more could she do?

They still slept together, were intimate when he was in the mood, but it was no longer ‘making love' it was purely satisfying his need. How could she get him back? How recapture the man she had fallen for so completely? Would it be possible once his darlings had married and left home? The tears flowed faster as she acknowledged that he would never let that happen. No men would be allowed near them because none would be considered good enough. Shona and Julie would be with them forever. And her unwilling substitute for her lost husband would depart and sever all contact, as soon as he could break free. Greg's new rules would hasten that moment. When that happened she might as well be dead.

Major Clarkson straightened from examining the snow-coated body and looked at Max with a frown. ‘A massive blow to the head with the chess piece, as you deduced. Whoever wielded that black bishop was strong, probably an adult rather than a minor, and I'd guess the weapon was swung in a circular motion prior to hitting the victim with intent to kill. It's hard to say if the boy might have survived had he received immediate medical attention. As it is, he was lengthily exposed to this sub-zero temperature following trauma.' He tugged his coat collar closer around his neck. It was now snowing hard. ‘The pathologist will give you more precise info but, from the blood loss, I'd be inclined to believe death was immediate and inevitable.' He began to move off towards his car. ‘You'd better get on top of this before there's another attack; another young life snuffed out.'

Max and Tom did not need telling; two attacks on teenage boys in five days was a serious problem. This one was more difficult to follow up. The assault on Kevin McRitchie had occurred in a building filled with people, which gave SIB the opportunity to question them and collate their answers; gain leads to follow. Tony Clegg had been clubbed to death in a large open area which tonight was deserted. Yet one person had been there with him.

Leaving George Maddox and his uniformed Redcaps to reconnoitre and seal off the area, while the SOCO team searched for forensic evidence, the two detectives silently watched the body being driven away before heading back to their cars. By mutual consent they returned to Section Headquarters, where they were able to shed topcoats and make coffee to ease their inner chill while they talked.

Tom first brought up the computer details of the dead musician. Next of kin was given as Norman Clegg, father. What a blow he would receive just two weeks before Christmas, that special family time. On the screen was confirmation of Tom's prediction of a really worthwhile life ahead for a young musician with dedication and talent. Tony appeared to have raced through each stage of his bid for qualifications.

Having downed half the mug of coffee, Max said, ‘We need an in-depth interview with Kevin McRitchie. He has to know more than he's revealed so far. Accusing his mother was born of the dread of returning to the situation at home. With a psychiatrist present we
have
to get from him who he had arranged to meet in the toilets during the party. It's surely significant that Clegg was at the Recreation Centre at roughly the same time this evening.'

Propped against the edge of a desk, mug in hand, Tom looked thoughtfully at the life just ended that was mapped out on his screen. ‘You think so?'

‘Don't you?'

Tom glanced back at his boss. ‘Let's review all that's similar in these attacks. One: the victims are young, male, small in stature with slightly effeminate features. Two: they are both heavily into music. Three: they were clubbed around the head with a weapon that happened to be handy. Four: they were both attacked at about eight p.m., in or around the Recreation Centre.'

Max leaned back in his chair. ‘Get my point?'

‘Let's list the inconsistencies,' Tom insisted. ‘One: Kevin was assaulted when there was a high risk of someone arriving on the scene. In fact, the Clarkson boys did, and fetched help. Tony Clegg was alone in a deserted area. Two: different weapons.'

‘But blows to the head in each case,' Max interposed.

‘Three,' Tom continued doggedly, ‘Clegg is a soldier, Kevin isn't.'

‘And four, Clegg died and Kevin didn't,' Max finished with a sigh. ‘What does that leave us with?'

‘I'll tell you what it leaves
me
with.' Tom put his empty mug on the table behind him. ‘I now believe Kevin was also meant to die. The convenient weapon was smaller and lighter than the chess piece, so it would have taken protracted cudgelling to kill. The advent of the Clarkson boys prevented that. We've been told only Kevin's thin skull resulted in so much damage.'

Max nodded. ‘I also now believe it was not meant to be just a warning. That raises the question of whether the attacker will attempt to finish the job. We must persuade the hospital to hang on to him until we at least know who's behind this violence.'

Staring again at Clegg's details on the screen, Tom muttered, ‘It's a real stinker. No leads whatever. Far from Mrs Robinson's advice that the culprit will turn up saying sorry, the bastard has done it again.'

‘We're not dealing with a recalcitrant child, as she seems to think,' Max said wearily. ‘Nor are we dealing with someone in the music business. I can't sit easy with that theory, Tom.'

‘Why not? It's the one personal link we know of.'

‘Coincidence! I find it difficult to believe anyone could get so steamed up over music he's prepared to kill twice.'

‘People have murdered for any number of bizarre obsessions. Rare stamps, birds' eggs, prize orchids. If the yearning is great enough, killing is considered acceptable.'

‘But what is this killer getting in return for taking out these lads?' Max asked pointedly. ‘Kevin's merely a kid who plays a guitar quite well in a group with three pals who don't take it as seriously as he. Nothing to gain in removing him from the scene, is there? Admittedly, Clegg was a very accomplished musician but, unless he's written a brilliant symphony someone wants to claim as his own work, his death reaps no rewards. The lad didn't play the violin, so there's not even a priceless Stradivarius at stake.'

Tom stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘So let's concede there's no obvious advantage as a result of these attacks. On the assumption that the Recreation Centre was a fixed rendezvous point in both instances, we have to seriously consider drugs or sex as the motive. I personally go for the latter.'

Max nodded slowly. ‘I agree. Although Clegg had the opportunity to deal in drugs by dint of the peripatetic life with the band, I don't believe the McRitchie boy had the will or interest to become embroiled. We know male coupling is practised, however much we prefer to stamp it out so, unless Kevin gives us a name, we have to suss out who's propositioning young, effeminate lads and won't take no for an answer.'

‘Kevin is underage, and Clegg looked very young, so it's probably someone with paedophile tendencies. It'll be worth speaking to teachers at the school, and to those adults who run extracurricular classes or youth organizations.'

Tom broke off as his mobile rang. It was the Bandmaster, Captain Booth, responding to the message left on his answer machine. It was evident to Max from Tom's comments that the Yorkshireman was very upset by the news, and took some time giving his account of the murdered boy's prodigious talent to counter his grief. Tom ended the call by asking Christopher Booth to set in motion the business of breaking the sad news to Clegg's parents, and a request to interview the members of the band next morning.