Czech Mate (17 page)

‘Exactly why we haven't moved on it yet.'

Clarkson sighed. ‘You've a bugger of a situation on your hands. I don't envy you. You can at least leave the McRitchie problem with me.' He gave a faint smile. ‘We're on the same side, man, but catch him before he leaves another corpse for me to deal with. I have two sons in the firing line.'

Tom found Jack Fellowes in his office studying a chart on the wall. He smiled and explained his problem to someone who would understand all too well.

‘Christmas and New Year leave, Tom. They all want it, of course. The minute I sort it so's we maintain acceptable strengths here, the sods come up with yarns about mother now poorly, granny's funeral, fiancée threatening to give back the ring unless he's there to meet her family coming over from New Zealand. You know.'

Tom nodded and sat beside the desk. ‘Wildest one I ever heard was parents and sister lived in one of those prefabricated wooden houses, and needed him to help them move it to another location in the next village. On a sixty foot flat wagon pulled by tractors!' He laughed. ‘The lad assured me the local bobby had given permission and planned to close the road during the move.'

Fellowes grinned. ‘Did you send him home?'

‘I thought such inventiveness deserved a reward. Bugger me, he came back with photographs of the bloody house being transported along country roads. Said the guy driving the tractor was Great Uncle George, aged eighty-seven. The village bobby must have been all of that, too, to agree to it.'

The light-hearted moment eased Tom's depression following his interview with Captain Booth. The Bandmaster was deeply upset over Tony Clegg's murder. A regimental band was a small, independent unit very much like a family, and Christopher Booth regarded himself a father figure to the young, unmarried musicians. He had been proud of the talented Clegg and clearly mourned his loss, especially in such violent manner. He gave Tom no indication that Clegg had been a braggart, or that he was homosexual. The lad had lived for his music and was, perhaps, inclined to shy from socializing as much as the others, but he was generally liked by them. They were all shocked by his death.

A young soldier brought in mugs of coffee as Jack Fellowes said, ‘Terrible business last night, Tom. I knew the lad slightly. He played drums in the small group attending discos and other social events requiring the rhythm section of the band. Are you linking his death with the attack at last week's party? You know there's a teens' do tomorrow? I'm organizing it, as usual. Some parents are doubtful about letting their kids attend.'

‘Understandable, but George Maddox is setting up patrols around the Centre, and if parents bring and collect their youngsters there shouldn't be any problems. Well, Jack, we have to consider a link between these two attacks, but they could just as well be unconnected. Harking back to the tinies' party, we've learned there was access to and from the storeroom. You said in your statement that Lieutenant Farmer and Sapper Rowe were in and out changing equipment and so on all evening. At the time we reckon Kevin was attacked, you stated that they were in there packing everything away ready for the fancy-dress parade.'

Fellowes' eyes narrowed as he lowered his mug to the desk on which he perched. ‘You think one of them hit Kevin?'

Tom was used to this kind of reaction and ignored the question. ‘Did anyone else go in there around that time?'

‘Sure. Me, for one. We were all helping to clear the decks. Some of the kids wanted to join in, but I shooed them back to the hall. They dart about so fast, you can't keep your eyes on them all the time and there was stuff in there they could overturn or hurt themselves with.'

‘So you were distracted by them at that vital time?'

The phone on Fellowes' desk rang. He snatched it up, listened briefly, then said, ‘Yes, ma'am, that's a great help. Thank you. One point. I don't think we'll use the storeroom this time.' He flashed Tom a glance, then added, ‘Too easy for them to sneak in there and get up to what teens tend to do when they get the chance.' He produced the expected chuckle. ‘Exactly, ma'am. Thought we'd keep the prizes and take-home gifts in our cars until just before midnight. OK with you?' He nodded. ‘That's grand.' Pause. ‘The Redcaps have it in hand. No cause for anxiety.'

He rang off, then resumed his position propped against the front of his desk. ‘Lieutenant Farmer.'

‘I guessed. So she's helping with this week's party, too?'

‘Volunteered. She runs dance classes at the Centre; knows some of the girls. They think she's the cat's meow.'

Tom thought so, also, but not in the way girls would. Even so, he found it interesting that she was so willing to devote two Saturday evenings just prior to Christmas in this way. Surely she was chased by enough unmarried sparks in the Officers' Mess to have a selection of attractive invitations to choose from. With the best will in the world Tom could not see that gorgeous redhead being of philanthropic bent. What was behind this generosity with her free time?

Tom cocked an eye at his fellow sergeant-major. ‘What kind of dance classes? Kids don't need instruction in how to bounce up and down and jiggle around like cats on hot bricks.'

Jack laughed. ‘Not your scene?'

‘I like to hold my partner close.'

‘Dirty devil!'

‘What kind of classes?'

‘I don't attend them, mind, but she told me they're for “self-expression in movement”.'

‘Bloody artistic claptrap,' exclaimed Tom with a short laugh. ‘What is the lady going to do at tomorrow's affair? The only thing kids express in movement at a disco is the first signs of St Vitus' dance.'

‘We're holding competitions for the best rendition of a pop song by a girl and by a boy. We've twenty entries for each of those.' He grinned. ‘I'm taking earplugs, but it provides a break in the dancing every twenty minutes. Then Lieutenant Farmer suggested we get them to dress imaginatively, and she'll give a prize to the ones in the best Christmas gear.' He drank his coffee, then looked hard at Tom. ‘She didn't cosh Kevin.'

‘How about Alan Rowe?'

Fellowes sighed gustily. ‘Look, I couldn't swear he was actually in my sight the whole time. We were organizing around two hundred excited kids. It was a party, for God's sake! I wasn't looking out for villainy. But I'd stake a year's pay on that lad being straight.'

A dark mood drove Tom home for lunch. He did not expect to eat dinner with Nora and he felt in need of her warm company before continuing with this urgent day. The natural beauty around him was in contrast to the grimness of what he was occupied with. A young man, proud and delighted with his achievements, had been brutally robbed of ever again seeing sunshine dancing on fresh snow, a giant fir tree covered in decorations that glinted and sparkled as the breeze moved its branches, lads like himself parading in uniforms like the one he cherished so highly. That thought hung in his mind as Tom drove home. Clegg's murder had upset him; a man hardened to human violence.

Nora was surprised to see him, and took his hands as she came from the dining-room where she had been working on an elaborate evening dress for an officer's wife. ‘Hungry?'

‘And wanting a quick injection of your reality.'

They held each other without speaking, until she drew away and put her palms against his cold cheeks. ‘What I said this morning about looking for a better prospect was a lot of nonsense.'

‘I know.'

She smiled. ‘Conceited bastard!' Taking his arm she led him to the kitchen. ‘I made a sausage plait for the girls' tea, but we'll have it now. Won't take long to warm it up. Get us both a lager.'

The normality of his other life eased his inner coldness, and they soon sat to eat. To Nora's quiet query on whether he wanted to talk about work, Tom shook his head.

‘How's the dress turning out?'

‘Something of a challenge, to be honest, love. Mrs Harper wants a half-inch vertical frill from neckline to hem to give the image of a wrap-around. I personally think it suggests an overall and takes away the elegance of the style. But she's paying me to produce what she wants, so that's what I'm doing.'

‘Are you making one for yourself? For the Sergeants' Mess dance?'

She faced him frankly. ‘As we're highly unlikely to attend, I'm not bothering.' When he made no comment, she said, ‘We have an invitation to the Graumanns' tomorrow evening.'

‘Who are they?' he asked, not interested in vague invitations they would not accept.

‘The parents of your daughter's friend, Hans, who live in the house over the road from us.'

‘We have to hobnob with the whole family now?' he grunted.

‘Yes, Tom. It's important to Maggie.'

He frowned across the table. ‘She's twelve, Nora.'

‘She's an almost thirteen-year-old
person
. Things matter to her the way they matter to you. You expect the girls to understand your priorities. You must understand theirs.'

He knew she was being utterly reasonable, but a curious type of fear led him to say, ‘So this meet-the-family evening is to arrange their nuptials, is it? This isn't India, it's Germany.'

‘And the invitation is part of German Christmastime tradition. They keep open house for friends and neighbours,' she responded calmly. ‘I heard you the other day claiming that if only people would observe the goodwill to all men maxim, you would be able to participate fully in festive fun for once. Where's
your
goodwill?'

‘Crushed beneath the weight of someone's brutality to two innocent lads.' He leaned back in his chair with a sigh. ‘We have to prevent it happening again. We're up to our eyes. I won't have time for this German hospitality.'

‘Make time, Tom.' A suggestion of steel was now in her voice, something he had rarely heard before. ‘We don't have to stay the whole evening. They know what you're engaged in and will understand your commitments, but it's important that you put in an appearance. Important to
me
.'

Wondering why Nora should choose this high-stress period to employ emotional blackmail, the unexpected confrontation was broken by the ringing of Tom's mobile. He snatched it up, tension flaring. ‘
Yes
?'

‘Tom, here is Klaus Krenkel,' said a pleasant accented voice. ‘I have news for you concerning your stolen equipment.'

It was an anticlimax, albeit a welcome one. ‘Don't tell me you've found it.'

Krenkel chuckled. ‘We are wonderful policemen, but not magicians. It has been sold across the border. It cannot, of course, be traced. We discovered that Herr and Frau Haufmann have for their servant a Turkish girl. She has brother and cousins who have illegal entry here. She has told them of the long, hidden way to her employers' home, where they can transfer the equipment and leave your vehicle out of sight. So they have done this.'

‘She confessed?'

‘Oh yes, certainly.'

Tom did not ask how they persuaded her to rat on her relatives. It was better not to.

‘We now seek her kinsmen. It will be difficult. They hide away. Even she does not know where they will be on any day.'

‘But if you can't trace the stolen goods you can't charge them with anything,' Tom pointed out.

‘We can send them back to Turkey. That will be a good thing.'

Anticlimax was really setting in now. Krenkel's upbeat mood began to grate on Tom. So the
Polizei
had discovered who committed the crime, but had no idea where the culprits or the stolen booty were. Bully for them!

‘Well, thank you for keeping us informed,' he said, trying to sound suitably grateful.

‘It is important that we work always together, Tom. That is why I have called to tell you that the Haufmanns' servant is the girlfriend of your soldier, Treeves. She says they have plan this together. You should question him about that.'

Eight

K
nowing dinner would most likely be soup in a cup and a ham roll, Max drove out to the hotel where he would take Livya tomorrow. He had heard good reports of the place, but had not yet seen it or sampled the food. For such an important date he wanted to satisfy himself that it was absolutely right.

He was almost sure she would prefer traditional to ultramodern, as he did. Better not to arrive and discover it was wrong, then face the embarrassing need to find somewhere more suitable at eight p.m. on a snowy Saturday night two weeks before Christmas. Almost certainly,
Andrew
would never have subjected her to such a predicament when off-duty on a dual mission. His father had wide experience of dalliance.

Max brought his thoughts to a jarring halt. This was no dalliance. He had been overwhelmed from the moment he set eyes on Livya Cordwell. He had fun with a number of flirty girls during his oat-sowing years, but had only once before been instantly bowled over. Susan's death had left his senses in hiatus, his emotional confidence shattered. He had deeply loved her; his trust in her had been absolute. She had betrayed both and he still did not fully comprehend why. Maybe he never would.

He was now preparing again to throw himself in at the deep end. This time there were additional hazards. In six days the chess championship would end. Livya would return to London and a different, more polished Rydal. How could he capture her serious interest in such a short time with this case on his hands? Turning his car on to the road where the hotel was located, he told himself grimly the answer to that lay in how he handled things here tomorrow. After three years of abstinence he had better remember all the old tricks . . . and a few new ones she might not have come across.

He breathed a sigh of relief on first seeing the hotel. Entering it he felt a surge of excitement. Roaring log fires, velvet curtains, deep chairs and sofas in matching dark green, carved wood, discreet wall lights, large overhead chandelier glittering in the glow of firelight. It looked seductive at lunchtime. At night it would be perfect for what he had in mind.