Czech Mate (23 page)

Ten minutes to go. As soon as the men at the Recreation Centre called in he would go home, change into a dinner jacket, then drive like hell. A glance from the window showed that the snow was holding off, thank God. It should take him no more than thirty minutes to reach the club but, as Miriam would have been making merry, he would be restricted to one drink.

The phone rang. Corporal Meacher took the call. George could hear an urgent baritone speaking without an apparent pause for breath.

‘What time was this?' asked Meacher sharply. ‘Right. Have you approached the house? Good. Stay indoors and keep your doors locked. We'll be there in five.' Getting to his feet, he said to George, ‘Neighbour heard sounds of screaming in the McRitchie house. Says one of the little girls is standing at the window and it looks like blood on her face and hands.'

They were outside and driving fast along the perimeter road within seconds, both certain they had been protecting the wrong place tonight. The killer must have believed Kevin was back home, and had moved to finish what he had begun. George dreaded what they would find. A small girl covered in blood at the window. Where were the McRitchie parents, and the other child?

The vehicle skidded to a halt outside the row of NCOs' quarters. Lights were on in two of the block of four. In the end one two people watched from a window. The man ran out to them.

‘God knows what's happening,' he said tautly. ‘They came in half an hour ago. Then we heard the girls screaming, and Greg howling like a man demented. Something terrible's going on in there.'

‘We'll deal with it,' said Meacher. ‘Did you see anyone else go in, or leave after the screaming began?'

George was already up at the window where the child was staring blankly, her bloodied hands pressed flat against the glass as if trying to push it out. In the room behind her there was a scene of carnage. A child in a red dressing-gown lay still on the patchwork-covered settee, her features indistinguishable through the gore that marred them and formed a pool on the brightly coloured squares.

Mavis McRitchie sat on the blood-stained carpet. She was cradling her husband's head, tenderly stroking his face and hair. Greg McRitchie had a large knife sticking out of his chest.

‘Dear Christ in heaven,' he breathed, then called for an ambulance as he ran with Meacher to the rear of the house. ‘The bugger's done for the whole family.'

They drew their weapons and entered cautiously through the unlocked back door. The sickly sweet smell of blood, the powerful stench of vomit and faeces and a curious odour of burning filled the place. Meacher went directly to the child on the settee, while George approached the adults, both of them treading carefully to minimize possible destruction of evidence. Experience told George that Greg McRitchie would never survive such a deadly stab wound. He had a pulse, but it was irregular and very faint. Mavis seemed unaware of another presence. She was clearly in another world. Best leave her until the paramedics arrived as she was placid and showed no obvious signs of injury.

Crossing to Meacher, George received assurance from him that the child was alive although losing a lot of blood. Leaving his corporal to give what aid he could, George crossed gently to the other little girl standing in an attitude that suggested she had been flung against the window. This one was in deep shock; rigid with it. Her skin was unbroken, so the blood on her hands and face must be from her sister. Her bowel had emptied on the floor.

At that point they heard a shot from the direction of the kitchen. Drawing their weapons again, the two Redcaps dived for cover behind the furniture, taken unawares by the proximity of an intruder they assumed had left through the unlocked back door before they arrived. Then the truth dawned on them. A saucepan left on a red-hot burner had exploded. The smell of burning was now explained.

The ambulance arrived. Leaving the paramedics to deal with the casualties, the policemen carefully searched the rest of the house. The bath and shower curtain were wet, so was the soap. No sign of blood on towels or the floor. The girls' clothes were regimentally folded at the end of the beds, shoes placed side by side. Their dressing-table was uncluttered, with two hairbrushes and combs placed neatly alongside identical trinket boxes. They had never seen a children's bedroom so immaculate. It was unnatural.

They walked through to the single bedroom. This was the absent Kevin's domain. A large board hung from the picture rail. Pinned to it were pictures of pop groups and soloists, all correctly aligned like a squad on parade. A guitar was on an upright stand in a corner. On a small chest stood a basic computer with a pile of school books beside it. The shelf above held two or three dozen CDs, standing to attention. There was no sign of DVDs, computer games, football scarves or those things usual in the ‘den' of a thirteen-year-old youth. It was weird.

The master bedroom looked as if nobody used it. The dressing-table bore just a circular embroidered linen doily with a bottle of perfume placed exactly central on it. The chest of drawers had a matching pair of doilies on which were framed photographs; one of Corporal McRitchie in white shirt and shorts holding up a silver trophy, the other showing his daughters as toddlers. The duvet cover had a beautiful patchwork design similar to those worked by Amish women. There was not a crease or rumple in it.

George exchanged looks with Meacher. ‘Are these people human? I've never come across anything like this before.' He inclined his head towards the stairs. ‘Nothing happened up here. So why not? He set upon the family because they were there, yet he didn't come upstairs seeking his real target. There's something nasty about this. It suggests it isn't connected to those attacks on Kevin and young Tony Clegg at all.'

A shout from the paramedics sent them back to the sitting-room. ‘The kiddie's our prime concern. The cuts are so deep she'll need surgery. The mother and the other kiddie are in shock. Nothing can be done for him, I'm afraid.' He looked at Meacher. ‘Are you coming with us, or following on? I'll make sure they understand you'll need the knife for examination once it's removed.'

George motioned his colleague to go in the ambulance, then he began calling in a SOCO team and off-duty men to secure the site. Finally, he called SIB, who would take over this case.

‘They're going to
love
this,' he muttered, looking around at the blood, vomit and faeces; the detritus of violence.

The astonishment caused by his arrival at Bertrum's turned to near suspicion from his family when Tom arrived home in plenty of time to go with them across the road to the Graumanns' open evening. Comments like, ‘Have you been suspended from duty?', ‘What do you want in return?' and ‘Who is this stranger who keeps attaching himself to us?' all brought a mirthless, ‘Ha, ha, very amusing,' from him. Only little Beth gave him a hug and said, ‘It'll be even lovelier with you there.'

The happy mood suffered a setback when the girls came down dressed for the occasion. In a yellow and black plaid skirt, pale primrose stretch top and high black boots, Maggie gave Tom an unpleasant shock. Surely that jumper was far too tight, and the boots too sexy. My God, her mouth was also unnaturally pink! She looked . . . He cast around for an adjective and could only come up with his father's favourite. She looked . . .
fetching
!

Casting a protesting glare at Nora, he was given a severe optical warning against making any comment save a compliment. He found it impossible to acknowledge his daughter's dawning sexual attraction, for that was what he saw. Her face was alive with awareness, her eyes sparkled with anticipation, the young breasts were moulded by the stretchy top that also clung to her slender waist. The lipstick, although only pale pink, was the final blow. Was this the end of her childhood, her innocence?

Beth drew him from his dark thoughts. ‘D'you like our outfits, Dad? We got them in town after you left. Mum said we could have some new Christmas things.' As he stood silently, she prompted him, ‘
Do
you like them? Do we look pretty?'

‘You all always look pretty.'

Nora turned her eyes to the ceiling. He had given the wrong answer. Gina confirmed it. ‘No, we don't, Dad. Sometimes we look grotty. Just proves you never really look at us, because all you think of is work, work, work!'

‘It isn't
important
, Gina,' cried Maggie. ‘We'll be late if we don't go across now. People have been arriving for at least half an hour.'

‘You attract more attention with a late entrance. I read that in a magazine,' announced Beth. ‘Hans will be panting with anxiety by now, and he'll probably fall down in a faint when you appear. How romantic!'

‘Let's put our coats on and
go
,' ordered Nora, ushering them to the front door.

‘I don't think the sight of a boy fainting would be romantic,' muttered Gina from the depths of her coat. ‘I'd consider him a wimp.'

‘No, he'd be
sensitive
. Like a poet or classical composer. Someone who would
pine
for love.' Coming from her fanciful ideas, Beth asked slyly, ‘D'you think Hans pines for you, Maggie?'

‘I'll tell you what I'm pining for,' put in Nora firmly. ‘Some hot punch and a plateful of those delicious goodies Germans produce at Christmas.'

‘Me too,' said Tom, having heard more than enough girly stuff.

‘All you two think of is food,' Beth accused as they all crunched over the crisp snow to the house where lights blazed a welcome to any friends who cared to call. ‘Didn't you ever pine for Mum before you married her, Dad?'

Tom was saved from answering by young Hans who, seeing their approach, opened the front door and stepped outside to greet them.

‘
See
, he's not wimp enough to faint at sight of Maggie. When you've grown up a bit you'll know what men are
really
like,' ten-year-old Gina told her younger sister.

The Graumanns were very hospitable and introduced the Blacks to their friends. The children present were slower to integrate, but they eventually took off to another room as more guests came. After a lengthy chat with Herr Graumann in which both men spoke in both their languages and managed to make themselves understood, Tom retired to a corner with a glass of punch and an appetizing selection of nibbles on a plate, unable to relax.

The disco would now be underway. The exterior police presence was there mainly to reassure parents. No one could enter the Recreation Centre secretly, surely would not attempt to. But Alan Rowe was on the premises as he had been last Saturday, and there would be upwards of a hundred teenage lads dancing, flirting and behaving true to general reputation. The undercover man had orders to keep Rowe and Lucy Farmer in his sight, and to concentrate on Rowe if they split up.

Tom looked at his watch. 21:15. The disco was due to end at midnight. Anything could happen in the next two and three quarter hours. Parents had been advised to collect their children or arrange for trusted friends to pick them up. Any youngsters still at the Centre fifteen minutes after the event ended would be driven home by the policemen after checking the building and locking it. Nothing should go wrong. He frowned. Even if tonight passed without incident, there was still Clegg's murder and the assault on Kevin to resolve.

‘You're looking daggers at that cinnamon bun,' said Nora from his side. ‘Are you still worked up over Maggie's lipstick?'

Not wanting to put a damper on her enjoyment, he shook his head. ‘Like the incoming tide, her maturity can't be halted. She looks gorgeous, but there's a sadness about her metamorphosis from child to woman because it seems to have happened so suddenly, and too soon. I know, I know,' he went on wryly, ‘it's because fathers hate their little girls to grow up and find other heroes. You told me. And it's true. I'm honest enough to admit it.'

‘Bully for you,' she teased. ‘It meant so much to her for you to come tonight.'

‘That's why she's gone to another room with her blond swain and his friends?'

‘I'm still here . . . and it meant a lot to
me
for you to be here.' She took the little spiced bun from his plate and bit into it. ‘What prompted you to join us for lunch?'

Recollection of Clegg's parents' grief smote him as it had this morning, but he just said, ‘I had a sudden urge to see the four people who make my life worthwhile.'

Finishing the bun and licking crumbs from her fingers, she said, ‘You're an old softie at heart, Sar'nt-Major.'

‘But I'm a tiger in bed.'

‘Drink any more of that punch and you'll be hard pushed to prove it,' she countered with a laugh.

He had no opportunity to prove anything but his professional efficiency that night for, fifteen minutes later, his mobile rang.

If Max had been irresistibly charmed before, he was now totally under Livya Cordwell's spell. An oasis in the desert? A river bubbling through rocky landscape? The tide flowing over a barren shore? Her sexual and intellectual impact washed away old emotional wounds and brought bright promise. Could he retain it, secure it for the future? In five days she would leave. Tonight had to be memorable enough to survive that parting.

Their table was near the large log fire, but to one side of it so the heat from it was not uncomfortable. The reflection from dancing flames caught and discreetly highlighted Livya's diamanté bracelet and long drop earrings. It also put a sheen on her cocktail-length ruby velvet dress and on her dark hair that tonight hung loose to her shoulders. Max had not seen her looking so utterly feminine before. Small wonder his father had urged her to drop formality when they were off duty.

She had accepted his compliment on her appearance with no more than a murmured thank you, but no way was he imagining the glow in her eyes or the invitation in her body language. That room on the second floor beckoned, yet worried him. This woman was so vital, so assured, so challenging.