Czech Mate (28 page)

‘The perfect alibi. So we investigate the rest tomorrow.'

Max halted by the vehicles and glanced across them at the tall tree now floodlit and sparkling, remembering the family scenes he had viewed this morning and wishing he had one of his own to return to.

He turned back to Tom. ‘My guts could feel different in the morning, so let's sleep on it.'

‘If you say so. They're your guts. Goodnight, sir.'

‘Goodnight, Tom. Enjoy your family,' he added hollowly as he slid behind the wheel.

He parked behind the Mess, where welcoming lights spilled out to sheen the iced garden areas adjacent to the building. As he walked to the main entrance, a surprising sense of gladness to be living alongside others partially negated his melancholy mood. The foyer now contained a fir, lit and spangled with gold. Gilded bells hung at intervals on the walls decorated with holly. From the ante-room came the sound of lusty voices singing rude army jargon to the tunes of well-known carols. The subalterns rehearsing for their dubious entertainment next week. In the small annexe where coats and regimental headgear could be hung, a large bunch of mistletoe was suspended. Christmas had officially arrived.

Going up to his room, Max reflected that this was the nearest to a family scene he would get. A rather large, rowdy family, but he could join or leave them as he wished and there would be no hurt feelings, no post-mortem on his behaviour. There was an envelope on the floor just inside his room. He snatched it up, because it bore just his first name in blue ink, and read the short message.

I'm out of the competition, beaten by a Gunner not long out of nappies! He's brilliant. How about buying me a consolation drink before dinner? In the event of duty making this impossible, a phone call at whatever time will dry my tears!

Amazing how moods could switch so swiftly, how a disastrous day could suddenly glow with promise. He made coffee and arranged his books, CDs and videos of classic war films on the shelves above the desk. If he planned to stay put for a while he should empty the last of his boxes to put in store with the rest. Maybe he could leave the search for other living quarters until the cold weather ended.

In his second-best shirt – he had worn the best one to the hotel last night – and his silver-grey suit with the jazziest tie he possessed, Max headed for the bar. How did he console a prospective lover who had failed to become champion of something he knew and cared little about? A game was just a game in his book. Nothing to get steamed-up about. Yet some of these players did, and one of them could have . . . He thrust the thought away.

Livya was already drowning her sorrows in the company of the squadron leader who had sat next to her at the official dinner, and who had been knocked out yesterday, Livya had told him. Max would happily knock him out now, with a punch to the chin. She looked disturbingly attractive in a close-fitting coffee-coloured top and a cream skirt that outlined her thighs as she perched on the high stool.

‘You're one ahead of me,' he greeted, tapping her lightly on the shoulder. ‘Or maybe two.'

She looked round swiftly and smiled. ‘A girl has to seize her opportunities. I wasn't sure you'd be free tonight.' She turned back to the good-looking pilot and slid from the stool. ‘Thanks for the drink, Pete. I owe you one.'

Walking beside her to a pair of low seats by a square table, Max said, ‘You've just ruined his evening.'

‘He's married. Can't wait to hitch a lift home tomorrow to wifey and small son.'

Max gave a wry smile as she sat and asked for another G and T. ‘You've punctured my ego. I was congratulating myself on beating the opposition.'

She laughed. ‘Idiot! I don't play those kind of games. Just chess.'

‘Look, sorry about the kid just out of nappies. I thought you had a straight run after the champ flew home unexpectedly.'

‘Gunner Kinsey had a straight run, but I think he'd have got there anyway.'

‘You don't look like a loser.'

‘Oh, I never rail against being beaten by a superior player.' She looked at him enquiringly because he was making no attempt to get the drinks. ‘Is something wrong?'

He smiled. ‘Absolutely not. I'm just making a slow and delicious study of you before my bloody mobile rings.'

Thirteen

T
om walked downstairs leaving the usual chaos on the upper floor. Only two more mornings before the start of the school holiday. Then he and Nora would have quiet breakfasts together while the girls slumbered on. In the alcove beneath stairs hung the completed evening gown, with diamanté replacing the frill that gave it an overally look. Covered with plastic, it could easily be mistaken for a designer creation. Nora was a skilled needlewoman.

Lingering by the alcove, Tom pictured his collection of model steam engines set up in there. Something he promised he would do during the brief Christmas break. It would be good to take them from their boxes and put them back on display, but first he must put up the glass-fronted cabinet and fix suitable lighting to show them to greatest advantage.

The porridge, toast and boiled eggs were eaten, then Tom received an extravagant hug from Beth, a kiss in the direction of his right ear from Gina and a mere flutter of fingers on his head from Maggie before they departed, still chattering.

Nora poured more coffee and pushed a cup across to him. ‘Haven't you anything better to do today than sit at home making eyes at your wife?'

‘There isn't anything better to do than that.'

‘What about last night?'

‘Ah, that was in a class of its own.' He drank some coffee. ‘Speaking of which, I think Max has ideas in that direction.'

‘Good. Who is she?'

‘Don't know for certain, but he seems surprisingly preoccupied with chess.'

‘Chess!'

‘There are two women involved in the inter-services championship on the go here. One's an RAF sergeant, the other's a captain in Intelligence staying in the same Mess. For a man who proclaimed when they arrived that he had no interest in board games, and couldn't understand how players could get so uptight about it, he's apparently been going to the church hall as an observer.'

‘Well, well! When a man is prepared to change his attitude to influence a woman it could be serious. But she'll leave when the championship ends, and he'll be back to square one. Doesn't sound too hopeful.'

‘Depends on how
she
feels, I suppose.' He drank some more of his coffee. ‘He's now come up with the idea that chess features in young Clegg's murder.'

‘It does,' she said, surprised by his sceptical tone. ‘You found him on that outdoor board surrounded by the pieces.'

‘Max now thinks that points to one of the visiting players having murdered the poor lad.'

‘But aren't you linking—?'

‘Yes, and we're pretty certain we're right about that, but Max has latched on to the fact that Kevin was wearing the fancy-dress outfit of a black knight. Something we haven't thought of any significance before.'

‘But it could be.'

‘Or it could be pure coincidence. Big snag is that the commissioned competitors were all at dinner with Max when Clegg was killed. If he's still going with that idea this morning, we have to interview the other ranks. My big beef against that is why anyone visiting us to play chess for ten days would attack a schoolboy and a young bandsman they've never met before.'

Nora leaned back in her chair and reminded him of a case at the start of the year. ‘In the Leo Bekov affair someone who had never met him killed him by proxy. After years of discovering that people commit crimes out of desperation, on an undeniable impulse, in a sudden fit of temper, or for the weirdest of reasons, you now grow cynical? If one of the chess players
is
guilty, you'll find there's a motive.' Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you lounging around here as if you haven't a job to go to because you don't want to pursue that line?'

He deliberately poured himself yet more coffee. ‘Max gets these flights of fancy whenever we reach a hiatus in an investigation.'

‘And sometimes they lead somewhere.'

‘And sometimes they don't.' He stopped stirring his coffee and looked at her frankly. ‘To be honest, the McRitchie affair is dogging me; can't shake it off. Think, love! Mavis and Greg love each other enough to marry. A baby boy arrives and completes their happiness. Two years later the rot sets in. Greg is always out doing blokey things with the poor little sod who fails to match up, and Mavis is ignored. Five years into the marriage, when no more sons have turned up to compensate for the failure Greg has now discarded, Mavis is blamed and sent for check-ups. She then produces two girls, and expects forgiveness from him for suspecting her of being infertile. Instead of reviving his love for her, these cute little darlings become his obsession. Mavis turns to Kevin for compensation, but her affection is too intimate and makes him turn against her, too. All the lad wants is to play his music and be loved for what he is.

‘Kevin's been beaten up, one kiddie has been scarred for life, the other's certain to be affected by what happened for years to come, Greg is dead and Mavis is out of her mind. All that because they each wanted something they couldn't have. Such tragedy for want of a little selfless love and understanding.'

Nora fiddled with her teaspoon thoughtfully. ‘Would it have turned out differently if Kevin had been the macho son Greg wanted, I wonder?'

‘I hope the kid himself never wonders that. God knows what'll become of him and those father-fixated girls.' Tom sighed. ‘I'm finding it difficult to take at all seriously Max's fairy tale about vengeful chess players, with that disaster so fresh in our minds.'

‘But you have no other leads on Clegg's murder, Tom.'

‘No. In chess parlance, it's check mate.'

Tom drove past the base Christmas tree in anything but festive mood. At Headquarters the members of the team were collating evidence and writing their reports. The usual convivial atmosphere was lacking. Subdued morning greetings were offered as Tom walked to his office. Once there, he decided he might as well check which of the non-commissioned chess players were on-base in time for the attack on Kevin, but even as he brought up three names on screen he felt the futility of what he was doing. Why would any one of them decide to enter the Recreation Centre, and there cosh a boy dressed as a black knight? He stared at the names and service data of the three. Why then go on to batter to death another lad on an outdoor chessboard? Despite Nora's reminder of the Leo Bekov case, as a theory this was light as thistledown. Which was a pity, because it had its attractions.

His telephone rang. George Maddox was on the line. ‘Sorry about this, sir. I've no alternative but to call you. Lance-Corporal Treeves' father is here in a right state. Won't accept the cause of his son's death. Says the lad was fully fit and wouldn't die just like that without any warning. He's claiming we must have beaten him up, and the medical report is a whitewash. I've assured him Treeves wasn't under arrest, simply being escorted back to base after an incident, but he's deaf to reason. Threatens to go to the papers and force an independent inquiry into the death. Would you come over and talk to him?'

Tom went out to his car reluctantly. Treeves' unfortunate demise had been overshadowed by murders and mayhem; had been tagged as case closed. He sat for a moment before starting the engine. If Treeves senior carried out his threat, the facts of his son's alleged criminal involvement in the theft of MoD property would be made public. The allegation would be based on the word of a Turkish girl claiming to be the soldier's girlfriend – something Treeves could neither affirm nor deny – but it would have to be followed up. A can of worms better left sealed would be opened up. It would involve the
Polizei
, a group of illegal Turkish immigrants, and the German couple who found the truck in their driveway. None of it would change the cause of the driver's sudden death, and his family would be further devastated.

Taking out his mobile, Tom called Major Clarkson. The Medical Officer was the best person to explain Sudden Death Syndrome to a distressed parent, although it was still something of a mystery even to the medical world. Recalling Norman Clegg's impassioned threat to put the investigation in the hands of ‘real' policemen, Tom knew he had a difficult task ahead if he was to convince Treeves his son's death had occurred naturally. Grief bred aggression.

Turning the ignition key, Tom headed off along the perimeter road understanding why he had been so reluctant to come to work today.

Lucy Farmer looked at first surprised, then delighted when Max walked in to her office. Her smile was openly inviting, and he could not suppress a masculine response to her vivid attraction. It made him all the more angry over her stupidity.

‘Max! I thought you had your eye on a certain chess player, but first a little chat beside the toaster at breakfast, and now a
tête à tête
in my lair,' she said teasingly. ‘Coffee?'

‘No, thanks. I'm here officially. I've told your staff not to disturb us.'

Her green eyes glowed with amused curiosity. ‘Don't tell me I'm about to be cautioned before you put the cuffs on me.'

‘You're certainly about to be cautioned, but it's no joke, Lieutenant Farmer. I'm only here because SIB has severe demands on its time, at the moment. Two murders, and two savage attacks on minors take priority over behaviour prejudicial to military discipline that should rightly be reported to the culprit's commanding officer.'

Lucy's usually mobile expression sobered, her eyes grew alert as she got to her feet. ‘What are you hinting at, Captain Rydal?'

‘We have firm evidence that you are conducting a sexual liaison with a member of the rank and file, namely Sapper Alan Rowe.'