Scotch Mist (13 page)

During the heavy silence following the Scots' departure. Max assimilated the impression they must have received of the Section he commanded. Empty desks, silent computers, an office littered with confectionery wrappers, apple cores, biscuit crumbs and coffee mugs, and the two senior members sitting amongst this debris minus their jackets and with shirt sleeves casually pushed up.

He grimaced at Tom. ‘Do you have the feeling we were the losers in that Anglo-Scottish scuffle?'

‘We had 'em rattled, though.' He began collecting the snack debris. ‘That MO's a giant. Can imagine him tossing the caber with ease. He needs watching where women are concerned, especially your doctor friend who'll be working closely with him.'

‘Mmm, it's a pity David Culdrow's still not recovered from the mumps. I've a suspicion MacPherson's here to stay.'

Throwing the rubbish into a metal waste bin, Tom muttered, ‘I knew they'd be trouble, and they've not been here a week yet.'

If the first half of the day had been trying, the second half offered no relief. Having had enough of Scottish guile, Max and Tom switched their attention to the case of the exploding bonfire and discussed at some length how to proceed before the team returned for the evening briefing.

Piercey and Beeny had tracked down everyone who had been involved with the fireworks. They had a few things to report, but nothing to get excited about.

‘Corporal Lines is something of an anorak where pyrotechnics are concerned,' offered Piercey. ‘Soon loses it if there's a hitch. Seems there was a box missing from the original order, and he went beserk; threw an artistic tantrum according to two of his helpers.' He glanced at his notebook. ‘Privates Stone and Bartholemew.'

‘And?' asked Tom tetchily.

‘The Corp called Max-ee-million on his mobile and let rip. According to Stone and Bartholemew the stuff in the missing box was meant to form the basis of the fixed display, so nothing could be done until that was all in place.'

‘What was the outcome?'

‘Max-ee-million sent a van out here pronto with the box, and a smaller one packed with some extra fireworks for free. Bartholemew said these were a dozen massive rockets.' He grinned. ‘The kind you want to push up someone's arse when they don't move quickly enough.'

Tom was in no mood for levity. Why had that late delivery not been mentioned at the fireworks factory a few hours ago? Nor had Lines spoken of that hitch and the gift of giant rockets to Connie or to himself when questioned. How easy for someone to filch one, split it open and use the contents to make an IED!

‘Did Corporal Lines include those freebies in the display?' he asked, deep in thought.

Piercey nodded. ‘Right at the end.'

‘Did you speak to whoever set them off?'

The Cornish sergeant looked again at his notebook. ‘Rifleman James. Because Corporal Lines was in an artistic tizzy over the set piece which only he was allowed to control, he had to delegate. James told me he boobed; was late sending up the rockets so that the last two spoiled the effect of the start of the set piece which was producing great showers of gold and silver. Lines was giving him an earful when the bonfire exploded.'

‘Did James say anything about there not being a full dozen of those rockets when he came to deal with them?'

‘I asked him about that.' Piercey again referred to his notebook and read from it.
I didn't count them, Sarge. I was late setting them off and knew I'd be for it. That's all I was thinking of.
'

‘Right,' said Tom. ‘First thing tomorrow we question all those involved in the firework display again. Find out if anyone counted those rockets as they went up. I also want to know who opened the box they were in, what time that van delivered it, and where it was from that moment until the rockets were removed in readiness for the display.'

‘Might prove negative, sir,' put in Beeny. ‘I got the impression it was a hell of a shambles all day Tuesday. The lads I questioned said Lines, and Corporal Naish who constructed the bonfire, were like a pair of headless chickens. Normally highly motivated, they behaved as if they were creating a global masterpiece. Checked everything ten times over and treated them all as if they were idiots. Several said if no one had been hurt, they'd have been delighted the bonfire blew apart so dramatically.'

‘But people
were
hurt, so go back tomorrow and put on the pressure. Someone must know where the box of rockets sat during the preparations, shambolic or not,' ruled Tom.

Heather Johnson glanced up from her notebook. ‘There was no mention of a late delivery and freebies when we were at Max-ee-million, was there?'

‘No, and Greta Gans had every opportunity to tell us,' Tom agreed. ‘There's more to that girl than meets the eye. And that leads us back to Carter and his bogus cut hand that gave him an excuse to be well away from the Sports Ground that evening.'

‘Greta's not the only overseer, sir. There are three. They work shifts so that there are always two on the premises.'

‘Who told you that?' asked Tom sharply.

‘Bruno Borg.'

‘That walking advert for active healthy living you were giggling with when I left?'

Both Heather and Connie had learned long ago not to rise to provocation from their male colleagues, even their 2IC, so she simply nodded. ‘Yes, him.'

‘Why didn't you see fit to pass that info on to me?'

‘We were investigating the connection between Rifleman Carter and the girlfriend who could have passed him something. I didn't think it was relevant to an enquiry which seemed to be proving negative,' Heather said in her best detectivespeak. ‘Now we know about the late delivery and highly explosive freebies it puts a new slant on that relationship.'

‘So pull out the note your
Polizei
friend gave you, call him and arrange another visit to Max-ee-million first thing in the morning. Bring back a couple of those giant rockets for Captain Knott's lads to examine. And this time concentrate on the business in hand,' Tom added, unfairly because he knew Heather had been fully on the ball that morning.

Max then gave the facts regarding Eva McTavish's death, although Connie had probably already passed the news to her colleagues.

‘In the absence of unarguable evidence that the woman took her own life, we'll have to prove it the hard way. Jean Greene admits Eva kept to her own room after a quarrel in the morning over her proposed extended stay in the house. This means Jean was not witness to Eva's state on leaving it on Tuesday evening. The absence of empty vodka bottles in her room suggests she drank it elsewhere, although she could have taken one with her and dumped it. George's team are searching all possible sites for it, but it seems most likely, to me, that she drank that excessive intake at the Greenes' house, then swallowed the pills at the Sports Ground. Gaining Dutch courage to take the killer dose during the fireworks, when all eyes would be on them.

‘One theory I have is that she never intended to die; that it was a cry for help that went wrong because of that very fact. Who would notice a comatose woman when there was so much glittery excitement to watch? The other theory is that she was forced to swallow that lethal mixture. There's no physical evidence that force had been used on her; the Drumdorrans' own MO has examined the body and given me his professional assurance on that score.'

‘A third theory is that she was suffering from depression and needed to make a melodramatic statement,' said Piercey, leaning back with a self-satisfied smile hovering on his mouth.

‘And a fourth is that her marriage was on the rocks, so she was facing humiliation and a lonely future. Already humbled by her husband's failure to contact her on his arrival after three months apart, plus the quarrel with Mrs Greene who had made it obvious she didn't want her there any longer, drove her to act on desperate impulse,' offered Connie, always the most compassionate member of the team.

‘While the balance of her mind was disturbed?' Max nodded. ‘The most likely explanation, but I'd like proof of that before I report a suicide to Colonel Trelawney. To that end I want you all to get as much info as possible about Eva's movements at the Sports Ground. Who remembers seeing her there, did she talk to anyone or did she stand aloof, was she drinking alcohol, was she swallowing pills from pharmacy bottles? Find out if she was there before the fireworks, looking at the stalls selling gifts, soup, burgers and hot chestnuts, or if she only arrived on the scene as the display began. Did she look drunk or ill? Question the paramedics who took her to the hospital to discover exactly where she was lying when they approached her.'

He frowned in concentration. ‘I'm no medical expert but I imagine she would have only just taken the last of the pills or vodka when she was hit by the small missile and collapsed, because she didn't breathe her last until the early hours. Both the paramedics and the hospital staff concentrated on the wound and missed the other problem until it was too late to revive her. Captain Goodey says they tried all they could to keep her alive, to no avail.'

Connie shook her head sadly. ‘If she wanted to die she would have resisted their efforts.'

‘The expression is
gave up the ghost
,' murmured Piercey.

‘Before we all grow soft and weepy, I have further instructions,' put in Tom firmly. ‘Get me all you can on Pipe Major McTavish. His colleagues' mouths will be sealed by superglue, but contact the SIB section covering the area where the Drumdorrans served prior to coming over here. And if any of you have friends in the regiments based there still, get what you can from them concerning the band.'

‘One more avenue,' interrupted Max before the team members could go off for a decent meal. ‘Get a copy of the band's engagements on their US tour, then contact the local rags in all the places they performed and ask them to email copies of their reviews of those performances.'

Beneath the general noise of chairs being pushed back into knee-holes, car keys rattling on desks, and bantering remarks based on the hotch-potch of ideas that had been expressed, Tom murmured to Max, ‘Digging into the dregs there, aren't you?'

‘Did no one ever read the tea leaves in your cup and tell you something promising? I'd like to know what could have been so sensational our friend McTavish was driven to send it to his mother mere hours after his wife had died in shocking circumstances.' Max gave a weary smile. ‘Let's have an early night. We deserve it.'

He was halfway to his office when George Maddox entered the building and stood dripping water onto the standard MOD carpet.

‘Is it raining?' asked Max in surprise.

‘That fine stuff those who live north of the border call Scotch mist. Mist, my eye! You can get bloody drenched.'

‘Are we to guess you've arrived at an hour when all sensible people are tucking into a hearty dinner, because you have news?' At George's nod, Max added, ‘Good or bad?'

‘Depends how you look at it, sir.'

‘Ah, the invariable answer.'

‘Well, spit it out,' urged Tom, still tetchy over not having been told about the freebie rockets. He had visited that fat Estonian twice and got nowhere. That was why he had told Heather to go with the German she fancied for a third trip to Max-ee-million.

‘Captain Knott has ruled that we can lift the top security state. Seems his squad has found evidence that aerosol cannisters and some Chinese New Year firecrackers had been inserted in the bonfire, which created such a major explosion. They say the IED alone wouldn't have sent stuff flying into the crowd.'

Max frowned. ‘He's giving his professional opinion that it wasn't a terrorist attack?'

George pulled a long face. ‘I was told we reacted too wildly to their statement that there was evidence of an IED, and imagined the Taliban had breached our security. A smartarse guy told me an IED is
any
improvised explosive device; even the old alarm clock and stick of dynamite in a suitcase favourite of old black and white thrillers. These what they call “stick and string” bombs could be used for a bank robbery or for demolishing a garden wall. Anyone can access the Internet and get instructions on how to make one. He had the gall to say we were all up a gum tree imagining the base had been infiltrated by Islamic Fundamentalists.'

Max was furious and said Jeremy Knott should have had the courtesy to contact him with the information, not allow one of his squad to pass the news with such superiority to George. He headed for his office telephone.

‘I'll call Knott and ruin his dinner.'

‘He's not on base, sir.'

Max halted. ‘He never is when we want him. Where is he this time?'

‘He's giving evidence at the NATO conference; be returning with Colonel Trelawney on Sunday.'

Tom was equally angry, but his wrath was directed against those who had put additional explosive material in the bonfire, and lied to him.

The three men left the building together, too depressed to speak apart from bidding each other goodnight as they reached their cars. As Tom drove away he understood why this fine rain was called Scotch mist. It hung in the air shrouding everything and blurring outlines. On this November evening the familiar buildings around the base loomed from the darkness like ghostly fortresses as he travelled the perimeter road. Lights shimmered in the windows of accommodation blocks, and hooded figures moved through the semi-opaqueness as if on sinister business. Tom imagined this damp pall cloaking mountains and glens where unpopulated wildness could hide an advancing horde. One bloodthirsty clan rising up against another!