Scotch Mist (14 page)

Telling himself the advent of the Drumdorran Fusiliers had made him ridiculously fanciful, Tom turned his thoughts back to the death of Eva McTavish. There was certainly a veil of Scotch mist over that; the truth was hidden behind an impenetrable curtain of Celtic pride and loyalty. He scowled. Max and his US newspaper reports on the band's tour! He was clutching at straws. It was surely obvious that Hector McTavish had destroyed his wife's suicide note because it reflected badly on himself. He would play the exploding bonfire theme to the full so that he could put the blame elsewhere for her decision to attend the fireworks display rather than get together with him after their three month parting.

When he drove through the main gate the usual lift of gladness was missing. He must resolve the situation regarding the new baby tonight. He had no intention of letting Maggie and Gina create a division in a united family. They were old enough to be knowledgeable about conception, so they were mature enough to receive a straight talk on the subject. Tom knew of families who allowed themselves to be ruled by their teenage children. Not so he and Nora. So far their determination on that score had prevailed. He was going to ensure things stayed that way.

His mood grew heavier. He had had little sleep since the bonfire tragedy, and Nora was suffering the usual early pregnancy blues which made her unpredictable and weepy. This fourth time she had additional reason to be temperamental. Peering through the thickening gloom at the cluster of red lights ahead, which indicated a queue of traffic tailing back at least a kilometre or more from the crossroads, Tom sighed for the days when he had arrived home to find his family happily engaged while waiting for him to join them for the hot, tasty meal. Then there would be games before bedtime followed by relaxation with Nora before lying together in bed and making love. And there lay the cause of this present situation. Was it only yesterday that he had assured her the new child would be greatly loved? He hoped to God he would be able to live up to that assurance when it was put to the test.

He was inching along in the traffic queue when his mobile rang. Cursing, he checked caller ID and found it was a member of Maddox's team. No need to pull over to take the call. The long line of cars had come to a halt, and the klaxon of
Polizei
vehicles told him they were likely to stay that way for a considerable time.

‘What's the problem, Jim?' he asked, making no secret of his annoyance.

‘Just a few minutes after you checked out the main gate a German guy turned up there demanding to see you. The guard says he's creating merry hell. Refuses to move his car, so incomers have to use the outgoing lane. I've sent Meacher down there to persuade him to put his car in the visitors' layby until you get here, sir.'

‘Who the hell is he? Can't someone else deal with him?'

‘It's got to be you, I'm afraid. Says you insulted his daughter. Accused her of stealing and being in league with terrorists. Name of Otto Gans.'

SEVEN

W
hen he left Headquarters Max drove towards the Officers' Mess, thinking it would be sensible to dine there; it would take him around thirty-five minutes to reach his flat. More, with visibility limited in the thickening haze. In any case, he was not in the mood for a basic microwaveable meal eaten alone in a room redolent of the humiliating split with Livya a month ago.

Reaching the Mess he realized he did not want the noisy cameraderie usually to be found there, either, so he continued around the perimeter road to the Medical Centre. Parking outside the building, he punched Clare's number on his mobile to discover whether she was still there or had left for home. No reply, so he tried her mobile.

Her greeting came against a background murmuring that suggested that she was in some public place. ‘Hi, Max! Are you still working?'

‘Just locked up. I wondered if you'd like to go to Herr Blomfeld's to carry on where we left off on Tuesday.'

She laughed. ‘I'm here now, drinking a glass of our favourite Riesling.'

Max was on the point of saying he would be there as soon as possible when her next words silenced him.

‘I've introduced Duncan to Herr Blomfeld. You know his funny English; he beamed and said, “So now we have the double doctors”, adding that the wine was with the greetings of the house. We assume that means we don't have to pay for it.' A short pause while she murmured something and MacPherson's base gave a reply. ‘Come and join us, Max. You two can get to know each other socially and you can drive me home to save Duncan a lengthy detour.'

‘No thanks,' he replied curtly. ‘I'm not in the mood to play gooseberry . . . or run a taxi service. Have a nice evening.'

For long minutes he sat at the wheel, staring into the murk while painful memories paraded before him. The shattering break with the second woman he had really loved had revived his grief over losing Susan and their embryo son. For a few short months Livya had driven it to the recesses of his mind, made him feel whole again. Now he was once more aware of isolation, even when among his colleagues. The yearning to have something to go home to was still strong in him. A wife, a real home, children. Why were those normal things so difficult for him to find and hold on to?

Cutting through his jumbled thoughts came the sudden certainty that Eva McTavish
had
taken her own life. Doormats, like worms, finally turned. Years of petty humiliations at the hands of an uncaring man had culminated in the final act of public contempt on returning after an absence of three months. A hundred imagined or stress-related ailments had failed to draw his sympathy.
She was the one taking the pills. Her responsibility
.

Too browbeaten to walk away and start a fresh life, Eva could not face the long procession of lonely years ahead, so decided to go out with a shower of gold and silver stars, cascades of red and green and blue, swirling, glittering wheels and a thunder of explosions to make her departure more impressive than her existence had been. What was it Jean Greene had said?
We're all born to play our part on the world's stage, but that sad girl stayed in the wings
. Maybe, but Eva gave a bravura farewell performance.

Still staring into the shadowy distance, Max took up his mobile again and punched in the number of a woman facing the prospect of her lonely years with great fortitude.

‘It's Max,' he said when Brenda Keane answered. ‘I'll be passing your way shortly. Will it be convenient to call in?'

‘Oh, yes!' came the enthusiastic response, ‘It's such a gloomy old evening, Micky and I will welcome company. If you haven't already dined you can help me eat a chicken casserole I've made.'

‘On way,' said Max, his spirits lifting immediately.

As he drove through streets where lamps silvered the fine rain that was not visible in the darkness, he was glad he could avoid the main highway into town which was sure to be gridlocked at this hour. Coming up to the turning which would take him to his flat he had the momentary thought of going there and telephoning Brenda with an excuse, but he still shied from the prospect of some pre-packed concoction with only himself for company, and drove on.

When Brenda opened the door and smiled a welcome he was glad of that decision. Short blonde hair shining with health, cheeks rosy from the warmth inside her flat, and violet-blue eyes showing her pleasure at his arrival; at the end of a day like he had just spent this woman in black jeans and sky-blue jumper was a lovely sight.

‘Come in out of the rain,' she urged, and led the way to her L-shaped living room softly lit by two attractive Tiffany lamps. ‘I'm glad you decided to come. I've made a ridiculously large casserole. It's so difficult to cook for one. There's always too much and I get sick of eating it up day after day.'

She turned in the centre of the room and gave a soft chuckle as she indicated the wooden rocking-cradle of old Germanic design. ‘Can't wait for him to be old enough to share meals with me.'

‘How is he?' asked Max, crossing to the cradle.

‘Bathed and fed, but wide awake. I told him you were coming, so he stayed up for you.' She joined Max, smiling at the baby who was kicking his feet and waving tiny fists with excitement. ‘Say hallo to Max, Micky.'

The baby gurgled and blew bubbles, which made her laugh. ‘I'm sure he said your name, Max, aren't you?'

He was lost in marvelling at how small this love child was, how vigorous and aware. Were they all like that? Would Alexander Rydal have looked and behaved so energetically if he had lived? A faint frown creased his forehead. A fatherless child gazing up at a childless father. Imagine if he was looking down at his own son and preparing to eat dinner with Susan. How different everything would be.

‘Drink this while I put vegetables on to boil,' said a voice, and a glass of wine was put in his hand. ‘Do take off that jacket and relax,' Brenda added. ‘You look so smart I feel slightly scruffy in comparison.'

Returning to the present, Max said, ‘You're a sight for sore eyes after a sea of men in disruptive pattern combats, believe me. Can I do anything to help? I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to buy a bottle along the way. Everything was shuttered and barred on a night like this.'

She smiled. ‘I've just opened the one you brought last time. These days I only drink in company. Parenthood puts the brakes on things like that. Or it should. As a midwife I saw a few women who ought never to have become mothers.' She raised her glass. ‘
Prosit
!'

He repeated the toast and drank, then stood the glass on a small table and removed his jacket to lay it across a chair. Brenda had disappeared into the kitchen, and he was about to take up his glass when Micky began to whimper. It increased in volume until it became a full-blooded scream. What had seemed to Max to be playful kicking and punching the air was now a violent protest against lying in that cradle. The little face was beetroot red and screwed up as if in pain.

Max picked up the distressed child and began to rock him as he walked back and forth. Amazingly, the screams soon subsided into shuddering snivels as blue eyes gazed up in curiosity into dark ones, and the dark ones saw what they wanted to see.

‘Ah, you must have a magic touch.' Brenda was emerging from the kitchen to see to her baby.

‘Shhh,' Max said swiftly, because the blue eyes had closed and all was quiet again.

‘Give it a few minutes, then put him back in the cradle,' she advised in a half-whisper. ‘By then the meal will be ready.'

They sat at the table, Micky sleeping contentedly, and Max asked if all babies fell asleep so instantly.

Brenda nodded. ‘It can be very deceptive, though. Just as you're slipping back into bed they can wake just as instantly and start screaming again.'

‘I interviewed a woman this week whose daughter fell asleep over a plate of fish fingers and got smeared with ketchup. It astonished me, but her mother says she does it all the time.'

Brenda frowned. ‘How old is the child?'

‘I'm no good at guessing a youngster's age,' Max said, concentrating on his food. ‘Three? Three and a half?'

‘She needs to see a doctor. It sounds like a form of narcolepsy. It could be dangerous, Max. Surely the mother can't believe it's natural behaviour.'

Max returned his laden fork to the plate. ‘It didn't appear to be of concern to her. She actually thought it rather amusing.'

‘Amusing? What if the child's in the bath and the mother goes to answer the phone? She could fall asleep, slip beneath the water and drown.
Amusing
? What kind of mother is that woman?'

Seeing how serious his medically qualified companion was, Max said, ‘I'll pass on your concern to our MO and suggest she has a look at the girl.'

‘With some haste.'

‘If you say so,' he agreed, and continued eating while recalling Jenny Greene asleep with her face in a plate of food while Paddington Bear bought a new tablecloth.

Conversation became general for a while, until Brenda said, ‘I've had another letter from my parents urging me to go back to the UK. Neither of them is in good health.'

‘Oh? How do you feel about that?' He really wanted to know.

‘I haven't told them about Micky, or that I got a job out here in order to meet up with Flip again. Chasing a married man is how they'd see it. They believed it was simply a career move.' She rose and gathered up their plates. ‘I'll make coffee.'

That was no answer, and while Brenda was in the kitchen Max gazed at the picture of a desert sunset that hung on the wall. Philip Keane had bought it for her after their tour of Iraq because he knew the desert had fascinated her. Max had been there briefly and could never live with a picture like that one. Endless sand turned red by a huge dying sun; unforgiving terrain with few signs of life. Oh, no, it looked to him disturbingly desolate.

He was still in the grip of that impression when she returned with a tray bearing coffee and two slices of
Sachertorte.

‘Another reason why I'm glad you called in,' she said, indicating the chocolate cake with a smile. ‘My great weakness, and I'd have eaten it all myself. Are you all right?' she then asked in concern.

‘Fine.' To take attention from himself, he asked, ‘Shouldn't your people know they have a grandson?'

As if to underline his right to exist, Micky began to cry, setting the cradle rocking and breaking the tentative intimacy that had arisen on this first extended visit. It had been no more than coffee and biscuits on the previous two occasions.

The baby's demands had to be met, so Max tactfully took his leave after downing some coffee. The cake remained uneaten.