Scotch Mist (15 page)

Outside, he found the drizzle had been replaced by fog which grew ever thicker as he drove to his flat. It soon became hazardous, visibility such that other vehicles' red rear lights only penetrated the pall when he was almost upon them. And so it must be for those behind him. Risky to progress, even more so to stop.

Much as he disliked using sat nav Max now found it invaluable. Without it he would most likely never have found the short drive leading to his rented home. Turning into it he almost collided with a Range Rover parked in his designated space. Duncan MacPherson's, he supposed. Well, the large Scot would not be returning to base tonight. If he was fool enough to try he would be out of luck, because Max blocked his vehicle in and wearily climbed the outside steps to his front door.

After tossing and turning for several hours, Max gave up the attempt to sleep and went to his kitchen to make tea. While it brewed he surrendered to sudden impulse and opened the door to the shared lounge between his and Clare's apartments. In the dimness he could just make out the blur of pillows and a blanket on one of the long settees. He then closed the door as quietly as he had opened it, and drank his tea. That did the trick. He fell asleep as soon as he returned to bed.

When Tom awoke in a basic room in the Sergeants' Mess he recalled why he had spent the night there and grew depressed. ‘A bloody fine mood in which to start the day,' he muttered, running his hands through his tousled hair as he stomped to the shower. It refreshed him, made him feel less like a bear with a sore head. He had collected his spare shirt, underpants, suit and tie from Headquarters before checking in for the night, and now shaved before dressing in the fresh clothes to go for some breakfast.

As he ran the electric razor over his dark stubble he vowed to have a straight word with Klaus Krenkel the minute he reached his office. One of those
Polizei
youngsters who had been with him and Heather at Max-ee-million had provided Otto Gans with the name of the British soldier policeman who had ‘browbeaten Greta and falsely accused her of being a terrorist'.

Brushing his teeth with angry vigour Tom could see the pompous expression on Gans's podgy face. A jumped-up local businessman who was also some kind of town official. The sort who invariably made protests, offered unasked-for advice, criticized fellow committee members and insisted on every word being included in the minutes, Tom was certain.

To clear the incoming lane at the gate Tom had been obliged to lead the man back to Headquarters. It had been out of the question to conduct a conversation with him in the fine misty rain, but the sight of the battery of computers, telephones, maps, security lights and CCTV cameras had simply increased Gans's belief that SIB was the British equivalent of the KGB.

The man would not listen to Tom's explanation. He ranted about his friends in high places who could make things very awkward at a word from him, mentioned his certainty of winning the upcoming election for
Burgermeister
, and warned Tom that he had no notion of what he had stirred up by insulting and threatening his daughter.

On his demanding to speak to the ‘chief officer' Tom was able truthfully to say the Garrison Commander was at a NATO conference. This had appeared to strengthen Gans's belief in Soviet-style secret plans, and he had only departed because Tom had been obliged to reveal Miles Crawford's name as Deputy Garrison Commander. The one consolation had been Tom's confidence that Gans would get short shrift from a man deeply worried about his son's burns, who still regarded the ‘nine to five Fritzes' as the enemy in two bitter wars.

He had no illusions about who would emerge victor from that meeting. Nevertheless it riled him, because there was little chance of Crawford then brushing the whole incident under the carpet. He was sure to summon Tom to explain, and read him a lecture on keeping good relations with their hosts. He was that kind of officer. With regard to a further visit to Max-ee-million to get the facts on the free gift of giant rockets, Tom realized he must relieve Heather of the duty and go himself.

By the time Otto Gans had departed, fog had descended and looked like remaining. A phone call to the RMP Post resulted in the Duty Sergeant telling Tom there was a reported serious accident near the crossroads, which had closed the route to his house. A call to Nora revealed that Maggie and Gina had arranged sleepovers with friends, but that Beth and she were having a heart-to-heart about the new baby which was going well. That news of the older girls' plans – a deliberate tactic to avoid facing their parents, Tom was certain – strengthened his decision to spend the night and enjoy a good hot meal in the Mess.

He ate breakfast in the communal silence of men who were never chatty in the morning. The women, who were, always gathered as far as possible from their grouchy male counterparts, and talked quietly. Tom just nodded to Connie, Heather, Piercey and Beeny who were grouped as an isolated quartet, SIB not being particularly popular with regimental members. For almost a year their promised accommodation attached to Headquarters had been a distant prospect. Now, with fresh MOD cuts in expenditure, they despaired of ever seeing it built and resigned themselves to their present situation.

When Tom arrived at Headquarters he found Olly Simpson on duty to field calls and take appropriate action, and a fair-haired man in a navy suit and a rugby club tie, who was checking a pile of files on his desk.

‘Hallo, Staff,' said Tom with pleased surprise. ‘When did you get back?'

Staff Sergeant Pete Melly got to his feet with a rueful smile. ‘Not until four this morning. I was making good time from the ferry port, but the bloody fog descended so I joined a group of truckers in an eaterie along the autobahn, then had a few hours' kip until it cleared enough to make driving easier.'

Melly had taken leave in an attempt to mend his marriage before the divorce became final. The fact that he had returned early suggested that he had been unsuccessful, so Tom refrained from mentioning the subject.

‘An
eaterie
? I thought you'd been in the UK not the US.'

Melly grinned. ‘It's all the Country and Western I'm into. Gets you talking American.'

‘Huh, so long as you don't start on
hoots mon
! We've had a bellyful of that these past few days.'

‘So I heard. Olly says everyone's out on the events of Tuesday night, so I've started on clearing up the Gibbons case. We can get a report on the Garrison Commander's desk ready for his return.'

‘Good. There's also that charge of sexual harassment that's a non-starter. Get that wound up as well. Then we'll have a clear period to get to the bottom of these other cases that are tenuously linked.'

‘Until something else comes in,' said Olly Simpson, eating a Mars bar beside the silent telephone.

‘That'll rot your teeth,' Tom muttered. ‘Didn't you have breakfast?'

‘Three hours ago. A man has to top up on energy foods.'

Tom wondered why Simpson was not overweight. He was forever eating chocolate bars, yet had a physique often referred to as wiry. He was the really deep thinker in the team; enjoyed enigmatic situations as much as Max, and frequently came up with aspects of a case nobody else had considered. His consuming interest was the rise and fall of past conquerers – Romans, Greeks, Normans, Celts, for instance. Unlike Tom, he welcomed the arrival of the Drumdorran Fusiliers and would surely soon have a friend or two in their ranks.

He caught Tom's eyes as he walked past to reach his office, and said in a low voice, ‘Hetty's coming over at the weekend to spend a few days to see if she can stand being an army wife any better than she did before. He came back early to fix up somewhere they can live together while she decides. It looks promising.'

At that point Max walked in looking somewhat red-eyed. Tom guessed he had had another bad night, and cursed the Cordwell woman who had let his friend down so badly.

‘Morning, sir,' the three men chorussed, one speaking through a mouthful of Mars bar.

Max returned their greeting, then perched on the edge of a desk. ‘Everyone's out getting evidence that'll allow us to get this case moving towards a conclusion . . . hopefully! Oh, hallo, Staff. Good to see you back. How did it work out? Any chance of a reconciliation?'

Tom exchanged glances with Simpson that spoke volumes, but Melly smiled and said he had high hopes.

‘Great! Good man! Any probs let me know and we'll sort them out. I'll précis what we have so far to put you in the picture.' Max then gave a concise account of the case concerning Eva McTavish, and began to outline the more complex problem. ‘Last thing yesterday, George Maddox was told by the explosives guys that the bonfire had also contained a selection of aerosol containers – we've had that problem before, if you recall – and some firecrackers left over from Chinese New Year. These, together with the IED, produced the dangerous big bang. Having been professionally serious on Wednesday about the IED, they last evening accused us of having overreacted, even quoting, somewhat smugly, alarm clocks and sticks of dynamite in suitcases.

‘So that's the present state of play, Staff. The annual dickheads decided to put the wind up everybody, and I've a good idea who they were, but we have to work out the who and why regarding the additional item that caused the real damage.'

‘Have the explosives guys found remnants of a cheap suitcase?' asked Melly, straightfaced.

Max scowled. ‘Men who risk their lives on a daily basis in a warzone tend to regard us as buffoons when it comes to
real
soldiering. My initial belief that someone was bent on causing danger to lives no longer stands up. Without the aerosols and crackers, the IED – we'll continue to call it that – was probably designed just to cause the bonfire to collapse with a loud bang. So we're back to my familiar line that someone was making a statement. Yes, I know,' he added. ‘On my hobby horse again. But it's the most obvious explanation, and we have on this base a legion of men, and women, who are well primed on the behaviour of combustible material
and
who are never short of things to complain about.

‘The absolute urgency to trace the perpetrator has been reduced, but we still have to find whoever was driven to express a grudge by that method.' He straightened from his perch on the desk. ‘We also need firm evidence that Eva McTavish willingly and deliberately took her own life before I can file a suicide report. Although I believe it to be true, there is still a small area of doubt that should be investigated. Don't you agree?' he asked, turning to Tom.

Tom nodded, but he wondered what had made Max so certain the woman had taken her own life.

‘When the team comes in at the end of the day, they should bring in enough evidence to clarify what's presently opaque. In the meantime, I suggest we tie up the Gibbons case and that dreamed-up claim of sexual harassment.'

‘Yes, sir,' said Melly, giving no sign that he had already agreed that with Tom.

Tom was irked by this issue of orders without consulting him first, but in his present mood he would find most things irritating. At some time today he would receive a summons from Miles Crawford, and he would have to go to Max-ee-million to meet the blond German Heather had arranged to rendezvous with at noon. She had been vocally disappointed when Tom had called to say he would take her place.

‘I'm not setting up in competition. I don't fancy him,' he had finished brusquely.

When Max went to his office, Tom followed him. ‘Better put you in the picture,' he began. ‘Our dearly beloved DGC may be on the blower any minute with another bleat.'

‘Before you tell me why, get young Oliver out there to make us some coffee. He's only sitting on his backside beside a phone that's thankfully quiet. If there's a bleat in store I need an injection of caffeine.'

‘Good idea.' Leaning from the doorway he gave Olly the request, adding, ‘If you've left any choc bars in the tin add a couple of those.'

While they waited, Tom asked if Max had managed to reach his flat before the fog and the road accident had closed the main route through town. Max countered with ‘Did you?' which suggested to Tom an unwillingness to reply to that. So where had he spent the night? Was there a new woman hovering in the wings?

‘I stayed in the Mess. The cause of the expected bleat delayed me until there was a near grey-out. Too risky.'

‘Oh, am I likely to receive a bleat from Nora, too?'

Tom hesitated on the brink of telling him about the expected baby, then thought better of it. He should ask Nora before spreading the news around. Not that Max would say anything to others, but she should agree on when they went public, as it were. Telling their girls had been disaster enough, without a mix of congratulations or gentle sympathy from friends. They, themselves, were still hovering between pleasure and dismay.

Coffee and Twix bars were brought in, then Tom related the substance of his encounter with Otto Gans. When he finished, Max actually grinned.

‘Ever see that film about a Colonel Blimp? Gans sounds like an inflated dogmatist.' The grin became a chuckle. ‘I'd love to listen in when he encounters Miles Crawford. Who d'you reckon as the winner?'

‘The DGC, no doubt, but he'll still give me stick. Possibly you, as well.'

‘Won't be able to resist it,' Max agreed. ‘Colonel Trelawney's back on Sunday, thank God.' He bit into the second Twix baton. ‘Unless the team brings in evidence that must be acted on immediately, I suggest we let things lie until Monday. We have a mess dinner tonight to welcome the Drumdorrans – attendance obligatory – and the funeral's being held tomorrow. Adequate reason to keep relations sweet while emotions run high. I don't know about you, but what appeared to be a mountain is fast turning into a molehill.'