Scotch Mist (26 page)

‘She'll have to be questioned,' Tom said stubbornly.

‘I know.'

At that point Beeny and Piercey came in to report their findings after interviewing Ralph Styles. During the firework display he had been standing alongside the men who were setting them off, checking that correct safety precautions were being observed.

‘So that rules out the two known to have been on site, yet who couldn't have been the Redcap seen tampering with the straw figure.' Max glanced at the large wall clock. Late afternoon. ‘I want the rest of them questioned
now
. This is the first real lead we've had and we must get to the root of what the witness actually saw. I'll drive out to George's place, where he's apparently taken to his bed, and you two, together with Olly, Heather and Connie, can chase up the rest even if it takes all night. And call in reports to me, no matter how late it is.'

He turned to Tom as they left. ‘As back up, have another session with the witness and get a fuller account. The initial report was geared towards the behaviour of Eva McTavish, which was why this snippet of info wasn't picked up first time around. I hope to God this woman won't now deny seeing a Redcap, or become evasive and unsure, because we're going to make ourselves very unpopular with George and his staff who won't forget it in a hurry.'

Tom's eyes narrowed. ‘Is that why you're sending me to interview the witness instead?'

The white lie came easily enough. ‘She lives near the main gate, so you can head for home once you've got her confirmation. You deserve dinner with your family after spending half the night in defence of a friend you couldn't contact. I do appreciate it, Tom.' He put his hand on the other man's shoulder. ‘Speak to the witness then go home to your lovely wife and the fruits of your seed,' he added with a sly grin.

And that was how Tom impulsively revealed that another was due to arrive next year.

Max had an uncomfortable session with George Maddox, who was feeling unwell and took exception to being questioned as a suspect despite being told of the witness statement. Marion Maddox was even more incensed.

‘Hasn't George suffered enough from unwarranted backlash from parents without now being accused of
causing
the explosion?'

‘I'm not accusing him, Marion.'

‘Well, it sounds remarkably like it to me!'

Max departed reminding himself of his own sense of injustice during that morning's visit from Keith Pinkney, then he sat in his office for the next ninety minutes fielding calls from his team while he began his report on the abduction of Jenny Greene.

Curiously, getting to the truth about the McTavish suicide failed to give him the satisfaction he had expected. Hector's religious convictions prohibited divorce, so two people had lived together in a state of such unhappiness it had finally deprived one of her life, and the other of any hope of personal redemption. How different from the secure, loving marriage of Tom and Nora. Max was unsure how his friend really felt about an unplanned addition to his family, but of one thing he was certain. Tom wanted a son this time.

By mid-evening Tom had called in with the witness's confirmation of seeing a Redcap handling the straw man moments before the bonfire was ignited, and each member of the team had reported failure to find a suspect as a result of their interviews. All their uniformed colleagues had easily-proven alibis, which had been produced with overt hostility. Max guessed there would be a short period of non-cooperation until SIB caught the impersonator, for that was who they undoubtedly had to trace. So it was back to the cast of thousands!

Tired, hungry, and oddly unsettled by Tom's news of another child, Max headed for home in fine rain that once more put a shroud over everything . . . including the prospect of a result by the end of the day.

Clare's car was outside the apartments, along with a Range Rover. Huh! The MacFearsome major was spending another night here. From the rude awakening by Keith Pinkney at five a.m. to the destruction of a promising breakthrough it had been a long, kaleidoscopic day, so Max pushed aside his views on that hot relationship. What he needed was a reviving shower, a satisfying meal, and several large whiskies while watching one of his black and white war videos before falling into bed trying not to think of Livya lying beside him.

After showering, Max dressed in tracksuit pants and a sweatshirt to eat a microwaved casserole which could have been beef or lamb with three of his five-a-day vegetables, according to the packaging. The whisky was more enjoyable, especially when watching
Colditz
. Trouble was, although the film made him appreciate his freedom it seemed to be prodding him into using more ingenuity to solve this difficult case. The answer was there, if only he could see through the haze hiding it.

Towards the end of the film he heard faint sounds of music coming from the large shared lounge. Clare, entertaining her lover with seductive pieces played on her grandmother's piano. Well, she was a professional woman who had survived a recent divorce and knew what was what. She did not need warnings from a neighbour who was a non-runner in the relationship stakes.

He turned his attention back to the film, then must have dozed because the TV screen was blank when he grew aware of voices raised in argument. Clare's strident demands were overridden by an insistent baritone, and Max recognized male persuasiveness that would not take no for an answer.

‘Stop that! I'm telling you again to leave. You're drunk.'

‘Just enough to make me very imaginative. You like that, don't you. Wild imagination between the sheets. C'mon, you sexy little bitch, let's make the earth move.'

‘Let me go! You're hurting me.'

‘You women all say that, but you really
love
it.'

After a brief silence Clare cried out, ‘No.
No!
Get off me.
Get off me, you bastard
!'

Max was on his feet and across to the connecting door, obeying a different male instinct. He burst into the room to see just the top of Clare's head as she was being pinned down by a man with his shirt flapping loose, who was straddling her and uttering explicit sexual taunts.

Even as he seized and hauled the man to his feet, Max was surprised to see a head of black hair where he had expected dark red. His assault was unexpected, but the man was fighting drunk and attempted to punch Max on the jaw while aiming a kick at his genitals. Both failed to reach the target.

Police training had taught Max how to counter every type of aggression, but personal anger dominated his actions now. Swinging the man around he rushed him forward to slam him against the wall, pressing his knee in the small of his back while jerking his arms behind him in an immobilising hold.

‘Christ, that's bloody agony.'

‘You all say that,' panted Max, ‘but you really love it. Don't you?' To make his point he added further pressure where it hurt most. ‘I heard the lady tell you to leave, so you're going to do as you were told.
Aren't you
?'

‘Ye–es,' the other moaned, mouth squashed against the wall.

‘Where are the keys to your vehicle?'

‘Pocket,' came the anguished response. ‘You're breaking my arms.'

‘So you couldn't drive even if I let you keep the keys,' reasoned Max, as he frog-marched the man across the lounge and through the apartment identical to his own. Opening Clare's front door he thrust his victim out to the square landing at the top of the flight of steps, first removing a set of keys from his trousers.

The fight had gone out of the swaying, dishevelled man, but there was aggressive fury in his dark eyes. ‘You'll pay for this, believe me,' he croaked. ‘I have friends in high places.'

‘So have I,' Max returned. ‘Expect a visit from the
Polizei
to investigate the report of an attempted rape.'

Returning to the lounge, still high on adrenalin, Max demanded, ‘Who the hell was
he
?' before he grew aware that Clare was trying to button her torn shirt with hands that shook. In fact, she was trembling from head to foot.

Max sank down beside her and took her hands in his. ‘Are you all right?' When she nodded, he asked again for the identity of her assailant.

She gave a shuddering sigh and withdrew her hands. ‘Thanks for coming to the rescue.'

‘From whom?' he persisted.

‘Major the Honourable James Francis Matthew Goodey, of the Blues and Royals. My former husband.'

It was so unexpected, Max was lost for words.

‘He's over here on a ten-day course and thought it would suit him to lodge with me; an idea I immediately nipped in the bud.' She sighed again to steady herself. ‘He appeared to take it on the chin and invited me to dinner at Zillers, for old times' sake. I couldn't see any problem with that, and accepted.'

Seeing Max's expression, she attempted to justify her decision. ‘He may be a bastard, at times, but he knows how to behave in places like Zillers. I once told you he's a member of a hugely wealthy family who only eat in top-of-the-range restaurants.'

‘And?' he prompted, trying to imagine this woman he knew as carefree, intelligent and professionally dedicated living with a titled oaf.

‘And it was a very enjoyable meal – James can turn on the charm – but he drank very liberally. As we went in a taxi and returned in one I wasn't unduly worried about his liquid intake. However, when we got back here he wanted to come in for a nightcap. I refused very firmly, said goodnight and shut the door.'

Her brow furrowed. ‘Max, I truly believed he had gone, but he must have been boozing-up out there in the Range Rover. When the doorbell rang forty-five minutes later I was playing the piano and went to open the door totally unprepared for him to come charging in like a rampant bull. You know the rest.' She touched his arm in a brief gesture of apology. ‘I'm sorry you had to come in and deal with him.'

He studied her face still pale with shock. ‘I told him I'd call the
Polizei
, but you must make the decision on that. I appropriated his keys. In the morning I'll find out where the course is being run and get someone to drive his vehicle over there.' After a moment or two, he added, ‘I thought it was MacPherson's.'

She considered that. ‘Would you have acted differently with him?'

‘No.'

‘Duncan's a gentleman.'

A sense of anti-climax hovered. ‘So a rescue wouldn't have been necessary.'

Clare shook her head as she once more attempted to button her pale blue silk shirt with fingers still too unsteady for the delicate task.

Max drew her hands down to her lap. ‘You'd better let me do that.'

While he slid each pearl disc through a buttonhole, he was conscious of her rapid breathing and guessed she was still shaken by what had happened.

‘You're managing that as if you've had a lot of practice,' she murmured.

Eyes on what he was doing, he said, ‘I had a wife for two years.' Then he added, ‘I'm also pretty nifty at closing out-of-reach zips.'

‘And opening them?'

He looked up at her. ‘That, too.'

The embrace lasted long enough for him to be aware that she was as reluctant to end it as he, and when they eventually broke apart Clare gazed at him with a tenderness he had never seen in Livya's eyes.

‘I've wondered how long it would take you to realize you wanted to do that. I little dreamed a tussle with my ex would work the magic.'

Having drawn a blank questioning men she knew well as her uniformed colleagues, and bearing the brunt of their hostility, Connie Bush drove to meet Sergeant Colin Carr feeling even more guilty than before. Tom Black was likely to put a stop to the relationship, or at least make her put it on hold until the case was finished. Personal closeness to possible suspects was forbidden. She knew the rules, but she had fallen heavily for the blond bomb disposal sergeant on first meeting him.

There had been a previous sergeant who had also taken her by storm, but he had broken their engagement halfway through the wedding plans. No other woman; simply a change of mind. That had put her off men for a long time, but Colin appeared to be as instantly committed as she was. So she was bending the rules and risking a severe reprimand, because now the Redcaps had been cleared of guilt the investigation would again concentrate on those with specialized knowledge of weaponry in every form. She was worried and unhappy over how Colin would surely take the news.

He had told her that Jeremy Knott had been ‘ballistic with rage' because SIB had imagined a terrorist attack at mention of an IED. It had been he who had instructed Colin and the others to put forward the idea of an alarm clock and stick of dynamite in a suitcase to ‘untwist the plods' knickers'.

Connie had protested, but Colin had laughed. ‘You must be used to comments like that, sweetheart. What got him so worked up was your boss calling us all in as terrorist suspects. We don't
make
explosive devices, we take 'em apart.'

‘But you could.'

‘Could what?'

‘Make one.'

He had elbowed her playfully. ‘Hey, don't
you
start on that track.'

Unfortunately, it looked very much as if she might have to now. What she did not understand was why the witness was so certain it was a Redcap she had seen. The hypothesis certainly answered the questions of how and when, leaving the who and why.
Why
would remain a mystery until the
who
was found. Easy enough to pose as one of George's team, Connie thought. Add to his uniform a yellow high-visibility vest, a gun and a red beret, and people would see a military policeman on patrol.