Scotch Mist (27 page)

Nearing the inn Colin had chosen as a rendezvous, Connie decided to avoid any mention of the case. It would ruin the evening if her new boyfriend learned his colleagues were still on the list of possible suspects. Colin had told her his boss had a very short fuse since returning last month from their deployment in Afghanistan, which had been particularly harrowing.

Connie had heard how Knott had rescued two of his injured men under fire, then had risked his life again to bring in a leg lost by one of them. The other casualty had been so critically injured he was still on a life support machine with little chance of survival. His wife would soon be asked to give permission to switch it off.

Naturally enough, Knott's men practically hero-worshipped the man whose courage was second to none. They would follow him anywhere, do anything he asked of them, Connie had been told. A Messiah and his disciples? Yes, he would explode with wrath over further suspicion of his followers.

As she parked her car at the rear of the inn and spotted Colin watching for her from a window, it occurred to her that Jeremy Knott himself had never been interviewed as a suspect.

THIRTEEN

I
t was starting to grow light when Max left his apartment to drive to the base. A damp shroud heralded the dawn. Was it Keats who wrote of the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness? He was right on the first count, but the fruitfulness was doubtful. Max had little idea of what to direct his team to do, how to progress the investigation. Until they had been called in yesterday afternoon to question George and his Redcaps, they had been chasing yet again the experts in Logistics and the Sappers. It must have been viewed as a sign of desperation by them because they had proved their innocence the first time around. Pointless to waste more effort on them.

The bonfire had exploded a week ago and all they had by way of a lead was the reported sighting of a Redcap tampering with that damned straw effigy. Even if they tracked the imposter down they could never prove he had lodged some kind of IED within it. Only if he confessed could they close the case on that, but what if he had a solid alibi for the night of the car park fire?

Had they been wrong to believe both incidents were the work of the same person? Must they begin seriously to question the newly arrived Drumdorrans on that score? They had been on the base for three days by then. Long enough to set that up. Hector McTavish had shown there was one bad apple in the barrel. Maybe there was another.

All these problems bombarded Max's brain as he drove through the empty streets, in addition to the question of what exactly had begun between himself and Clare last night. He would have done what he had to any man forcing himself on any woman trying to fight him off but, in retrospect, he recognized that there had been an element of primitive man defending his own in his actions. And in his concern for her afterwards. Yet there had been no dragging her off to his cave to consolidate possession. The kiss had been instinctive and seriously significant, but he had then suggested that she drank a knock-out brandy, took a long shower and went to bed. Clare had nodded, said goodnight and gone to her own apartment, closing the door firmly.

After checking that Goodey was no longer outside the building, Max had lain awake considering the implications of this new aspect of their relationship. How would it affect living in this semi-shared accommodation? He knew they could not resume the relaxed friendship they had enjoyed, so would being neighbours now work? He needed time to get to grips with how to handle the next stage. For him it was a case of twice bitten, once shy.

One ambiguous aspect of his social life had been surprisingly settled. A text from Brenda Keane had come in at some time during the night telling him he had been right to say her parents ought to know they had a grandchild, and she was flying home on Sunday. Micky had no father, so she hoped to give him a grandad, make him part of a real family. The message ended with thanks for his kindness to them both, and best wishes for his own future happiness.

He felt no disappointment at the news. Brenda had only enjoyed his company because of his link to her lost lover, and he had really been more interested in the infant Micky, imagining how it would be if Alexander Rydal had survived to become his own son.

The psycho boys would have some strong words to say to him on that fantasy, no doubt, he mused as he parked outside the RMP post en route to Headquarters. Walking in, he gave a stony-faced Babs Turvey the keys to James Goodey's Range Rover, saying he wanted a vehicle collected from Marienplatz and taken to where he knew the course was being run.

‘Leave it in the car park with the keys under the seat. I'll give them a buzz to explain.'

‘Yes, sir,' she said, as if her lips were frozen.

Max knew it would be a while before SIB was forgiven for treating them as suspects, so he accepted the icy formality and went on his way. Letting himself in to the deserted building he filled the kettle and plugged it in. His early departure meant he had gone without breakfast, so a large mug of coffee and two walnut muffins would have to compensate. Armed thus, he sat at his desk to review the notes he had made on Sunday outlining the similarities and differences between the incidents, hoping for new inspiration.

Halfway through this task his concentration wandered to remember how difficult it could be to prove where one had been at the time a crime had been committed. How long would he have remained under suspicion if Jenny had not explained which ‘Max' she had gone off with? He would have liked to see her, discover if she suffered any reactions to her experience, and to check if Jean had consulted Clare or MacPherson about the child's spasmodic sleeping, but he knew better than to show further interest in the engaging little girl. A man had to be so careful where children and women were concerned in this enlightened age. The slightest word or action could be misconstrued.

When the members of the team drifted in, clearly feeling as frustrated as he, Max set them to trawling through the service records of every soldier on the base, including the Scots, for evidence that anyone had worked in a quarry, a mine or in demolition before enlisting. There would be little enough recorded, but they should follow even the slightest lead.

Tom arrived somewhat later than usual, looking heavy-eyed and depressed. Armed with a mug of coffee, he came to Max's office and revealed that he had had similar ideas about the only way forward left to them.

‘It'll take several days to scroll through the service record of every man and woman on the base, and Chummy'll be laughing at us for every minute of them, but what else can we do?'

Max leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms out to ease the ache in his shoulders. ‘We've been looking at soldiers trained in specialist skills, but on this base there must be someone who had experience with demolition in civilian life but has chosen a different trade for his army career. Jeremy Knott's boys did tell us that an improvised explosive device means just that – something that could demolish a garden wall, blow a bank safe or, I suppose, could topple one of those defunct factory chimneys.'

Tom gave a wry smile. ‘I doubt dynamite in a suitcase could do that.'

There was a light tap on the door, and they both turned to see Connie Bush waiting for permission to enter. Max thought she looked tense and unusually pale.

‘Yes, Connie? Something wrong?' he asked just as his landline rang. ‘Be with you in five. Don't go, Tom! This might be of relevance.'

The message was brief, needing only an affirmation from him. Max got to his feet giving Tom a significant glance. ‘Summons to the Garrison Commander.'

Tom frowned. ‘I thought Keith Pinkney had diverted that meeting.'

‘According to his adjutant, it's to be a one-to-one, which suggests I'm for it. Maybe Crawford
has
persuaded him to relieve me of this command and call in the ATS.'

‘Keith would have given you a warning. He'd have to be told about it before it was put into action.'

‘I'd better go and see what it's all about. With luck it'll be no worse than a slap on the wrist for being obstructive with his 2IC.'

Colonel John Trelawney looked every inch the military hero in any one of Max's collection of war films. Tall, with crisp brown hair and alert eyes, his rugged good looks were marred by a scar down his right cheek. There were other scars on the backs of his hands; probably on his body, too. Tokens from the Falklands War as a young subaltern. He greeted Max with an invitation to make himself comfortable in one of the armchairs in his large office. Then he got straight to the point.

‘You've a difficult job on your hands, Max. Give me a resumé of how it stands as of now.'

Was this the overture to being relieved of the case? One of Max's strengths was the ability to summarize accurately and pertinently, so Trelawney soon had a good grasp of all that had happened during his absence. He nodded his understanding of the major aspects as Max outlined them.

‘So your belief, until proven otherwise, is that one person set up both incidents purely to make some kind of statement, not to put lives at risk?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘In my opinion he certainly
was
risking lives. He had discounted the possibility of blockhead squaddies also adding explosive objects to the bonfire, and setting the hedge fire was potentially very hazardous. There would have been more than a hundred vehicles outside the Mess. It only needed one to ignite to start a chain reaction.'

‘But the windows of the dining hall overlook the car park, sir, so the fire was certain to be spotted in its infancy. As it was.'

‘What if the fire engines had been dealing with an emergency elsewhere?'

This was definitely turning into a rap over the knuckles, so Max hastened to expound on his reasoning. ‘If his object had been to create a real conflagration he would have first sent the fire brigade as far distant as possible on a hoax call. That he didn't, and the fact that he ignited the hedge after the bugle call had sent us all through to the area where flames could immediately be seen, persuaded me that he had been totally in control of what he was doing. It points to an expert in such skills. We've interviewed every likely suspect with no luck. We now have to search for someone with that knowledge who isn't presently using it professionally.'

‘Hmm, and what message do you think he's imparting so melodramatically?'

A difficult question. ‘The only clue to that is that both incidents took place during the hours of darkness where a large number of people had gathered to socialize. At the Sports Ground there were soldiers and their families. At the Mess was a gathering of military officers and civilian caterers. Whatever the message is, it doesn't appear to be directed at any specific person or group of people. He just wants to convey it to the greatest number.'

Trelawney's expression hardened. ‘In other words, you haven't the slightest notion what's behind those two attacks. I can't accept your airy-fairy notion of a message. He's bloody dangerous, man! Concentrate on that, and if you don't get a result before Saturday I'll be faced with a problematic decision.'

Driving back to Headquarters Max was so weighed down by the burden of responsibility he could not appreciate the slightly gratifying aspect of what Trelawney had revealed. Major Carnegie had moved swiftly after the arrest of Hector McTavish. At his informal introductory meeting with the Garrison Commander, he had expressed his desire to compensate for the hostility following the unfortunate death of a Piper's wife, by staging at the Sports Ground an evening of Highland dancing, and music by the regimental band. The Drumdorran Fusiliers would provide refreshments prepared by their own chefs, and there would be shortbread animals for the children to take home.

In other circumstances Max would have been smugly pleased over Carnegie's climbdown, but the GC would withdraw his permission for this olive branch if SIB could not guarantee there would be no danger at this gathering. Max knew they could not, unless the next three days produced the military Scarlet Pimpernel they were seeking here and seeking there.

As he entered Headquarters, Tom followed him through to his office with an urgency that suggested to Max that his colleague was afraid they had been supplanted by the Anti Terrorist Squad. He swiftly quashed that fear, but revealed the challenge that had been issued.

‘This proposed evening of Scottish dancing with much marching up and down by kilted pipers is just the kind of event Chummy would relish. The perfect occasion for another expression of his feelings with fire or big bangs. If we haven't got him by tomorrow evening, I'll have to advise that it be a non-runner.' Then he noticed that Tom looked seriously disturbed, and asked sharply, ‘What's happened?'

‘We've slipped up.
I've
slipped up. Missed the obvious. I should have picked up on it way back, but I got sidelined by Carter's injured hand and Max-ee-million. I've also been distracted by probs at home, as you noticed, or I'd have . . .'

‘Cut the guff and
tell
me!' demanded Max, feeling a rush of adrenalin.

‘Connie's just pointed out that we've never interviewed Jeremy Knott as a suspect.'

‘Because he was off base on both occasions.'

Tom shook his head. ‘We assumed he was during the Guy Fawkes evening because I couldn't contact him to ask for his boys to come to the Sports Ground. We had to wait until the next morning.'

‘But what about the hedge fire? He was at the NATO conference with the GC at that time.'

‘No. Connie mentioned earlier that he had the bug that's going around, and couldn't go.' He sighed. ‘I didn't even pick up on it then but, by God, it all fits. Highly skilled, knows his way around IED's and has access to volatile substances.'