Scotch Mist (7 page)

Max changed direction. ‘When were you and your mates last on exercise?' Mooney looked bewildered. ‘Answer the question, man!'

‘Last month we was on mock manoeuvres. We didn't make no scarecrow then.'

‘When you returned to base how much of your ammo did you hand in?'

Greenish-brown eyes widened in tardy understanding. ‘Every bit I signed out,
sir
,' he added as if that made his statement more veritable.

‘How about other times when you've been issued with items from the Armoury?'

That really got to Mooney. ‘I need to speak to the Platoon Commander.'

‘Why?'

‘You're charging me with what I haven't done. I know my rights. I'm entitled to have my Platoon Commander here.'

Max leaned back and surveyed him with dislike. There were born soldiers, and mediocre soldiers who nevertheless put all they had into the job. What he had no time for were men who took and gave nothing in return. Uniformed layabouts, in his opinion.

‘You want the support of the officer you parodied as a scarecrow and put on a bonfire to burn? As a
joke
.'

Mooney took a deep breath and began a stumbling defence. ‘We didn't mean anything by it. Second Lieutenant Freeman came just five weeks ago and he started laying into us like we was useless. Well, we didn't like it. Lieutenant Cummings what was here before never did that. The scarecrow was just our way of making a protest.'

‘And “laying into you” is Second Lieutenant Freeman's method of making
his
protest over your lack of effort and dedication, I suspect. He knows
his
rights, one of which is to expect maximum effort from everyone in his platoon.' Max looked down at the open file on the desk. ‘On your way out tell Rule he's next.'

‘But what about . . . ?'

Max looked back at him with narrowed eyes. ‘I see why you're having a rough time of it. You can't even respond to my simple command. In a war situation you'd be a dead loss, with the emphasis on
dead
. Learn to behave like a soldier and you might eventually be of some use to your platoon.
Now, go out there and tell Rule I want him in here next,
' he ordered in tones that brooked no further argument.

The other interviews followed similar lines. There was always someone in every platoon who failed to pull his weight. Freeman was unfortunate enough to have four of them. Max swiftly assessed their lack of culpability regarding the explosion, but he hoped he had frightened them enough to improve their attitude. It was probably a vain hope.

He gave this opinion to the young subaltern, who had managed to retrieve his report along with some self-confidence, but their conversation was cut short by a call on Max's mobile. He left the building to hear what George Maddox had to say.

‘We have a result regarding the explosive material, sir. Are you able to come to the Sports Ground?'

‘On way,' said Max with enthusiasm. This information would at least break the stalemate they presently had.

When he reached the Sports Ground he walked through to the spot where the bonfire had stood and found a small group studying a collection of tiny fragments spread on a sheet of plastic. Tom was already there in discussion with the experts who had been scouring the area for evidence.

‘So, what's the verdict?' he asked, joining them.

‘It was an improvised explosive device, sir.'

Max was taken aback. ‘So we're looking for someone who's served in Afghanistan and knows a hell of a lot about those things. An explosives expert.'

‘Not necessarily,' came the defensive retort from one such expert. ‘Anyone can access the Internet and find out how to make a bomb.'

Max gave a grim smile. ‘I agree, but we're on a military establishment and the military know a bloody sight more about exploding devices than the Internet.'

FOUR

‘
N
o, no and bloody
no
!' raged Captain Knott leaping to his feet and glaring at Max. ‘I've known these men for six years, in good times and bad, and not one of them would use his expertise to
kill and maim
. For six months at a time they risk their own lives to save others by
de-activating
explosive devices. That's what they do.
Day after day
. They know there's a chance of being blown to bits, but they're dedicated guys with immense courage.'

His reaction was almost explosive in its heat, but his blue eyes were icy cold. ‘I deeply resent your attitude, which springs from ignorance like everyone else who's never in the front line. Do you know how many times my squad has been in Iraq or Afghanistan during the time I've been their commander? Do you?' he repeated aggressively.

‘Yes. I checked the records before I came here. With demanding frequency, because what you do is very specialized,' said Max quietly. ‘I also know you've lost two men, and three have had limbs blown off.'

‘Yes, and young Barry Tyler is still on life-support from our last deployment. Consider
that
, Captain Rydal.'

Max had also learned that Jeremy Knott had been recommended for an award for risking his life to rescue two of his injured men under fire a month before their return to base at the start of October. Ignoring the man's belligerent stance, he sat and took his time in responding to Knott's hostility with some plain speaking of his own.

‘We in SIB are often accused of having no understanding of fighting men, because we're simply plods with unpleasant natures. No, we don't normally go into battle shoulder to shoulder with them; our work begins when they crack under the strain and act totally out of character. For instance: He's just back from a war zone where he's been pushed to the limit, seen his mates killed or maimed, and he discovers his wife has been sleeping around, or the bank has foreclosed on their loan and repossessed the classic car he's been lovingly restoring for the past two years. Or he's told his thirteen-year-old daughter is pregnant. Or he learns his son was set upon and kicked half to death by a gang of local yobbos.'

Knott had sobered considerably during this calm speech, and stayed silent while Max continued.

‘The man we meet isn't the one you know. He has assaulted, maybe even killed the wife who betrayed him while he was having a tough time. He has run amok in the bank and been arrested for ABH and criminal damage. He has stripped his promiscuous daughter's room of her clothes and prized possessions and burned them in the garden as punishment, or he goes on the rampage in town attacking any group of rowdy youths to avenge what was done to his son.'

Seeing Knott about to speak, Max forestalled him. ‘Yes, the majority of soldiers returning from active service who might face such problems cope reasonably well, but every so often one finds he can't cope. That's when
we
meet him.'

‘Yes, of course, I appreciate what you're saying, but . . .'

‘We had to ask your permission to borrow your men for a search of the stadium because that was an official request to take them away from their normal duty to perform one for us.' Max stood. ‘However, when it's a question of interviewing them in connection with an incident which killed a woman and injured a large number of people, our demands override others. I could have called any of your personnel to our headquarters for interrogation. I'm here merely as a courtesy.' Knott just glared as Max handed him a written list. ‘Please arrange for these men to report to us before twenty hundred hours. I'll hold you responsible for any who fail to do so.'

Max left Knott's office and walked the long corridor to the front of the building thinking that his smart grey lounge suit might impress the manager of his bank but, when facing an undoubtedly courageous man whose combats were adorned with medal ribbons, his own appearance was hardly impressive. He could not even depart with a semblance of authority. His leather shoes made little sound on the vinyl floor covering, even if he stamped. George Maddox, in impeccable uniform, gun belt and size twelve army boots, could make a meal of a departure.

On reaching his car, Max checked the time. Brenda would be settling Micky in his cot, then tidying the apartment ready for his arrival. Not that it had been a definite arrangement. He had only told her maybe. All the same, he thought he should call her.

‘It's Max,' he said when she answered. ‘How's the little lad?'

‘Good as gold, for once. When I particularly want him to drift into deep sleep he seems to sense it and stays awake.' She gave a soft chuckle. ‘Doesn't want to miss anything exciting.'

‘Well, that rules out a visit from me. Something's come up which'll keep me fully occupied for the foreseeable future, I'm afraid.'

‘Oh.' That one word expressed disappointment. ‘Well, duty calls, as Flip used to say when cancelling a date. Not that you . . . I mean, it was just going to be for a coffee in passing,' she added hurriedly. ‘You needn't have phoned. As I said, Micky and I are always glad of company. Please don't feel under an obligation to explain when . . .' What was becoming an unwieldy speech tailed off.

‘I'll call you once this problem is wound up. Hopefully, not too far ahead.'

Max sat for a few minutes thinking of his last case concerning a fatality. The dead soldier had been married, but he had fathered Micky with the intention of getting a divorce and marrying Brenda, the true love of his life. Max had had to tell her why that would never happen.

A former army nurse, Brenda was a capable woman. Max had admired the way in which she had accepted the destruction of her planned future just days after the birth of their son, and he had offered to help, if he could. He had meant official help from military sources, but she had simply said his company would be very welcome at any time. Flip was the nickname of her lover, and she had talked freely about him on the two occasions when he had been in the area and taken a chance on finding her at home.

Today was different. He had planned to take the day off to participate in a motorbike scramble – his new enthusiasm. One route back from the club passed near her flat, so he had let her know he might call in. He guessed she had taken
might
for
would
.

Blonde, with violet-blue eyes, Brenda Keane was an attractive woman. No more so than others he had met – Clare Goodey, for example – yet he owned that he enjoyed his time in an apartment which reflected her quiet personality. Somewhat different from the home he had visited earlier in the day. Jean Greene's artistic flamboyance was the reverse of Brenda's classic elegance, despite the presence of a baby.

Micky was just four weeks old. Max had been in many homes where a baby appeared to occupy the entire house. Packets of nappies, tiny clothes, lotions and creams, soft toys or half-eaten rusks littered the rooms, and chairs had to be cleared before attempting to sit in them. Max had only been in Brenda's large lounge, so maybe she bundled all the baby paraphernalia into another room when he visited. Whatever, he nevertheless admired her efforts to live in reasonable order.

That might change as Micky grew, and she returned to nursing. Max knew that must be inevitable, and he wondered how she presently managed to pay the rent on such a comfortable apartment. Philip Keane had still been married when he died, so any savings or funds due from military sources would go to his family. His illegitimate son did not fall into that category. Neither did his lover. So, unless Brenda married again, they would remain just another one parent family – like his own had been. Was that why he was following the unusual practice of keeping in touch with someone who had briefly been a murder suspect?

Once a case ended he and his team had no further contact with the main players, unless normal military routine demanded it. Max shut his eyes to the fact that if his own plans for the future had not been almost as cruelly ended, Brenda Keane and her fatherless son would never have seen him again.

Eighteen hundred. The usual time for a check on the latest evidence obtained during a major case. Most of the team had assembled, some still busy at their computers getting data. Tom had spent most of the afternoon at the Sports Ground with the uniformed boys, two of Jeremy Knott's squad and the Fire Chief, all of them attempting to assess where the explosive device had been situated within the bonfire pile.

They had reached no firm conclusion when Tom left them to return to his office to find which personnel presently on base would have served in Afghanistan at some stage of their careers. He found that Max's frequent comment about a cast of thousands applied in this case.

Leaving his desk, Tom called for attention and began garnering information. Firstly, he asked Connie Bush about the second interview with Corporal Lines, who had been in charge of the fireworks.

‘Did you get anything from him now he's over the concern about his wife's injury.'

Connie shook her head. ‘He's genuinely upset over what happened, apart from the personal problem. He loves doing the shows, has a deep interest in it. He studies the content of every display he can get to, watches TV showings of those massive ones from all over the world on New Year's Eve, and he has a pile of mags about pyrotechnics.'

‘He's not so besotted he forgets how dangerous they can be, is he?'

‘He struck me as very responsible. A careful type of man.'

‘Mm, not careful enough to check the contents of those boxes from Max-ee-million,' Tom pointed out.

‘He freely admitted that he compared the lists on the labels with what he had ordered, but didn't open the boxes to confirm the contents. He told me he'd ordered stuff from Max-ee-million loads of times and they always sent the right things.'