Scotch Mist (8 page)

‘So who opened the boxes?' asked Piercey. ‘It's my bet they didn't check contents with labels, either.'

Heather Johnson frowned as she joined the discussion. ‘But the explosive device was in the bonfire, not set off with the fireworks. Why are we so concerned with those boxes?'

‘Because we have to consider the possibility of an outside accomplice before we can rule that out,' Tom pointed out. ‘I don't believe the Estonian proprietor is implicated. He's just an alien bent on building up a business here. He wouldn't check outgoing boxes. Like Corporal Lines, he'd compare the labels with the order forms and send them on their way. He'd have overseers to ensure the right stuff went to the right place. In view of what we now know about the nature of the explosive component it seems unlikely to have been sent on to the base by a civilian. We have to keep that possibility on file, however.'

He glanced around the grouped men and women. ‘Did any of you trace a link between someone involved in last night's display and a local political organisation?'

There was common dissention. ‘OK, so have we any info that poses a question mark over someone who was in any way concerned with the two-day preparations for the Guy Fawkes' party?'

Derek Beeny, Piercey's friend and fellow sergeant, said in his usual unexcitable way, ‘In the Boss's report of his interview with Corporal Naish, who constructed the bonfire, there's mention of a Rifleman Carter who had to leave because he'd cut his hand on nails left in a plank, and needed to get it stitched. My attempts to track him down proved negative. Captain Boyce told me his platoon is on a cross-country exercise for three days. He tried to contact Lieutenant Fleet –
Meg
Fleet, sir – but the link was ruptured. He said he'd try again and give us their exact location. He hasn't been in touch.'

‘Typical!' grunted Tom, with the usual sergeant major's opinion of officers' efficiency. ‘I'll call him up and spoil his dinner.'

‘I'll do that,' offered Max, who had entered in time to catch Beeny's report.

‘One other thing,' said that sergeant. ‘I checked with orderlies at the Medical Centre. Carter didn't go there to have his hand seen to.'

‘So we need to speak to that bastard asap.' Tom felt the slight frisson that accompanied the prospect of a lead. ‘Why did he leave before the event got underway, and where did he go? Good work, Beeny. Get over to your desk and download all you can get about our lad Carter.'

Heather Johnson had obtained details from all the Quartermaster Stores of what they had sent to build the bonfire, and her report was subsequently downbeat.

‘What they had listed was innocuous enough, but they all said they weren't responsible for what the lads might have put in the bins en route.' She sighed. ‘An easy let-out, but true enough. I've made a list of everyone who filled the bins and drove them to the venue. Connie and I had planned to question them tonight, but the explosives guys are now on schedule. We'll do it in the morning.'

‘Fair enough,' judged Tom, glancing at the clock. ‘A couple of you had better get over to the NAAFI and collect some sandwiches, sausage rolls and pork pies. We're in for a long night here.' Seeing Piercey and Roy Jakes get eagerly to their feet, he added, ‘Nothing that'll stink the place out like the last lot you brought in.'

They left grinning widely. They were soon back with nothing in their hands.

‘Trouble brewing, sir,' said Piercey, addressing Tom because Max had gone to his office to telephone Captain Boyce about the whereabouts of Carter.

‘What kind of trouble?'

‘Big trouble! The Jocks are marching on the NAAFI. They're a tough-looking lot, and they're clearly out for a fight. Better contact George Maddox pronto.'

By morning, the cells at Maddox's RMP Post along with those at 26 Section Headquarters were full. Civilian workers were sweeping up glass and attempting to mend broken tables in the NAAFI, four overnight casualties at the Medical Centre were discharged with instructions to attend for the next three days to have dressings changed, and Major Crawford was having an uneasy meeting with Major Carnegie of the Drumdorran Fusiliers.

The newly arrived contingent of Scottish warriors had expressed their anger over the tragic death of Mrs Eva McTavish, wife of their highly respected Pipe Major, in their traditional manner. The long-term garrison troops had responded in
their
traditional manner, with no holds barred. Battle had commenced and, in the absence of Colonel Trelawney, the Garrison Commander, Miles Crawford had to negotiate a peace before all-out war was declared. Inevitably, Max was summoned to detail what had so far been done to apprehend whoever had caused the appalling outcome of the annual November 5th celebration.

Telling himself, with smug satisfaction, that he had known all along that the arrival of the Scots would mean trouble, Tom drove out to where Rifleman Carter was taking part in an exercise. Two companies of the Royal Cumberland Rifles were polishing their skills in the vast area used by the Army for every aspect of battle technique. On it were mock villages, open plains, areas of undulating ground for tracked vehicles to tackle, high ground and gulleys, and a stretch of the river which ran through that region of Germany.

As he drove, Tom recalled the first case 26 Section had tackled following Max's emergency appointment to replace the officer whose two sons had been killed in a school bus crash in the UK. They had come to this same training area through thick snow to apprehend an officer who had regarded shooting another officer as justified retribution, not murder.

For two years now they had worked well together. Max had flights of fancy – what the team called his wild geese – but Tom had learned not to dismiss them out of hand because once or twice the investigation had been advanced by pursuing them. Tom kept his feet firmly on the ground, so they complemented each other.

It had been a successful pairing, and he did not envy Max trying to satisfy two aggressive majors that SIB was well on the way to arresting someone for Tuesday night's exploding bonfire. Tom smiled as he approached the training area. How satisfying it would be to discover Carter was the perpetrator and return with him.

The interviews with Captain Knott's squad had proved fruitless. Unless one of them was a very accomplished liar, they all had alibis that could be supported by numerous witnesses. So it was even more to be hoped that Carter, who
had
lied, succumbed under questioning and confessed. The case could be wrapped up and Tom could tackle the problem over the coming baby.

The girls had been in bed by the time he had arrived home last night, and Nora had steadfastly watched a late night film until he dozed off on the sofa beside her. When he had roused she was in bed feigning sleep. He had deliberately made an early start to the day, leaving the house during the usual two-way traffic from bedrooms to bathroom, with a double bacon sandwich to eat in a handy lay-by. He would welcome a large coffee before interviewing Carter. He needed it.

Max had disturbed Captain Boyce's dinner with the biting tone of command he could adopt when angry or frustrated, and the man had called back within ten minutes with the requested information. Another no-nonsense call to Lieutenant Meg Fleet arranged for Rifleman Carter to be available for interview at 09:00 today.

Beeny had provided full details of Charles Carter late last night. The only son of six children he had probably joined the Royal Cumberland Rifles to escape the female majority, thought Tom with a modicum of understanding, and on paper appeared to be an eager soldier. Reports from the RCR Depot on his basic training said he was a promising recruit with a good sense of team spirit. An assessment by his Platoon Commander, Meg Fleet, noted that Carter had been steady and controlled under fire during their recent deployment in Afghanistan, but that he had shown signs of boredom since their return two months ago.

Tom thought that was an unusual comment. It did not reflect on his efficiency or his dedication to duty, which were the two phrases mostly used by commanders. Or did it? Was that a woman's way of expressing a sudden change of attitude towards the job? It did, however, tell Tom quite a lot. Carter had been a good soldier in the making until six months in a war zone had ended. It was a fairly common situation, particularly with young, unattached men. The stress, the danger, the extreme demands, the
excitement
of warfare made normal non-active routine seem flat and . . . yes,
boring
. Tom reversed his opinion of Meg Fleet. Maybe she had it right.

Bored young soldiers tended to get up to mischief. They did things to liven up the sudden predictability of their lives. Like planting an explosive device in a bonfire then making sure they were nowhere around when it went off? Oh yes, Carter could very well be responsible for that.

Gaining admittance to the enclosed military area, Tom then had to drive a kilometre to reach the whitewashed building from which all training exercises were controlled, and park beside a group of Land Rovers and heavy trucks. The flat ground stretching out towards a rise topped by trees was empty of movement and looked bleak on this day of low cloud and biting wind. The Cumberland Rifles must be operating in the far reaches today.

Inside the Operations Command Post a few men and women were gathered around a vast table on which was spread a mock-up of a desert village complete with market stalls, shops and community buildings; the objective of this particular day's operation. Around the walls were screens depicting the reality of what was being shown in miniature on the table. Messages were being passed back and forth; the uninitiated could well believe it was real warfare.

As Tom hesitated, to watch with interest, he was approached by a man he knew. Captain Ben Steele had put himself in danger last year by ‘doing a Miss Marple' as Tom had put it. He had also been vaguely involved in SIB's last case, but not by attempting to solve it. He had learned his lesson.

As they shook hands with some warmth, Ben said, ‘Nasty business. Is it true the woman has died from her injuries?'

Tom nodded. ‘Which puts the case one notch higher. Were you there on Tuesday evening? It was pretty grim.'

‘No, but I saw the outcome of a suicide bomb a couple of months ago, over there. Much worse, and we don't want anything like that starting up on the base.' He led the way to a side room containing a desk and several chairs, where it was possible to make hot drinks. ‘Coffee?' At Tom's nod he spooned grains into two large mugs, saying, ‘Have you managed to assess what caused the bonfire to explode so violently?'

‘Yes. It's worrying and adds urgency to our investigation.'

Ben's dark eyes questioned that comment. ‘Not a lark gone wrong?'

‘That's what we have to discover. So far it points to something more serious.'

Handing Tom the mug of much-needed coffee, Ben said, ‘Carter's in my company, so I'll be very concerned if he was in any way involved. And surprised. He's not a beer and bovver squaddie. His platoon commander admits he's been unsettled for the past few weeks and she faced him with his lack of concentration, but he offered no defence. Corporal Landis also tackled him. Carter apologized, but has continued to show little interest in the job. I had a quick word with him last night after Max contacted us. Carter denies any connection with what happened, but you obviously have some info which makes it necessary for you to question him.'

Glad of the coffee and a couple of chocolate digestives, Tom asked how Carter had behaved in Afghanistan. ‘You said he became unsettled a few weeks ago. PTSD would you say? Was he caught up in a particularly violent action? Did he witness the outcome of that suicide bomb and react badly?'

Ben leaned back thoughtfully in his chair. ‘I only observe him professionally, of course. So does Lieutenant Fleet. We both see a solid, unflappable guy who works well with the rest of the platoon, even under pressure. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is far too serious a condition to account for the change in Carter. I've seen the victims of what used to be known as Shell Shock. Our man seems simply to have lost interest in soldiering.'

Putting his empty mug on the desk, Tom said, ‘Lieutenant Fleet's assessment is that Carter is bored.'

‘Ah, that's nearer the mark,' agreed Ben. ‘And I can't think boredom would drive a man to do something as dramatic as the incident you're investigating, to relieve it.' He got to his feet. ‘Carter's waiting in the equipment room. I'll send him along to you.' He paused in the doorway. ‘I'd be glad of some kind of report on your findings before you leave. Hopefully, without Carter in handcuffs.'

The man who entered a few minutes later was sturdily built, with bright red hair and a face covered in freckles. Tom told him to sit on the other side of the desk facing him. ‘We're interviewing everyone who was concerned with the Guy Fawkes celebration. In the course of our enquiries we have learned that you left the Sports Ground before the bonfire was fully constructed because you had gashed a hand on nails left in a plank and needed to have it stitched. Is that correct?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Were the nails rusty?'

Carter look wary. ‘Rusty, sir?'

‘So that you'd also need antibiotics to prevent poison in the open wound.'

‘Oh. Yes, well that stuff we were given had been lying around in the stores for months. We even had to ditch some of it.'

‘Who dealt with your injury, Carter?'

‘One of the orderlies, sir.'

‘Which one?'

‘Don't know his name,' he replied glibly.

‘None of the orderlies know yours, either,' Tom told him. ‘In fact, they deny treating anyone with a gashed hand or of giving out antibiotics until the casualties came in late in the evening. How do you explain that?'