Spanish Inquisition (19 page)

The older man's brow furrowed. ‘We're under way with five days of in-depth technical investigation and planning, Captain Rydal, which often continues until late in the evening. Then there are the reports of the day's findings to write. I'm afraid I've had little time to talk to Rory about anything but the day's events, and on his part he wouldn't attempt to discuss his personal plans with me.'

He put his empty coffee cup on the window sill. ‘He's the best ADC I've had because, like me, he concentrates on doing his job well and never muddies the water with inconsequential chatter about his private life. We're not
chums
, we're a bloody good team.'

Max understood him. Master and servant. Once the distance between them narrows too far it can reduce the effectiveness of them both. In the armed forces that can prove to be dangerous. Max could not help wondering if Smythe acted the punctilious servant for his own advantage. Why did he transfer from a fighting unit? Had he something to hide?

Knowing he was not going to get much useful information from this hardened leader of men, Max said somewhat superfluously, ‘So you have no input on who might have attacked Captain Smythe, or why?'

‘None whatsoever. As far as I was aware, he was compiling reports on what had been discussed and formulated during the day's conference, as he did every evening.'

‘Well, thank you, sir. As soon as we have anything substantial to report you'll be informed.'

He turned away and was so lost in musing on the lack of interest in Rory Smythe as a person rather than a robotic subordinate, he would have brushed past another group if someone had not hailed him. He stopped and glanced round to see a tall, good-looking man with dark waving hair and lively green eyes studying him closely. Andrew Rydal had always been a striking man; his recent second marriage had enhanced his attraction.

‘Hallo, sir. I wasn't aware that you were here for the conference,' Max said rather coolly.

His father moved away from the group. ‘I'm not. Just passing through and using the base as a handy B and B.' He offered his hand. ‘It's good to see you back on your feet and on the job. So the medics have given you A1 status again.'

‘No, that's still ahead. I'm just acting as general dogsbody. We've two complex cases on hand . . .'

‘And you can't resist joining in,' Andrew finished with a smile. ‘You always liked to be in the thick of things.'

Max was amazed. He was not aware that his father had taken that much interest in him. ‘Something like that.'

‘Bad business about Rory Smythe.'

They had moved to a corner near the double doors, out of the hearing of even the closest group. Max did not believe the excuse about using the base as a B and B. Brigadier Rydal was a member of the Joint Intelligence Committee and as such moved around the world on covert business. He was never ‘just passing through' without some solid reason for being there. And he had deliberately brought up the name of the battered ADC. Max pursued that line.

‘He's still under sedation so we've been unable to question him. We'll know a lot more by tonight. Do you know him?'

‘Mmm, by repute,' came the casual response. ‘An excellent admin bod, apparently.'

‘General Bishop thinks so, but he appears to have little interest in him as a person.'

Andrew gave a faint smile. ‘Billy Bishop's a stickler for rank. He'll defend his men fiercely and succour the wounded, but he never makes friends of them. Descends from a long line of distinguished generals who were deeply respected but never loved by their troops.'

Max was surprised by this comment. He had never known his father to speak so frankly about other serving officers. Actually, they met so infrequently the threads of their lives were too loosely entwined for conversation to be anything but hesitant and rather stilted.

On impulse he asked, ‘How did your men regard you, d'you think?'

Andrew's eyebrows rose at the unexpected question, and he dealt with it by saying smoothly, ‘I was never beaten up and left by the side of a road.' Then, equally smoothly, he threw something unexpected at Max. ‘Congratulations are in order, I believe.'

‘Er . . . yes. How did you . . .?'

‘Major MacPherson gave out the news. I met Clare at the hospital last November. You weren't in a fit state to register much of what was going on around you, but I thought then that there were the makings of a good relationship between you two. I'm glad it's worked out so well.' He began moving away. ‘Send us an invitation to the wedding. I can't guarantee my own attendance, but Helene will want to be there. She adores bridal ceremonies.' Looking back as he made to rejoin the group he had been with, he said lightly, ‘Keep away from stressed men with explosives in future.'

It took Max several moments to get his thoughts back on track after that, and they were still muddled when he spotted Livya in conversation with a major in the opposite corner. Her gaze held his for a long while before she made signs of approaching him. Max avoided that by giving a slight nod of acknowledgement and leaving the anteroom swiftly. Of course she would be with Andrew wherever he went on military duty. Continuing the agony of unrequited love! Well, that was her decision.

Outside in his car, Max put aside the folly of the woman he had believed he loved last year and reviewed the short interlude with his father. What was he really doing here? More to the point, how had he encountered Duncan MacPherson to learn of the engagement? He sat for some minutes piecing together the salient points in that brief conversation, arriving at an ambiguous conclusion.

Andrew had swiftly introduced the subject of Rory Smythe. Max now saw it as deliberate in order to discover if SIB had learned anything from the assault victim. Had Andrew tried to interview Smythe and been forestalled by the Scottish doctor who had strict rules, no matter who he was dealing with? And what about the comment that he had never been beaten up and left by the side of a road, followed very swiftly by a total change of subject? Was this member of the Joint Intelligence Committee rather too interested in an ordinary ADC?

Shortly before noon Clare called Max to say Rory Smythe had fully emerged from sedation and could be interviewed. Max passed the news to Tom, not necessarily as a sign of acceptance that his deputy was officially commanding 26 Section, but more because he, himself, had discovered a wild goose he was keen to pursue. The WG in this case was Guy Strand who, unfortunately, was very involved in the conference which would not be over until late tomorrow.

However, Guy was an interviewee, not an investigator who needed to write up reports each evening, so Max drove back to the Mess where lunch would certainly be eaten by those who had drunk coffee there earlier and sat in his car watching for them to return.

When they appeared in twos and threes, deep in conversation, Max noted the absence of his father and Livya with satisfaction. Oh yes, Brigadier Rydal was following a trail of his own. And his son had a good idea of what it was. Giving Guy ten minutes to make use of the cloakroom and order himself a drink at the bar, Max called the man's mobile.

‘Captain Strand.'

‘Max Rydal. Couldn't stay to talk during the coffee break and I know you're tied up with this conference all day, so how about meeting in our own Mess around eighteen hundred?'

‘Today?'

‘If you're free. Last time we met you told me you'd got engaged. I've just taken that same step. How about a celebratory drink?'

‘Er . . . fine! It'll be good to get away from the Top Brass and relax. I'll call if there's any change of plan.'

‘Likewise.'

Guy had been unable to hide his surprise. They had met up on purely military business on many occasions, but were not normally drinking buddies. Max liked the young man who had developed into an excellent officer during the period they had known each other, collecting a commendation for rescuing a colleague under fire, but the intention was to meet Guy tonight for a more serious reason than an exchange of felicitations.

Rory Smythe was still looking dazed. His eyes were glassy and lifeless, his gaze somewhat vacant, his face and neck a mass of bruises. His right arm from elbow to wrist was in plaster; both hands were encased in soft medical mittens.

Taking all this in Tom had no doubt the rest of the man's body had suffered equally badly. No impromptu drunken brawl this. It had been premeditated punishment possibly by more than one person. This victim had created strong, uncontrollable anger somewhere along his way, and had suffered the consequences last night.

Tom approached the bed. ‘Sarn't Major Black, SIB, sir. Captain Goodey thinks you're up to answering a few questions now. The sooner we learn the details of what happened the sooner we can arrest who was responsible. In your own time, sir.'

Smythe's gaze remained blank. It was as if he saw right through Tom and was deaf to his voice.

‘Captain Smythe, we need to know who attacked you and where the assault took place. Was it carried out by more than one person? Did you recognize anyone? Did they say anything to you? Have you any idea who might have been responsible?'

Nothing.

‘Sir, we can't begin to bring the perpetrators to justice unless you tell us about the events of last night which led to your being violently attacked. Why were you in that unlit area of the perimeter road on foot? Were you taken there? Had you arranged to meet someone?'

Again nothing. Tom began to lose patience.

‘We know there was no abandoned car in the vicinity to suggest your voluntary presence, so were you jumped elsewhere then taken to the copse?'

Still silence.

‘Captain Smythe, you're doing yourself no favours with this attitude,' snapped Tom. ‘A serious crime has been committed against you and it's SIB's responsibility to bring to justice whoever was responsible. Please answer my questions.'

The slightest movement of the mittened hands, a blink of the staring eyes, a tongue running over swollen lips, then a faint voice saying, ‘A nasty bang on the head. I remember nothing. Absolutely nothing. Sorry.'

Heather Johnson was having no more luck than Tom. After waiting for three hours to speak to Maria Norton she was told the patient was very upset after the counselling session and would need to recover during a period of solitary reflection. Perhaps the police lady would like to have something to eat in the café and return in an hour or so.

When she did, Heather was barred from the ward because the patient was in an induced sleep. Not all the energetic explanations of the need to apprehend a serious criminal made the medical staff relax their stance. At sixteen thirty she called Tom's number to report failure.

‘I can't storm in there, sir,' she said wearily. ‘I don't think I'm going to get anywhere with this today. All right if I try again in the morning?'

‘Yes, yes. Don't, for God's sake, stay there all night. It's obviously a general no-go day today. I've cancelled a briefing until the morning, so go home and drown your sorrows as I plan to do.'

Max was in the middle of filling in a veritable pile of forms in advance of his appearance before a medical board, which had arrived that morning, and was cursing the invasiveness of the questions, when Tom poked his head around the office door to announce that he had finished business for the day and was off home.

‘I sometimes wish Nora would give
me
a bang on the head so I could conveniently forget things I'd rather not remember.'

Max smiled. ‘Norton's bound to crack eventually. She said she wants to get back here – presumably to reunite with her lover – so perhaps that's the requisite carrot. We'll offer it tomorrow. As for Sonny Smythe, I have hopes of finding another way in to that particular mystery. See you tomorrow, Tom. Regards to Nora and the family. You're a lucky man, d'you know that?'

‘Yes. Once you get spliced you can start rearing your own.'

Max nodded happily. ‘That's the idea. Goodnight.'

For a few minutes after Tom's departure Max ignored his boring task and allowed himself to dream up a future family. Maybe he and Clare should start the process now. Why wait for the marriage service?

His landline rang to fragment the dream, but when he heard Clare's voice he started to put it together again. Then he registered the urgency in her tone.

‘Something wrong?' he asked.

‘You'll be the better judge of that. Captain Smythe has just been driven away in an ambulance, destination unknown. The attendants had a genuine document of transfer, signed and stamped. Both Duncan and I questioned the move, and he rang for official confirmation before allowing it to take place because we normally have advance notification of transfers. Duncan was given a brusque affirmative, nothing more. Your victim has been spirited away, Max.'

D
eep in thought, Max left the Medical Centre to drive to his meeting with Guy Strand. Both Clare and Duncan had been vocal about the peremptory manner in which Rory Smythe had been taken from their care. Regulations had been ignored, although higher authority had rubber-stamped it.

Max shared their resentment. Am I overreacting? he asked himself. I should be glad to have the investigation taken off our hands while we're still grappling with the complex Norton case, yet there is something here which smacks of intrigue. I need to be totally satisfied that there is no link between the two assaults.

Guy arrived late, apologizing and shaking Max's hand warmly. ‘Heard about the explosives in a garden shed. It's good to see you up and about, looking pretty well all in one piece.' He walked towards the bar. ‘Let's get a round in fast. I thought we'd never shake off the Brass. Such nit-pickers! It can't be that long ago they were in combat. Falklands, Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq twice, and this ten-year war we're still fighting – they must have been involved in one of those – yet they drone on and on about the minor details you don't have time for when you're eyeball to eyeball with the enemy.' He rapped his knuckles on the bar counter to attract the steward's attention. ‘Ah, well! What'll you have, Max?'