Spanish Inquisition (8 page)

When the alarm buzzed him awake Max saw the incident in a different light and jealousy faded. A large mug of black coffee and an equally large fried breakfast banished introspection and uncertainty about returning to duty before clearance from a medical board. 26 Section was
his
team and a member of it was presently depending on his colleagues to find proof of his innocence of a serious crime. No way was Max going to laze around at home for another two weeks in such circumstances.

Pouring fresh coffee he punched Tom's home number on his handset and waited for him to pick up.

‘Morning, Max,' said Nora against a background of young girls' voices. ‘If you're wanting Tom, I'm afraid George called him out fifteen minutes ago because some of our personnel were involved in a multi-vehicle crash last night. He'll probably be occupied with that for most of the morning.'

‘Right. Bye, Nora.'

Having filled the tank last night and given the vehicle a good run to the riverside inn after four months parked outside his apartment, Max was soon on his way to the base RMP Post, where he knew Tom would be.

Sergeant George Maddox, in command of the uniformed police on the base, was surprised to see Max enter the outer office where he was in conversation with Tom. Surprised and wary. Max greeted them both with deliberate geniality.

‘Captain Goodey informed me of the serious RTA last night. She and Major MacPherson were returning from a conference and stayed to help rescue the victims. She wasn't aware of any British casualties.' He addressed George. ‘
Polizei
contacted you?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘How many, and where are they?'

‘Three guys. Their Audi was badly burned and blistered, but the number plate was a military one, so they contacted us an hour or so ago. They're all in a private clinic just outside Gründorf. The nearest hospital couldn't cope with the numbers. Had to farm out to several clinics in the vicinity those who weren't in life-threatening conditions. Twelve poor sods didn't make it at the scene. The tanker hit a truck carrying gas cylinders and the lot went up. Boom!'

Realizing what he had said to a man who had recently been injured in an explosion, George's colour rose, but Max just said quietly, ‘It was safer when we all travelled on horses. Do we yet know the identity of the three casualties?'

George glanced significantly at Tom, which puzzled Max somewhat. ‘I sent Babs Turvey and Jerry Hicks to get identification. One's in a reasonably stable condition – the other two are pretty rough – but he was able to tell us what we wanted to know. The most seriously injured is married. Wife's on her way to the clinic. NOK of the other two are being informed. They're not on the critical list, so it's up to the parents to decide whether to come over or not. They'll have been given the phone number of the clinic to check on their progress.'

‘Anything suspicious about their condition?' asked Max. ‘No suggestion of terrorist involvement, is there?'

‘No, sir,' answered George, again glancing at Tom.

‘So why has SIB been called in on a road accident? Not our province, is it?'

After brief hesitation, Tom answered. ‘Staff Sergeant Andrews, one of the more serious casualties, is in an induced coma and unable to be questioned, but Babs Turvey searched through all their clothes for personal items and found in his wallet a photograph of himself and a girl with their arms round each other. She's Maria Norton.'

‘Ah,' breathed Max, his interest rising. ‘Is he the one with a wife on the way?'

‘No. The Andrews are officially separated. They're Catholics; don't agree with divorce.'

‘Mmm, got a football team of kids, I suppose.'

‘Four, sir. They and their mother are back in Ireland.'

‘Handy! Nothing to stop him fathering more children with other women. I'd say he's a strong candidate for this assault charge. Are Babs and Jerry still at the clinic?'

George nodded. ‘It's a small place used by the wealthy. They're not too happy about British soldiers using their luxury rooms.' He added dryly, ‘They'd probably tolerate officers more easily. Their main concern seems to be who's going to foot the bill.'

‘They're copying the American practice of refusing to treat a casualty unless they have iron-clad proof of payment?'

‘Oh no, sir, our guys are getting the best attention. I guess the clerical staff are faced with a situation they're unfamiliar with and are panicking somewhat over the finances.'

Max scowled. ‘Anyone arriving at a hospital in the UK is treated for free, regardless of nationality, creed or condition. Are we a supremely humane nation, or dozy pushovers?'

‘I think I'll pass on that one,' replied George, then addressed the subject most concerning him. ‘You'll want to question Staff Andrews about his link with Norton, so can I hand the three casualties over to SIB? Tom and I were discussing that when you arrived. We've done the ground work, and if you're going to chase the relevance of that photograph . . .'

‘It won't mean we're relieving you of the RTA,' Max intervened firmly.

‘That's what I told him,' said Tom.

George was tenacious. ‘Look, sir, the West Wilts are returning from Afghanistan tomorrow. You know what it's like when guys have been on active service and haven't had a beer for six months. Or a woman. The married ones are OK. It's the single guys who descend on the town and cause trouble. I've Styles on sick leave, and Morecombe in the UK on his bloody
honeymoon
. What does he want with that nonsense when he's been shagging Moira for the past three years? So I'm short-staffed just when some top brass are arriving for a high-powered conference.'

‘Oh? When?'

‘Day after tomorrow. Far as we know they're coming to parley with the West Wilts commanders on the up-to-date situation out there.' He pulled a wry face. ‘Safer to do it here than wearing a flak jacket in a war zone. They still need guarding, of course, which'll leave me short of men for patrols down town.'

Max understood the problem. The six-monthly changeover of deployed troops was always a hectic time, and this would be the first since the arrival of the Scottish Drumdorran Fusiliers, whose addition had the base practically splitting at the seams. The uniformed squad had consequently been augmented by just two corporals, in accordance with the latest defence cuts. SIB's strength had stayed the same, which was another reason for clearing Piercey of the assault charge as soon as possible. And for himself to resume command, thought Max.

He turned to Tom. ‘As we need to question Staff Andrews in connection with the Norton case, I suggest we keep tabs on all three at that clinic. Until they bring Andrews from the induced coma, we should send Connie to see what she can get from the one who's lucid enough to be questioned. She's an expert at coaxing men to confess all.'

A long moment passed before Tom asked, ‘Are we talking official or just doing a favour?'

‘In detectivespeak it's known as furthering our inquiries. At the end of the week George can have 'em back.' Max smiled at the immaculately uniformed sergeant. ‘Call in your two. We'll send Connie Bush as soon as she reports in.'

George smiled back. ‘Right, sir.'

‘Email all data across to our headquarters. We'll take it from there.'

Once outside the Police Post Max challenged Tom. ‘You're not happy with this?'

‘It's not our territory.'

‘I know, but we're straying into it because of the photograph of a woman who's laid false charges against one of ours . . . and because George has a lot on his plate with too few to handle it. I'm sure Connie will glean useful info for the Norton case.' He began walking to his car. ‘Let's read the emails and chew it over some more with a mug of coffee in our hands.'

Tom caught up with him, demanding to know if he was officially resuming command.

Max faced his friend squarely. ‘I can't sit around twiddling my thumbs for the next two weeks waiting to be told I'm fit to return to duty. I know I am. That photograph has put a new slant on the case; given us something to work on. I have a gut feeling there's a lot more to discover about Maria Norton, alias Carmen. I can't wait to begin removing the layers to reveal the real woman.'

‘Has Captain Goodey given you the go ahead?' As Max hesitated, Tom said, ‘You'll be for the high jump when our revered Regional Commander hears what you're doing.'

‘Let's hope he doesn't.' Max knew very well the basis of Tom's concern. ‘Look, you're officially in command, and paid as such, until I'm medically cleared and reinstated. I'm merely showing an interest in the outcome of something affecting a member of the team I shall resume responsibility for in a fortnight's time. That's understandable enough, even for Keith Pinkney, surely.'

Partially reassured, Tom gave a faint grin. ‘If he turns up I'll claim you pulled rank and ignored my protests.'

Max smiled back. ‘He'll definitely understand that.'

Although it was still early, everyone was present busily engaged in writing up reports when they entered. Once coffee mugs had been filled, Tom began the briefing.

‘Connie, you're to take over a task from Babs Turvey. Three of our personnel were involved in that massive RTA last night. They're at a private clinic in the vicinity of Grünwald, and one has in his wallet a photo of himself and Maria Norton in a romantic pose. We need background on that once the medics allow him to be questioned. George Maddox is emailing details across to us so, soon as we've heard your report, read them up and get over to the clinic. Staff Sergeant Andrews knows a lot we're anxious to share with him.'

‘Right, sir,' said Connie, her usual sparklingly healthy appearance enhanced by a whirlwind romance with a bomb disposal sergeant encountered during their last case; a man whose commander blew himself and Max up last November.

‘His injuries aren't life-threatening,' Tom continued, ‘but he's being kept sedated to counteract trauma. You know the form. Work your magic on that man at the first opportunity. Now, give us your info on the search of Norton's car.'

‘Nothing useful, I'm afraid. The guys in the car pool stripped it down with the utmost zeal, but only found the usual stuff that's in a vehicle used as a convenience, not a prized possession. Old parking tickets, chocolate wrappers, shopping lists between the cushions. The glove compartment held the operating manual, a small torch, a bag of cosmetics, another containing a spare pair of knickers and several tampons, a handbag aerosol of Hot Passion perfume and an opened pack of condoms.' She glanced up from her list. ‘There was also an empty box for a CD of
Carmen
. The disc was not in the player. I checked Norton's room. It wasn't there, either.'

‘Played to destruction,' said Tom dryly.

Connie had more. ‘Phil called me with the info given by the taxi driver who had picked her up just short of the autobahn, so I followed up on it.'

She turned to Piercey, allowing him to offer the results of his search. He had dark shadows beneath eyes still dulled by the impact of what a woman he had chased after had done to him.

‘Norton called Kwikcab at oh nine twenty-five asking to be met right away on the feeder road outside the base. She was lucky. They had a driver returning from an emergency dash to a maternity home, whose route would take him past the pick-up point within minutes. He reported that he expected to be sent to the hospital, because the young woman looked as if she had been in a car accident, although the vehicle she left beside the road seemed undamaged. He asked if she needed a doctor, but she ignored that and told him to get going in a manner he thought very rude. En route to the Imperial Hotel he noticed that she was crying, so he reversed his decision to make her take her own luggage out on arrival and he even carried it into the vestibule for her.'

Piercey gave a strained smile. ‘He told me he had another change of heart when she failed to give him a tip. He departed in a temper and lost interest in her. He couldn't say whether anyone was waiting for her, or if she even checked in at the reception desk.'

Connie took up the narrative again. ‘I made enquiries at the Imperial. They, of course, remembered a badly bruised young woman who refused their help, claiming she was waiting for her husband. She sat on their elegant settee for two hours looking upset and on the verge of collapse. The Concierge eventually called the hotel's nurse, not least because guests were demanding that something be done for her. Norton refused to go with the nurse and instead left the premises with her two bags.

‘I spoke to the doorman. He had offered to call her a taxi, but she ignored him and walked to a nearby café. He doesn't recall seeing her come out from there, but he said she was swaying as she walked with what were probably heavy bags.'

Max was intrigued by all this, not having seen Maria Norton excelling on stage and later having been beaten up. ‘What did the café staff have to say?' he asked, knowing Connie would have interviewed them.

‘Well, sir, the Poppin Eaterie – the owners clearly watch a lot of American TV – is a very far cry from the Imperial, so a bruised and battered young woman didn't attract as much attention. She bought a mug of coffee and a meat sandwich.' She made a face. ‘It's the kind of eaterie where meat is just meat. You don't get told which animal has provided it. That's the level of service they offer. However, the waitress remembered Norton using the pay phone three times, which surely suggests she no longer had her mobile.'

Closing her notebook, Connie slipped it into her pocket. ‘There were only three staff. The waitress, a young girl making endless sandwiches and filled rolls, and a sour-faced man cooking frankfurters and other basic hot snacks. None of them could tell me when Norton left. Too busy, they said. So the trail goes cold there.'