Dutch Courage (11 page)

Connie Bush took an instant dislike to Sherilie Fox and not simply because of the soapstar name for a woman she labelled a hard-faced bitch. Second Lieutenant Ray Fox had been allocated the house next to the Colliers, which Connie thought most unfortunate for Sam and Margot. She had not met Sherilie's pilot husband, but any man who had willingly married this woman was unlikely to earn Connie's favour.

Aside from personal dislike of the size zero, brassy, overdressed, loud-mouthed Sherilie, Connie found her a fount of knowledge about everyone connected with 678 Squadron, the Colliers in particular. How much of her high-octane gossip was true was debatable, but Connie was adept at sifting the possible from the airy-fairy.

Contrary to the habit of most people to say as little as possible to a military policewoman – Connie refused to call herself a policeperson – Sherilie's tongue ran merrily on any point raised.

‘That snooty cow next door? I'm not surprised someone let down the tyres of her bloody fancy Jag. Top marks for whoever it was. I've wanted to do it for yonks, only I'd've stuck a knife in them. Thing is, I knew it wouldn't bother her. Phone Daddy, ask for another car. Easy-peasy. Don't know why she bothers living in these grotty quarters. I had her money, I'd rent a villa outside the base. Have you seen inside next door? Antiques, silk cushions, crystal lamps. Haven't seen their bed, but it's sure to be double king size with satin sheets and quilt the colour of champagne. You know, like the people in
Hello
!' A wide knowing smile. ‘Not that he'd notice the colour of the sheets. Hero? Got to be with stamina like that.' Even more knowing smile. ‘I wouldn't say no to a taste of it.'

‘Ever any chance of that?' Connie asked swiftly.

‘Huh! Our Margot has him firmly to heel. There he is, a six foot four hunk of sinew and muscle with all the guts in the world as a fighting soldier, yet he's a lapdog when she's around. Practically sits up and begs for her.'

‘You're saying she wears the trousers?'

A dirty laugh. ‘I'm saying she has his off him the minute he walks through the door. Nympho, she is. Common knowledge. Ask around.'

Connie hid her distaste to ask, ‘How do your husband and the other men regard that set-up?'

Sherilie's expression changed. ‘What d' you think?
Men!
If she was cross-eyed and obese they'd call him a wimp, but they all secretly lust after her.' She nodded vigorously. ‘Oh yes, even my Ray. Caught him watching her through binocs once, dirty devil.'

‘While she was undressing?'

Smirk. ‘He knows better than to do
that
. Claimed he was trying to identify the plants she was digging-in. Ha! She was gardening in small, tight shorts. He was drooling over her bum as she bent over.'

‘Does Mrs Collier ever respond to the admiration of other men?'

‘Just the reverse, I'd say. She's got her pet dog who'll do anything she wants whenever she wants it.' Sherilie's tongue ran over her bronze-glossed lips. ‘She calls him
Samson
. Heard her one day when I was on the other side of the dividing hedge last summer. And she's a right Delilah, if you ask me.' She ran a hand over her cropped apricot-coloured hair. ‘I feel rather sorry for him, matter of fact.'

Surprised at such a sentiment after her abusive comments, Connie asked her to explain.

‘If it was just her it'd be different. Men are such fools over big eyes and big tits,' she said, unconsciously smoothing her T shirt over her small ones, ‘but Daddy has him on a tight lead, too. What Delilah doesn't demand, he does.'

‘Isn't that perhaps an advantage? High-ranking influence can boost a man's career. It's already secured for him the move to officer status.'

‘Umm, but I think Sam's the sort of guy to want to
earn
everything he gets,' Sherilie said, revealing more thoughtful insight to men's characters. ‘I could name a few who'd happily accept promotion to
general
overnight and strut their stuff, but Sam's not like that. There's also a lot who'd enjoy the hullabaloo over that rescue of his. Sam hates it.'

Connie regarded her shrewdly. ‘You know him that well?'

‘I wish,' she said, with a slight smile to give her words a light-hearted quality. ‘No, it's what Ray told me.'

‘Does your husband admire that, or decry it?'

Sherilie shrugged. ‘He takes the general view that the press has made too much of a meal of it. It's what's going on all the time out there. It's their job. It's what they do. It's only because bloody Margot's father is a “sir” and knows government ministers.'

‘This is why Collier is unhappy about it?'

‘I guess. He's a nice guy . . . when he isn't doing doggy tricks for her.'

Tired of this salacious gossip, Connie then asked if Sherilie or Ray had any knowledge of smashed eggs on the Colliers' doorstep or threatening images under windscreen wipers, but they had only noticed Margot's shapely bottom in tight shorts, apparently.

Connie took her leave from a room where bottles of nail varnish, gossip magazines, several boxes of chocolates, a couple of empty beer cans and a pile of clothes awaiting ironing were strewn. No satin sheets and quilt the colour of champagne in
this
house. She sat in her car for a few moments studying the Colliers' home, imagining herself between the satin sheets with the hunky Sam. Ah, well!

A tap on the car window heralded Heather Johnson, who had been interviewing the Colliers' other neighbour. Sliding on to the passenger seat, she sighed with frustration.

‘God, what a difficult woman! She began by saying “I'm not one to indulge in scurrilous tittle-tattle, Sergeant” in an oh-so-superior manner. When I pointed out that I was conducting an investigation into a vicious attack on a serving officer, she made to shut the door in my face, saying, “We had nothing to do with that.”

‘I eventually persuaded her to let me stand in the hall while I asked about smashed eggs etcetera. She hadn't seen or heard anything suspicious. Nobody delivering letters very early in the morning, for instance, or putting leaflets on the Jag. What she did let slip was that Sam and Margot spent more time upstairs than down. She then qualified that piece of “scurrilous tittle-tattle” by saying they appeared to be very much in love.'

‘Mmm, champagne-coloured satin sheets,' Connie murmured.

‘What?'

‘Go on. Anything else?'

‘Yes. Interesting, I think. When Sam went out to Afghanistan, Margot joined a group of theatre people in the Seychelles for those four months.'

‘Theatre people?'

‘Seems she designs stage costumes for ballet companies.'

‘My, my! Not between the satin sheets with our Sam
all
the time.'

‘Wonder how he felt about her high-lifing it while he was facing the risk of Taliban bullets.'

‘He treats her with dog-like devotion, so his heart probably rejoiced at the prospect of her being carefree and happy during his tour of duty in a war zone.'

Heather looked sideways at her friend. ‘Men like that exist only in fiction. The real ones are born selfish. It's the nature of the beasts.'

‘According to
Sherilie
Fox,' Connie replied with a straight face, ‘he sits up and begs on her command.'

‘With a biscuit on his nose, no doubt,' Heather added dryly. ‘In her dreams!' After a pensive silence, she said, ‘The Colliers are beginning to intrigue me no end. We're told by the boss she hero-worships him, and now we learn of his doggy devotion for her. If they're so unnaturally obsessed with each other, how do they each manage to have time to pursue their careers?'

‘You think all this talk of mutual adoration is a careful cover for what they really feel?'

‘Be interesting to find out, won't it?'

‘Not if it proves Phil Piercey is right about her paying squaddies to beat hubby up for dropping his pants in Afghanistan. Think how he'd crow.'

‘Heaven forbid!' said Heather with real feeling.

Tom decided to drive home for lunch. It was something he did not often do during a serious investigation, but he felt uneasy over the caution Max had issued after the briefing. He had spoken as a friend, but his words had touched too closely on the truth. Tom knew his approach to Sam Collier had been brusque – OK, it had been blunt to the point of scathing – and he had made no secret of his sympathy for a wife who felt unable to confide in and rely on her man's support. It was unlike him, and it had been unprofessional. Which was what Max had been hinting at. He had also hinted at an unprofessional interest in Margot Collier.

During investigations Tom had come across beautiful women before. He had also dealt with men who were ultra-macho. So why this strong reaction to the Colliers? His present unease was due to the suspicion that his attitude towards the pilot was based on a disturbing interest in the man's wife. Thoughts of her were at the back of his mind ready to come forward when he allowed them to.

He had met Nora fifteen years ago, and there had been no other woman in his life from then on. He was as lusty as any man. He appreciated shapely breasts and legs, come-hither eyes and sexy hips, but his sex life with the woman he deeply loved was totally satisfying. Why then did a faint sense of excitement hover during each meeting with Collier's wife? And between those meetings why was he suddenly questioning himself, his impact on others, his self-worth?

He was inclined to be short-tempered at home lately, too. The daughters he loved unreservedly seemed concerned only with their own activities and needs, and surely Maggie's new pertness had grown out of the hours she spent with that German boy. The closeness he had once shared with her had been broken up by Hans Graumann. With Easter coming next week, Nora was up to her eyes in wedding dresses, and the girls were expecting shopping sprees for new clothes to wear on the visit to their grandparents during the school holiday.

Ignoring the truth that his family had frequently been obliged to function without him during investigations, Tom drove home bemoaning the apparent uninterest in him they all displayed lately. His decision to return to the rented house for lunch was to demonstrate his right to be there. The girls would be at school, but Nora could put aside those bloody make-believe gowns for sixty minutes.

He walked along the corridor to the dining room to find Nora at her sewing machine. The walls were hung with several long underslips and yards of veiling; the table bore boxes of sequins and rhinestones, handmade rosebuds in various sizes, and reel upon reel of sewing thread. Nothing as exotic as the framed designs on the walls of Margot Collier's elegant room, however.

‘Hallo, love, what brings you home at this hour?' asked Nora, very carefully outlining a design of waterlilies with pale lemon thread on cream silk.

‘It's lunchtime . . . or haven't you noticed?'

She glanced up swiftly; stared at him in surprise. ‘What's wrong?'

‘I'm hungry. Nothing wrong in that, is there?'

‘Nothing
unusual
in that,' she said quietly. ‘I planned to have a sandwich when I finished this embroidery. There's a hefty chicken and leek pie for supper, but if you're too hungry for just soup and sandwiches there's a lasagne in the freezer.'

He turned away knowing he had been unreasonable, yet felt unable to compensate. Surely she could have left what she was doing to eat lunch with him. The opportunity to finish the embroidery would still be there an hour hence. Taking the frozen lasagne out he gave it one look and returned it to the freezer. He should have gone to the Sergeants' Mess, or even the NAAFI. 26 Section still did not have the canteen they had been promised. Probably never would have.

He opened a tin of mushroom soup he did not really fancy, and buttered four pieces of bread while heating it. There was a packet of sliced ham in the fridge. Covering half the bread with ham, Tom added thickly sliced cheese and tomato before putting the buttered lids on his fillings. Sitting at the breakfast bar with hot soup in a bowl and the sandwiches on a plate beside it, a curious sense of isolation washed over him. Was that embroidery so bloody important?

He had practically finished his light snack when Nora came to the kitchen, saying, ‘Am I glad to see the back of
that
! Ordinarily I'd enjoy tackling something really creative. It makes a nice change from seams, darts and hems, but not when there's a pile of things to do before our trip home.' She stopped short beside Tom, glancing around at the worktops. ‘Where are they?'

‘Where are what?'

‘My sandwiches.'

It was several moments before Tom realized she expected he would have made some for her while making his own. Of course he should have.

‘I didn't know what filling you'd want . . . or how long you'd be working on that tricky stuff. You wouldn't have fancied dry slices with turned-up corners.'

‘No. No, I wouldn't have,' she responded slowly, then turned to take another tin of soup from the cupboard. ‘I'll make do with what you had. The aroma lingers temptingly.'

‘I'll do you a ham, cheese and tomato to go with it,' he offered guiltily.

Nora shook her head. ‘Soup'll be fine. Warm me up after sitting there most of the morning.' Busy at the cooker, stirring her soup, she said, ‘It's all over the base that Doc Clarkson's a pervert who can't keep his hands off young girls. What's set that rumour off?'

‘A complaint by a teenage patient. No proof, but we have to investigate.'

‘I've always found him rather aloof. Knows his stuff, but regards patients as opportunities to practise his profession rather than people to reassure. Still, you never know what men are like deep down, do you? He's the right age to start growing afraid.'

Tom frowned. ‘Afraid of what?'