Dutch Courage (18 page)

‘If you've never suffered from amnesia it's natural to think it's a load of codswallop.'

‘Who sent the letters demanding that you tell the truth?'

‘What letters?'

‘Your amnesia goes back that far, does it?'

Those dark eyes gazed steadily at her. ‘How far back is that?'

‘Before the harassment of your wife began; before someone tried to drive her off the road at speed.'

There was a definite reaction now. ‘I knew nothing about that until she told me.'

Connie pounced. ‘She revealed those facts
after
the letters arrived. Your amnesia began much later.'

‘She told me about the harassment last night.'

‘The medical staff said she complained because you'd slept throughout her visit.'

‘Did they? How odd.'

Oh yes,
very
glib. ‘When is the baby due?'

He blinked with surprise that she had abandoned the penetrating questioning. ‘Early in November.'

‘You remember being told about that?'

‘Major Clarkson mentioned it yesterday.' Still coolly lying.

‘What was it like in Afghanistan?'

‘Very hot.'

‘Your amnesia doesn't cover that period?'

‘Apparently not.'

‘It was hot, exhausting and dangerous,' Connie suggested. ‘Constant patrols over hostile areas, basic living conditions, forced companionship twenty-four-seven with guys who sometimes riled you, piled on the stress. Is that about right?'

‘Aye, lass, like they show it on the TV news.'

‘Who did you cross swords with in a major way out there?'

‘Several Taliban snipers. You'll have read about it even if Andy Richards hasn't told you.'

He was good, she had to hand him that. ‘Your wife spent those four months relaxing in the Seychelles. How did you feel about that?'

‘Glad that she was with friends to ease the worry over my safety. It wasn't a holiday. She was working on new designs for ballet costumes. Members of the company were with her.'

Connie suspected he was dominating this meeting with that determination that defied snipers' bullets to rescue fellow soldiers; strength of purpose, coolness under fire and, yes, the well-known grit of the working-class Yorkshireman. She could understand his appeal to a wealthy Sloanite from the artificial theatrical world. A bit of rough? No, an intelligent, down-to-earth, skilful, masculine man. Yet, someone hated him enough to half-kill him two nights ago. And he had no intention of revealing why. Connie was intrigued and sympathetic, against her better judgement.

‘You say you were glad Mrs Collier had friends to ease her worry over your safety in Afghanistan. How about her worry over this attack on you? Don't you owe it to her to ensure it never happens again . . . with fatal results next time?'

He forced a smile that was more a grimace due to the cut on his lip. ‘I'll never walk around the base alone at night, for
any
reason.'

Trying a different direction, Connie said, ‘Your wife would have been deeply afraid during those days you were held hostage in Sierra Leone. It could have gone either way, I understand.'

Suddenly, there was a reaction. The coolness vanished. ‘That was three bloody years ago. Why bring it up in this context?'

Connie followed that up, sensing a breakthrough. ‘Your friends gave their opinion that Margot miscarried because of her fears for your life at that time. She's pregnant again, at the same vulnerable stage. Do you really want to risk a miscarriage? It would be the third, and this time could result in serious damage to her. If you're as devoted to each other as she claims, you'll protect her as selflessly as you protect your fellows on the battlefield.'

He visibly struggled with vying demands, his iron composure badly cracked. Connie watched and silently urged him to give her the means to break this case open, whatever his personal cost.

Finally, he slumped wearily, regardless of the pain to his back. ‘There'll be nothing more. It's over.'

‘What's over?' she probed gently.

‘They've made their point. I've got the message.' It was said in a vague monotone as he gazed into something only he could see.

‘The message from whom?'

He took his time. ‘It doesn't matter.'

‘You don't want them punished for what they did to you?'

Those compelling eyes focused on her once more. ‘Just drop it.'

Connie shook her head. ‘We can't do that, sir.'

‘I'm not laying charges.'

She leaned towards him to impress her words on him. ‘It's out of your hands. This isn't a case of neglecting to salute, or using abusive language to a superior. A serving officer has been attacked and rendered unfit for duty when we're engaged in a war situation on several fronts. We have to investigate, whether or not a charge is laid. You're not just the victim, you're the sole witness to the attack and it's your duty to name the perpetrators.'

The coolness returned. He had mastered his moment of weakness. ‘I can't. I don't remember anything about it. I've told you that several times.'

Connie sighed. ‘Please don't be foolish, sir. We know you're lying.'

Closing his eyes, he murmured, ‘The pain in my head has grown unbearable. Send in an orderly with pills as you leave.'

The morning sick parade had followed the usual pattern. Minor injuries sustained during combat training or sports sessions, mild food-poisoning due to unwise eating, sinus infections, styes, fears of impotence by hopeful fathers, a dose of clap. Charles Clarkson was reaching the end of writing-up his case notes, and was preparing to eject the young detective with Collier who looked like a health freak with no business in a place like this, when his mobile rang. A swift glance showed him the caller was his wife. He got up and walked to shut his office door before connecting with her.

‘Something wrong, darling?'

She sounded deeply distressed. ‘Charlie, they came here just now demanding to speak to the children. They said . . . they said they could be . . . at risk. From
you
!

‘
What?
' he yelled. ‘
Who
came? Who were they, Ria? I'll sort the bastards out.'

‘No, Charlie, they said they have to interview the children when you aren't there to influence what they say. I refused to let them come in, but they said they'll return with written authority to enter. Please come home.'

‘On my way,' he said through a constricted throat.

He drove to his quarter the quickest way, which included crossing the area where soldiers were being drilled by sergeants with stentorian voices. These broke off in disbelief on seeing a vehicle violating the sanctity of the parade ground. Charles had just one thought; to reach his family before his children could be subjected to questioning that would surely alienate them from him forever.

They would then see his affectionate hugs and kisses, his teasing pats on the bottom or hair-ruffling, as indicative of unhealthy behaviour. They would watch him uneasily, ensure they were never alone with him. Already, they were wary in his presence, knowing he must have done something awful to Stacey to turn their friends against them and make them virtual prisoners in their own home.

Ria looked pale and stressed when he arrived and let himself in. There was an alarming silence throughout the house. ‘Where are they?' he demanded sharply.

‘Upstairs doing the work we set them.' She gripped his hand. ‘They don't know yet. I haven't said anything to them. What shall we do if they come back with the Redcaps?'

Taking her arm he led her to the stairs, saying, ‘You and the kids won't be here. You must take them to Portugal today.
Now
!' He almost pushed her up the stairs. ‘Forget luggage, the gifts for your parents. Grab their coats and get them out to your car while I fetch the passports, a wad of Euros and the air tickets. Hurry, Ria!'

While he took from his office drawer the thick envelope containing all they needed for their trip to Ria's home next week, Charles heard his wife instructing their children in tones that betrayed her fear, and their voices raised in bewildered protest as they clattered downstairs.

Extracting his own passport and air ticket, Charles walked out to the garage and handed Ria the envelope. He had to clear his throat to speak. ‘I can't leave the base, but they won't stop you going through the gate. Park the car at the airport. I'll arrange for it to be picked up later. Exchange the tickets for today's flight. Upgrade to first if you have to, but get on that plane.' He crushed her hands between his own, saying thickly, ‘I'll join you as soon as . . .for Easter.'

There was pain across his chest as he forced a smile for four children regarding him stony-eyed and silent from the car. ‘Bye, kids. See you next week at Granny Sophia's.' He turned back to his wife. ‘Go now.
Go
!'

Tom sat in a bare, empty room at 678 Squadron's headquarters with a pile of flight action reports stacked on the table. He felt no enthusiasm to study them. Connie Bush had just put forward a theory that made a great deal of unwelcome sense.

What if Margot Collier had been conducting a covert affair with a squadron member prior to A Flight's deployment to Kandahar? Shortly after their return, lover is given his marching orders while husband is lauded as a hero with his wife all over him very publicly. Then she announces that she is pregnant. Jealous lover is convinced the child is his and sends letters to Sam demanding that the true parentage be revealed. When that fails, lover harasses Margot hoping to frighten her into acknowledging his right as her child's father and reviving the relationship.

So far so good. It was a common enough situation when husbands' work took them away for considerable periods. Predatory males then closed in on lonely wives. In this hypothesis, the rivals could have been away together. Had Sam and the other man crossed swords at Kandahar? Jerry Lang had made the point that Sam had been pushing himself to the limits lately, as if trying to prove something. Baz Flint had declared Collier was like a man gone beserk during his rescue of four wounded men. What had truly driven him that day?

Taking his thoughts further, Tom recalled the lance corporal who had mistaken him for a journalist saying ‘Daddy' was pushing Collier up the ladder in an attempt to make him worthy to join the family. Was that behind the young pilot's refusal to name his attackers, because that was where Connie's theory came unstuck? Charles Clarkson reckoned at least three had been involved in the attack. A rejected, humiliated lover would hardly employ others to beat up his rival to establish his masculine superiority.

So were there two separate issues here? Had the assault on Sam
no
link with the harassment of Margot? The latter could be due to Connie's theory, but the ferocity of the beating of a man generally liked and respected had to have a far more complex explanation.

The nature of the punishment should surely tell them something.
Fifty lashes as the sun goes down
. It smacked of Mutiny on the Bounty, and press gangs. No link to airmen. Tom smiled to himself. He was growing as fanciful as Max. Think more along the lines of a length of rope being the handiest weapon to give a man a lesson he would not ignore.

As he reached for the first of the reports on operations carried out by A Flight in Kandahar, Tom's mobile rang.

‘Piercey here, sir,' said the familiar voice undaunted by last night's events. The reason for this was immediately revealed. ‘I've traced a car whose boot is smeared with blood and mud. There are also spatters of what looks like blood-stained sputum.'

Tom frowned. ‘That's fast going considering you were absent at the morning briefing.'

‘I guessed what we'd be searching for and had a hunch,' Piercey said with barely disguised satisfaction. ‘The car in question is the blue Audi owned by the AAC guy on UK leave. Cunning, or what?'

‘Could be blood from a weekend joint, or an injured dog,' Tom said brusquely. ‘Until forensics check for a link to Lieutenant Collier we can't assume a breakthrough.' He then grudgingly added, ‘Let's hope we can show them we're more cunning than they are. Get the crime scene boys on it.'

‘Already have, sir.'

Tom could hear the grin in Piercey's voice. ‘Don't push your luck, man. Uniform are keeping the cell warm for you.'

Tom disconnected, then leaned back to assess this information. Any locked car could be opened and used with ease by men with military training so, theoretically, any person on this base could have taken that Audi. Tom amended that to any person who knew the owner was in the UK. That would surely narrow the field a little. Was it an attempt to focus SIB attention on 678 Squadron by others unconnected to the AAC?

On a base housing battalions of two line regiments, large units from specialist corps, numerous admin personnel, service families and local civilians, it was not surprising that people tended to mingle within their own group, knowing little of the affairs of those in others. Soldiers who took to the air were even more detached from their uniformed colleagues, both professionally and geographically. Squadron routine and activities were unique to those who fought in the skies, creating intangible segregation, and the siting of their operational headquarters was, of necessity, on the furthest boundary well clear of other buildings.

Reviewing all this, Tom had to accept that the Audi must have been used by squadron members, or by men who served them in support roles. Only they would have access to the leave roster which showed Lieutenant Maine to be in the UK. Then he chided himself for reading too much into Piercey's discovery. As he had told the cocky sergeant, the blood could have come from the Sunday joint.

Turning his attention back to the reports on the desk, he read through about a quarter of them before Max walked in.