Dutch Courage (24 page)

The house was pleasantly redolent of a savoury, cheesy aroma when Tom parked his car and entered the hallway where Maggie had been embracing Hans too enthusiastically two nights ago. He had seen his daughters since then merely for an hour or so last night. They, and Nora, had remained at the school until the lingerers were ushered out by the caretaker waiting to lock up. Gina and Beth had prattled on in their normal fashion about the play and the disaster over the large, electrically wired Easter egg which had, predictably, failed to open and had had to be pulled apart manually to allow the drama teacher's daughter to emerge dressed as a chick.

Maggie had said nothing until all three went up to bed. Beth had almost throttled Tom with her loving hug, Gina had kissed his cheek. Maggie had uttered an aloof goodnight and made the walk to the scaffold until she reached her bedroom.

Late though it was, Nora declared that she must work on Monica Purdom's bridesmaid's dress. The wedding was on Saturday and the sleeves were going to be hell to set in correctly. She had not appeared to notice her husband's subdued mood, and when they went to bed after midnight she claimed to be dead beat and turned away to snuggle into her pillow.

There had been the usual breakfast-time hubbub this morning. Tom had always felt alienated by the female activity upstairs, particularly since the day Maggie began menstruating, and he wisely escaped to the peace of the kitchen. Today, the flow of half-dressed girls from bedrooms to bathroom, and the lively chatter between them, seemed to shut him right out of their lives. During breakfast it became more marked, because they still discussed the school play, which he had not attended or shown interest in.

This early homecoming tonight had Tom wondering how, or if, it would be welcomed. Supper was cooking. Had Nora made enough for five, or was she expecting to leave for him the quartered pie and salad he had not eaten last night? It was very quiet downstairs, not even the sound of the sewing machine running. Nora was not on the ground floor.

From Maggie's room came the sound of some music Tom had become familiar with. The girls were watching the DVD of
Pirates of the Caribbean
yet again. Nora must be showering or in the bedroom changing. He decided not to go up. Better to wait in the alcove with his steam engine magazines, and a glass of whisky until she came down to serve supper.

He poured the whisky and was walking back along the hall with it when he grew aware of women's voices coming from the stairs. There was no time to vanish, no place of retreat.

‘. . . the upper rooms of the Country Club, so I have to be able to manage a staircase in these strappy sandals without tripping over the train,' a melodious voice was saying. Next minute, a vision in cream satin came into view and caught sight of him over the banister. ‘And here's the best man waiting to ensure everything's going smoothly,' she added with a low laugh.

Nora, in brown trousers and a green blouse, appeared from behind the woman and looked at him in surprise. ‘Early night, or just calling in for a few minutes? Tom, you may not have met Major Keyes' daughter, who's being married on Saturday and needs to test her dress before taking it away.'

The two women descended to the hall and faced him. He stared wordlessly at the visitor. Margot Collier surely had a rival in the beauty stakes here. No more than eighteen, auburn-haired with large green eyes and a dazzling smile, this young woman's curves were excitingly outlined by a clinging dress of heavy satin, down the front of which in pale yellow thread was the most beautiful design of waterlilies. With a shock, Tom recognized the work Nora had been doing when he came home expecting her to make lunch for him . . . or have a quick session on the bed. The gown was stunning. The girl in it was also stunning, because she was wearing something unique and so lovely it would be classed as ‘designer' in the shops.

‘Isn't it gorgeous!' the girl exclaimed. ‘I'll never wear it again after Saturday, of course, because there'll never be another day as special, but it'll be the dress I'll remember all my life. Even when I'm a great-granny, I'll take out the photos and bore all the kids with a description of my bridal dress they'll have heard umpteen times before.'

Her merry laugh sent a shiver down Tom's spine. When this eager young woman was a great grandma, Tom Black would be no more than a memory in his daughters' minds.

‘Mrs Black must have worked like a slave to finish it in time, especially as I was so set on having the waterlilies. She's
so
talented. I told her she should open a boutique. It would be a runaway success. But she says she has enough to do looking after a husband and three adolescent daughters.'

While this was being said she was teetering back and forth on very high-heeled gold sandals, expertly kicking the small train free at each turn.

‘It's
perfect.
Thank you, thank you. You
will
come to the church on Saturday, won't you, and bring your girls. We're having it decked with cream and yellow flowers to match my bouquet. It'll look fabulous.' Glancing over the banister, she added with a smile, ‘No use asking you to come, Mr Black. Men are only interested in the stag night; think weddings are simply ruinously expensive charades.' She turned back to Nora. ‘If Giles turns up hungover and very much the worse for wear on my special day, I'll
kill
him.'

Left alone in the hall, Tom wished he had gone to the Sergeants' Mess for a few beers before coming home. Slumping on the chair in his office alcove, he studied the whisky in his glass and thought about his own wedding.

The lads had done their best to ensure he would never forget his last day of bachelor freedom by handcuffing him to a rail of the football grandstand, drunk as a lord and wearing just his underpants. They had released him a mere hour before he was to catch the train to Nora's hometown. By lunchtime his father had sobered him up enough to shave, and his mother had given food, and painkillers to offset the raging headache before setting off for the church.

Had he thought the wedding a ruinously expensive charade? While it was being planned, yes, yet when he had seen Nora coming down the aisle in white lace, carrying red roses, as the organ reverberated throughout that ancient church, he had known such joy he had had to swallow back his emotion.

The Adjutant's daughter departed with her finery enclosed in plastic; the pirates were still threatening the Caribbean upstairs when Nora returned from helping to arrange gown and headdress in the car.

‘Thank God those shoes have such high heels,' she exclaimed on her way to the kitchen. ‘If they hadn't, I'd have spent tonight having to shorten that dress.'

‘It looked . . . sensational,' Tom offered, getting to his feet.

‘She sets it off perfectly, that's why.'

He followed her. ‘Nora, I . . .' He broke off as his mobile rang.

‘Tom Black.'

‘I'm on my way to the airport,' Max told him. ‘Want to check out a few things in the UK. If anything develops you can reach me any time on the usual number. Back in a couple of days.'

The brief message left Tom puzzled. It was unlike his boss to be so vague. What was there at home to check out? A few minutes' thought brought the only answer. Max was still pursuing his wild theory concerning Sierra Leone and meant to interview the men captured with Collier. A wild goose chase which would offer the opportunity to see Captain Cordwell? Sly old dog! It had been obvious her last visit had not gone too well. Another relationship requiring some careful treading.

Nora was busy with vegetables and did not look up when he arrived beside her. ‘Called away, are you?'

‘No. Max telling me he's en route to the UK.'

‘So you're in charge.'

‘The case has gone cold.' He watched her fingers as they peeled carrots. ‘I could do that for you.'

‘Good. I'll sit and enjoy a glass of wine for a change.' It was so abrupt she left a carrot half-peeled. ‘And there are peas to shuck,' she added, pouring wine at the breakfast bar.

Taking over the task, Tom said experimentally, ‘Supper smells good. Is there enough for five?'

Nora sat with her wine. ‘When have I ever fed us, but not you?'

He swung to face her. ‘I didn't mean . . . Look, can we talk? Before the girls descend on us.'

‘They'll be here any minute. That music signals the end of the DVD. Can it wait?' Her expression was not encouraging.

‘Where are the peas?' asked Tom, accepting the inevitable delay with bad grace.

‘The girls can do them. Sit and enjoy your whisky.' Her tone was softer, but she did not add the usual endearment.

Tom sat, thought about taking her hand, then abandoned the idea as the familiar sound of a herd of wildebeest on the stairs put an end to intimacy. Overwhelmed by excited chatter about the attributes of Johnny Depp, Tom was almost glad when his mobile rang again. He escaped to his office alcove to take the call.

‘George Mitchell, sir. I called Captain Rydal, but he told me to pass it to you. There's been a development with the charge against Major Clarkson. Anneka Chorley and Kylie Stokes, both minors, have just confessed to their parents that he fondled and tried to kiss them during birthday parties at his house. We've
got
him, sir,' he declared, not bothering to hide the malicious satisfaction he felt, ‘and their parents are baying for his blood.'

Eleven

T
he night porter slid back the small glass panel when Max knocked on it in the early hours. ‘Yes, sir, can I be of assistance?'

He held up his service identification. ‘I'm here to see my father, Brigadier Rydal.'

The man built like a heavyweight boxer studied the document thoroughly, then nodded. ‘I'll buzz through to check that he's willing to receive a visitor at this hour.' At Max's raised eyebrows he added, ‘It's strict procedure, sir.'

Although the policeman could appreciate the meticulous security, the son was irked at being kept standing in the cold outside the apartment block. Of course, it housed a few celebrities and an unknown number who preferred to keep a low profile and travelled in limousines with darkened windows, accompanied by bodyguards.

When Max's mother died twenty-two years ago, the house in Kent was sold furnished. Because he had never married again, and because his military career took him all over the world, Andrew Rydal had seen no point in owning property. On joining the Joint Intelligence Committee, he had moved to this rented apartment near his workplace. Father and son had last seen each other at Susan's funeral; a pair of widowers who hardly knew what to say to each other.

‘The Brigadier says to go up, sir.'

The voice broke into Max's bleak thoughts and he walked through the electrically operated doors to the impressive foyer, still heavy with memories. Had he been too hasty in coming here?

The lift glided silently to the third floor while he reviewed his decision. He had not grown close to his remaining parent following his mother's death. School holidays had been spent with his maternal grandparents, now deceased, or in an army hiring wherever his father was stationed. Those times had been very boring. Andrew Rydal was an outstanding sportsman, so his off-duty periods had been filled with manly pursuits. These always attracted female spectators, and Max still recalled the horror of pretty, perfumed women patting his cheek and speaking to him as they would to a pet dog.

The lift stopped; the door slid back. Max remained where he was. There was nothing he could do professionally to resolve the situation. Special Branch officers would tell a military detective to get lost, and he could hardly offer filial comfort after all these years, yet he had left Germany where three army officers' careers were falling apart. A doctor facing serious charges, a pilot who had been driven to blackmail by a wife who lived beyond his means, and another pilot whose whole future seemed destined to spin out of control. Andrew Rydal had also served his country well, but he could be brought down by this. Was that why his estranged son had come?

He stepped from the lift to see his father, dressed in grey slacks and a blue wool shirt, standing ten yards away by his open door. He looked older than he had at Susan's funeral, and had clearly not been to bed yet. Closing with him Max saw the brightness of those shrewd eyes had dimmed, and lines tugged down the corners of his mouth. There was a large pad taped to his left temple, a wide strip of plaster over his left palm. His normal upright stance had developed into a slight stoop. Max was concerned. Livya had spoken of painkillers and plasters, but his father appeared to have taken a bit of more serious aggro.

They shook hands wordlessly, then Max followed Andrew through to an elegant square hall thickly carpeted in blue, which led to a large, airy room furnished with settees, armchairs and assorted glass-topped tables. The ornaments and pictures blended well with the opulent room, their provenance surely reflected in the rental charge.

Andrew turned to Max. ‘Drink? Coffee, tea?'

‘Coffee will be fine.'

The older man nodded and headed for the kitchen. ‘Beds are always made up in the two spare rooms. Choose either. I take it you need somewhere to kip down for a night or two.'

It was not a question, so Max walked through to the first guest room, dumped his bag and took off his overcoat before using the green marble bathroom so elaborate he felt guests should immerse themselves in asses' milk, water being too mundane.

When he returned to the main room the central glass-topped table bore a tray with cups and saucers, and a large cafetière. His father was shaking biscuits from a packet on to a plate, but he glanced up to ask, ‘Are you in need of real sustenance?'

‘No, I had a meal on the flight.'

He grimaced. ‘Airlines' muck!'

‘It sufficed.'

‘Good flight?'