Dutch Courage (27 page)

The Collier case was on a back burner while painstaking questioning was continuing without enthusiasm. Meanwhile, two lesser cases were being finalized ready to present to the relevant commanding officers. A relatively quiet period for Tom.

The wedding outfits rush was slowing. Nora had delivered those to be worn tomorrow, and had just two straightforward bridesmaids' dresses and an amazing purple bridal gown to complete before the Black family set off to visit both sets of grandparents for Easter. She was confident the work would be done in time for her to pack for their trip to the UK. The girls always put out far too much to take with them, so Nora had to do some pruning. Tom invariably packed sparingly, his military training having taught him to travel only with the essentials.

Last night there had been a partial thawing of Nora's attitude, but she was still at the sewing machine all day and too tired for him to attempt more than a kiss and a hand on her nightgowned hip as he lay facing her back. Just as well, perhaps. Call it spring fever, Easter madness, the sight of all that wedding finery, but he had a ridiculous urge to seduce his wife in a small hotel well away from urban civilisation after dumping their brood with the grandparents. Pretend they were of
today's
generation.

Friday. School would close for the Easter holiday. The house would be noisy with three girls planning what to do with all that free time, and the sewing machine racing. No point in hurrying home. Better idea to have a couple of beers in the Sergeants' Mess first.

Not such a good idea after all. The bar was practically deserted, the two members present being among those who steered clear of Redcaps believing it a mistake to get too friendly in case indiscretions slipped out during alcoholic revelry. Tom doggedly drank his planned two halves, then drove from the base to the rented house a short distance from the main gate.

He parked in the drive, glancing at the shuttered house opposite. The Graumann family had left early for Easter, thank God. But they would return, and that boy would be all over Maggie again. She had not forgiven him for sending Hans packing; the rift remained. Hopefully, being with the grandparents would lessen her wounded susceptibilities.

Entering the house, Tom was struck by the absence of a welcoming aroma of supper cooking. Not salad and cold meat again! He really fancied something hot and tasty tonight. The sewing machine was racing away in the dining room, but there was remarkably little sound upstairs. Not even evidence of
Pirates of the Caribbean
being rerun for the umpteenth time. Strange.

He decided to raid the fridge for a cheese sandwich before greeting Nora. It would give him the opportunity to suss out what he was to be offered as an evening meal. Before he reached the kitchen door he was halted by Maggie calling to him. Surprised, he looked up to see her at the top of the stairs.

‘Dad,' she said again.

‘Yes?' At her hesitation, he added, ‘Is there a problem?'

‘I . . . Can I talk to you?'

Delighted that she was offering the olive branch, he smiled. ‘Of course. I'm going to make a sandwich. Let's have one together in the kitchen.'

‘Can you . . . could you come up? I've got something to tell you.' She bit her lip. ‘Please come up.'

His delight fast waned. Good God, what was she about to tell him? He could now see that she was troubled and unhappy; a thirteen-year-old in a plaid skirt, red skinny jumper and calf-high black boots who had turned into the little girl who had trusted him to solve all her problems in the past.

Climbing the stairs swiftly, Tom's throat grew dry with apprehension. Young girls were so vulnerable. Why had Maggie waited for him to come home rather than consult Nora, who was surely better equipped to advise her? Reaching the landing Tom found his daughter had retreated to her bedroom which, being the eldest, she had to herself. Growing seriously worried, he entered what was usually regarded as private property seeing nothing of the paraphernalia of most modern teens or the beloved stuffed toys of childhood. Once he was there, Maggie closed the door alarming Tom further.

‘What's wrong, Maggie Blackbird?' he asked gently, using the pet name of old and taking her hand.

She gazed up at him, near to tears. ‘It's
awful
! I've been waiting all afternoon to tell you. I almost called your mobile, but I thought you'd be angry if you were doing something really vital.'

‘I'm here now,' he soothed, swallowing his fears. ‘Let's sit on the bed and talk, eh?'

Once they had settled side by side, Maggie had difficulty finding words. After a few moments, Tom said, ‘Have you told Mum about it?'

Maggie shook her head. ‘You're the only one who can put it right. Oh, Dad, I don't like doing this, but I know it's right to tell you.'

‘Of course. Whatever you've done I promise to try to understand and not be angry. Just bring it out into the open, sweetheart.'

She glanced up quickly. ‘It isn't anything
I've
done. It's
them
.'

All at sea, Tom demanded, ‘Who?'

Maggie now avoided his eyes and concentrated on their linked hands. ‘Everyone at school knows about Stacey Laine and Major Clarkson. People have been laughing about it, specially the boys. They've been saying nasty things about Ginny, Zoe, James and Dan.' She gulped back tears. ‘Even their close friends have been joining in. Some of them. It's
horrible
!'

Tom squeezed her hand. ‘They're ignorant, that's all. Don't worry about it. The Clarksons won't be coming back to Germany, so it'll all blow over. After the holidays they'll find something else to titter about at school.' He bent to look at her downturned face. ‘Is that the problem?'

She shook her head, then blurted out short, emotional sentences. ‘I heard them talking. This afternoon. Anneka and Kylie. Laughing about it. They made it up. All of it. He didn't do it. None of it.'

‘Hey, hey, slow down,' said Tom, frowning. ‘Anneka Chorley and Kylie Stokes? What were they talking about that you overheard?'

Maggie's head drooped further. ‘They didn't know I was there. They were talking on their mobiles to Stacey about how they'd done it. Done what she wanted, so she'd be all right now. Everyone would believe her and stop thinking she was to blame. Then . . . then they went into details of what they'd told the Redcaps he'd done to them. The Doc.' She looked up then, eyes red-rimmed. ‘Dad, they thought it was a joke, saying they wished he really had done what they said because he was super cool.
They told a load of lies.
They said Redcaps were stupid enough to believe anything. That's why I knew I must tell you what they'd done. I wanted to shout at them that Redcaps are clever and . . . and very brave.' She threw her arms around him and began to sob. ‘Oh, Dad, I do love you. I hate it when we're not speaking and . . . and you're far nicer than any of
their
dads.'

Tom called Jean Maximus, head of the JR team questioning Clarkson's accusers, but could do no more than leave a message asking her to call him soonest. He then punched in Connie Bush's number, but had to do the same. When he tried Heather Johnson he was in luck. She and her friend Connie were at the swimming pool. Connie was just finishing her last five laps; Heather was drying off in the changing room.

Tom related what Maggie had told him. ‘
I
can't act on this, of course, and my daughter's name mustn't be mentioned at any stage,' he added. ‘You two interviewed Stacey at the outset and concluded she was fantasizing. I have full confidence in your judgement and in my daughter's truthfulness. These girls have conspired to support Stacey's lies, for that's what fantasies are. I want you to interview Anneka and Kylie tonight. Nip this distasteful business in the bud. They might well be going away for the Easter holiday and I want Major Clarkson exonerated before any further harm is done to his reputation and career.'

‘I'll fetch Connie from the pool and we'll get straight on to it,' Heather promised. ‘Trust us to handle it with sensitivity, sir.'

‘I do,' said Tom firmly.

‘Will you advise Major Clarkson of this development?'

‘No. Until the girls confess, it's merely conjecture. The Joint Response team will have to issue an official verdict before we can dismiss the charges, but I'll return to base shortly to advise the Commandant of the situation. He might decide to have a private word with the Major suggesting new evidence has come to light which may well throw doubts on witness statements. Give me a sitrep after you've talked to the Chorley and Stokes girls.'

‘Will do, sir.'

Having told Nora he would be back in time to set out for dinner with their friends – the reason why there was no appetizing aroma in the house – Tom drove back to base feeling lighter-hearted than he had all week. His eldest was his little girl again, and his two women sergeants' judgement had been vindicated. He sincerely hoped the Commandant, Colonel Trelawney of the Royal Cumberland Rifles, would give Charles Clarkson a hefty hint that his ordeal might soon be over.

The parents of those three girls should read the riot act to them for inventing such damaging fiction. Because they were all minors it was not possible to charge them with wasting police time and making slanderous charges against an innocent man, but they had caused untold anguish besides almost certainly forcing an entire family to relocate and wrest four children from their friends and school.

Tom contemplated sending an e-mail to Max, then decided to wait until morning. Whatever their boss was doing so secretly in the UK could occupy him without interruption until tomorrow, by which time there could be a definite resolution to the Clarkson case.

The base was busy. Soldiers were coming from or going for their supper, heading for the Recreation Centre or the sports venues, loading cars for the drive to the UK on Easter leave, setting out for the town in search of beer and girls. Tom drove carefully through the centre of the base towards the senior officers' accommodation, passing the Medical Centre. Some of his feel-good sensation evaporated. They badly needed a breakthrough in the Collier case.

As if by thought transference his mobile rang at that moment and Tom pulled over to take the call, thinking it might be from Max. He was wrong.

‘Good ee-vening, Tom. Here is Klaus Krenkel,' came the voice of the boss at the local
Polizei
headquarters. ‘Am I disturbing you for the dinner? I apologize.'

‘No need. I'm in my car. How can I help you?'

‘Indeed, it is I who will help you, I think.'

‘Oh, yes?'

‘We have been much busy this week with very serious case, that I only today have had dealing with the question you ask four day ago about the threat to the lady of the pilot.'

Casting around in his mind for something that made sense of this, the only connection Tom could come up with was that it must concern Margot Collier. ‘You have some news on that?' he asked experimentally.

‘It will be helpful only a little, I think. You ask if we have know of a man in blue Audi who bothers ladies driving alone to frighten them.'

Tom sensed his well-being was about to fade further as the German advised him that they had been aware of this practice for quite a time, and his men were constantly looking out for the dangerous driver.

‘He is not always in one place, so it is not easy to find him. We have reports from many ladies over a wide area, which makes the difficulty. I can tell you most strongly that we will catch and punish him.'

‘I'm sure you will,' Tom said automatically, his mind registering the fact that their certainty of the absent Lieutenant Maine's similar car being used for the assault on Collier was undermined by this piece of information.

‘Thank you for letting me know,' he muttered. ‘As always, if we can be of help to you at any time, get in touch.'

He sat for a minute or two a few hundred yards from the Medical Centre, now certain the blood Piercey had found in the boot of the Maine Audi would prove to be from a joint of beef, removing their one clue to Collier's attackers. Back to square one.

No longer feeling buoyant, Tom got under way intent on reporting to the Commandant, then returning to seek solace from his family. He was so lost in his thoughts he did not immediately register the significance of the crowd when he turned in to the lamplit street. When he did he acted swiftly. Stamping on the brake, he snatched up his mobile and called the Military Police post on the base. Corporal Lewis took the call.

‘Sir, we've already been contacted by Major Clarkson's neighbours, but I'm undermanned at the moment. Two patrols are out in town where there's a serious barney in the park between squaddies and pseudo-Nazis. The third vehicle is over at the female accommodation dealing with a reported drunken male intruder. I'll divert them right away.'

‘Make it faster than that. This could be a dangerous incident,' Tom snapped.

Clarkson's house was surrounded by an angry mob screaming obscenities and hurling all manner of rubbish at the walls and windows, a ground floor one already having been smashed almost in its entirety. The patrol vehicle would take a while to cross from the female accommodation, so Tom did the only thing he could to attempt to diffuse the situation. Switching the lights to full beam, turning the radio on full volume and winding down the windows, he put the car in motion to cruise slowly at the crowd with the heel of his hand on the horn.

It was enough to draw the attention of those on the periphery, but the diversion was only momentary and the women soon turned back to their vituperation of a pervert who tampered with innocent children. Tom then saw why. In Clarkson's shadowed front garden were three women, probably the mothers of the girls behind this deplorable affair. They were shouting vitriolic accusations of perversion. Lights from upstairs windows of neighbouring houses highlighted their vicious, vengeful expressions.