Dutch Courage (29 page)

‘So you took the bullet meant for him.' She leaned down to kiss him gently. ‘If the cavalry hadn't arrived just then, I suppose you'd have made a heroic last stand,' she teased.

Gazing up at her he knew nothing had really changed. She had just been busy, and he had been seduced by spring fever. He took her hand. ‘Would there be time before they bring breakfast for us to have a bit of a cuddle?'

‘In your present state?' she replied with a happy laugh. ‘Heroes in fiction might well fight a furious battle, then return to jump straight into bed with the girl waiting at home, but the truth is they'd demand a hot bath, a huge meal and a long sleep. The girl would come later. As she will in this case, chum,' she added getting to her feet.

‘The sewing machine?' he asked flatly.

‘Two more days. After that? Rest and build up your strength. You're going to need it.'

Max drove to the junior officers' quarters where Captain Crane had agreed to talk to him immediately after breakfast. Short, with wiry straw-coloured hair, Rory Crane was a bundle of nervous energy with grey eyes that reflected the strain of six months in a desert war zone. What he lacked in stature was compensated for by a deep, rich voice and a very assured manner. This presently projected coolness. It was nothing new to Max. Regimental officers invariably grew cagey when SIB began asking questions about their men. Closing ranks!

‘Is this likely to take long?' Crane asked, leading the way through a hallway cluttered with skis. Not difficult to guess where this family was going for the Easter break. On reaching a small back room, he turned to Max. ‘How can I help you?'

Max declined to be rushed. ‘Sorry to learn Rifleman Pomeroy died of his wounds earlier this week. Something lacking in his immune system, I understand.'

Crane's pale eyes glittered angrily. ‘Something lacking on his body when facing possible enemy attack! He'd still be alive if he'd been correctly equipped.'

So the aggro was felt through all ranks. Max avoided being drawn into that dialogue. ‘You might be aware that we're investigating a brutal attack on the pilot who picked him and three others up and flew them safely to the field hospital at Kandahar.'

‘I had heard, yes. And so?' Crane's coolness was now only just short of hostile.

‘And so I'd like to talk to anyone in your company who was close to those four, particularly Pomeroy.'

‘We're all on leave. I've no idea where individual men are right now.'

‘Just give me names. We'll track them down.' When Crane made no immediate response, Max said crisply, ‘Obstructing the police in the course of their enquiries is an offence. Please do as I ask, Captain Crane.'

No man to succumb to threats, Crane replied with frost icing each word. ‘I can't see the connection between the RCR and your enquiries, Captain Rydal.'

‘Don't play games with me,' snapped Max, losing his temper. ‘Of course there's a connection. Collier saved four of your men from probable slow death by the Taliban. On Tuesday evening he was savagely beaten around the head, then flogged. His back is a mass of raw weals. Pomeroy's death resulted from suppurating burns to his back. Pomeroy died on Tuesday.
Now
d'you see the connection?'

‘You're not suggesting . . .?'

‘
The names
,' Max reiterated.

Crane spun on his heel and walked to a desk where he scribbled briefly on a scrap of paper. He offered it to Max without a word. There were half a dozen names on it.

‘Thank you. One more thing. Are any of these men Welsh?'

‘The obvious one; Lance Corporal Jones. Is that all?' Crane asked, real hostility now apparent.

‘For the moment.' Max walked back towards the front door, then turned to Crane on the step outside. ‘Your men were victims of an acknowledged enemy. Collier was the victim of people he's entitled to believe are friends. You've put up a spirited defence of your men. It's my job to do the same for him.'

Max wound down the car window to clear the interior stuffiness, breathing deeply to ease his temper. It was a warm spring morning; the kind to tempt people out for the day. Yet it was still early, and soldiers on leave tended to stay in bed until hunger drove them out of it. With luck, Lance Corporal Jones was not extra hungry today.

He punched out Connie Bush's number on his mobile. She had been waiting for his call, and Max read out the names Crane had given him then waited while she located details of their accommodation on the computer. Max then told her to meet him outside the block housing three of Pomeroy's pals, including the Welshman Jones.

It was with mixed feelings that Max drove across the base. The goose was nowhere near as wild now. In fact, the likelihood of its being caught was strong. He wished Tom could have been with him. He had chosen Connie because she had pinpointed Ray Fox by some astute reasoning, and also because she clearly had sympathy for Sam Collier.

Connie was waiting when Max arrived. She was dressed in a navy trouser suit and white blouse, which set off her glow of health. A valuable member of his team whom he greeted with a smile.

‘Sorry to pull you in on Saturday, but this can't wait. Another few days and these men could take off for the long Easter weekend.'

She glanced up eagerly as they approached the entrance to the three-storey block. ‘Have we cracked it, sir?'

‘We'll see, shall we?'

They climbed to the second floor and walked along the corridor to a room that could be divided into two by a heavy brown curtain. The familiar smell of sweaty bodies, unwashed socks and the fug created by sleeping without opening a window greeted them. They were also treated to the sight of two unshaven young men sitting on their beds in underpants, chatting easily with the curtain drawn back to open up the room. They paused to stare at these two civilians intruding on their territory.

One of them, a great beefy fellow, said aggressively, ‘Piss off! This is a private area, see. Only residents allowed.'

Max identified himself, registering inner excitement. This gorilla spoke with a Welsh accent. ‘And this is Sergeant Bush. We'd like a word with you, Lance Corporal Jones.'

It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of icy water over him. The bombast ebbed. He looked completely dumbstruck. ‘What about, sir?'

‘I think you know the answer to that. Get some clothes on. We're taking you to Section Headquarters.' Seeing the man's wild expression, Max added, ‘Don't even think it. We'll stand here while you dress . . . and make it snappy!'

While his room mate scrambled into jeans and a T-shirt, the other lad watched in bemusement, but Jones had had time to recover from the shock and began muttering about police brutality and his rights.

‘Know a lot about brutality, do you, Jones?' asked Connie.

His head shot round. ‘What?'

‘Play violent computer games, do you? Log on to websites showing gang warfare? Dream of transferring to the SAS?'

‘You shut your . . .' He broke off, remembering who this young woman was. ‘What's this about? I'm on leave, see. Just back from fighting the bloody Taliban. You've no right to come here . . .'

‘Shut it, Jones, and zip your fly,' Max instructed. ‘We'll read you your rights when we get to our headquarters.'

They did that, once the bull-like Jones was seated opposite them at a table in an interview room. Max opened the questioning. ‘Where were you on Tuesday evening, Corporal?

Jones made a great play of thinking. ‘Ah, yes, I was in the NAAFI bar.'

‘When did you arrive and leave?'

‘Dunno. Went there straight after supper.'

‘And left when?' asked Connie.

‘Late.'

‘Then what?'

‘Bed. After six months in bloody sweltering tents it's a treat to sleep in reasonable comfort. We were all bloody knackered, see.'

‘Who were you with?' asked Max.

‘Plenty of witnesses,' came the smart answer.

‘Names, so that we can check your alibi.'

‘Alibi?' Caution returned. ‘I don't need no alibi. What you trying to make of nothing?'

‘Who were with you, Corporal?' Max repeated.

‘Mossy Peat and Flinto. Jim Flint.'

‘
Mossy
Peat?' queried Connie.

‘Steve.'

‘Your mates?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Like Mike Pomeroy was?' Max said quietly.

Jones visibly stiffened and stared back at Max.

‘Mike Pomeroy was your best mate who'd died that day of wounds received in Kandahar. Is that why you and Peat and Flint were in the bar? Drowning your sorrow? Drinking to his memory?'

Jones was uncertain how to reply, still shaken by the course this interview was taking. ‘What you getting at?'

‘We're getting at what you were doing on Tuesday evening,' said Connie. ‘The evening Lieutenant Collier of the Army Air Corps was brutally assaulted.' She paused. ‘The pilot who rescued your best mate Pomeroy from Taliban bullets.'

‘Yeah, and got a gong for it. Real bleeding hero!' Jones said sneeringly.

‘You don't think he deserved recognition for what he did?'

‘I . . . it's nothing to me what he got.'

‘He risked his life for someone you were close to.'

Jones fidgeted in his seat. ‘Look, I told you where I was on Tuesday. That's it. I was with mates in the NAAFI.' He stood. ‘I got to get on with things I planned for today.'

‘Sit down!' ordered Max. ‘We haven't finished yet.' He waited until Jones reluctantly resumed his seat. ‘How much did you drink that evening?'

‘What? I dunno. Several pints.'

‘Several?' Connie sounded sceptical.

‘That's about usual.'

‘Not a few more than usual because you were upset about Mike's unfortunate death?'

Jones suddenly fired up, saying explosively, ‘There weren't nothing
unfortunate
about it. It were bloody
murder
, see. Mike didn't stand no chance. No more did Cracker, Simmsy and Jacko.'

‘Murder?' repeated Max questioningly.

‘What else can you bloody call it when you're sent out without the full protective gear?'

‘That was the general opinion, was it?'

‘Too right, it was. We were all set to get the gear. We was told it was priority. Then that bastard . . .' He stopped, and silence hung in the air while Max and Connie stared unwaveringly at him until he looked down at his hands.

‘Which bastard?' prompted Max.

‘I got nothing more to say.'

‘While you were in Kandahar did you hear a rumour that Lieutenant Collier had used his family connection to reverse General Phipps's decision to prioritize the RCR demand for protective gear, and instead recommend that Six Seven Eight Squadron be given all
they
needed?'

Jones's head came up. ‘What you getting at?'

‘I'm suggesting that you and your mates had an issue with Lieutenant Collier in Kandahar. Am I right?'

Jones began to look deeply worried. ‘Weren't just us.'

‘So it was a widespread grouch throughout your company?'

Jones seized on what seemed to be a means of diverting attention from himself. ‘Our Colonel went public about it. It was in all the papers.'

‘
He
blamed Lieutenant Collier?' asked Connie incredulously.

‘Well . . . not exactly him. But he must've known what we all knew.'

‘So when you returned here last weekend and saw that pilot again, your resentment revived. Then you heard that Mike Pomeroy had died, and your resentment spilled over into active hostility against the man you believed had indirectly caused Mike's suffering and death. You, Mossy and Flinto went to the NAAFI bar to deaden the pain of losing such a special mate,' suggested Connie in sympathetic manner. ‘You talked about it, drank to Mike's memory, and grew more and more angry over the fact that he shouldn't have died. And all the time you knew whose fault it really was. A man who'd even been in the line of fire during that rescue and emerged unhurt.'

‘And the bastard got a medal and all that bleeding publicity. We all do our bit out there, but he gets turned into a bloody hero because he's crafty. Knows which side to butter his bread. Marries a bloody general's daughter, don't he? Makes sure he's going right to the top the easy way,' Jones raged, caught up in Connie's gently persuasive scenario.

‘So you, Mossy and Flinto decided to teach him a lesson. For Mike, whose back had burned raw and who had died in great pain.'

The silence almost crackled with tension until a surprising sound broke it. Jones began to sob deep in his throat. His shoulders started to shake, his head bowed so low his tears were hidden. Max and Connie sat still, saying nothing and knowing a full confession would follow.

They had cracked it, but there was little sense of triumph. Men who faced months of tension, stress, debilitating heat, spartan conditions, boring food and very real danger formed powerful bonds with their friends. Losing one was akin to losing a brother. Grief exacerbated by alcohol bred an undeniable urge for revenge.

And there was the second tragedy of a man who had been cruelly punished for an imagined act of nepotism by a man who treated him with scorn. Another painful truth Sam Collier had yet to learn.

Tom looked much the same as he had just prior to Christmas when Max arrived late that afternoon: large dressing bound to his head, pale face, and a mug of tea on the table beside his chair. Nora and the girls had just returned from the garrison church, where the bride had worn a stunning dress embroidered with waterlilies. Nora made tea for Max and brought slices of cake for them both, then left them to talk.

‘News that'll please you, Tom,' Max announced with a smile. ‘Connie and Heather feel certain Jean Maximus can wind up the case against Clarkson by Easter. When they visited Anneka and Kylie they faced angry fathers, who did their best to prevent the girls responding to a gentle suggestion that the truth had a way of coming out during an investigation, so it was best to make sure they told us what had
actually
happened. The dads insisted their girl never told lies, she was the
victim
. Why hadn't we locked up the pervert instead of bullying young kids?'