Dutch Courage (6 page)

‘Did Lieutenant Collier give you any info on the letters? You didn't say, sir,' put in Staff Sergeant Melly.

Tom shook his head. ‘He claimed to be puzzled by them. But he knows what's behind them all right.'

‘It has to be something the writer knows about but can't prove; something detrimental to a man hailed as a hero,' said Piercey. ‘He's ignored the letters, so the threats to his wife are designed to make him spill the beans.'

Tom frowned. ‘If your kids' comic language means you think Collier is being pressurized to reveal something that would destroy his heroic status, I thought we established that belief five minutes ago. Haven't you been listening, Sergeant?'

‘Can we be certain of the number of letters received?' Sergeant Roy Jakes asked. ‘Could be he's had blackmail demands. Getting at his wife is inducement to pay up.'

‘A strong possibility,' Tom agreed. ‘I'm about to run a check on his recent financial transactions, but the money is all on his wife's side and he refuses to have a joint account. He was very uptight on the subject when I spoke to him today.'

Undaunted, Piercey said, ‘That's for public effect. You can't tell me he doesn't let her pay for anything he wants.'

‘I'm not telling you that,' Tom snapped. ‘I've had enough of your inane input. Shut it!'

Max had been sitting quietly throughout this discussion, but he now entered it. ‘Let's consider another slant. The letters are the result of common resentment by someone who's been passed over for promotion; whose wife or girlfriend has cheated on him or walked out; who's recently smashed up his car and can't afford to buy another because the insurance had run out. Sam Collier appears to have the Midas touch and deserves to have something to worry about for a change. But this double hero ignores the slyly threatening letters, so eggs are smashed on his doorstep, the tyres of his wife's Jag are let down, silly skull and crossbones flyers are put under her wipers. Maybe
that
will spoil his complacent life.

‘This morning, some German druggie in a blue Audi has a bit of sport putting the frighteners on a lone female driver in a jazzy car by side-swiping it on a straight, empty stretch of road. A quick check with Klaus Krenkel on whether he's had other reports on this nutter could sort that, and a couple of you doing a bit of casual questioning could soon pinpoint someone going through a tough enough period to spark malice against a colleague who seems not to put a foot wrong.'

Tom was annoyed, but he hid it to agree that a more innocent interpretation
could
be put on the facts. ‘It's up to you all to investigate and come up with the correct one.'

‘Now let's consider the charge of indecent assault that's been levelled against Major Clarkson,' said Max in a positive change of subject. ‘He denies it vehemently. I saw no sign of guilt in his manner. He looked genuinely shocked. It's a messy situation. No evidence; no proof. It's the girl's word against his.'

‘We interviewed Stacey at length,' offered Connie Bush. ‘She maintained the MO had touched her intimately on several other occasions at parties for his children. We're all familiar with kids' reluctance to tell anyone about behaviour of that kind, because it's too embarrassing and people will think they encouraged it, but Heather and I both think the girl is fantasizing. If he really did feel her bottom and her breasts in his own home, surely she would make excuses not to go there. She thought it disgusting, so she's unlikely to give him opportunities to do it again.'

‘Also,' said Heather, ‘if he has been touching her up whenever he can, she would surely have done all she could to keep her mother in the bedroom so that she'd not be alone with him. In our opinion, Stacey has a heavy crush on the Doc and is easing the yearning by imagining he has the hots for her. Being examined intimately in her bedroom brought her adolescent passion to the boil – the virus induces fever – and she fantasized overnight until she believed her fantasy. The prospect of facing him again with these erotic thoughts ruling her brought panic, so she turned to her mother, with whom she has a solid relationship.'

Connie said, ‘Now Mrs Laine's brought us in, Stacey's embroidering her story to justify her claim. She has no real notion of what she's doing to the Doc and his family. She's totally self-absorbed, like many teens.'

Max nodded. ‘A very balanced summation. I'm handing this to our Joint Response Team who'll video their interview with the girl and deal with the sensitive side of this case. The Commander, Army Medical Services will act for Major Clarkson in harness with the Garrison Commander. At best, I imagine they might rule that he deals only with male military personnel during this investigation. To suspend him from all duty could suggest the MO is guilty as charged.'

‘We warned Mrs Laine not to spread slanderous gossip, but she will,' said Connie.

‘Of course she will. We can't tape up her mouth. As I said, it's a messy situation that will encompass Mrs Clarkson and their children. It's certain to be all round the school by tomorrow. They'll have to be posted elsewhere as soon as the dust settles, of course, but doubts on his probity will follow them. The unique military grapevine will see to that. Young Stacey Laine has a lot to answer for.'

When Tom entered his rented house a short distance outside the main gate he was irritated to find Hans Graumann halfway down the stairs with his daughter Maggie in tow.

‘Hi, Dad,' she greeted casually, but the German boy was, as always, strictly formal.

‘Good ee-ven-ing, sir.'

‘Where's your mother?' Tom asked brusquely, causing Maggie to frown.

‘Still sewing that hideous dress-and-coat thing for Major Rhodes' wife, of course.'

Taking exception to her tone, Tom said, ‘There's no
of course
about it. She makes wedding outfits because she enjoys it. It's light relief from looking after you three.' He glanced up the stairs. ‘Are Gina and Beth up there?'

‘
Yes
, Dad, we've been perfectly chaperoned.'

‘Don't be cheeky!'

‘I'm not. That
was
what you wanted to know, wasn't it?'

He walked through to the dining room without another word. His eldest girl had grown pert and difficult to approach over the past four months. Since her friendship with the German boy living across the road. Tom could pinpoint the exact cause for the change in Maggie. She was just two months into her teens, that was all, and that boy appeared to have taken her over. What was Nora thinking of to let them go upstairs together?

She was, indeed, busy at her sewing machine in the room they used for dining only when they had guests. The rest of the time they ate at the breakfast bar in the kitchen.

‘Hallo, love.' She greeted him without looking away from her work. ‘I want to finish these buttonholes before supper. A glass of wine would help it along.'

‘Maggie and Hans were upstairs together.'

‘They're all upstairs. Rehearsing some kind of drama for parents' evening at the school.' Nora turned then to study him. ‘Bad day?'

He walked to the sideboard for glasses. ‘I've had better.'

‘Don't tell me you're starting a big case just as we plan to go home and visit the parents.'

‘It won't stop you and the girls from going.'

‘So what's new?'

He poured ruby-red wine in two glasses and took one to her. ‘What's for supper?'

‘Grilled lamb chops followed by summer pudding,
sir
.'

He looked away from her challenging eyes. ‘Just asking.'

‘If you can't wait another half hour, I won't get in a huff if you put on your chef's hat.'

‘I can wait.'

He stood moodily sipping wine and watching Nora's sure fingering of plum-coloured silk. This was her hobby, as model steam engines were his. She was good at it, and orders for bridal and evening wear flowed in. It was a useful addition to their finances, particularly with three girls fast growing up and demanding the latest fashions. They did not always get them when the price for fancy trainers or some gadget was ridiculously extortionate, but they were able to hold their own with their peers often enough to satisfy them.

Tom had never objected to his home frequently being festooned with silk and satin, although he would give a lot to see dirty football gear or windsurfing boards somewhere around to level the balance in this female-dominated family. He admired his wife's skill at elaborate dressmaking. He studied her now as she swished the plum material from side to side with expertise. She wore a loose checked shirt and purple trousers – comfortable working clothes. Her brown hair was drawn back in a scrunchie. It shone with health. He loved to feel its softness against his skin in bed; found pleasure in stroking it. When she wore it swept up in a sophisticated style, he enjoyed wrecking the complicated arrangement to let it fall long and straight as soon as they returned home.

Nora had a slim, neat body. No page three top-heavy bimbo, she, but Tom had always been aroused by her gentle curves. Unbidden came a memory of full breasts pushing against a silk shirt, and a fall of blue-black hair around a beautiful tanned face. And those legs!

He moved to the sideboard to top up his glass. Sam Collier was a big, bluff man with a broad Yorkshire accent and no obvious charm. How had that pair ever got together? Two miscarriages and a third pregnancy in three years. Taking account of Sierra Leone and his spell in Afghanistan, the bastard must have been at her non-stop.

‘If you're just going to prowl around and not talk to me, you might as well grill the chops.'

Tom came from his thoughts almost guiltily. ‘Don't you think Maggie's getting too familiar with that Graumann boy?'

‘She's doing what all girls her age do. Right now Hans is number one. Next week, next month, it'll be a different lad.'

‘This one has lasted four months, which makes nonsense of that.'

Still expertly edging buttonholes, Nora said, ‘If she had a different one here every week you'd worry that she was becoming a tart. There's no pleasing you, Tom.' She slid the material along to the next buttonhole. ‘Go and take your bad mood out on the lamb chops.'

Although he frequently cooked, he now told himself he would be damned if he would make supper when he had three daughters capable of doing it. ‘I'll have a shower and change before we eat.'

Taking chinos and a polo shirt to the bathroom, deaf to the usual giggles and shrieks from the bedrooms, Tom stripped off then did something he had not done for a long while. He looked critically at his naked body in the full-length mirror. Was his waist starting to thicken? Had his thighs lost some of their muscular power? He unconsciously pulled in his stomach. Maybe he should pump iron more regularly. Mmm, nothing wrong with the essential tackle, but a flatter belly would enhance the profile. His gaze lifted to meet the eyes of the mirror image. He sighed heavily. That scar!

Charles Clarkson determined to get drunk. He was officially on call, but he knew no one would demand his attention tonight. He had left his surgery on Max Rydal's advice and driven home to warn Ria of what was sure to come. She had been deeply upset, not least because she had always been kind to Stacey who lacked the budding attraction of Ginny's other teen friends. She found it hard to accept that the girl could tell such lies, and that Jean Laine could believe them.

It was a harrowing afternoon, ending with the painful necessity to break the news to their children on their return from school. Although Ria limited her words to saying their father had been wrongly accused of giving their friend Stacey Laine incorrect treatment, so it would be best if they did not go to school tomorrow, all four met the news with silence. Even seven-year-old Daniel sensed that his parents were holding something back. They all went to their rooms and remained there until the meal nobody really wanted was served. The children then departed to their rooms again to do homework and watch TV, but it was when his two fond daughters said goodnight without their usual kiss that Charles decided to get drunk.

Max drove from the base to a restaurant he often used. His bid to escape the conviviality of dining in the Officers' Mess in his distracted mood rebounded on him, because he had several times brought Livya to this eating place run by the Russian family Pashkov and those memories were strong.

Max also patronized the restaurant because the piped music was Russian and, on special occasions, three of Yevgeny Pashkov's grandchildren played balalaikas and sang to the diners. Livya had known Max's taste – balalaikas, mandolins, Paraguayan harps: what she called ‘plunky musik' – but she had been charmed by the children and had given him a CD of Czech folk tunes at their next meeting.

‘Not precisely “plunky” but the music of my homeland bears a strong resemblance to some old Russian airs. Broaden your horizons,' she had teased.

Despite Yevgeny's fulsome embrace and his promise of a superb stroganoff, Max brooded on the uncertainty of his relationship with Livya. He had punched in her number on his mobile three times already and was invited to leave a message. He had not. It was essential to speak to her, gauge her mood.

Pouring more wine from his carafe he told himself yet again he had been a fool to suggest she might have some kind of personal attachment to his father. Yet would she have fired up as she had if their relationship was purely professional? Women were the very devil to deal with. Even wearing his detective's hat Max found them tricky to assess. They deceived more successfully than men.

Pushing away his empty plate, Max turned his thoughts to the charge against Charles Clarkson. The MO had surely been genuinely shattered, and Heather and Connie were sure Stacey was lying. A good, straightforward man could be badly damaged by a fourteen-year-old child who could not live her fantasy.