Indian Summer (23 page)

Deciding not to use his office at Headquarters, where he could very well be disturbed by members of the team wanting to speak to him, Max headed for home. Once there, he made a thermos jug of black coffee and settled, with it and a mug beside him, at his computer.

For two hours he trawled through every possible site that might shed light on the patrol that never was. Nothing. They had been very thorough; wiped it from every operational report.

The participants had thankfully accepted the fiction that had been fed to them, and had no way of discovering, as SIB had, that it
was
fiction. Keane's murder had resurrected it. His calls to Steven Cartwright at Catterick and Lieutenant Colonel Quail at Sandhurst must have caused a few ripples of concern. He was about to make a few more.

Three telephone calls later he was none the wiser. Each man had either laughingly told him he was being led by the ear by men who enjoyed putting one over on the Redcaps, or that he had got the facts wrong and should check dates and units. Finally, Max contacted the Provost Marshal's office and was told very sharply to stop making waves. When he explained that the information he needed formed one aspect of a murder investigation, the answer was that he should concentrate on more pertinent aspects.

‘Drop it! That's a direct order, Captain Rydal.'

Having drunk all the coffee, Max went to the kitchen and poured himself a brandy and ginger ale in deeply thoughtful mood. Then, because he found his apartment too reminiscent of Livya, he took his drink through to the central room and sat in one of the large chairs near the window. The interlude with Clare here last night was well to the back of his mind.

What had occurred on that patrol was extremely sensitive, that was certain, but no way would he leave it in the air. He could not officially pursue it without incurring action that would damage his career, so he would have to call in some favours, or ruthlessly exploit friendships. The simplest solution would be to get the information from his father, but Andrew Rydal was on his honeymoon at a secret destination. His
ADC
had just confessed from Max's bed that she had used him as a substitute for her boss, so that source of information was taboo.

While he was racking his brain for the best person to lean on heavily for the facts he needed to know, he was startled by the arrival from the other apartment of Clare Goodey.

‘Knew you were here. Saw your car outside,' she said, crossing to him with some papers in her hand. ‘I've been trying to get you for the past couple of hours. Your people had no idea where you were, and you'd switched off your mobile.'

He got to his feet. ‘I didn't want to be interrupted. Was it important?'

‘It depends on how you view it, Max.'

By then noticing her expression, he asked, ‘Is there a problem?'

‘I have here the result of the post-mortem on Corporal Keane. The hyoid bone was not fractured, so death was not due to strangulation. The bruises on his throat were caused by Keane's own hands as he fought for breath during an anaphylactic shock resulting from a bee sting. They found the insect in his trachea when they opened him up. Their findings are that it was an accidental death. There was no murder, Max.

ELEVEN

T
om waited in Nora's car while she talked to Clare Goodey. Waited with apprehension. He had challenged her solo decision to allow their girls to bring home the puppy. However, it had not been a final adoption of the appealing small animal. Strudel (yes, she had already been given a name by them) was there on a three-hour try-out. She was returned to her mother and siblings at homework time, which was when Tom had questioned Nora's U-turn as they sat in the garden with glasses of wine to watch the rising moon replace the setting sun.

She continued to study the gold and silver sky. ‘When you went off to sort that poor woman who's being denied her grandchildren, I started thinking how awful it would be if anything happened to
us
and our girls were taken away by social workers who refused to allow our parents to raise and love them. What heartbreak!'

Tom's concern increased. Why was she having such thoughts? ‘That case is different. The Keane children are still infants. Gloria Walpole's husband walked out ten years ago, and she has no more than basic income from her job in the local supermarket. Keane's parents are in their seventies. The children will have a better life with foster parents who can give them all we give ours. The boy will soon adapt; the girl is just eight months old. For six of them her father was in Afghanistan, so she'll have hardly formed a bond with him yet.' He had put his arm along her shoulders. ‘Nothing's going to happen to us, love. Whatever made you so maudlin?'

‘My outburst over the phone when they begged to have Strudel. They're good girls, Tom. They don't badger us for everything under the sun the way some kids demand from their parents.'

‘That's because we've always been firm about not spoiling them. They get enough to rate with their friends, but value their things more.'

‘They really want this puppy; all three want her equally. Strudel isn't just the latest gadget or footwear which'll be uncool within a few months. She'll give them delight and unreserved love for
years
. I suddenly felt they should have her canine companionship.'

That had alarmed Tom further. To replace hers? ‘You were adamant this morning that you didn't want the extra responsibility. Are you sure about this?'

She had smiled up at him, rather sadly, he thought. ‘Yes, love. When she's fully weaned, Strudel will be joining the Blackies.'

So now he was waiting outside the Medical Centre, fearful and sweating. What would she tell him when she emerged? Her expression was not encouraging as she slid on the passenger seat beside him, but he tried to sound unconcerned as he asked what the verdict was.

‘I'm slightly anaemic, which is causing the tiredness,' she said in heavy tones. ‘She's given me some iron pills. Should be an improvement in a few weeks.'

‘That's it?' he demanded, certain he was not hearing the full truth of what had been said in the surgery.

‘That's it,' she repeated. ‘When the pills start to work there'll be no holding me. Come on, get to work so that I can have my car back.'

Still worried, Tom put the car in gear and drove across the base to Headquarters. Nora gave him a brief kiss as she rounded the bonnet to take his place at the wheel, then drove off without her usual small wave in farewell. Something was badly wrong, he knew it. Why was she keeping it from him?

He walked through to his office to find the whole team gathered to hear Max make an astonishing announcement.

‘We no longer have a murder to investigate. The post-mortem report has come in. It concludes that Philip Keane suffered a fatal anaphylactic shock after being stung by a bee he had swallowed.'

Piercey quoted softly. ‘Substitute bee, and there you have it.'

‘But he was strangled,' protested Heather.

‘Captain Goodey said an anaphylactic fit produces the same desperate fight for breath, same irregular heartbeat, same sense of terror. The bruises on his throat had been caused by his own hands attempting to ease the pain.'

As Tom walked over to him, Max nodded a greeting, then continued. ‘The pathologist found the bee in Keane's trachea. There's no doubt it was an accidental death. I'm sure the news comes as something of a let-down after the in-depth work you've all done, but I suppose the upside is that a first-rate soldier who had everything going for him wasn't deliberately robbed of his future by a human hand.

‘We've all been pestered by the plague of bees during these weeks of abnormal autumn warmth, and Captain Goodey has treated a number of patients with bee stings. She told me some people are actually allergic to the sting, which induces an anaphylactic shock whichever part of the body is targeted. They need very prompt medical help. In Keane's case, the swelling produced by the sting closed his airway and he effectively choked to death.'

Into the silence Tom said, ‘So we're left with the task of tracking down whoever found Keane's body and decided to dump it in the water tank with the jellyfish around its neck.' He glanced at Max. ‘That was definitely done by a human hand.'

Max gave a twisted smile. ‘Can't pin that on the bee. So we now look at the case differently. I came in on it late, so I suggest you recap the initial findings then gather input.'

With half his mind on Nora – she would not be acting so strangely due to simple anaemia – Tom began to review the facts gleaned over the past few days. The issue no longer seemed so vital. The unwelcome possibility of murder by a colleague no longer existed; those people who were close to Philip Keane could find some comfort from that. Perpetrating a bizarre act with his body was a much lesser crime. Still unwelcome, but his parents and Brenda need not be told of that distressing act.

‘The most likely supposition is that Keane took a drink without noticing a bee in the vessel. Easy thing to happen if he was in a hurry with his mind on the acrimonious split with Starr, which we know occurred on Saturday. Brenda claims he arrived at her flat early that morning with the news of the planned divorce. He stayed there long enough to allow Starr to pack enough for a short stay with Julia Reiter, then left at around eleven thirty to fetch his own gear from the house before his intended return to spend the rest of his leave with her and his new son.

‘Keane's body wore only underpants, which makes it more than likely that he was at home when he died. Taking into account the time Keane and Starr would each have taken to travel their respective distances, the margin is so slender there is a possibility that they overlapped and Starr witnessed her husband's death. However, Julia Reiter was certain her friend was unaware of her widowhood, so I'm suggesting that they passed each other on the road. We'll never know if Starr watched him die and simply walked away.'

‘But she intended to go back to the house after organizing her trip to the
UK
, to collect the rest of her stuff,' Connie pointed out. ‘Was she callous enough to leave his body lying there for two days before calmly packing-up her remaining things with him still sprawled on the floor?'

‘Unlikely,' ruled Tom. ‘Despite all we've been told about her aggressive attitude towards Keane, she's reported to have been a marvellous mother and a fun-loving friend. However upset she might have been over the final split in the marriage – and there's no evidence to suggest she knew about Brenda – I believe she died unaware of what had happened to Keane.'

‘The timing is about right,' Beeny observed. ‘They say death occurred between midday and fourteen hundred. So, if we accept the premise that the underpants indicate he was at home packing his gear when he took the fatal drink, it means someone discovered the body and took it from the house at some time between noon and midnight. I'd guess it was taken soon after death, because the body-snatcher had no way of knowing Starr wouldn't return at any moment.'

‘Or the BS could have discovered it late on Saturday evening in the deserted house,' said Connie. ‘I don't think we should assume it was removed earlier.'

‘One thing we can safely assume is that the person who removed the body didn't happen upon it by chance,' said Max suddenly. ‘It was Open Day. Personnel were mostly engaged in or watching the events taking place, so why would anyone casually call at his house expecting him to be there? I'd say whoever carried out the removal and desecration of the body went to the quarter for a specific purpose.'

‘I can give the answer to that,' said Piercey, who had been silent since his murmured rhyme. ‘He went to collect the cocaine in the bottom of those pots of herbal remedies.' Visibly pleased to have delivered a bolt from the blue, Piercey elaborated. ‘Starr Keane had been distributing the drug by that method. We all thought she must have been some kind of hag to need so many aids to her appearance, yet the Boss said she was a nice-looking woman and pictures of her with her kids bore that out.

‘I didn't connect the two until I visited Corporal Marshall's quarter and found his wife had clearly just had a fix. There were similar pots in
her
bathroom, and there was evidence that she had had a girls' get-together that morning. I went back to the Keanes' house and emptied the pots. Each had a false bottom. There was coke in three of them. The rest must have already been distributed.'

Tom was furious. ‘Why didn't you call this info in?'

Piercey was unperturbed. ‘I would have, sir, but you called me in to supervise the removal of Starr's belongings by the brother, then told me to drive him to his lodging. As it happened,' he added swiftly before Tom could speak again, ‘he ranted on about the absence of those pots so much I suspected that he and his sibling might be bringing them over in their trucks. He seemed scared witless that someone had taken them.

‘One thing, sir. He was genuinely and deeply distressed that his sister had indulged. Kept saying someone must have given her the drug; she'd never have touched it because of the kids. Seems likely to me that she was so upset over the split with Keane, she recklessly had a snort to perk herself up and had no notion how to use the stuff.'

‘That's all supposition,' snapped Tom, trying not to overreact to this man who could not resist going alone on a case.

Piercey had his answer ready. ‘I checked out the herbal company named on the labels. It went to the wall three years ago, so I contacted a pal in the Met. He came back with the info that the bankrupt stock had been bought by one Roddy Jensen . . . who happens to be a director of the import-export company the Walpoles are employed by,' he added with quiet triumph.