Spanish Inquisition (11 page)

‘No, don't look at me that way,' he chided. ‘Consider your car, for instance. You jump in it and take for granted that it will get you safely to your destination.
But
, if you hear a faint rattle or squeak; hesitation when the engine fires; smell burning or petrol; feel the vehicle juddering or losing power up hills you know there's something wrong.

‘Being inside your skin is similar to that. Day after day you take for granted that your body is doing what it should.
But
, a slight twinge; a curious ache or pain; trembling or giddiness; losing power up hills all tell you that something's wrong. A week ago I knew this large bulk of flesh, bones and organs named Rydal was working completely normally again. It still is. So much so, the brain that goes with it needs similar stimulation after three months of books, music, jigsaw puzzles and Mollie Hubbard.'

He managed to catch up her hand this time. ‘I appreciate your care and concern, all you've done for me over the bad four months, but I've come through it and I'm ready to take up my life where it left off last November.' He squeezed her fingers. ‘I'm not a fighting soldier intending to go to a warzone any day now, I'm just helping to investigate a false charge against one of my men. Some in-depth thinking isn't going to threaten my chances at the medical board.'

She studied him for several moments without drawing her hand away. ‘Have you finished?'

‘Yes. Can we kiss and make up?'

‘In front of the Officers' Mess?' she cried in mock horror. ‘That'll have to wait until tonight. Come on, let's go in for lunch and you can tell me about your thrilling escape from Mother Hubbard.'

When Max left Headquarters Tom shut himself in his own office leaving Piercey sitting gloomily before his computer. On checking out Maria Norton's next of kin he was surprised. Although he ought not to have been because the young singer was intelligent enough to hold NCO rank in a specialized branch of the Army.

That her mother was Spanish was generally known due to gossip over
Carmen
, but Tom was sure few people on the base were aware that Maria Norton was the daughter of a professor of advanced mathematics at a redbrick university in the UK. Alusha Norton was at an address in New York, which suggested a divorce or legal separation. Tom doubted Maria had planned to join her father, or to cross the Atlantic, so he sought more productive action by calling Bill Jensen. When the former sergeant major picked up, Tom could hear small children singing discordantly in the background.

He laughed. ‘Is that the next Orpheus Choir rehearsing, Bill?'

‘It's the pre-school kiddies being calmed down before their mums come to collect them. Singing works wonders. So, I heard Milady Norton has hopped it. Silly bitch! Why do so many women screw up their lives? She had a successful career under way, and a hobby she excelled at. I was yarning to the Drumdorran's Bandmaster yesterday – he conducted the orchestra for
Carmen
– and he's mad keen for her to do some concerts with them; even go out to Afghanistan to sing for the lads. Sort of posh Forces' Sweetheart. Great opportunity for her, but I'm not sure it would be wise to let her loose among sex-starved soldiers. Would they be safe?' He followed that with a gusty laugh.

Tom's heart sank. They had forgotten about the musicians. Another thirty susceptible men who had watched Norton's tantalizing performance on stage every night for a week.

‘You sing with a choir, Bill. Know a lot of locals who're into music and singing. Norton apparently had lessons with a vocal coach. Can you offer any names, suggest who might have been teaching her?'

Jensen sucked his teeth noisily. ‘Ooh, there you've got me. There's a couple of baritones in my choir who give lessons, but I guess they'd be pretty basic. Same as those listed in the phone book. Nowhere good enough for a voice like hers. The more top notch guys don't need to promote themselves.'

‘Well, thanks anyway.'

‘Hang on, Tom. I'll give Gisela a call. She'll know a lot more about classical musicians living locally. Her province is ballet, but she grew up in the music world and will surely know all the local maestros. Get back to you.'

A glance at the clock gave Tom two options: take an early lunch or visit the Drumdorran Fusiliers' Bandmaster. Mmm, perhaps get that interview over before tackling a meal.

Captain Rory Staines had an office at the front of the block housing practice rooms, a large performance hall and living quarters for whichever regimental band happened to be stationed on the base. This was the first time since Tom arrived in Germany that bagpipes were predominant . . . and he loathed bagpipes.

Although each practice room was reasonably soundproofed, it was possible for anyone walking the corridor to hear muffled versions of what was being rehearsed in each of them, and Tom's ears protested at what seemed like the sounds of purgatory. He swiftly knocked on the Bandmaster's door and was glad to be invited to enter.

Captain Staines was around Tom's age, with much the same colouring but slighter of build. He was also very much the gentleman, speaking with received pronunciation and displaying the natural assurance of men who have been raised knowing their elevated place in society. He smiled and waited to be appraised of the identity of this large man wearing a dark suit with what could be a regimental tie.

‘Sarn't Major Black, SIB, sir,' he said crisply. ‘Could you spare a few minutes to help with my enquiries into the violent assault on Corporal Maria Norton in the early hours of Sunday morning?'

A flash of something Tom interpreted as unease crossed the man's face before he said, ‘A deplorable business. I heard she's been hospitalized.'

‘Yes, sir.' He decided not to qualify that belief at this stage.

‘I'm unable to think of any way I can be of help, Mr Black. I know nothing about the young woman. Apart from the musical connection, of course.'

‘You must have spent quite some time with her during rehearsals; gained some impression of her personality as divorced from her stage role.'

The light laugh was forced. ‘It's plain you've had no experience of operatic performance.'

Staines made no attempt to continue, and the fact that Tom had been kept standing in front of the man's desk like a supplicating squaddie told Tom he had touched on a sensitive spot. He persevered.

‘I did attend the final performance of
Carmen
. My wife made a number of costumes for the chorus.'

‘Ah.'

At this second attempt to end the interview Tom grew more determined. ‘I'm afraid the case has become more serious. We believe Corporal Norton may be involved in something likely to result in further attacks on her. We're questioning everyone who was involved in the opera, both backstage and on it. With some urgency, sir. A serious crime was committed against Norton just minutes after she left the theatre, and the most likely perpetrator was someone connected with
Carmen
. My staff will need to speak to every one of your musicians, so . . .'

‘Impossible!' Staines ejaculated swiftly. ‘We're giving a concert in town on Thursday. Then we give a marching display and Beat the Retreat here on Friday to entertain the West Wiltshire troops arrived back from Afghanistan, while simultaneously putting on a show for a group of senior officers coming here for tactical discussions with them. My musicians will be working flat out for the rest of this week. After that . . .'

‘Captain Staines,' Tom said, determinedly interrupting the senior man this time. ‘It's not a question of being inconvenient. Every single person involved with that opera has to be considered a suspect until they provide proof that will eliminate them from the list. I appreciate that your schedule is tight, but your full cooperation will reduce the time we spend with your musicians.' He gave Staines time to absorb that, then said, ‘Tell me what you know about Maria Norton, please.'

As if reluctant to invite Tom to sit, the officer got to his feet and crossed to gaze from the window which gave a view of the performance hall.

‘She has an amazing voice. I had great reservations about the decision to stage
Carmen
. Any opera is difficult for amateurs to tackle. I wish they would stick to operetta; much lighter stuff which suffers less from enthusiastic but untrained voices. When the principals came here for the initial try out I was . . . stunned.' That descriptive word was spoken more softly and reflectively. ‘Don Jose and Escamillo had sufficient power to cope with the demands of their roles, and I knew they'd improve after weeks of rehearsal. But Maria! She
was
Carmen. Right from the start. She had the allure, the sexual promise, the teasing gestures, the
magnetism
.'

He turned to face Tom. ‘That's all I know about her. I'm a musician, Sarn't Major. Apart from my dear wife and children, music is my whole life. Watching and hearing that young woman perform was one of those unexpected privileges that happen only so often. She's wasting her talent. I tried to persuade her she could use her voice and still remain in the Army. I was eager to arrange for her to sing with us at concerts, not just locally but when we tour, but it fell on deaf ears.' His eyes narrowed in reflection. ‘She never emerged from her role. It was almost as if she had been taken over by Carmen,' he added with the same suggestion of unease Tom had detected earlier. ‘That attack on her echoed the tragedy that ends the opera.'

Left alone in their headquarters, Piercey gloomily checked the lists of vehicles registered as being permitted to pass back and forth the base. He highlighted every red one regardless of make or shape. There were a small number of Clios, but none were red. Maria Norton was recorded as owning a cream one. The reg number he knew by heart, so she must have had it sprayed and failed to report the fact.

His hands dropped from the keyboard to his lap as misery swamped him yet again. How could he have made such a gallumping idiot of himself over her? All the time she had flirted and teased him she had known she was carrying some poor sap's child. Small wonder the bloke had lost it and slapped her around. Stood to reason no man would put up with sharing her with all and sundry.

But why frame
him
specifically? Had Maria lied to her lover about that incident in the dressing room; claimed he had tried to rape her? If that had been the case, surely any red-blooded bloke would do more than take a car and return it half an hour later by way of retaliation. He would more likely have lain in wait for the opportunity to beat him up, too.

Now Maria had put herself beyond questioning the bloody case would run on and on . . . and he would remain in a grey zone doing all the crap jobs. His one hope was that Max would get him off the hook soon. Tom Black would try to be impartial, but would not be able to put aside his personal dislike completely. Thank God the Regional Commander had not put the official kibosh on the Boss's participation.

He glanced at the big MoD clock on the wall. Almost midday. He would go for some lunch. Buy snacks in the NAAFI, take them to his room and watch the Grand Prix on TV. It might take his mind off Black Maria – his new name for her!

Armed with a pack of beef and pickle sandwiches, two pork pies, a large bag of onion crisps and several Wagon Wheels, Piercey went back to his car feeling lighter-spirited already. He was innocent of everything save briefly touching her breasts. He could not be court martialled for that . . . and the truth would out eventually.

Clipping on his seat belt, he then opened the CD storage compartment. Strident music as he drove would raise his spirits further. His reaching hand suddenly froze as he stared at the fancy pink mobile phone bearing the word CARMEN in glittery silver stickers, which lay among his CDs.

He sat gazing at it for long moments, the overwhelming excitement of her returning unbidden. How many times had he called her; how many intimate texts had he sent? Dear God, the words he had whispered to her just two hours before that final performance, in the confidence that she would be in his bed that night. Heard out of context they could blow away his defence.

With a heedless need to rid himself of the incriminating object, he drove around the perimeter road until he drew up level with the copse where residents walked dogs, or had picnics and family games in the summer. Pulling on a latex glove he picked up the mobile, the glittering CARMEN twisting the knife. If he lobbed it far enough it was unlikely to be discovered for some time, by when the case should be closed.

Leaving his car he strode across to where one of the narrower paths cut through denser trees . . . and immediately came face to face with two women who smiled and said hallo. Lolloping back and forth and all around them were four or five young dogs eagerly exploring the leafy undergrowth. They passed noisily leaving Piercey cold with shock. He had intended to hide vital evidence!

Waiting long enough for the women to pack themselves and their animals in a Range Rover before driving away, he returned to his car and sat staring once more at that silver word that caught the sun. She had been acting a role on and off the stage. He had allowed himself to become obsessed with a fiction. That realization somehow made his humiliation worse.

As a wounded animal returns to its lair, he headed for the room which he had been allowed to reoccupy last night and tried to decide what to do. Maria had retained around thirty texts. Some of them would be his. If he deleted everything it would be as bad as hiding the bloody object in the copse, for there would also surely be messages from her attacker and the father of her baby. Feeling sick now, he charged the mobile up and waited.

With hands that were uncharacteristically unsteady he slowly brought up the texts one by one, his heartbeat thudding. Then he sat staring into space, fierce anger building until he snatched up the handset of his landline and punched in the number of Beeny's mobile.