Spanish Inquisition (20 page)

They settled with their beer in two easy chairs in a quiet corner, and Guy immediately embarked on the subject he believed they had met to celebrate. His mobile features, deeply browned by the Afghan climate, still bore signs of strain resulting from six months of warfare, his large hand holding the glass had a slight tremor, and he spoke in the rapid clipped tones of men used to giving orders.

‘
So
, you're also taking the plunge into matrimony.'

‘That's right. We're thinking of September. How about you? Now you're home you can get down to making plans, I suppose.'

Guy grinned. ‘She did all that while I was away. Had the dress made by Nora Black, booked the church, sent out invitations. For Saturday week.'

The conversation continued along those lines for some minutes before Max broached the subject he really wanted to discuss. ‘So the meetings with the aforesaid nit-pickers today had one bod missing. Have they supplied General Bishop with a replacement?'

‘Not that I noticed. Tell the truth, I have other things on my mind and these long drawn-out sessions are getting me down. Why don't the buggers go out there to get the info first-hand instead of arranging conferences that keep us from starting our well-earned leave?'

‘Always a rhetorical question, Guy.' Max offered a second beer, and when he returned with them said, ‘Rory Smythe was formerly with the West Wilts, wasn't he? Did you ever come across him while he was with the regiment?'

Guy took a long drink from his glass, then shook his head. ‘Six months without alcohol makes a man eager to compensate. You were saying?'

‘Did you ever serve alongside Rory Smythe?'

‘Oh, you know how it is. You cross the path of hundreds in your time, some of them more than once.'

‘And Smythe?' prompted Max.

Another long draught of beer. ‘Well, it was a while ago. Couple of years or more.' He frowned. ‘That's right. My second deployment to Afghanistan. I'd had a six-month detachment to 23 Regiment. Had grand ideas of joining the SAS.' He pulled a face. ‘Didn't make the grade. Failed the last hurdle and somewhat ignominiously returned to a different battalion which was scheduled for a stint in the war zone. Those SAS blokes are tougher than tough. My God, you wouldn't believe . . .'

‘And Rory Smythe was in the battalion you joined, was he?' Max asked swiftly, fearing his companion was straying from the subject.

‘Oh . . . yes. Didn't have much to do with him. You don't unless you indulge in the same off-duty pastimes. I'm a sport and fitness freak. He's more the intellectual type. Bumped up against him in the Mess, that's all.'

Guy suddenly caught on to why Max was interested in Smythe. ‘Of course, you're landed with finding who beat him up, and why. Can't help you there. Only returned to base five days ago. Besides, after he took the ADC post I never saw him again. Until now.'

‘Did he speak to you?'

Guy gave a sour smile. ‘Just a stiff nod of recognition. Too high and mighty to be chummy with fighting soldiers. Must say he appears to be better equipped for the task of general dogsbody to a general.'

‘You didn't rate him very high as a company commander?'

A glance at his watch suggested Guy was preparing to wind up the meeting. ‘As I said, I didn't spend off-duty time with him, but one hears things during the claustrophobic conditions of combat.'

‘Such as?'

‘He wasn't popular with the rank and file. The NCOs virtually ran the company and kept morale high in the face of Smythe's ragged control.'

‘Ragged control? That's a curious description.'

The other man shrugged. ‘Just gossip. You know how it is in all-male situations.'

‘Gossip about Smythe?'

Glancing again at his watch, Guy said, ‘To be precise, Smythe had his favourites and those he was habitually hard on.'

Max took that up before the subject could be dropped. ‘Favourites? D'you mean what I think you mean?'

‘As I said, it was just gossip around a camp fire out on patrol. Sex-starved guys getting stimulated to liven up a cold night way out in the endless desert. No proof.' He drained his glass with relish and returned it to the table. ‘Mind you,' he added thoughtfully, ‘there was a rather strange incident just a week before our stint ended.'

‘Oh?'

‘Ye – es,' said Guy, remembering. ‘One of his platoons was on a night recce and a young lad who'd been with the West Wilts just six months, lost contact with the rest of the patrol. That's highly dangerous. A man can wander forever in the darkness with no way of finding the others. Worse still, he can walk into the enemy camp before he's aware of their presence.'

‘And this youngster did?'

Guy wagged his head. ‘The way I heard it, the corporal leading the patrol halted them soon as they discovered he was missing, and almost immediately they heard a shot no more than fifty or so metres away.'

‘And?'

‘That was the strange part. They took up defensive positions, but silence reigned. Once the corporal judged the situation to be stable he had his patrol ready to give him cover while he crawled out towards the sound of the single shot. We never leave our wounded or dead, no matter how tricky it is to retrieve them, as you know.'

‘Did he find the casualty?'

‘So I heard. Shot in the head. No sign of the enemy.' He frowned, visions returning of the conflict he had left just a week ago. ‘Not uncommon, that. They take advantage of a perfect target then melt away before the entire patrol can catch them.' He drew in a deep breath. ‘They're happy to pick off one or two at a time, then retire from retaliation. They have eternity lying before them, Max, knowing we'll call it a day eventually. Then they'll have their barren but awesomely beautiful land to themselves again.'

His gaze seemingly into that distant country must have refocussed on the clock above the bar. ‘Christ!' he ejaculated, getting to his feet. ‘I'm due to meet Pam to discuss the order of service for the wedding with the Padre. Daren't be late. She'd kill me.'

Max also stood and smiled. ‘Bad start to a marriage partnership, and I'd have another case to investigate. Good luck, Guy.'

‘And thanks,' he added silently as he watched the man walk from the bar. ‘You've just given me a very interesting scenario to work on.'

Phil Piercey was deeply depressed once more. A call to Heather had revealed that she had made no progress on her attempt to break Maria's silence. In fact, she had been unable even to see her. Until that lying bitch withdrew her allegation the charge against him would stand, despite solid evidence that most of her account of the events on that Saturday night was false. Nothing would erase the accusation against him, but he needed official notification of his innocence of any involvement.

Additional cause for his depression was this new case which threatened to shelve the other one so frustratingly static. A general's ADC. Yeah, of course that would push aside the roughing-up of a half-Spanish singing corporal, he thought sourly as he sat in his Audi in the darkness gazing at the copse.

He could understand why this was a good location for a crime. An Anglo-Russian major had been shot here three years ago and his body hung on a post outside the Officers' Mess. Well away from any building, this stretch of road had a number of bends. It was the perfect spot for . . . His thoughts were interrupted by guilty recollection of his mad moment with Maria's mobile. If Tom Black ever learned about that it would give him the perfect excuse to kick him out of 26 Section. Out of SIB completely.

He sighed deeply and headed for his room. He was resenting the restrictions on his life more and more. Eight days confined to barracks! He had only been allowed to attend the engagement party because he had travelled with Beeny and Olly Simpson. Two guards! He scowled. Wonder he had not been handcuffed to one of them.

He was still scowling as he parked in his usual spot outside the Mess. Another solitary evening with DVDs and a six-pack. He was in no mood for darts, snooker, cards or any other communal activity. His incarceration could go on for weeks while full attention was now concentrated on some commissioned general's gofer.

As he left his vehicle he heard a voice shouting, ‘Sarge, Sarge, hang on a minute.'

Looking across at the facing accommodation block he scowled further at the sight of Private Jimmy James hurrying towards him. What did the twit want – to measure him for a suit?

‘I've been watching for you,' the storeman panted. ‘You're with the Redcaps, aren't you?'

Piercey could not be bothered to reply, just stood waiting impatiently for whatever nonsense the man would produce.

‘I've seen it.'

‘Seen what?' he snapped.

With his round face flushed with excitement, he stumbled over his next words. ‘Just now. I mean, it's there again. Like it was before. It's . . .
it
.'

‘What the hell are you rambling on about? I've better things to do than listen to a load of crap from you.'

‘The
car
. It's there now,' came the triumphant announcement. ‘I recognized it straight off, Sarge. Come with me,' he urged, starting to trot in the direction of the gymnasium.

What James was saying started to make some sense, yet Piercey was still sceptical as he hesitantly began to follow. ‘You couldn't swear to the colour or make. Even the shape of it.'

‘This is it,' James repeated triumphantly. ‘I recognized it straight off, like I told you.'

‘How?'

‘I'll show you how. Come on, it might go any time.'

‘Did you note down the reg number?' demanded Piercey as they hurried beside the long side wall of the large building.

‘Why'd I do that?'

‘Oh, for Christ's sake! If this is a . . .' Piercey broke off as they rounded the corner to where a number of vehicles were parked and James went directly to a bronze hatchback and put his hand on it, smiling broadly.

Piercey was disgusted. ‘You said it was red. I spent half a day checking red ones out.'

‘But it was dark the first time, but soon as I saw
that
I knew it was the same one.' The sticker on the window that he indicated read: BURGESS AND CRABBE QUALITY VEHICLES. ‘Such a coincidence,' gushed the storeman. ‘Same name as the gentlemen's outfitters I worked for. First time I saw it I thought what a coincidence.'

Holding back a rush of anticipation Piercey glared at the upturned moon face. ‘Why the hell didn't you mention this when you were first questioned?'

‘Nobody asked about where it was bought. Colour and make was all . . .'

‘Bloody idiot!' cried Piercey. ‘I could charge you with withholding vital evidence from the police.'

‘But nobody
asked
. . .'

He was too busy noting the registration details, which were all he needed to trace the owner. It was just a vehicle seen in the same place on two occasions, no more, but on one of them a serious assault had taken place for which he had been wrongly blamed. A swift glance inside the building revealed that several vigorous games of handball were in progress, but Piercey recalled that Maria had used one of the instructor's offices for vocal exercising on occasion. Had her amorous sessions also taken place here?

He walked pensively back to the hatchback. Chummy parks it here and waits for Maria to tell him his mark is on his way. From the corner of the gymnasium there is a clear view of the Sergeants' Mess. The Audi arrives. The driver (himself) rushes inside carelessly leaving the doors unlocked, and Chummy steals it to drive himself to the assignation with his lover outside her accommodation block. Under the furious gaze of Staff Sergeant Andrews, who is hoping for a reconciliation with Maria, the Audi screeches to a halt and she jumps in with great eagerness before it races off to the lonely area near the copse. Chummy then attacks and abandons her before returning the Audi now containing Maria's gaudy mobile to its original parking spot. Yes.
Yes
! That
was
how it happened!

Running back to the Mess, he did not notice or care where Jimmy James was. The imperative was to check ownership of that hatchback. Now calm and professionally motivated, Piercey scanned the screen then leaned back to stare at the name highlighted there as memory of an incident he had dismissed as unimportant returned.

Next minute he left his room and the building in as big a hurry as he had entered, and sprinted back to the gymnasium. Rounding the corner his pulse raced to see the bronze hatchback still there. Taking a moment or two to steady himself, he pushed open the double doors and walked through to where one game was still in progress. The players from the other two were clustered at the far end, towels round their necks, drinking from sports flasks as they discussed aspects of their play.

Piercey knew some of them having often enjoyed hard fought but friendly participation in that particular sport. He mingled with them quite casually and joined in their comments and general banter, which suggested he had been observing some of the activity. They were all then drawn to turn and watch the closing stages of a noisy, fast and furious contest which ended with two players flat on their backs claiming they were too exhausted to move.

This, of course, was the spur for others to make sure they did, and during the macho mêlée Piercey made his way from the huge hall unnoticed and jubilant, clutching his trophy. Back in his room he dropped it in an evidence bag and sealed it, then sat gazing at it while he fought an inner battle. His maverick personality yearned to follow through with what he had learned, then present the solution to the case and earn all the kudos. Oh,
how
he longed to do that.

A period of sane and sensible thinking showed him the error of going it alone this time. There was too much at stake. His innocence. The striking from his record of Norton's charge of ABH. And, much as it went against the grain, by following rules and procedures to the letter it would raise his credit with Tom Black and ensure he remained with 26 Section.