Czech Mate (15 page)

Tom laid his mobile on the desk and explained the problem to Max. ‘Bandmaster said they're due to play at a winter carnival tomorrow afternoon, seventy-five Ks from here. They have to set off midmorning after a full rehearsal.'

‘Right. We'll send Beeny and Connie Bush on the bus with them. Perfect opportunity for relaxed questioning. More likely to hear confidences there than in the band's official quarters.' He then registered Tom's expression. ‘There's more?'

‘Might be significant,' he said with a small sigh. ‘Seems Clegg had just been told he'd passed his first exam on the French horn with distinction, and also been given a lance stripe. He parted from Captain Booth in a state of euphoria.'

‘So he called the killer to break the news and agreed to meet him at the Recreation Centre to celebrate? That would suggest . . .'

‘Either he hadn't been approached for sex before, or that he was normally a willing participant and things went wrong tonight. Let's face it, the assailant hadn't taken a weapon with him. Just picked up the chess piece in sudden rage.'

Max gave him a straight look. ‘Of course, we could be looking at this back to front. What if Kevin and Tony Clegg were the ones making sexual advances?'

‘To the same target?'

‘Why not?'

Tom frowned. ‘You're suggesting the killer might have been the one saying no?'

‘Very violently.'

‘But if he felt so strongly about being propositioned, why did he agree to meet up with his victims?'

‘Why, indeed? And that question remains equally vital whichever way around we view it.' Max got to his feet. ‘Let's go home and tackle it anew in the morning. By then, Sergeant Maddox may have some forensic evidence to offer us.'

‘And the pathologist may be able to tell us why Treeves died,' Tom added heavily.

‘And Klaus Krenkel may have traced our missing equipment.'

‘And the moon might have turned into blue cheese.'

They donned their coats in silence, each feeling the weight of problems dogging them and still seeing that small figure of a lad who had been so elated until someone had struck him down. It had stopped snowing, but a new frozen layer covered everything, including their cars. As they walked to them, Tom said, ‘They're running the teens' disco on Saturday at the Recreation Centre. There should be a very evident police presence from start to finish. We can't be sure tonight's attack will be the last, and parents will see we're doing something about the situation.'

Max unlocked his door and prepared to slide behind the wheel. ‘The situation is more complex than we have so far understood. My guts sense something very nasty behind the violence to those lads. I'll fix it with the hospital doctors to tackle Kevin tomorrow. He must be made to realize that he has the answers to vital questions. If we can reassure him about conditions within his family he'll be more likely to open up. Goodnight, Tom.'

‘Goodnight, sir.'

There were only a few nightbirds left in the Officers' Mess when Max walked in. It was past midnight, he realized. He mounted the wide staircase, and along the corridor his thoughts were heavy. A middle-aged couple in Huddersfield were about to have their lives permanently darkened by the loss of their only child.

An envelope lay on the carpet a few feet inside the door. He picked it up and dropped it on the desk, believing it to be some communication concerning his mess membership. Maybe even an invitation to take part in the Christmas revels being arranged. He began to undress, remembering the enthusiastic description of last year's entertainment related to him at the dinner table. Not his scene, by any stretch of the imagination.

On the point of getting in bed he noticed that the envelope just bore his first name. Not what he had imagined it was, then. The page inside had a brief handwritten message: ‘The next move is mine, I believe. Why not book a room at that hotel for Saturday night?'

Max sank on to his single bed assessing the import of Livya's message. The surge of excitement he felt was tempered by the knowledge that there was a strong chance he would not be free to explore her challenge.

Seven

M
ornings in the Black household were always noisy and mobile. Three schoolgirls vied for the bathroom, squabbling lightheartedly over clean socks and underwear, Tom made toast while calling out regular time checks to his brood and Nora boiled or poached eggs while stirring the porridge. It was an organized type of chaos that invariably produced three clean, correctly dressed, well-fed girls in time to catch the school bus.

Today, the routine failed to work. A very heated argument between Maggie and Gina led to tears and name-calling. Nora had to intervene, leaving Tom to stir the porridge and ensure the eggs did not poach solid. They did, so extra toast had to be made and the forbidden-at-breakfast peanut butter put on the table. An olive branch was not forthcoming; Gina sat poker-faced and Maggie red-eyed while eating. Beth took advantage of her sisters' silence and launched into an account of the role she had been given in the school nativity play.

In what seemed to Tom to be a single sentence with no punctuation whatever, she managed to convey for all of five minutes that the entire piece hinged for any hope of success on her participation. Chivvied from the table by Nora, who warned they had just five minutes to brush their teeth and collect school bags, a second quarrel broke out when Gina told Beth she was a stupid little girl who told lies about her own importance. Tom then had to play the heavy father, which sent them upstairs then down again to walk the short distance to the bus much in the manner of three aristocrats nobly facing the tumbril heading to the guillotine.

To Nora fell the brunt of discipline by dint of Tom's duties, so a rare telling-off from their father brought airs of martyrdom along with obedience. It also brought a closing of sibling ranks. Left in blessed peace in the kitchen, Tom took cheese from the fridge, pickles from the cupboard, and began to make a sandwich for himself. Daring Nora to comment, he spread pickle on a chunk of cheese and covered it with a second thick slice of buttered bread. As he took the first bite, Nora pushed a fresh cup of coffee across to him. He nodded thanks, then sighed.

‘What's got into them lately?'

‘It's called growing up.' She stirred her own coffee, regarding him shrewdly. ‘It hasn't happened overnight. You just haven't noticed.'

Irritated by this underlying reference to what amounted to his part-time parenting, he said, ‘How could I? When I come in at the end of the day they're upstairs doing homework, then giggling over fashion magazines or freaky-looking pop stars. I only see them when we're eating, or when they appear in pyjamas to say goodnight. It's you they talk to. You who understands what goes on inside their heads. This family survives perfectly well when I'm not here. I'm not really needed.'

Nora said nothing, just sipped her coffee and waited for him to continue. Tom took another bite of his sandwich, knowing he was being unreasonable. How fortunate that his family did survive in his absence on duty. Nora was the linchpin holding them together through thick and thin. He looked across at her with a rueful expression.

‘You should be in our team. When you look at me that way I know the game's up. Think what effect it would have on our suspects.'

It failed to bring a smile from her. Instead, she said, ‘The news of that poor lad's murder last night will be all round the school this morning. The girls will be the focus of attention because you are responsible for bringing to justice the person who killed him. Your daughters know you will. They have faith in the father who never shirks his duty, even if it means he can't be with them as much as they'd like. They
do
need you, Tom. We all do.'

‘I know, love. I talk a lot of nonsense sometimes. I'm a bit edgy this morning. Can't forget that boy's body lying in the snow curled round like a child asleep in bed. If we'd been sharper over Kevin McRitchie we could maybe have prevented his loss.'

‘But there was no indication that what happened last Saturday was the first in a series of attacks, was there?' She put her hand over his lying on the table. ‘It's not like you to shoulder the blame for something you couldn't know would happen.'

‘It's . . . I guess it's because they're so young. I can't help thinking what if it was one of our girls?'

Nora frowned. ‘It's not a possibility, is it?'

‘I hope to God not. The victims so far are lads.'

‘You think there's a risk of another attempt?'

He sighed heavily and got to his feet. ‘Two in five days. Could be a third before we get to him. Don't wait up. We'll work flat out on this until we get a result.' He bent to kiss her. ‘Sorry about the grumps. Thanks for keeping the family on the rails. Where would we all be without you?'

She smiled. ‘You might be lucky and never find out. I'll stick around at least until the girls leave the nest. Who knows what'll happen then? If the grumps got too frequent I could look around for a better prospect.'

Breakfast in the Officers' Mess was a self-service affair, with the exception of the hot dishes. These were served from heated containers by white-coated assistants, on request. Deciding on scrambled eggs with grilled tomatoes, Max first went to the multiple toasting machine which stood alongside several large loaves. It was busy there. He waited behind two subalterns holding thick chunks of white bread, until they were able to place them on the rotating wire shelves then move over to the hot food counter. When they had chosen and been served, their toast would be ready. At least, that was the theory. Max could not count the times he had returned with a plate of hot, tasty breakfast to find his toast burnt black, or that it had been taken by someone.

With his mind elsewhere this morning, he cut two slices from a wholemeal loaf and put them in the machine, intending to stay beside it until they reappeared in perfect eating condition.

‘A man after my own heart.'

Max swung round swiftly to discover Livya beside him.

‘Brown toast,' she explained with a smile. ‘Men usually prefer white, and as thick as a doorstep.'

Max returned her smile, thinking how bright and fresh she looked first thing in the morning. ‘The baker who supplied my boarding school must have believed his bread would mostly be used as solid doughy pellets for schoolboy fights. He was right. It was totally indigestible, rubbery, tasteless and
grey
. The memory remains and I opt for brown whenever possible. Can I slice you some, or do you prefer to cut your own?'

She shook her head. ‘I never refuse a gentlemanly offer. I'm not one of those tiresome women who see an insult in it.'

‘An
insult
?'

‘Yes, you know: you're suggesting that because I'm a woman I'm too weak and feeble to cut my own bread.'

Max laughed. ‘Actually,
I've
taken great offence because you compared my preference for brown bread unfavourably with that of men who chomp white chunks as thick as doorsteps. Much more macho!'

In this light-hearted mood they collected their breakfasts and sat together at one of the tables presently unoccupied.

‘I'm sorry about last night,' she said almost immediately. ‘A youthful musician found dead, I heard.'

‘That's right.' The brightness of her presence no longer eclipsed his dark mood.

‘Set upon by a gang of squaddies?'

‘Highly unlikely.'

She studied his face. ‘Have I really offended you now?'

‘No, no. I was enjoying your company so much I'd managed to put his murder to the back of my mind, that's all.'

‘And I've brought it back to the forefront.'

He gave a sad smile. ‘Well, it happened and won't go away.'

‘But you'd prefer not to talk about it?'

‘I'd rather talk about you. And the note you pushed under my door last night.' He glanced over his shoulder. ‘At any moment some of your fellow eggheads will join us and monopolize you. I doubt if I'll be here for dinner this evening, so this might be my only chance to get things straight about your suggestion.'

‘Oh God, have I jumped the gun?' she asked swiftly. ‘Your father told me about your wife's tragic death several years ago, said you hadn't remarried, so I thought . . .'

Max was instantly angry. ‘My father discusses my private affairs with junior officers who only occasionally work with him? What gives him that right? He knows nothing about me. We never meet. The last time we saw each other was at Susan's funeral. We had no idea what to say to each other then, and have since merely exchanged formal Christmas cards. That's all the contact we've made for years.'

Livya faced him frankly. ‘Don't malign Andrew.'

‘
Andrew
?' he queried heatedly.

‘That's his name.' Her voice grew crisper. ‘When we were on a mission together he refused to allow me to call him Brigadier or Sir off-duty. He's like that. Nothing in it. Just his way of relaxing. He's hot on discipline the rest of the time.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes,
really
.' A sudden smile broke through. ‘You look very much like him right now. That same stern expression has made stouter personalities than mine go in fear of him.'

The sparkle in her eyes, the attractive figure she cut in this male-dominated room combined to disarm him. ‘I can't imagine you going in fear of anyone, especially me.'

Her hand rested on his sleeve. ‘So are we friends again, Max?'

‘Well, when we're off-duty you can call me Max. Otherwise, it's Captain Rydal.'

His teasing tone brought a surprising confession from her. ‘I'm afraid I played the innocent with you that first evening. When your father knew I was coming here he mentioned in passing that his son was serving with the relevant SIB section, so I asked him about you and promised to make contact. He doesn't blab your details to all and sundry, Max. I coaxed them out of him and had the intention of reporting back with news of you.' There was no artifice in her direct gaze. ‘I wasn't expecting to be so affected by our meeting. Andrew has innate charm, but you had a greater impact on me. Hence the impetuous note under your door. I'm . . . actually, I'm usually very cautious about relationships. If I've misread the signs, I'm sorry.'