French Leave (10 page)

The three patients were listless and disinclined to talk to a detective officer about the exercise that had put them out of action. Two of them hardly knew Smith, being in different platoons; Joe Ryan reiterated what others had said, offering no new lead.

Further frustrated by the resurgence of elemental violence after the lull, Max reluctantly headed back to the Mess, knowing it would be silly to venture further until the storm had blown itself out or moved on. He guessed Tom was having to hole up somewhere en route to the hills. That would not improve family tempers, or his.

Driving around the perimeter road, Max once more debated whether his own solitary life was preferable to Tom's with its frequent family chaos. He supposed he would one day have children of his own. With Livya? Unlikely in the present state of their relationship. Should he make a move to facilitate their meetings? Apply for a UK posting? Would she welcome that?

Lost in these thoughts, he did not see the tree crashing down until it was two feet from his windscreen and still falling.

When the storm broke, the Black family were halfway to the hills. The large picnic basket was full, and copious amounts of bottled water filled the stowage area. Sudden torrential rain made driving hazardous, however, so Tom pulled in to a lay-by where others had sought refuge, and they ate in the car the food put up by Nora and three grumbling girls.

Conditions worsened and remained that way for an hour or more, scaring Maggie, Gina and Beth into silence. Recognizing that the outing would have to be abandoned, Tom elected to make a dash for home during a lull that appeared to be the eye of the storm. Water was already lying on the road and would surely increase in depth as the day wore on. The 4 x 4 was useful for surging through water, but it was still a journey made uncomfortable by the tempestuous wind that buffeted the vehicle and drove rain against the windscreen in defiance of wildly oscillating wipers.

On reaching home, their sense of relief was modified by the sight of the large magnolia tree in the front garden, split open by lightning, half the burnt trunk across the driveway blocking access to the garage. Comforting young girls further awed by this Tom and Nora led them indoors, privately thankful the 4 x 4 had not been standing where the tree had fallen, and praying lightning would not strike twice.

Some minutes passed before Max was able to attempt movement. Blood was running freely down his face over his right eye and, from the amount of pain in the area where a sturdy bough had smashed through the windscreen to pin him against his seat, he guessed he must have a couple of broken ribs.

There was no way he could thrust back the solid branch. It was attached to the tree, and the tree was embedded in the crushed bonnet. Only a crane would lift it free. Very gingerly he reached down to the seat adjustment lever, praying that lying flatter would not mean the bough followed him down.

Lowering the back rest to its fullest extent thankfully gave Max the opportunity to inch towards the door, only to find it would open no more than a few inches before hitting more branches. The pain in his chest area worsened with every movement, but he knew there was a way to end his predicament, and fumbled in his trouser pocket for his mobile phone. If that was out of action he would have to wait until the storm lessened enough to tempt someone out along the road. At the rate he was presently losing blood it was a daunting prospect.

Knowing the emergency numbers, he keyed in the one he needed and held his breath. He let it out in relief when the base Fire Officer answered the call. Then Max simply had to wait for rescue. The business took longer than he imagined, and he was in a distinctly light-headed state by the time firemen had cut him free and paramedics had settled him in the ambulance, all of them by then soaked to the skin. Max managed to voice a few words of thanks, getting a nod in reply and the comment that he had had a lucky escape.

At the Medical Centre they stitched the cuts in his head and temple, which stopped the bleeding, then examined his torso, which was already turning purple with bruising. An X-ray proved Max's suspicions. Two broken ribs. While the male nurse was strapping these up, Clare Goodey arrived in the treatment room.

‘Not another river rescue!' she exclaimed in joking tones. ‘What were you up to this time?'

‘What are you doing here?' Max asked muzzily.

‘I'm the Medical Officer. This is my domain.' Turning aside to listen to a brief update from one of the orderlies, she then instructed him to prepare a bed for Captain Rydal in the small side ward.

‘There's no need for that,' Max protested. ‘It's only a couple of busted ribs.'

‘And a nasty head wound,' she responded crisply. ‘You need to be under observation for at least twenty-four hours. Whatever arrangements you've made for the weekend will have to be cancelled, I'm afraid. I'll call in at regular intervals to keep an eye on you. All you have to do is enjoy a good rest.'

To his surprise Max found he welcomed the starched sheets and clinical coolness of that small ward, where he had once or twice questioned injured or sick patients involved in a case. He dozed off and on while the tempest continued outside his window. At some time during that limbo period he remembered Livya. His phone lay on the locker beside his bed, but she would be back at work now. In any case, the elements would probably still prevent a link-up with Washington. Talk to her tomorrow.

Piercey was having a crazy kind of morning. He was not in the least averse to spending his Saturday haunting stores selling videos, DVDs and CDs. Several of them had taken his money in exchange for the latest film or pop album. He had started with the better class shops, then had progressed to the cut-price ones, the exchange marts and, lastly, the sex shops, although none of the stuff hidden in Smith's locker had been pornographic.

The crazy aspect of this lengthy search was that, with the exception of the sex shops, Smith had been recognized in each one he visited. Always the same story.
He is here every weekend. Searching along the shelves and making notes, but never buying
.

One store manager told Piercey, ‘I send someone to ask if he needs assistance. Every time I do this. He says the denial. We see he is making the list, but why? We say to him that if he wants what is not there, we will make the order for him. But he says he is not deciding what he wants. Never does he know what it is he searches for, and still he makes the lists.'

‘Do you ask him to leave?'

‘There is no cause. He is quiet. He behave himself. He is polite. Yet never does he buy.'

‘Have you ever seen him take anything, hide it in his pocket?'

‘No. We watch very close. He just makes titles on paper and goes.'

Deciding to take a break, Piercey was eating a large steak with fries and a pile of mushrooms when the storm arrived. While attempting to make sense of Smith's behaviour he had been eyeing a girl at the next table who was alone and looking upset. Around seventeen, he guessed, with long hair an impossible shade of cerise, large amber eyes, luscious lips set in a pout and full breasts almost falling from a low-cut vest top. Nice, for a weekend diversion.

After a period of distant rumbling, the thunder announced itself with a deafening crash directly overhead. The girl squealed and cast Piercey a look of such appeal that he responded by moving to sit at her table.

‘Thunder's just a loud noise. It can't hurt you,' he said, noting how she trembled.

‘I thought the place was falling down.' She bit her lip. ‘I'm scared.'

Ah, not a fräulein, as he had imagined. A rather posh accent, too. ‘How about another coke?'

‘Not right now. Stop and talk?'

‘Sure.' He smiled. ‘Not thinking of going anywhere until this passes. What's your name?'

‘Zoe. What's yours?'

‘Phil.' Unable to ignore the lure of her breasts, just a few feet away across the table, he set about securing a satisfying outcome to this chance encounter. She was giving him the come-on, and he was no man to turn away from offered treats.

‘Couldn't help noticing you as soon as I came in. Had to beat a couple of local guys heading for the table next to yours,' he lied. ‘Told myself I was out of luck when I saw how sad you looked. Sad and lonely. Put two and two together and decided the boyfriend had failed to show up. He must be totally brainless.'

Another deafening crack of thunder made the girl jump and reach for his hand. ‘Don't go, will you? I really am scared. Always hated storms, since I was a baby.'

Clasping her hand, he moved his chair nearer to hers. ‘Didn't your parents tell you it's only clouds bumping together? Mine did, and I remember thinking how silly they were to talk such rubbish.'

It brought a faint smile. ‘I believed mine, but I still hated the noise.'

‘Funny how sounds can induce fear,' he said. ‘Remember that bit in
Jaws
when you started to feel afraid as soon as the creepy music began, although you hadn't even seen the shark yet?'

She nodded vigorously, still clutching his hand tightly. ‘I later watched it on TV and pressed the mute button when the music started. You won't believe how
un
frightening that scene was when there was silence.'

As the storm intensified, Piercey drew even closer and their heads were soon almost touching as they discussed scary films they had seen. After a while, Piercey fetched them both a cake and a cappuccino, which they consumed during a lull in the violence outside. It was then that he asked her the reason for her earlier sadness.

‘Am I right about the boyfriend leaving you in the lurch?'

She shook her head. ‘I wasn't expecting him. It's just . . . he went away and didn't tell me he was going. I've no idea where he is.'

‘That's a bit cruel.'

‘He wasn't my boyfriend. Just a . . . someone I knew.'

‘But you liked him a lot?'

She frowned. ‘Not the way you mean. He . . . well, he made life exciting.'

‘Someone else could do that,' Piercey pointed out persuasively. ‘There's more than one exciting guy around looking for a girl like you.'

Zoe looked at him guardedly. ‘What do you do?'

‘How d'you mean?'

‘Where do you work?'

Piercey was experienced. And sharp. No way did he ever give personal details to a potential one-night stand. ‘I'm a rep. Always on the move.'

‘Oh.' The flatness of her tone and the release of his hand told him she was unimpressed and cooling off.

‘How about you?' He put as much smarmy flattery in his voice as he could muster. ‘I'd guess you're either a model or an actress.'

That brought a resumption of interest, which coincided with a thunderclap and a flash of vivid lightning that lit up the cafe. She seized his hand again. ‘I'm
going
to be. My dad's getting a home posting after Christmas, and I'm going to enrol at RADA, if they'll have me. Mum says it's a foregone conclusion.'

Just his luck! A soldier's daughter still at school. Time to back off. ‘She's right. You play scared so real it'll bring tears to people's eyes. And that sad and lonely act, it's just as good.' He glanced very obviously at his watch, then stood. ‘Got to go, Zoe. Things to do, people to see. Maybe we'll run up against each other again some time. If not, I'll watch you on the screen and recall a stormy day in Germany.' That last was said in extravagant enough vein to impress her. ‘And remember, girl, it's only clouds banging together. Ciao!'

As he walked away, he noticed her canvas bag on the floor was chock-full of CDs. There was one obvious reason for so many. For actress read pop-singer. With that cerise hair and those thrusting boobs she would be caterwauling on the X Factor, not studying drama at RADA.

Clare Goodey spent that night on the camp bed in the Medical Centre, which was used when doctors wanted to maintain regular observation on a patient. On that night it was a wise decision, for it had grown wilder than ever outside. Around two in the morning, when the gale was banging against the side of the room she was in and keeping her awake, Clare made herself tea and went to look at Max. He was so deep in sedated sleep that he was unaware when his mobile began to ring. Thinking it must surely be urgent because of the hour, she picked it up to check on who was calling. The screen showed just the name LIVYA.

Having heard that Max was a widower, Clare knew it was not a desperate wife on the line. A sister? Family friend with bad news? She connected with the caller, saying quietly, ‘This is Doctor Clare Goodey. Max is unable to take calls right now, I'm afraid. Would you care to give me a message for him? Or, if it's urgent or very personal, I can ask him to call you at his earliest opportunity.'

‘What's wrong? Is he ill? Badly hurt?' The woman sounded young and very concerned.

‘Nothing serious, I assure you,' she said soothingly. ‘He should be up and about tomorrow. I mean, of course, later today. Shall I tell him to call you then?'

‘No, you can tell me exactly what's wrong, how bad he is.'

Taking exception to the woman's peremptory tone, Clare asked coolly if she was a relative.

‘I thought that restriction only applied when a patient was dying.'

‘Please don't be frivolous, Ms . . . ?'

‘
Captain
Cordwell. I'm here with Max's father, Brigadier Rydal.
He's
a relative, so perhaps you'll stop being so single-mindedly professional and answer my question so that I can tell him what's happened to his son.'

Tempted to request this equally determinedly professional woman to bring the father to the telephone to hear it for himself, Clare gave the details of Max's accident in clipped, strictly clinical terms. Then she added, even more coolly, ‘He's suffering from concussion, so no visitors just yet.'