French Leave (2 page)

Miller turned on his heel and headed back to men who thought their exhausting endeavours were over. Dan was certain he heard Miller mutter, ‘You won't find him.'

26 Section, Special Investigation Branch, was working at half strength. Two men were on UK leave and others were without power for their computers. The telephones were working; the air conditioners were not. It was not only the military base that suffered from the power overload. All over Europe the grids were unable to cope with the demand for electricity. If the heatwave continued much longer many cities were considering half-day closing of factories and shops.

Max Rydal, Officer Commanding 26 Section, had sent his team home early on three days of the ten, not because they would find relief from the heat away from the office, but because there was little work presently on hand. Heat was traditionally believed to inflame passions, but 40o plus apparently persuaded criminals to put their plans on hold. All 26 Section was presently dealing with was a charge of sexual harassment from a woman who had ditched her boyfriend very humiliatingly in front of his mates, and a case of theft from the Armoury of a rifle and a supply of bullets.

Enquiries into the sexual harassment case had shown it was six of one and half a dozen of the other. SIB had found no case to answer, and the pair were being interviewed by social counsellors. The rifle and bullets were long gone, almost certainly flogged to a German dealer. They had had to be written off and a closer watch kept on the Armoury staff.

So it was with no sense of guilt that Max was playing hookey on this Friday morning to indulge in the sport that was usually his Sunday pleasure. Today, the pleasure was intensified by escaping from the worst of the heat to the cool river that ran between meadows and stands of tall trees. Even so, he rowed the skiff more languorously than usual, breaking the dappled surface with his blades to send ripples out towards the banks, where local Germans were walking dogs or quietly fishing before the relentless sun sent them home. Then, picnic parties would come with excited children to frolic in the water, and the charm of that river solitude would be lost.

This quiet activity allowed Max an hour or so of private thinking time. Becoming a military detective had satisfied his conflicting ambitions for soldiering and police work. Commanding 26 Section fulfilled him professionally. His personal life was more uncertain. Being widowed early in his marriage had left him without a focus. No wife, no children, no home. A room in an Officers' Mess among regimental men and women gave him scant sense of belonging, for Redcaps were not much loved by other soldiers. In consequence, Max welcomed solo moments when he could allow his thoughts to roam.

Relishing this sport that stretched his body after a night of inactivity, Max mentally reviewed last night's telephone conversation with Livya Cordwell, the new woman in his life. They should have met in London this weekend, but she had cancelled on her way to Heathrow with her boss, Max's father. An emergency meeting in Washington with their CIA counterparts.

Maintaining a relationship with a woman holding the same military rank, who worked for a brigadier with the Joint Intelligence Committee, was not easy. Duty frequently prevented one or the other from keeping dates. That she was in England and Max in Germany added complications. He was deeply smitten with the Anglo-Czech Livya, but although she appeared to reciprocate his feelings Max was uncertain where they were headed.

Livya was dedicated to her job and highly ambitious. Max was similarly dedicated, but he was in no hurry to rise up the promotion ladder. Reaching senior rank would mean a desk and paperwork while others did the detecting. Not a prospect he welcomed. He feared that marriage to an unambitious SIB captain, and producing a clutch of children, was not a welcome prospect to Livya. Even should she be willing to make such a commitment, would it work?

These deep thoughts were interrupted by a faint tinkling sound from the towel beneath his seat. His waterproof mobile. Livya missing him already, as they said in the States? Musing on whether it was against the law to use a mobile while rowing, he shipped oars and reached for it. The caller was his 2IC and friend, Sergeant Major Black.

‘Morning, Tom, don't tell me the rifle and ammo have been found where they'd fallen behind a cabinet.'

‘No such luck. Sorry to spoil your investigation of the river, but I thought you should hear this.'

‘Go on.'

‘The West Wilts have been on a ten-day exercise in preparation for Afghanistan. Returned to base last night minus one man. He went missing after a mock assault on an enemy stronghold. The Platoon Commander called out a rescue helo and organized a search of the area where it was believed he was last seen. No sign, but it's a huge area and the men were all pretty well spent after a demanding day. Interesting fact is that the Warrior sergeant who transported him is adamant the guy took off during the action. Says it would have been easy enough, with everyone advancing strung out across the battle area and concentrating on the ground ahead.'

‘Only a fool would go AWOL in that situation,' said Max as his skiff drifted slowly towards a clump of trees overhanging the bank.

‘Or a man desperate not to return to base.'

‘Suicidally desperate, Tom.'

‘Well, he hasn't been found after intensive searching. George Maddox has set his team alerting ferry ports, border controls, airports; all the usual getaway routes. They've also given Interpol a description. It's been slow work. Half the bloody lines aren't working.'

The small boat bumped lightly against the shallow bank and settled there in the welcome shade as Max said, ‘Come clean, Tom. A man who absconds during an exercise isn't serious enough to involve SIB.'

‘It could be more serious than a case of French leave. George Maddox has just been in touch to report an anonymous phone call to his office. Brief but concise.
Don't bother looking for Smith. Someone's finally done him in.
'

Gazing ruefully at the inviting stretch of water ahead, Max prepared to turn away from it. ‘I'll be there in a couple of hours, after I've grabbed some breakfast.'

At Section Headquarters Max found Tom, Sergeants Bush, Johnson and Piercey, and Staff Sergeant Melly, all lolling at desks with their attention on Sergeant Maddox, the one person in the office wearing the uniform of the Royal Military Police. The rest wore either lightweight grey/navy trousers or skirt, with a crisply starched white shirt. The accepted hot weather ‘uniform' for SIB.

After greeting them, Max said, ‘George, could you be attempting to pass the buck on this one?'

Maddox grinned. ‘I had to follow it up, sir.'

‘A hoaxer?'

‘Possibly. We've traced the call to a public phone on the base.'

‘Male or female?'

‘Definitely a guy. Adopted a heavy baritone, but there was a hint of a Brummie accent.'

‘Obvious in such a brief message?' Max questioned. ‘Could that have also been adopted?'

Maddox nodded. ‘I guess so. It's nothing new. You'd be surprised at how many calls we get from daft buggers aiming to wind up the Redcaps, but how I look at this one is it's too bloody hot for anyone to play tricks just for something to pass the time. The lads are flaked out on their beds in their underpants when they're off-duty. Other thing is there's been no reported sighting of Smith in spite of an extensive search and all-points check.'

‘Bearing in mind that police dogs suffer from the heat possibly more than humans,' put in Connie Bush, ‘and that the chances of them picking up one scent in a vast area that's been covered by tracked vehicles and several hundred men over the past ten days, it's asking a lot of the animals.'

‘The terrain will have been greatly disturbed by explosives,' Phil Piercey pointed out. ‘A body could lie out there in a shallow grave for months without being discovered. Wait for the next exercise. It'll be disinterred by a mock explosion.'

Tom, always irritated by Piercey's wild, often humorous, input, snapped, ‘There's no evidence yet of unlawful killing.'

‘If someone's “finally done him in”, there'll be a body,' Piercey argued. ‘And don't forget there's a wooded area on that training ground where murder could be committed unseen by guys busy getting to grips with the enemy.'

‘
Finally
done him in?' quoted Heather Johnson. ‘That suggests Smith has been a thorn in someone's side for a while.'

Max turned to George Maddox. ‘Another aspect of this disappearance is that wherever Smith is, dead or alive, a rifle and other MoD property went with him. If he's gone AWOL, he'll also be charged with theft. If he's been killed, we need to know where that equipment is now. Find that and we might find the killer.' He frowned. ‘How long do you intend to continue the search?'

‘We're already scaling it down. This is the third day. In these extreme conditions there's only a fifty-fifty chance he'd survive if he's still out there. He could have a civilian contact who's housing him until the fuss dies down. If not, the river's only six Ks from the edge of the combat ground. He could've reached it by nightfall on the first day, so water would be no problem, and it's possible he's getting food and shelter at gunpoint from vulnerable locals. If he
has
been murdered, the urgency to find him is diminished. My men are whacked and need a rest while SIB takes a crack at it.'

‘Fair enough,' said Max. ‘We'll investigate the kind of man Smith is and how he related to his fellows. Uncover his background, find out who might seize the opportunity to get rid of him. If that call to you was a hoax, we'll attempt to find out why it was made. Our investigation should also point the way to the whereabouts of the rifle and kit belonging to Smith.'

‘John Smith,' mused Piercey. ‘Are we sure this guy's real with a name like that?'

‘You can find out by taking yourself off now and questioning Sergeant Miller, who commands the Warrior that Smith was in,' Tom said promptly. ‘Get cracking.'

‘Are they on base at present?' Max asked Maddox.

‘Off-duty until Monday, but I guess most of them'll be getting some kip ready for the discos tomorrow night.'

‘Right, leave it with us on a temporary basis. If you get word of Smith let us know pronto.'

‘Course, sir. Thanks.'

Maddox left the building on the heels of Piercey, who looked disgruntled at being excluded from the rest of the briefing. Max then proceeded to delegate tasks.

‘Connie and Heather, track down the men who travelled in the Warrior with Smith. Get their views on him and why he might have decided to skedaddle.' He turned to Melly. ‘Staff, find out what you can about the men in Smith's platoon: who are the dodgy ones that have to be kept on a tight rein, who might have a specific grudge against Smith, which of them speaks with a Brummie accent. You'll get most of that from the Colour Sergeant. There's not much that escapes their notice.'

Left with just Tom in the Incident Room, Max said irritably, ‘Can't we get one of these bloody computers up and running?'

‘No chance. What power there is is monopolized by the various regimental HQs, who have priority usage. I'm fairly well acquainted with Staff Canning of the West Wilts. I'll have him bring up Smith's record on his computer and give me a printout.'

‘Good. I'm going to have a word with the Platoon Commander who, according to George, is a new boy fresh from Sandhurst. Must be a worried guy. Losing a man with full equipment during his first command, albeit an exercise.'

‘What do you reckon to the notion that we have a murder on our hands?' asked Tom, walking to the door with Max.

‘I give it one out of ten. The bastard's probably gone off because he's discovered soldiering is tougher than he expected, and he doesn't fancy the reality of Afghanistan.' Reaching their cars, Max opened all four doors of his to let out some of the heat and looked at Tom across its roof. ‘Ever see
The Four Feathers
? Officer's pals and fiancée send him white feathers because he resigns his commission when his regiment is ordered to the Sudan.'

Tom smiled. ‘I thought it was World War Two films you knew back to front and sideways. The Sudan was well before then.'

‘The sentiment is the same, wherever and whenever. Cowards aren't tolerated by fighting men.'

‘So you've just put forward a belief in the premise you gave only one out of ten a moment ago.'

Max grinned. ‘It's the heat, Tom. Addles my brain; I think I'm in a past era. Let's make a few enquiries about the runaway John Smith to show willing, by which time he'll have been apprehended at a ferry port.'

‘Or discovered hiding out in some fräulein's squalid bedsit, having sold the rifle and equipment to her pimp.'

Max's grin widened. ‘Now who's wandering in the realms of fiction?' he chaffed, as he sank on the driver's seat of an oven on wheels.

Dan Farley occupied a room in a different officers' mess from the one Max was obliged to call home. He tracked the young subaltern down to find him clad just in shorts, lying on his bed reading a science-fiction paperback with his door open. Hastily pulling on a T-shirt after inviting Max in, he offered tea.

‘Thanks, but no. I won't interrupt your well-earned rest any longer than necessary,' Max told him, settling on the desk chair and noting a framed photograph of a laughing blonde cuddling a golden retriever with a red rosette attached to its collar. ‘Your girlfriend, Dan?'

He coloured. ‘Not just at the moment.'

‘Ah!' A lovers' quarrel he expected to resolve? ‘Nice dog. Best of breed at a show?'