French Leave (7 page)

The heat assaulted Max when he left the Mess by the door nearest to the car park, and it dawned on him that the riverside inn he had in mind would be full to capacity on a night like this. So would every other outdoor drinking place. And it would be hot, hot, hot. Maybe the mess bar was the best option.

Clare appeared in an open two-seater that was clearly a classic. She noticed Max's slight hesitation after her invitation to hop in. ‘Don't say it,' she warned. ‘Don't even think it.'

He did not say it, but he could not help thinking it as he stepped over the door and arranged his six feet three inches in the available space with the caution of a man about to dice with death. That notion was soon knocked on the head. Clare was a skilled and very careful driver, and the pleasure of open-air propulsion after the stifling interior of his own car completed Max's sense of well-being.

Once on the autobahn, he said, ‘Congratulations. You handle this beauty like a pro.'

She turned briefly to smile at him. ‘I've done some amateur track racing. Not in this.' She turned back to the road ahead. ‘My father was a triple champion one year. He taught me. I loved it, but I could never push myself beyond the risk barrier the way he could.'

‘Medical knowledge of what injuries a crash can inflict keeping you on the side of caution?'

She laughed. ‘No, just not enough bottle.'

He thought briefly how much he would like to demonstrate his own bottle on a Harley Davidson – an impulse that had sent him on an unannounced visit to Livya's parents' home last Christmas – but he said nothing to his present companion about his boyhood urge to emulate Steve McQueen's famous motorcycle escapade in
The Great Escape
. Livya teasingly called him Steve when she called him late at night in a particularly loving mood, and he was secretly delighted.

He was so lost in these thoughts he almost missed the turning that would take them to the riverside inn, but Clare was quick off the mark and swung on to it very smoothly. When they arrived, Max was dismayed. The eating place that looked so attractive and peaceful on Sunday mornings was now swarming with people.

‘God, it's a bloody circus!'

Turning off the ignition, Clare prepared to get out. ‘Just the remedy we need. Come on!'

Edging carefully into a position where he could throw his leg over the low door, Max surveyed the boisterous crowd with continuing reluctance. As a young, single subaltern he had thrown himself into occasions like this with several friends, and had enjoyed every rowdy moment. Marriage to Susan had brought an end to that kind of youthful roistering. Her death had led him to avoid any kind of mass jollity.

The inn was a three-storey chalet laden with scarlet geraniums in boxes and baskets. Max was familiar with the interior pine booths, which had rustic designs carved in the backs of the seats, and cushions covered in folklore-woven cloth. It would be easy to gain intimate privacy in there, for it seemed all the patrons had chosen open air above cosiness.

Before he could suggest they take advantage of the deserted restaurant, Clare had caught the attention of a brawny, silver-haired man in lederhosen who smiled, shuffled along the bench seat, and patted the space he had vacated. Grabbing Max's arm, Clare headed for the offered seat and gave smiling thanks in good German. Before he knew it, two plump, elderly women in dirndls and embroidered white blouses who were sitting opposite the man and his male companion, also in lederhosen, shuffled along their bench and invited him to perch at the end of it beside them.

By now well aware that Clare was controlling this evening jaunt, Max was swept up in the kind of merry-making he had shunned for four years. With nothing about their appearance to betray their military status, they were taken for tourists by these locals who were eager to show friendship. Clare's German was better than Max's, but he was able to follow most of what was said.

Their companions were eight couples in national dress who were celebrating the sixtieth birthday and the fortieth wedding anniversary of various members of the party, and were well into the jollity of the occasion.

Brushing away their protests, the Germans called for steins for their instant friends. For a brief moment Max came into his own when the waitress recognized him and greeted him with considerable warmth, asking with a laugh where he had tied up his boat. This obliged him to explain that he regularly rowed along this river and breakfasted here.

‘I've never taken to boating,' Clare confessed.

‘Too slow for a brrum-brrum woman?'

‘Is that how you see me, Max?'

‘I haven't had time yet to get the full picture.'

‘You don't need to,' she replied enigmatically.

The evening continued in a fashion Max had no control over. Wisely limiting his alcohol intake by making the huge stein last a very long time, he was unable to escape the traditional beer garden singing and swaying with linked arms to the rhythm. Clare threw herself into it. Egged on by the birthday girl, whose plump attributes pressed hard against him when swaying, Max soon found himself enjoying the convivial celebration.

When dusk arrived the coloured lights strung around the large garden came on, reflecting shimmeringly in the water lapping the parched grass on the bank. Before long, the river became too great a temptation to a youthful group, whose heedless imbibing had removed any sense of restraint from them. One after the other they left their table to run and jump into the water. This brought the team of waiters from the inn to remonstrate and order them out. They were having too much fun, however, and their defiant frolicking grew ever wilder.

Max watched in some concern, knowing there was a strong current along this stretch. With the water level presently so low it was probably more sluggish, but the fully-clad bathers were too drunk to control their actions, which were irresponsible, if not actually risky.

While some customers found the incident amusing, the older clientele were mostly disapproving and several had mobile phones to their ears. Max guessed they were calling the
Polizei
but, knowing the demands on them over any weekend were as heavy as those on George Maddox's team, he did not believe they would attend an incident like this.

Herr Blomfeld, the inn's manager, strode down to the water's edge to order the three men and girls out and off his premises. They were having too much fun to heed him. Short of wading in and physically removing them, there was nothing he could do.

Then it happened. One of the lads stripped off his T-shirt and began swinging it wildly round and round above his head, chanting football slogans. The other two men followed suit, but one of them was too close to the girls and his sodden garment hit one of them in the face with such force it knocked her off her feet.

Mere seconds passed before Max jumped up from the bench and began to run forward. The girl had not surfaced, but her friends were too helpless with laughter to notice. He heard shouts of alarm all around him as he reached the shallow bank and plunged into water rippling with rainbow colours reflected from the fairy lights.

It was well past midnight when Max let himself into his room and stripped off his damp clothes. The housekeeper at the inn had done her best to iron his trousers dry enough to travel in Clare's car, but they stank of the river, like his shirt and underpants. As he stood beneath the warm shower and washed that smell from his body and hair, he knew he would not row that river in future without remembering this evening.

Clare had ruined her immaculate tunic and skirt by kneeling on the wet bank to resuscitate the unconscious girl, and she had insisted on calling an ambulance. Max could still picture her standing in muddy, crumpled clothes as she berated the youngsters for drinking to excess in such high temperatures. She had not minced words to explain in medical terms the reactions of brain and body to such stupidity.

They had not said much during the drive back to base. It had seemed unnecessary. Walking together from the car park to their rooms, Clare had said quietly, ‘We can't escape from what we are, can we?'

‘Do you want to?' he had asked curiously.

‘I suppose not. Not deep inside.' At her door, she had bade him goodnight, then added, ‘You've definitely gone up a rung or two, Max.'

Clad in loose boxer shorts, Max lay on his bed gazing at the hazy full moon outside his window. It had been quite a day, yet the events of the evening had driven from his thoughts the problem of Private John Smith. And those of his relationship with Livya Cordwell.

Tom's morning began badly. It was not unusual for two of his daughters to quarrel with each other. When all three spat and clawed it was difficult to restore order. The trouble began at breakfast when Tom announced that they would not be setting out for the hills until around eleven thirty because he had to conduct an interview.

Beth looked up from her bowl of cereal in protest. ‘You're always doing this. It's Saturday. Everyone has
Saturday
off. Why can't you?'

‘Because I'm not everyone. We'll only set out an hour or so later than planned.'

‘The
plan
was to go at nine thirty. We'll be going
two hours
later,' Gina pointed out moodily.

Striving to keep the situation light, Tom said, ‘Haven't you three yet worked out that Mum suggests a departure time at least fifty minutes early, knowing you won't be ready until half an hour after that?'

Maggie, thirteen and vastly smitten with a German boy who lived opposite their rented house, aired a view she expressed almost every day. ‘If we had
two
bathrooms we'd all be ready in time.'

‘You'd hog one of them trying to make yourself beautiful for Hans, so it wouldn't make any difference,' snapped Gina, at eleven fast reaching the age to hog a bathroom herself.

‘Damn bathrooms,' cried Beth. ‘I want to go to the hills right after breakfast like we planned.'

‘Watch that language,' warned Nora. ‘We are going, but later.'

‘I don't want to go at all,' sighed Maggie. ‘I hate it up there. There are snakes all over the place.'

‘Don't exaggerate,' said Gina scathingly. ‘You just don't want to trek. It would get rid of your rolls of fat quicker than that stupid diet.'

‘Fat! Have you looked at yourself lately?'

Beth shoved her half-full cereal bowl across the table. ‘All you two think about is how you look. I can tell you.
Hags
, both of you!'

Usually a controlled peacemaker, Nora lost her temper and told them that if they did not shut up they'd stay at home tidying and cleaning their rooms. Coping with three bright, sparky girls was a job and a half at the best of times, but Nora was feeling the heat during these school holidays. She probably also missed having wedding or evening dresses to make – her enjoyable hobby that alleviated the demands of motherhood and brought in money for extras.

Tom felt a pang of guilt over leaving her to deal with their offspring, but it did not last long. He found young girls incomprehensible at times. It had been better when they were cute toddlers. Even Beth, nearly ten, no longer believed her father was a totally unblemished hero. Boys would have been easier. He would understand them.

Sergeant Eric Miller was brought in by Staff Sergeant Melly, and was volubly angry at this treatment. Tom had approached the interview with professional calm, but Miller's aggression aroused his own.

A sandy-haired man of average height, with well-developed muscles, Miller's entire mien was belligerent. It was apparent before he said a word. When he did speak, it was in a torrent of them.

‘This is bloody persecution. I told your sergeant all I knew about that bastard Smith. What right d'you have to bring me in like a frigging criminal? What authority?'

‘The authority of military law,' snapped Tom. ‘I don't believe you told Sergeant Piercey everything when questioned at home. Away from family distractions you're likely to remember much more about the day Private Smith disappeared.'

‘Bring in the thumbscrews, do you?' Miller sneered. ‘Or is it an injection of something that makes men say what you want?'

‘We're not the KGB.' Tom pretended to read Piercey's report although he knew it almost word for word. ‘You gave my sergeant a scathing opinion of the missing man. Even by platoon sergeants' standards it was excessive. I want to know what Smith had done to prompt such violent reactions in you. I want to know why you were so certain, even on first discovering Smith's absence, that he had gone AWOL.' He glanced at the report again. ‘When Sergeant Piercey asked what you meant by stating that men of the West Wilts sorted out their problems without help, you replied, “That's for you fancy-boy plods to find out”.'

Tom stared him straight in the eyes. ‘This fancy-boy plod is going to find out before you leave this room. You can be here for an hour or an entire day. We have facilities for an overnight stay too, so it's entirely up to you.'

Miller moved uneasily in his chair. ‘Look, he came to my house unannounced, asking questions. My wife was upset; the kids thought I'd done something bad. It riled me.'

‘The way Private Smith did?'

‘I didn't say that.'

Tom glanced again at the report. ‘You called him a spineless little worm, a sneaky, snivelling little creep, a waste of space, rotten to the core, a turd and an arse-licker. I'd say he riled you in the extreme.'

Knowing he was backed into a corner, Miller said, ‘You've met 'em, sir. Know from the start they're going to be bloody useless. Smith never fitted in, became one of the team. OK, so there's some who keep themselves to themselves off-duty. Reading or doing crosswords; listening to music. We've one who even listens to people reading books. But they're still part of the platoon; have one or two mates.'