French Leave (9 page)

So what does all this tell you, Watson? thought Max with an inner smile. Well, Holmes, the Fanshawes have no young children. And? Mrs Fanshawe does not have a career, because she spends her days tending this garden. How do you know it is she who tends it? That's easy, Holmes. This lusty man would never plant
pink and white
flowers. Well done, Watson!

Mrs Fanshawe appeared, as if by telepathy, with a tray bearing glasses of lime juice chilled by ice cubes. Max got to his feet and shook her hand, wondering as he often did how such a pair ever got together. Chalk and cheese personified, yet when she smiled her plain face came alive and her soft Irish brogue was immensely attractive. Max then had his answer. The pair were clearly devoted. Was this wonderful garden an outlet for the childless woman's maternal instinct?

Will Fanshawe broached the reason for Max's visit as his wife left them with their cold drinks. ‘Never pleasant when one of your men simply disappears, but this business of Smith is unsettling in the extreme. If some kind of accident occurred during the assault we would surely have found the man by now. I know that's a huge area, and some sections of it are rarely used, but if Smith had come to harm his body would be somewhere within the parameters of the exercise. We searched, and then your lads took over with dog handlers. The other option makes little sense.'

‘What option is that?' Max asked, sipping his lime juice.

‘Taking French leave. I mean, in the middle of an exercise, and in weather like this? No man in his right mind . . .'

‘So we have to consider the possibility that Smith was not. We deal with quite a few cases arising from temporary loss of control; a rush of irrational fear, dread or hatred. If Smith took off three days ago the odds are that something happened that morning to set him running from it.'

Fanshawe's boyish face creased in doubt. ‘Even so . . .'

‘Panic overrides reason, Will. Why do people climb higher and higher to escape danger when they know once they reach the top they'll be trapped with only one way down?'

‘You're saying Smith preferred the risk he was taking to facing something worse by staying?'

‘That's one theory. We've had a call suggesting Smith was murdered during the assault.'

‘
What
?'

‘A probable hoax, but we have to include it in our investigation until Smith is traced.' Max set his empty glass on the tray, noting its design of pink and white flowers. ‘As you said, no sign of him has been discovered to prove accidental injury or death on site. If we don't soon receive intelligence that he has been sighted somewhere, a search for a possible shallow grave will have to be undertaken.'

‘God, what a mess!' Fanshawe sighed. ‘I pride myself I run an effective company. They're a competent, enthusiastic band of men, on the whole. We have our pranksters like every unit – guys who push things as far as they can, and one or two barrack-room lawyers – but I had no suspicion of really deep undercurrents in Purbeck Company. My NCOs are first class. I'd expect them to have informed me of a dangerous situation in the ranks, and I'd have sorted it pronto.'

Knowing his next words would not be well received, Max put a theory to Fanshawe. ‘Sergeant Miller is somewhat less than first class. The Platoon Commander was aware of the concerted dislike of Smith and asked Miller to get to the bottom of it. Not only did Miller ignore this directive, he appears to be at the heart of the campaign of loathing. Miller told us, with very colourful adjectives, how he viewed John Smith. He has to be regarded as a front runner in a possible murder case.'

Fanshawe frowned. ‘Ah, I can be of some help there. Miller is under a great deal of stress right now, following an accident when his daughter fell from that bridge over the river in the park near the town centre. Hit her head on the way down and subsequently almost drowned, despite being a capable swimmer. She's in the local hospital under observation while they assess the extent of any lasting brain damage.'

‘Should Miller have been on the job under those circumstances?'

Fanshawe showed resentment now. ‘I know my own men, Max. After the first couple of days he needed to work.'

‘I understand that, but I should have thought a spell on admin would have been preferable to the demands of an exhausting exercise requiring swift decisions and swift reactions.'

The resentment doubled. ‘Mmm, the thinking of a policeman, not of a fighting soldier.' Fanshawe got to his feet in very obvious dismissal. ‘If I learn anything I believe would be relevant, I'll be in touch.' He began walking back to the house.

Max followed him. ‘One more thing. Jim Garson: most popular man in Purbeck Company. Star quality. His death hit everyone hard, and Smith had the misfortune to replace him.'

Fanshawe halted and faced Max, now looking faintly belligerent. ‘I'm not familiar with how SIB commanders deal with their subordinates, but we regimental men don't baby ours. We expect them, as fully-trained combat troops, to handle whatever comes their way.
Including
stepping into dead men's shoes.'

‘Something Smith apparently failed to do, and subsequently paid the penalty,' Max replied smoothly. ‘When we policemen discover the extent of that penalty, we'll be in touch.'

Emerging from the house with the show garden, Max looked hopefully at the deep purple sky to the west. A decent storm might bring the heatwave to an end and make life more bearable. He checked the time and decided to take a shower, then go in search of a light lunch before planning how to fill the rest of his day. By that time the storm would have come and passed, giving him more choices.

Stepping from the shower, Max wrapped a towel around his waist and contemplated the telephone on the desk. Livya should be on the verge of waking. Should he call her or wait for her to call him? If she had a heavy schedule yesterday she would probably need to sleep in, and would not be thrilled by her lover disturbing her at the crack of dawn. Better wait.

The dining room was empty. Accepting from the service bar two fat, brown, shiny sausages, one spoonful of savoury mash, another of peas and one of carrots, Max took his meal to a table and began to eat while reviewing his sessions with Lance Corporal Mason and Will Fanshawe. He had almost finished the meal when it occurred to him that he had failed to pick up on something Fanshawe had told him; failed to recognize what the man had
not
said.

Miller's daughter was in hospital in a serious condition after a fall from a bridge, putting her father under great stress. The emphasis during that conversation had been on Miller's attitude towards Smith, so Max had not delved into the details of the tragedy. They were not obviously relevant to the case SIB was investigating, yet Max now realized Fanshawe had been very economical with facts.

His mouth twisted in a wry smile. The thinking of a policeman, not a fighting soldier? So do some more police thinking! Why had the girl fallen? Had she been pushed during some larking that went wrong? Had she been with her father, her family? Somebody must have pulled her from the river and called for medical help, as he and Clare had done last night. Was a sense of guilt over the tragedy making Miller unstable enough to kill someone who was a persistent goad? Had Smith learned the truth of what had happened and confronted Miller with it?

His train of thought was broken by the rumble of distant thunder, and flashes of lightning across the dark rain clouds. The storm was approaching fast. Through the window, Max saw the branches of trees beginning to thrash around in the rising wind. Not the time to consider outdoor activity. Wait a while. Returning to his room, Max nevertheless knew the weather was not the reason for delay. He had to satisfy his curiosity.

Stripping back to just a towel around his waist, Max then punched out a number he was very familiar with, and hoped Klaus Krenkel would answer. He did. Max greeted him, and they exchanged the usual pleasantries until they reached the point when he had to give the reason for his call to the
Polizei
area commander, with whom the Redcaps often had to liaise.

‘I've heard the daughter of one of our sergeants fell from that bridge in the park and sustained a serious head injury. What can you tell me about the incident, Klaus?'

‘Did you not receive a report copy, Max?'

‘It would have gone to the father's regimental commander as we were not involved. No crime was committed, was it?'

‘That is correct. One of my mens took a statement from an adult man who pulled the girl from the water and called the medical wagon. It was Saturday evening. There was much drinking and silliness with young persons, as is Saturdays. This girl is but sixteen with the looks of eighteen. She has had the drink and will walk with balance on the top of the wall. And so she is falling in the river.'

‘A German resident rescued the girl?'

‘That is correct.'

‘What time did this occur?'

‘It had been dark for some time.'

‘And the girl was alone?' Max asked in surprise. ‘Surely she was with a group.'

‘The witness says there was a man, but he went away at the run when she fell. The English saying, “He took up his heels,” yes?'

‘He left her to her fate?'

‘It seems that is so, Max. A bad person, I think.'

Deeply intrigued, Max probed further. ‘Any evidence the runaway man
pushed
the girl from the bridge?'

‘I will just recall . . . no, if there had been saying of that we would start the investigation of attempt to kill. If you will wait for moments I will see the report and tell you of it.'

Max heard the sound of a drawer being opened, followed by the crackle of paper. Then Klaus said, ‘Here it is that Sharon Miller is pushing away the man who is trying to keep her from climbing the wall of the bridge. He is then watching. There is no account of attempt to kill. The witness is saying his attention is on Miller until she falls. The man is then running away, so Herr Braun is having to enter in the river to bring her to safety.' There was a short pause. ‘Is it that there is now a problem?'

‘No. We have been questioning Sergeant Miller as a witness in a different case altogether. I just wanted a few facts about the accident involving his daughter. You've been a great help, Klaus. Many thanks.'

‘If there is to be more of this case of the girl you will be informing of us?'

‘Of course. Mutual cooperation, as always.'

Cutting the connection, Max waited only a few moments before calling Tom's mobile number. When his friend answered it was to a background of female voices in loud disagreement.

‘Problems, Tom?'

‘Multiply by ten, then divide by three, and you'll be getting somewhere near an answer.'

‘It's the heat. It makes people bad-tempered.'

‘I can't get through to them that it's equally hot for me. We're en route to the hills for some fresher air. You're not still on the job, are you?'

‘Interesting angle I'm checking out. Piercey's interview with Miller mentioned he had a wife and two boys. There's also a girl.'

‘In hospital with head injuries.'

‘He told you that?'

‘Only after water torture and the removal of his fingernails.'

‘And?'

‘Offered stress over his daughter's situation as the basis of his loathing of Smith. Said he couldn't come to terms with the destruction of a young girl with brains, beauty and a lot of talent, while a pathetic, useless apology for a human being freeloaded his way through life unharmed.' The connection crackled making Tom's voice come and go, until Max heard him say, ‘As the father of daughters I understand his anguish over the fate of his girl. Not having met Smith, I reserve judgement over Miller's use of the man as a whipping boy.'

Max held the receiver from his ear as more violent crackling came through. When it subsided, he asked, ‘Could it have driven him to harm Smith?'

There was no reply. The line went dead as the storm arrived overhead. Day became night under a sky slashed by forked and sheet lightning. Soon, rain thundered against the window, obliterating any view from it. Clap after clap of thunder rattled the glass in its frame and shook the building's foundations.

There was nothing for it but to ride the tumult out, so Max stretched out on his bed, thinking about those old World War Two films he owned on video and watched frequently enough to know some of the dialogue by heart. Closing his eyes against the vivid flashes, he thought of those forties soldiers waging desert warfare against Rommel's army; battling through Sicily and Italy; landing on Normandy's beaches; defending the bridges at Arnhem; desperately trying to hold on to Singapore; all the while deafened by a bombardment ten times more menacing than this storm. How had they withstood it?

Unbidden came an imagined vision of John Smith. Apology for a human being? Certainly an apology for a soldier, if the collective descriptions were true. Was that a basis for murder? Would those old-time warriors have rid themselves of a John Smith by quietly killing him under cover of a battle? Given enough provocation, maybe. And the West Wilts were on the brink of departure to a war zone.

An hour later there was a lull in the maelstrom outside. It was already considerably cooler, so Max dressed in cotton slacks and polo shirt, then drove across to the Medical Centre to speak to the men suffering from exhaustion. His landline telephone was still dead, and his mobile had failed to connect with Washington. Craving action, yet knowing it to be folly to attempt a recreational journey just now, the chance to hear further views on John Smith was a safer option.