Spanish Inquisition (3 page)

With her gaze seemingly glued to the bedclothes, Norton raised both hands then let them drop in a gesture that irritated Tom with its negativity. What was she playing at?

‘You were very eager to tell Corporal Turvey who had knocked you about when you went to the RMP Post for help. You named the person responsible several times, both to her and to Captain Goodey when the ambulance brought you here. Have you had second thoughts on that? Is that the problem?'

‘No . . . it was him.'

‘Who?'

‘Phil Piercey.'

He drew in his breath, ‘You're sure of that? It was dark.'

Her expression as she glanced up smacked of derision. ‘When someone starts feeling you up, talking dirty, you know bloody well who he is . . . and there was only one of them who didn't understand the meaning of NO!' she added with growing heat. ‘He tried it on before we left. I had to fight him off and run out to the auditorium where two of the blokes were all set to sort him out. But he skipped out the rear door, didn't he! Must've waited to get me alone where it was dark.'

‘So you didn't leave the building with the men who scared Sergeant Piercey off? Why was that?'

She sought inspiration from the bedcover, eventually coming up with, ‘I did, but I realized I'd left something in the dressing room and told them to go ahead and I'd catch up.'

‘They didn't offer to go back with you?' At her silence, he asked, ‘Had Bill Jensen locked the Centre by then?'

‘No,' she returned swiftly. ‘He was still there, so the lads didn't need to go with me.'

‘I see,' said Tom, knowing all this could be checked with Jensen and the two men. ‘Who were this pair of Galahads?'

‘Just boys in the chorus. I hardly knew them because I played the lead role, you know.'

‘Yes, I watched the performance and attended the party afterwards. You were surrounded by admirers congratulating you even as I and my family left. Why were you still at the Centre with just a few chorus members you barely knew when Bill Jensen was about to lock up? I find it strange that all the people you had rehearsed and acted with over the space of two months were apparently unconcerned about leaving you in an almost empty theatre at the end of the party.'

‘No, not at all. They knew I'd be drained after putting my all into the final performance. The role of Carmen is very demanding. It takes a long time to emerge from it. I was gradually shedding that other personality in the peace and privacy of my dressing room when he came in and began pawing me.'

‘He?'

‘Phil Piercey.'

‘You were still in your stage costume?'

‘Which he tried to rip off me.'

‘He attempted to strip you? Knowing there were other people nearby?'

Hearing the doubt in Tom's voice, she qualified that comment. ‘He said he wanted to.'

‘Go on.'

‘That's when I ran out to where they were and told them what he'd done.'

‘But you just admitted he only said he
wanted
to strip you. He hadn't actually done anything.'

They were suddenly interrupted by an orderly bearing two mugs of tea, along with a plastic cup containing two pills for the patient. Tom wished him further, but Maria Norton took advantage of the break for more histrionics, feigning exhaustion and wincing each time she put the mug to her swollen lips. Fearing the pills were more sedatives, Tom determined to push on while she was drinking the tea.

‘So you returned to your dressing room to pick up something you'd left there. What was that?'

‘My mobile phone.' It came out pat. Too pat.

‘Did Bill Jensen see you?'

She shook her head. ‘Don't know.'

‘What did you do then?'

‘Went out to join the lads who'd offered me a lift.'

‘And?'

‘The mobile rang. My mother calling to find out how the last night went down. By the time she said goodbye I found the car park was empty. They hadn't waited for me.'

Tom was growing angry with this charade. ‘You're saying you stood outside the Recreation Centre wearing no more than a thin dress well after one a.m. and had a long conversation with your mother, knowing people were waiting to take you home?'

She closed her eyes wearily. ‘You don't know my mother, sir.'

‘So tell me what happened next.'

‘That's when he jumped out on me.'

‘Where from?' he asked, knowing there were no bushes in the area.

She passed a hand over her brow and sighed. ‘He just came out of the darkness and began hitting me, calling me filthy names, saying he'd teach me a lesson.'

‘Did he try to strip you, attempt anything sexual?'

‘He was just angry and vicious,' she said in a voice growing fainter.

Certain she was about to drift into artificial sedation, Tom asked bluntly, ‘Who's the father of your baby, Corporal Norton?'

Her lids shot up and the black eyes that had shown such fire to Don Jose while tormenting him, stared at Tom with hostility. ‘I've told you who did this to me. One of yours. Don't pry into my private life, go and sort
him
out! I'm in pain and feel very ill.' With that she began calling for a nurse, and Tom gladly left her to perform another stirring drama.

Max Rydal spotted her from the bedroom window as she turned on to the ochre brick path faded to pale cream by the strong Spanish sun, and he groaned with annoyance. Mollie Hubbard owned the gaudy villa further down the steep slope of the hill, which unfortunately made her his near neighbour. His
only
neighbour.

After a month in the German hospital near the military base Max had been granted three months' convalescent leave to recover fully from the injuries inflicted by an explosion activated by a soldier suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. Clare Goodey owned the sizeable villa in a popular Spanish resort as part of her divorce settlement, and she had insisted on installing him there with a stack of books, his favourite CDs and enough food in the fridge freezer to keep even the most avid trencherman satisfied.

She had spent the first five days at the villa, sitting with him quietly reading or listening to music. His broken jaw had been successfully repaired in Germany, but extended conversation had been best avoided at that early stage in his recovery. His broken arm was still in plaster, which had prevented him from using the swimming pool that beckoned so enticingly. The sight of Clare in a swimsuit partially compensated, while at the same time filling him with natural male urges. The two chipped vertebrae caused him no problem, it was the chest wound which had kept him so long at half strength – something that would have any naturally vigorous man chafing at the bit.

Clare had arranged for him to attend the local hospital to have the plaster removed and his arm X-rayed when what he regarded as his penance was due to end. She had flown over to supervise this, and had remained for three days to ensure he did not do too much too soon. That first time in the pool with her had intensified his longings, but had tired him so much he had been forced to bow to the reality of the punishment his body had taken on the day that haunted his waking hours.

Over and over he told himself he should have guessed what Knott intended to do, and prevented him. The traumatized man would still be alive and receiving the help he had needed. Such a tragic waste of a brave, talented soldier. Thanks to Clare, in her dual role of caring woman and doctor, his illogical sense of guilt had gradually eased and they were tentatively exploring a new state of what had been a casual friendship between neighbours and professional colleagues.

Max, widowed after a two-year marriage and Clare, recently divorced from a wealthy playboy Guards officer, were taking the altered relationship very slowly, so Max's injuries were not the only reason why they had occupied separate bedrooms during Clare's visits – a fact Mollie Hubbard had unfortunately been aware of.

Being experienced enough in both his private and professional lives to recognize a predatory divorcée set on snaring a new sexual partner, Max had tried every repelling tactic without success. Initially, he had been unable to leave the villa, so a precedent had been set by the determined Mollie who had visited whenever she wished and set herself up as his carer, immune to even the broadest hints.

Once he was able to drive to the village for a meal, or for a drink in the bar run by a former paratrooper and his local girlfriend, Mollie had invariably appeared. Short of being unforgivably rude, Max had been unable to rid himself of the forty-five-year-old who believed she was still in the first flush of youth and irresistible.

Now here she was walking in on his departure preparations. He had reserved a seat on the afternoon flight to Germany, and the plan had been to slip away leaving a farewell note for her to receive once he was well away. There was no chance to pretend he was out; the hire car was there in the car port.

Having rattled the knocker on the front door, the wretched woman was coming to the rear of the property, where the pool Max had used an hour ago gleamed in the noonday sun. Next minute, he heard her usual girlish, ‘Cooee' coming from the large open plan ground floor.

Gritting his teeth he descended the stone staircase, looking at his watch with a worried expression. ‘Mollie!' he said crisply, ‘I had a call from Germany. A life or death situation. Extremely hush-hush, of course. I'm the only person they'll negotiate with and the sand's running out for the hostage.' He took her arm in a strong clasp and walked her back out to the patio. ‘They're sending an armed helicopter to pick me up within the hour. I know I can trust you to keep this under your hat and invent a suitable lie to tell everyone here explaining my swift departure, because this concerns national security. Thanks for all your kindness. I'll never forget it.'

That last sentence was true enough, he thought, and he returned to the bedroom and his packing, first entering the bathroom to wipe the lipstick from his mouth and cheeks. Dear God, what a sad woman! He pitied the next innocent male she fastened on. She would doubtless be in the bar tonight repeating word for word the yarn he had spun, revelling in the attention she would get.

Approaching the airport an hour later, Max chuckled. No sign of the armed helicopter arriving to pick him up! With a surge of gladness he relished the prospect of being back in his apartment tonight; back to the life he thrived on. Two weeks of his leave remained, but he felt ready and fit enough to resume command of 26 Section and become involved in the cases presently ongoing. With luck, there would be something meaty to get his teeth into.

A
fter a very bumpy flight the aircraft arrived ten minutes ahead of schedule. By the time Max collected his two bags and secured a taxi, it was almost twenty-one thirty. Half an hour to reach his apartment, but it would still be a reasonable time to call Tom for news of the state of play, and to explain to Clare why he had come home.

In truth, he would prefer to leave that last until the morning, but she would be aware of someone moving around in his rooms and investigate. She had been keeping an eye on the place during his extended absence.

Once he was back to normal routine the question of deciding the true nature of their relationship would have to be settled, and he was still unsure what that was. With the pain of Livya Cordwell's rejection still hovering, he had no intention of rushing into an affair and risking a repetition. Half inclined to chicken out and take a hotel room for the night, Max decided to give Mollie Hubbard's behaviour as his reason for leaving the villa, saying nothing about how keen he was to be with Clare again. That should keep things neutral for a week or so.

His spirits lifted on sighting the two-storey building which contained two identical apartments separated by a communal large sitting and dining room for entertaining. It was the only home he had, there not having been a family one since his mother died when he was six. Andrew Rydal had sold up and lived in officers' messes around the world while his only son was a boarder in schools, university and then the Army.

Max understood why his father had preferred to live in military quarters on being widowed. He, himself, had done the same after his two-year marriage to Susan had ended with her death in a car crash, but he had lost his own son with her that day. His heady recent romance with his father's ADC had set Max yearning for a real home and children, but Lyvia had wanted those same things with her charismatic boss. She was continuing to work for Andrew even though he had married again very unexpectedly last year, content with no more than the crumbs from his table. Max thought she was surely exacerbating the wound.

Clare's car was not in its spot beside his own. Max was not certain whether to be glad or sorry, but told himself the problem of explaining had been solved for him. If she returned later he would be in bed with the apartment in darkness, and she would have no idea he was there until tomorrow morning.

After a three-month absence his rooms had that stale air of non-occupation, so he threw open the rear windows while downing a large whisky as he unpacked his clothes. It was good to be back, even if there was nothing to eat in the fridge freezer. He had slept through the meal service on the flight – not a great miss, probably – but he felt in need of some kind of sustenance so he opened a tin of corned beef and sandwiched thick slices smeared with mustard between cream crackers from an unopened packet. Weird, but better than nothing.

While he sat chewing the last mouthful, he punched in the number of the landline to Tom's rented house within easy reach of the base. Nora answered, and sounded glad to hear from him.

‘Max! How are you? I guess it's a damn sight warmer down there where you are than it is here at the moment.' Then, as if she suddenly realized how late it was, she asked, ‘Is everything all right?'