One

Glitzy, colourful department stores seething with shoppers clutching gift lists and spending lavishly. Outdoor markets tempting families and young people with festive decorations, nativity scenes, blown-glass baubles, candles, carved wood nutcrackers, gingerbread men, hot chestnuts or potato skins, and mugs of steaming punch. Coloured lanterns bobbing in the breeze around the skating-rink where the young and not-so-young circle to the music of a hurdy-gurdy. The run up to Christmas in Germany.

At the British base fifteen kilometres from the town the usual round of events was underway. Dinner parties, cocktails, discos, knockout darts and football matches; a ‘Mastermind’ quiz for the more intellectual; bring-and-buy sales of home-made cakes, puddings, pies and mincemeat; bingo and tombola; fancy-dress parties for the children of the two regiments and several small detachments stationed there.

Kevin McRitchie had not wanted to attend the party. Even less had he wanted to wear fancy dress. At thirteen he regarded himself too old for this kind of stupidity, although one or two others of his age were there. His birthday five days ago had made him a teenager, and his sights were set on strobe lights, amplifiers, eager fans and alcopops. He was determined to make a breakthrough by the end of the year and approach a recording company.

He was only there at the Recreation Centre because his father had insisted that he chaperone his young sisters. The final straw had been when Shona and Julie fought like cat and dog because each had suddenly wanted to wear the Sugar Plum Fairy costume. Their father had made them toss for it and promised the loser a present to compensate. Shona was flaunting her success and Julie, in a chicken outfit, was behaving abominably. Kevin felt like shaking them both, but that would be reported and lead to a thump around the ear.

He escaped for a while to have a surreptitious cigarette. He was working up to smoking pot as soon as he got the chance. That would be really cool. The first floor toilets were empty which suited him fine. Opening a small ventilator he lit up, shivering from the draught and from the gratification of defying his father’s strict rules. Snowflakes were now drifting past the window; large, serious ones. The kind that settled and stayed. If they continued all night his father would insist on family fun with the girls, which would leave him alone in the house tomorrow. Hooray!

The smoke in his throat set him coughing, which meant he did not hear the stealthy footfall behind him. The blow to his head knocked him to the floor.

At the furthest boundary, well away from the beating heart of the military establishment, a number of men and women in coveralls were trying to create order from chaos. 26 Section Special Investigation Branch, Royal Military Police, was moving into new headquarters; namely two disused stores blocks renovated and adapted to police requirements. The Redcaps had arrived to find the constructors still working on the toilets and detention rooms, and the heating system not yet up and running. Snow had begun falling, the barometer showed minus six Centigrade, and tempers were getting frayed.

Max Rydal, Officer Commanding but not a man to use rank to avoid hard work, was hefting technical equipment and boxed documents from trucks to offices with his personnel. The bitter wind made minus six seem more like minus sixteen, but there was scant relief within the building. The unheated interior exuded the damp chill of new bricks and mortar, barely dried paint and the fustiness of standard-issue carpeting that had been stored for a long period.

The convoy of trucks and assorted smaller vehicles had set out at first light and it was now late evening. Portaloos and a drinks machine had been set up for them and Max had twice sent his staff in batches for hot meals, but he knew he must now call a halt. Boxes were being dropped, people were stumbling into items left carelessly on the floor, the F-word was echoing from the stark walls. Time to go home.

Max sighed with weariness. Home for them all was also new and strewn with boxes and holdalls. The unmarried ones had been given rooms in accommodation blocks on the base, where they knew from experience they would be cold-shouldered, resented and regarded with hostility by those around them. The Royal Military Police was the most unloved corps in the British Army until, of course, a lost child was returned to distraught parents, a rapist was caught and punished, an abused wife was rescued from a violent husband, or an advancing armoured column in a war zone used the safe route earlier reconnoitred and cleared of hazards by the RMP. Then, the Redcaps were the heroes of the day.

No married quarters being presently available, the new arrivals were being temporarily housed on a small estate several kilometres from the main gate. The German residents did not welcome British soldiers and their families any more than the British wanted to live cheek by jowl with them. It was supposed to be a short-term arrangement, but no one believed the rumour that 26 Section would eventually have its own mess and living quarters. The latest cuts in defence spending made nonsense of that hope.

Max had had no option but to secure a room in the nearest Officers’ Mess to the new headquarters. It was an arrangement he was unhappy with. Living amid the members of a large regiment was akin to being a cuckoo in someone’s nest. Add the fact that he was generally regarded as a policeman, who knew little about real soldiering, and the cuckoo theory was greatly strengthened.

Leaving his office and locking the door behind him, Max set about sending everyone off into the snowy night with thanks for their efforts and offering them a late start in the morning. Then he crossed to his second in command, Sergeant-Major Black, who was checking the internal security before they left.

‘Any word from Klaus Krenkel on our missing truck, Tom?’

‘Zilch. It’s Saturday night. All his guys are out patrolling the town, covering the trouble spots. In their view this is our baby.’

‘It is, of course, but a little cooperation wouldn’t hurt when it’s pretty obvious the truck has been hijacked by locals who know how to shift stuff faster than it can be traced.’

‘Sure it has. If Treeves was in cahoots with some wheeler-dealer he’d hide his payout where he could fetch it later, concoct some lie about being jumped while checking a rattle in the engine, and make bloody certain we’d find him swiftly.’

‘He’d also have gone all out to ensure he was the last in the convoy. The other drivers insist it was the luck of the draw. No, I don’t believe this was an inside job. It’s been obvious for some weeks we were preparing to move out lock, stock and barrel. The local sharp boys spotted that and awaited their chance. Our equipment could be on sale in Holland tomorrow.’

Tom perched on the edge of a desk, arms folded. ‘They’d have to swap vehicles before the border. That leaves a vast area to search for Treeves and the truck, possibly no longer together. Hicks and Styles drove back over the first part of our route; Stubble and Meacher took the rest. Found no sign of a truck heading off the road into the trees. You know those narrow tracks running through the forest, just wide enough for a tractor? Could conceivably get a truck far enough along one to conceal it.’

‘We’ll probably have to write off the equipment, maybe the truck, but Treeves’ fate has to be our priority. I doubt he’s been killed, but he could die of hypothermia if they’ve left him badly disabled in an isolated spot.’

‘He’ll make every effort to hole up somewhere to gain protection from the cold,’ Tom reasoned. ‘I’ll send fresh patrols out at first light, but if it snows all night any tracks will be totally obscured.’

‘I’ll get a helicopter up as soon as the weather clears,’ said Max with a nod. ‘If he can, Treeves will endeavour to light a fire. The pilot might not be able to spot a truck in the trees, but he’d see smoke.’ He headed for the door. ‘Come on. It’s so bloody cold in here, if we stay much longer I’ll take apart some of these chairs and light a fire myself.’

Tom followed, taking his car keys from his pocket. ‘Nora called me ten minutes ago to say she has a hot meal waiting. How about you?’

‘Ham rolls and a cup of soup in my room. In the old days when mess staff were soldiers it was possible to book a late dinner. Now the catering is done by civilians they pack up on the dot.’

Tom entered the security code now they were outside. ‘You should find someone who’ll cook for you whatever time you get in.’

‘I did,’ came the brief reply.

Knowing he was treading on eggshells, Tom said, ‘After three years it’s time to move on, isn’t it?’

‘My prime concern is to get this place organized and operational.’ Max headed for his car. ‘Buzz me if there should be news of Treeves. Goodnight, Tom.’

‘Goodnight, sir.’

Tom headed across the base to the main gate and a small house a short distance beyond it. Nora and the girls had moved in a month ago while he had been engaged in the gargantuan task of packing up a well-established headquarters and continuing to investigate several cases at a critical stage. Each time they had to move house Tom gave thanks for a wife who could make what could be a traumatic period into one of relative ease. Their daughters Maggie, Gina and Beth were growing up fast and could be a handful, but Nora still held their respect and friendship so managed to keep control.

Nora was also adept at making bridal and evening gowns of the most intricate design – a sideline she enjoyed immensely. The house was frequently decked with satin, lace and tiny handcrafted rosebuds. The girls revelled in it. Tom would have welcomed some torn shorts, rugby shirts and studded boots around the place to offset the female predominance.

Being the only male in a house with four women sometimes drove him to his private alcove where he kept his collection of model steam engines. At present, they would still be in their boxes: Nora refused to handle them. He would have to find the best place in this new house to display them; a bolt-hole for when giggles and gushing over weird-looking youths or stick-thin models became too much for him.

Fat chance of sorting out his engines yet! Not when the last truck in their convoy had failed to arrive. It was a damnable problem at a time like this. Apart from the driver’s possible fate, the loss of expensive technical equipment could seriously hinder their ongoing cases. Christmas festivities were certain to breed trouble – they always had in the past – and with workmen still completing the construction of detention cells and interview rooms there would be little hope of spending much time at home until the new year.

Welcome warmth greeted him on entering a house he had so far only inhabited during a snatched weekend fourteen days ago. A lump formed in his throat on seeing the difference Nora had wrought in that time. She was one in a million.

‘Hi, stranger,’ she greeted, coming from the sitting-room. ‘Good thing I got rid of lover boy ten minutes ago.’ Pulling gently from his fierce embrace, she smiled up at him. ‘I think I’ll give him the push. You’re far better at the rough stuff.’

He kissed her again. ‘God, I’ve missed you. I just told Max three years are long enough to grieve, but I know I’d never stop if I ever lost you.’

‘They were only together two years, Tom, and Susan really had got herself a lover,’ she pointed out. Linking her arm through his she led him towards the kitchen. ‘When you grow maudlin it’s because you’re hungry. Eat first, shower later. There’s stew with dumplings and a plum tart.’

‘Gee, the woman cooks as well as turning basic rented houses into homes,’ he joked in an effort to lighten up as he washed his hands at the sink, then flopped on a chair before the table. ‘It’s amazingly quiet. Where’s the brood?’

‘At a fancy-dress party.’

‘Already? They’ve only been here four weeks.’

Nora ladled stew on two plates and added vegetables. ‘Our girls have had to be able to adjust quickly, you know that. The party’s for all the younger kids on the base. The teens get a disco next Saturday.’ She sat opposite him and poured wine. ‘I made very basic outfits for them. Maggie’s gone as a shepherdess, Gina as a ghost and Beth wanted to be a Roman centurion.’

Tom grinned, already relaxing. ‘Are there any sheets left on the beds?’

Before she could reply, his mobile rang. He reached for it hoping there was news that Treeves had turned up in a reasonable state.

‘Dad, come at once!’ The voice of their eldest daughter held a touch of hysteria. ‘Kevin McRitchie’s been found in the toilet with his head covered in blood. They’ve sent for an ambulance, but we need you. He’s been murdered!’

When Tom and Nora arrived at the Recreation Centre there was mini chaos. Parents were driving in from parties, restaurants, street markets or their own fireside to comfort their children. They were being checked by a brawny military policeman by the double doors, where an ambulance was drawn up. Several Redcaps were searching the immediate surrounding area with flashlights.

Leaving Nora to find their girls, Tom mounted the stairs leading to the toilets. The narrow space between cubicles and urinals was crowded. Two paramedics and the Duty Medical Officer squatted beside a small figure on the tiled floor. Behind them an RMP sergeant stood observing the scene. In the corridor were two men Tom knew: Padre Robinson and Sergeant-Major Fellowes. They were talking quietly to a stocky, black-haired man and a woman in tears. Presumably, the McRitchie parents.

The hovering odours of disinfectant, urine and stale vomit added further unpleasantness to the bizarre sight of a lad dressed as a knight in black armour sprawling beneath the urinals, with a bloodied head. Tom crossed to the police sergeant whom he knew well.

‘My eldest called me on her mobile. Said a boy had been killed. Is he dead, George?’

‘No, sir, but he has serious head wounds. The lads who found him were shocked by all the blood and ran down to Sar’nt-Major Fellowes – he’s one of the party organizers – crying out that Kevin had been murdered. Mr Fellowes came up here, sussed out the truth and called an ambulance, then us. I have men out looking for anyone secretly watching the activity here. Soon as they stabilize the victim he’ll be taken to the Krankenhaus. Then we can isolate this whole area.’

‘You said serious head wounds?’

George Maddox pointed to a small club beside the injured boy. Tom recognized it as the kind usually hanging beside fire alarms with which to smash the glass in an emergency. ‘He was coshed with that. It came from this corridor.’

‘Taken by an adult rather than another child?’

‘Too soon to be certain, sir. Easy enough for a thuggish kid to fell a small boy like the victim, even one in this age group.’

Tom nodded. Viciousness was manifesting in younger and younger children with appalling frequency. ‘Any other activities on here tonight?’

‘No. That means the bar was closed, which rules out some aggressive, rat-arsed assailant who came up here for a piss. We searched the entire building when we arrived. No one lurking or hiding. We’re having to let the kids go home, but we’ll take statements from the organizers and helpers tonight. They’re waiting in the main hall.’

At that point the paramedics prepared to leave with their stretcher. There was general movement to clear a way for them. It was then that Tom recognized Charles Clarkson, the doctor SIB had crossed swords with on a case back in April. He gave Tom a frowning nod in response to his greeting.

‘You’re mighty quick off the mark, Mr Black.’

Stiffening at the underlying suggestion that he was some kind of ambulance-chaser, Tom said, ‘My three girls are here for the party. The eldest called asking us to collect them. They’re upset.’

‘Understandable. My boys found Kevin and raised the alarm.’ He managed a semi-apologetic smile. ‘It looked worse than it is. They all see so much violence on TV, kids see drama everywhere. Goodnight.’ He clattered down the stairs leaving the two police officers with raised eyebrows. Clarkson’s brusque manner was well known, but he was a first rate doctor.

Sergeant Maddox said, ‘I guess we’ll be handing this one on to you, sir.’

Tom gave a sour smile. ‘A gift to welcome us to our new headquarters.’

Weary and aching after his heavy day he went down to the hall where the party had been held. The floor was strewn with paper plates and cups, coloured streamers, paper hats, squashed biscuits and sponge cake, overturned chairs and burst balloons. Here and there lay a forgotten fairy wand, a space gun, a wooden sword, a paste tiara and one pair of tiny pink ballet shoes.

‘Dad!’ A shepherdess, a ghost and a Roman centurion ran to him, followed by Nora.

‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ he told them comfortingly. ‘Kevin has gone to hospital. He’s going to be OK.’

Eight-year-old Beth, the most clingy of the trio, buried her face in his waist. ‘The Clarkson boys said he was all bloody and dead.’

Tom put his arm around her. ‘Major Clarkson has just told me Kevin was merely unconscious. He’s a doctor, his boys aren’t.’ Glancing at Maggie, who looked very pale, he said, ‘You were right to call me. Well done, sweetheart.’

‘Are you going to find out who did it and why?’ asked Gina, the practical one.

‘Right now I’m going to leave Sergeant Maddox and his men to do the essential work, while I go home and wolf down the lovely dinner I left uneaten on the kitchen table. Come on!’

Nora shepherded the girls to the kitchen for warm drinks while Tom telephoned Max to give him a run-down of the situation. By that time Maggie, Gina and Beth were happy to go to bed. Thinking longingly of his meal and a quiet time with Nora before they went to bed together for the first time in two weeks, Tom kissed his daughters and gave each a reassuring hug.

Beth looked up at him tearfully. ‘I wish I’d never gone to that horrid party.’

‘I know, pet, but it’s all over now.’

‘They were about to start the parade to decide who should win the prizes for the best costumes when those stupid Clarkson boys rushed in and told awful lies. Now I’ll never know if I won, will I?’

Tom glanced across at Nora. The resilience of youth!

Max slept badly, then woke initially unable to work out where he was. The clock radio beside the bed showed 06:45. It was still dark outside the window. He sat up and disentangled his legs from the duvet he had grappled with during the night. There had been a double bed in his room at Frau Hahn’s rambling house, so the duvet had rarely ended on the floor. Last night he had once even landed there himself. Single beds were not designed for large, restless men like him.

He made a mug of tea when he really wanted coffee, but the tea bags were in sight. The coffee could be anywhere. Sitting in a chair beside the standard table-cum-desk, Max sipped moodily from the mug, regretting the loss of his delightful quarters in a country setting. Living in-mess he found it difficult really to relax, be his own person. He seemed still to be on duty there.

His thoughts moved to professional problems. A stolen truck laden with valuable equipment had to be traced, but the search for the driver had greater priority. He padded to the window to push back the regulation pattern curtains. Snow had banked up during the night and it was still falling. He hoped Treeves was surviving it.

Letting the curtain fall, Max made more tea and drank it while gazing without seeing at the boxes and holdalls surrounding him. His concentration had moved to what Tom Black had reported to him last night. A serious attack on a boy at a Christmas party. Cases concerning minors were invariably tricky. Parents could be defensive, aggressive, outraged during questioning; the kids’ testimony was often unreliable due to fear, bravado, insolence or pure drama.

They would all have to be approached today. Being Sunday it would mean tackling them at home. Easier if they were at school. Teachers acted as appropriate and impartial adults during questioning. The investigation was likely to run over into tomorrow, however. With Christmas so near and snow on the ground, families could be out shopping or tobogganing today.

The digital figures on his clock now showed 07:30. Would breakfast be available yet on a Sunday? Max’s stomach was telling him fuel in the form of hot food was urgently needed, so he showered and dressed warmly for a demanding day. He hoped to God engineers would turn out to get the heating system going in the semi-organized new headquarters.

They had not when Max arrived to find most of his team ready for a briefing, in spite of the lie-in offered last night. Word of the assault on Kevin McRitchie had circulated.

‘One of the advantages or disadvantages of living cheek by jowl with our prospective clients,’ said Phil Piercey dryly. ‘Depends how you view it.’

Max grinned. ‘I’ve a pretty good idea how you view it, Sergeant, and thank you all for sacrificing your extra time in bed. I apologize for the temperature in here. I’ll chase up the guys meant to be installing the heating and threaten them with a night in the cells, unless! However, most of you will be out taking statements on the McRitchie case. Those few remaining here to coordinate info on our stolen truck and the fate of its driver will have the sole use of two space heaters I’ve ordered to be delivered pronto.

‘I’ve been advised that an air search will be mounted as soon as the weather permits, but the Met boys are shaking their heads and muttering so I’m not hopeful. I think we must accept that our equipment is by now irretrievable, so the focus is on tracing Lance-Corporal Treeves. Teams will shortly set out to once more cover the route taken yesterday but, without air reconnaissance, the chances of finding a hidden vehicle, much less its driver, are pretty slim. All that can be done will be done, in conjunction with the Polizei, who might have more resources now Saturday night excesses are over.’

Connie Bush, looking as fresh and alert as if she had not toiled so hard yesterday, raised a point. ‘We can’t completely rule out the possibility that Treeves did a runner with our equipment.’

Tom Black answered in agreement, adding, ‘The Dutch police are looking out for him, and we’ll bring in Interpol if necessary. Let’s turn to this assault on the boy at the party.’

After outlining what he had seen and heard last night, Tom went on to state that he had questioned his own daughters. They had not noticed anything suspicious prior to the attack. No serious aggro between any of the children – particularly the boys – except that Kevin had a bit of a slanging match with his young sisters who were refusing to speak to each other or form partners in the games and competitions.

‘Seems the girls squabbled over their costumes before they left for the party and Kevin was annoyed by their behaviour. He also resented having to be there to keep an eye on them because he exceeded the upper age limit by one week. He thought he should instead have been allowed to attend the teens’ disco this Saturday.’

‘It’s a difficult age,’ said Heather Johnson, who had two young brothers.

‘I spoke to Sergeant Maddox an hour ago. He promised to send through to us the statements they took last night from the helpers and organizers. He had a very brief word with the parents and was told by Corporal McRitchie that young Kevin is starting to find his feet, answer back, flout the rules. A rebel in the making?

‘There are a number of possible motives for an attack of this kind. We have first to whittle down which is the most likely. My eldest girl described Kevin as smaller than many of his classmates, with big eyes more like a girl’s. He’s middling bright but hopeless at sport. The perfect target for bullies, you’d think, but he holds his own because he’s a whizz on the guitar and can strut his stuff like the top pop idols. So Maggie says.’ He surveyed the team. ‘Input?’

‘Macho schoolmate, captain of every sports team and half as big again as our Kev discovers his hot girlfriend prefers a weedy warbler to a beefy scrum half. Giving the opposition a good hiding at a tinies’ party would add to his humiliation,’ suggested Piercey.

‘Wrong kind of weapon for that premise, I’d have thought,’ Heather reminded him tartly. ‘A classmate is more likely to use a knife or give him a violent kicking.’

Derek Beeny, Piercey’s friend and frequent partner, offered another slant. ‘A lad like that would catch the eye of paedophiles. The sexy pop performances would rack up the attraction. Maybe he’s been propositioned. Several times by the same guy. Frustration could mount to instigate a savage attack. And as Phil said, dealing out the punishment at a party for small kids would add spice to the deed.’

Connie Bush said thoughtfully, ‘What if one, or both, of his parents has had a serious set-to with someone on the base? I met Greg McRitchie several years ago when he gave evidence in a case. He’s a solidly built, aggressive type you’d think twice about tangling with, so why not get back at him through his puny son? Hit the easier target.’

Olly Simpson elaborated on that. ‘It’ll be worth looking at the McRitchies’ neighbours. If Kevin’s a rising pop star and starting to flout the rules, could be he’s driving them spare with a surfeit of rock, pop, rap, hip-hop, whatever’s his scene. Full blast, hour after hour, antisocial noise can drive the most placid folk to retaliate with aggression.’

Silence fell. Tom broke it. ‘I’ve heard no mention of a deranged intruder.’ Still silence. ‘OK, it’s an outside possibility, but we have to check it out.’

Staff Sergeant Pete Melly volunteered to liaise with George Maddox on that, and Olly Simpson was detailed to chase up anything of relevance on Kevin’s musical activity. Leaving Sergeants Roy Jakes and Bob Prentiss to consolidate the search for Lance-Corporal Treeves, the remainder went about the time-consuming business of tracking down and questioning the children who had attended the party. Bringing up their home addresses on the screen, they swiftly divided the list into areas each would cover and set off in vehicles with chains on the wheels.

Max went first to the local Krankenhaus where, according to the early morning report along with copies of last night’s statements from George Maddox, Kevin McRitchie was still in intensive care but medically stable. No one was prepared yet to offer an opinion on the effects of the head injury, but that was understandable. The hospital had a good reputation; the staff were renowned for their success rate. The McRitchie boy would have the very best care.

Sunday morning church bells were summoning the faithful along the route, where good Germans were answering the call dressed in padded coats, thick boots and fur hats. People familiar with bitter winter temperatures dressed to combat them. Children in chunky anoraks, woollen hats, scarves, and boots covered in cartoon characters walked sedately hand in hand behind their parents, on their best behaviour.

Max studied them, wondering what it was like to have children. Small offshoots of oneself. He had been tossing that thought around a lot lately. Did it mean he had worked through the grief for his lost son still in Susan’s womb in death? Certainly, the invidious doubt about who had actually fathered the boy had been ruthlessly crushed in the past few months. Closure, the Americans called it. What name had they for the curious aftermath?

The hospital was hushed. Many of the departments closed at weekends. Treatment in hiatus? Max’s boots left wet prints on the floor of several immaculate corridors. He imagined a plump Frau hurrying after him with a mop. A nurse approached and smiled at him. He smiled back, and the thought jumped into his mind that the new location might have some advantages, after all. Only fifteen kilometres from the town where attractive women must abound. And a new year was in sight. Time for a fresh start?

Just inside the IC Wing Max showed his identification to a male nurse who made signs of barring his entry, then asked after Kevin’s progress. Satisfactory. The usual hospital language. Given permission to go to the patient, Max walked past beds surrounded by machines, tubes, drips and hoists to reach one in the far corner. A slender brown-haired woman in a crumpled grey and turquoise tracksuit lolled in a chair with her eyes fixed on the small figure whose head was swathed in bandages. She seemed unaware of another presence until Max spoke.

‘Mrs McRitchie? Captain Rydal, SIB. We’re investigating the attack on your son. I’d like to talk to you about it.’

Dark eyes gazed up at him as if she had not understood his words, so he squatted beside her and tried again.

‘Your husband is a serving British soldier, and the attack on Kevin took place on a military base, so the case has to be handled by the Military Police. Could we, perhaps, find the coffee shop and talk there for a short time? Kevin is asleep. He won’t miss you, and you look as though some coffee would be welcome.’

Max stood and held out his hand. Still as if in a trance, Mavis McRitchie took it and allowed him to help her from the chair. Even then he had to coax her away from her son. Telling the nurse where she would be if wanted, Max then took her elbow and led her to the lift that would take them to the ground floor coffee shop.

It was not open. At weekends there were no outpatient appointments, and official visiting hours were some time away. The nurse who had smiled at Max passed by in the reverse direction and hesitated before approaching them to say they were much too early for coffee and snacks. Max explained who he was and the situation regarding his companion, who had been all night beside her injured son. Studying Max and apparently liking what she saw, the nurse then said she would take them to the staff canteen and arrange for them to have something to eat and drink without questions asked.

Settled in the corner with large cups of coffee and a plate holding two soft rolls filled with ham and cheese, Max had to remind himself he was on duty and reluctantly parted from the nurse with only a warm smile of thanks. He sat for a while letting Mrs McRitchie nervously sip her hot drink with both hands holding the cup. She ignored the plate he pushed towards her.

‘You’ll feel better if you eat,’ he said quietly. ‘Have you been with Kevin from the moment he was brought in?’ She nodded. ‘How about your husband?’

She shot a curious look across the table at him. ‘He had to see to Shona and Julie, of course.’

‘Your daughters?’ She nodded again. ‘I understood a friend was looking after them.’

‘Last night, yes. Greg went to collect them and give them their breakfast. He knows what they like to have on Sundays. Porridge, teddy bear biscuits and toasted marshmallows.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘He said it’s important for them to carry on as usual, not to be alarmed by what happened. The way we go on now will make all the difference to how last night affects them in later life. Girls aren’t as tough as boys. If a big drama is made of what happened to Kevin fear could lie dormant until they’re young women, then come to the surface to make them unstable and neurotic. He won’t have their lives blighted by this.’

Max had to struggle not to ask What about his son’s life?, but he already sensed a possibility not put forward by the team an hour ago. Child abuse was frequently perpetrated by parents. Fathers more often than mothers. He began to probe the family’s relationships.

‘I believe you and your husband took Kevin and your daughters to the party, telling him he must keep an eye on them until you picked them up at nine thirty.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then what did you do?’

‘We played badminton like every Saturday. Never miss.’

‘I see. Keen on the game, are you?’

‘Greg is. He’s a brilliant player.’ Again the wan smile. ‘I sometimes make up a set with three other duffers.’

Max was starting to get a picture he had come across more times than he cared to remember. ‘So you have a sitter for the girls every Saturday?’

‘Oh, no. Greg won’t have sitters. You hear dreadful stories about kids being hurt by them; shaken to death when they cry a lot. No, they come to the club with us. To watch Dadda play. They love their dad.’ Her fingers aimlessly pushed the plate of rolls about the table, her concentration on it while she spoke. ‘Weekends are their special times. Breakfast in bed on Saturday as an advance reward for tidying their room. Then off to town for lunch at a pizza place and to buy their presents.’

She then glanced up at Max. ‘Greg likes to supervise how they spend their pocket money. Won’t have them buying rubbish. Checks toys to make sure they bear the seal of safety and that they’re from reputable European or American manufacturers. Anything made in the Far East is taboo. Well, you hear such awful stories about kids swallowing eyes that fall out of dolls, or being injured by sharp points projecting through soft toys, don’t you?’

‘It’s wise to be careful,’ Max agreed. ‘So family Saturdays end with badminton. Do the girls play?’

‘They’re far too young,’ she said almost admonishingly. ‘Do you know it’s easier to injure yourself during games and sports than most other activities? Greg doesn’t want anything happening to his babies while their bones are still growing.’

The unwelcome picture was growing clearer by the minute to Max. ‘How about Kevin? He’s old enough to play, surely.’

‘He prefers to stay at home with his music.’ Her voice grew softer, warmer. ‘Can’t think who he gets his talent from. Not me, that’s for sure. I’m not clever at anything.’

‘From his father?’ Max suggested, recognizing a battered wife. Battered by words, not fists, but almost as degrading.

‘That’s a laugh,’ she retorted, suddenly animated. ‘He can’t even accept that his only son’s passion is twanging a guitar and caterwauling.’ She concentrated again on fiddling with the plate. ‘There was even a time when he suspected Kevin wasn’t his.’

Sensing that shock was driving her to unburden her inner feelings to a man who seemed interested in what she had to say, Max allowed a brief silence before asking, ‘Has he cause to doubt it?’

She slowly shook her head. ‘It was always Greg from our schooldays. He knew that. Kevin was born nine months after our wedding. Greg was that proud and excited he borrowed from a mate one of those vans with loudspeakers and drove around calling out, “I’ve got a son. I’ve got a son.” Real daft he was in those days.’

Max knew the type. To sire a male child was a macho achievement for such men. ‘And when your daughters were born?’

Her nervous fingers now set to work on one of the rolls, pulling tiny pieces from it to drop on the plate. ‘We’d been trying for five years for another one. Greg couldn’t understand it after being so quick off the mark first time. He grew very moody. Sent me to the doctor for tests, but he said we were just too anxious. When Shona appeared Greg was so disappointed he went on a bender. Julie came a year later. That’s when he decided three kids were enough.’

A large woman in an overall appeared beside the table to ask if they had finished their snack. Max asked for two more coffees and smiled inwardly at her expression of disgust at the mutilation of the ham and cheese rolls by people who had no real right to be in the staff canteen. They got their coffees, however.

‘So how long was it before your husband recovered from the disappointment of having two girls, Mrs McRitchie?’

She sipped the hot drink as if she had asbestos lips, gazing at the region of Max’s chest with a glazed look in her eyes. When he was on the point of repeating the question, she raised them to meet his.

‘Those first years he took Kevin everywhere. Footie matches, swimming – Kev could swim before he was two, you know – excursions to museums where they keep old steam engines or aircraft through the ages. They saw the lions at Longleat and the tigers at Marwell. Greg had a mate in tanks who wangled a ride for them. Strictly against the rules, but . . .’ She sipped more coffee, then put the cup in the saucer with energy. ‘Every weekend they were out flying kites or model gliders; sailing toy boats on the lake; trekking over the moor; camping in the woods.’

Poor kid, thought Max. Manhood being forced on him in hefty doses. He waited to hear what he knew must come.

‘The dog was the last straw.’

‘Yes?’

Her eyes grew glassy with unshed tears. ‘Little Kev showed no interest in old trains and planes; lions and tigers frightened the life out of him. He was sick and screamed in the tank. He cried to go home in the tent in the woods, and point blank refused to fly a kite. Sat down and sulked. Then Greg brought home this dog whose owner was going overseas. A German Shepherd. Kevin took one look and ran to hide behind me, shaking like a leaf. That was the moment Greg lost all interest in him,’ she added in a faraway kind of voice. ‘Funny, isn’t it, to think a dog could do that?’