Eleven

The team had never before seen their boss in so black a mood as when they assembled on Sunday morning. They were all disturbed by the tragic development that had occurred when their attention was concentrated elsewhere, but he was tight-lipped with anger as he revealed that Greg McRitchie had been dead on arrival at the hospital. His daughter Shona was in intensive care, dangerously weak from loss of blood from her slashed wrists and the deep cuts to her face that would leave her permanently scarred. Julie was deeply traumatized. Mavis McRitchie was under constant supervision in a private room. Kevin had not yet been told what had happened.

‘When the call came in, Sergeant Maddox assumed our killer believed Kevin had returned home and was set on finishing what he had begun at the party last week. What they saw there persuaded them the attack could be an entirely separate issue,’ Max said stony eyed. ‘The family had been set upon downstairs, but there was no evidence that the killer had searched the upper floor for Kevin, his intended victim. We can draw several conclusions from that.

‘One: he demanded to know Kevin’s whereabouts and, when they refused to tell him, slashed at Shona to persuade them. McRitchie ran to stop the attack on the girl and was fatally stabbed. At that point, the intruder took fright and fled.

‘Two: as there were no signs of forced entry, the intruder went in by the rear door left unlocked by McRitchie after he garaged his car and came indoors. The neighbours who reported hearing screaming say they saw the whole family return from the Badminton Club around 21:30 and all was quiet until 21:50. That leaves plenty of time for the killer to enter, take stock of the situation, and await the moment when the family settled together.

‘Three: there was no intruder; the attack was totally divorced from the one on Kevin last week and the murder of Tony Clegg.’ His cold glance encompassed them all. ‘Until either the children or their mother are able to speak about what happened, we have to draw what we believe to be the most probable conclusion from the available evidence. Mr Black will outline what we know as fact.’

Burdened by the tragic outcome of a family situation they had sensed was heading in dangerous directions, but had done little about due to the demands of another case they feared would result in another death of a young male, Tom spoke more crisply than usual to mask his feelings.

‘Forensics are working flat out on this and will give us info as it develops. This we do know. The whole family had been at the Badminton Club for a knockout tournament Greg was participating in. They returned home together. The bath, the shower curtain and the soap were wet; the children were in sleepwear. Greg was dressed in jeans and sweatshirt; Mavis wore what she had been seen in at the Club. The washing machine was filled with his white shirt, shorts, underpants and several towels. The programme had been set but not started. A saucepan, presumably filled with milk but we’ll get confirmation of that, was on a full-power hotplate. The pan subsequently boiled dry and exploded, putting the wind up our uniformed colleagues.’

There was a stifled snigger, but the general mood this freezing morning was subdued.

‘So McRitchie and his kids had showered and changed upstairs, while the mother dealt with the laundry and the girls’ bedtime drink in the kitchen,’ observed Piercey. ‘Only when they came back to the ground floor did the trouble start. That supports assumption two, that the intruder entered through the unlocked back door after Greg and waited for the family to assemble downstairs.’

‘But why wait?’ asked Connie Bush. ‘He had a lone, vulnerable woman in the kitchen to threaten with a knife snatched from a drawer. Why wait for the husband to come on the scene before demanding Kevin’s whereabouts?’

‘Because he’d walked in only just before the family gathered in the sitting-room,’ suggested Heather Johnson. ‘But I don’t understand why he would slice up a little girl sitting with her sister on the settee, when he had a woman in the kitchen where the knives were. Wouldn’t he grab one, hold Mavis as a shield and threaten to slit her throat unless Greg told him what he wanted? That’s the more usual scenario.’

Derek Beeny spoke thoughtfully. ‘What if there’s an entirely different angle? We’ve been considering a sexual link between Kevin and Clegg. Sexual invitations too often repulsed, maybe paedophilic interest in small, effeminate males. Could that focus have shifted to the girls? They’re sitting in nightclothes, mother’s busy in the kitchen with the washing machine, father’s upstairs. The kids scream at sight of the intruder and Mavis runs at him with a knife. He wrests it from her, then hears Greg on the stairs. Frustrated yet again, the ungovernable temper we believe he has leads him to slash the girl he fancies, then do for the father. Fear drives him to run from a disaster when he imagined a simple abduction and kiddie rape.’

Tom usually appreciated inventiveness, but not today. ‘Initial report on McRitchie’s body says there are no signs of self-defensive cuts to hands or arms so, as he was stabbed in the chest, we have to believe he was facing his assailant and not expecting aggression. It’s unlikely a paedo would do what you suggest. He’d snatch the girl from the school playground, or entice her away from the NAAFI shop or burger bar.’

‘Except that McRitchie guarded those kids too closely. They weren’t allowed out without him or their mother, and friendships were virtually forbidden. Dadda had to be their all. It could have driven a paedo to break that monopoly by another man; add spice to the perversion.’

Roy Jakes glanced up from his doodling. ‘I go for the third assumption; that this was a pure domestic that has no connection with the other cases.’

Max nodded. ‘I also believe no one but the McRitchie family was in that house last night. But I fear it does have a connection with the other cases. Whoever attacked Kevin last week put a match to a fuse waiting to be lit. I suspect Mavis McRitchie killed her husband and attacked Shona. In what order we’ll understand better when we have all the forensic evidence. When I visited Mavis it was obvious that she was going through some kind of fantasy phase. She didn’t connect with who I was, and seemed obsessively focussed on pleasing her husband. Major Clarkson called on her at my request. He judged that she was simply behaving extravagantly, as women sometimes do. I had to accept his diagnosis, but I believe something happened last night to tip her over the edge.’ He surveyed them all. ‘Any further thoughts?’

‘Two points of dissimilarity,’ offered Connie Bush. ‘Whoever attacked Kevin and Clegg went for adolescent, music-loving males. He’s unlikely to make a play for a well-guarded female child who’s surrounded by her family at home. Doesn’t fit his pattern. Also, our first man killed impetuously when his victims were alone. Both times he grabbed a handy weapon and struck at the head. Knives aren’t his thing. I go along with this being a domestic, divorced from the other cases.’

Tom continued that subject. ‘We still have no leads on them and we need to get some fast. The police presence at the Recreation Centre last night kept any intruder from attempting a repeat of Saturday’s attack. The undercover man watching Alan Rowe saw nothing to suggest he was unduly interested in adolescent males.’

‘They should all have gone undercover,’ murmured Piercey. ‘You can’t catch anyone by strutting around wearing a red cap and a gun.’

Tom scowled. ‘That was done to reassure parents that we’re on the case. There’s a lot of aggro around because we’ve not yet apprehended anyone. They’re unaware of the effort we’re putting into it, or of the difficulty in understanding what lies behind the two attacks. We now have yet another dead-end probe. Lists of calls Kevin and Tony Clegg made on their mobiles have finally come in. The lads didn’t once contact each other, or a common third party. Neither rang the number of any known drug pusher or gay club.’

‘Or Alan Rowe?’ asked Piercey.

‘Or Alan Rowe. We must keep an eye on him, all the same. You’re keen on cops going underground, Piercey, so that’s your assignment today. Get to it!’ As Phil Piercey shrugged on his topcoat, Tom said, ‘The rest of you talk to people who were at the Badminton Club last evening, and to those living in the vicinity of the McRitchie home. Uniform did the prelims last night, but we need more in-depth investigation. Being Sunday many will be out having fun – giving no thought to the fact that we’re not – but you’ll have to chase up the absentees tomorrow.’

As they all got to their feet, a telephone rang. Derek Beeny answered it. After briefly listening, he waved the receiver at Max.

‘The hospital, sir. Doc wants a word with you.’

Dreading to hear that Shona McRitchie had died of her injuries, Max discovered the call concerned Kevin.

‘We believe the boy must soon be told the truth and have the choice to see his mother and sisters, if he wishes,’ the man said, after identifying himself as the psychiatrist treating Kevin. ‘From the time you have brought him back from his runaway he has shown much fondness for the young woman, Hedda. Asks always when she will come with the cat. We cannot have animals here, but it will much help if she would be here this morning when we have such bad news to tell.’

‘Certainly she’ll come,’ Max assured him, signalling Heather to stay in the office. ‘My second in command is about to set out for the hospital. He’ll bring Sergeant Johnson, so you can expect her within the hour.’ He could not prevent a twitch of his lips. ‘She’ll explain about the cat, sir.’

Before setting out to have a tough talk with Charles Clarkson, Max dealt with paperwork he had neglected during the week. Officially, he should be the man behind the desk coordinating evidence on their cases, but he was too restless and too hooked on face to face investigation to spend day after day in his office.

This Sunday morning he was additionally restless. In the early hours, he had gone to his room to have two hours on his bed before showering and dressing in one of his ‘working’ suits. He had not slept. Frustration over the ruin of his date with Livya, as well as anger at his failure to forestall tragedy, kept him wide-eyed. At seven he had rung the hotel to tell Livya he would have breakfast with her. ‘Hi! Did I wake you?’

‘No such luck.’

‘I didn’t sleep much, either,’ he confessed, irrationally cheered by the thought that she had also lain awake.

‘Oh, I slept, but was woken half an hour ago by a call from Flight Lieutenant Mabbs to tell me Corporal Hollins has to fly home on compassionate grounds. It means my game is now first on today’s agenda.’

‘I’ll come straight over and have breakfast with you.’

‘Too late. I’m well into room service rolls, orange juice and coffee.’

Daunted, he said, ‘I’ll pick you up and drive you back here, then.’

‘Jeff Mabbs is doing that. I guess he’s already on his way.’

‘Oh.’

A softer tone. ‘I’d have enjoyed the motor bike ride more, Steve.’

At seven a.m. what he had spoken of last night seemed somewhat juvenile. He had dealt with violent death and the shattering of a family in the interim, so he found himself unable to reply in the same vein.

‘Does the champion’s departure to the UK mean you’re on the fast track to taking the trophy for the army this year?’

A short pause at his change of mood. ‘Nothing in life is certain, Max. I’m not counting any chickens.’

Deeply disappointed in his hope of at least sharing breakfast and repairing the breach caused by passion so starkly interrupted last night, Max read caution in her words.

‘Well . . . good luck with the knights and bishops this morning. See you around.’

When the call ended he had the curious feeling that something of significance had been said. Something that should have made more impact than it had. Going over their conversation he homed in on the star player flying home on compassionate leave, but the import of it remained elusive.

He thought of it again now as he drove to Charles Clarkson’s house, and came to the conclusion that the link was the prospect of McRitchie relatives flying over to take charge of the children. What a responsibility to shoulder unexpectedly!

Out of the blue came a distant memory of his grandmother speaking of her bosom friend who had had to take into her home twin babies, because her daughter and son-in-law had been seriously injured in a road accident. Grannie had asked why there always seemed to be disasters around Christmastime. Little Max had not understood that. It was a happy time. Families gathered for fun and presents. Everyone loved everyone else. How could there be disasters? Time had changed that innocent belief and, true to Grannie’s words, there were often disasters during the so-called festive period. The Boxing Day Tsunami being one of the worst.

The future for the McRitchie children caught up in tragedy this Christmas time was a huge question mark; yet had it not been fraught with uncertainty before? One way or another, Kevin and his sisters had surely been on course for family disaster.

Driving past the tall, decorated tree weighted with snow, that was floodlit at night, Max’s mood grew even bleaker. There had been a tree in the hotel restaurant last night, and his yuletide optimism had unexpectedly returned. Beautifully decked fir, huge log fire, happy people wherever he looked, love and laughter. The warmth, the wine, the invitation in Livya’s smile and eyes banished all those barren Christmases following the death of his mother. It had not mattered that the hotel room was not large and luxurious. He had seen only her slender body as he had started to remove her clothes.

Then the intrusive ringing from his mobile. Tom had not known of his plans for the night, but multiple violence demanded his presence, no matter what. The shocking news had shattered his romantic overture instantly. Livya had understood; she knew about duty. She had empathized, done her utmost to make it easy for him, but it had been deeply galling. This one night to secure what he badly wanted, and fate had taken it from him.

The next few days, at least, would be devoted to garnering evidence to support the belief that Mavis McRitchie had attacked her family while the balance of her mind was disturbed. They must also urgently continue to seek a solution to Tony Clegg’s murder before there was another.

Against all that, how could he hope to make headway with the woman who had allowed him to glimpse a revival of happiness? In truth, after this morning’s conversation he was unsure how things stood between them; was unsure what she expected from him. An assured, ‘Well, these things happen. Another time, perhaps?’ Or would the wily chess player want him to make a determined move to keep the game in play?

Deciding on the latter, Max made a sudden left turn to drive to the church hall where Livya would be locked in intellectual battle. He really needed to see her, make her aware of that need.

He had forgotten it was Sunday. From the church across the road came the sound of lusty voices raised in an Advent hymn. All the more poignant in view of last night’s tragedy, Max thought as he slid from his car. Mindful of the rule of silence, he entered more cautiously than the last time, after switching off his mobile. The scene was much as it had been before: two players concentrating on the chess board, surrounded by intent spectators. Despite Max’s care, the squeak of the swing doors sounded offensive in the near reverent quietness. Heads turned.

Holding up a hand in apology, he tiptoed to join the aficionados who would understand from the position of the pieces in whose favour the game was going. The black and red figures meant nothing to Max, but they unfortunately reminded him of the ones lying alongside Tony Clegg’s curled body coated with snow. That image swiftly vanished when Livya glanced up and smiled at him. It was no casual smile. It said: I hoped you’d come.

He smiled back, holding up crossed fingers, then her attention returned to the table. But he felt his inner chill begin to melt. Tapping his neighbour on the shoulder and indicating with his head that they should retire a few yards, he then asked in a whisper who was winning. A silly question, apparently, because at this level of skill a game was not won until the final clever twist.

Max left the silent hall, careful to minimize the squeak of the door as it closed behind him. After the electric lighting he found the bright glare of snow harsh on his eyes. The road was now filled with people spilling from the church, wrapped warmly against the bitter wind that was keeping the temperature only a few degrees above what it had been all night.

The Padre spotted Max and crossed to him, leaving his wife chatting to those who liked to make their piety obvious. ‘I’ve just heard about the McRitchie family,’ Justin Robinson said with urgency. ‘Can I do anything for them if I go now to the hospital? What’s the situation? I understand Corporal McRitchie died in the ambulance.’

‘Yes, he did,’ Max said, plunging back to grim reality. ‘Mavis and the two girls are in deep shock, so I imagine they’re mostly in need of medical help for now. The hospital priest will be able to give you a better account of their spiritual needs than I can.’

Robinson wagged his head. ‘Terrible! Terrible! An entire family afflicted again. We tried our best to give comfort to the Cleggs, but the pain is too raw for them to accept sympathetic support just yet. Now this! Estelle and I have been bombarded with the concerns of our congregation. Have you no idea who is killing these people?’

‘What happened last night is a separate issue. It’s no indication that we have a deranged killer on the base. That’s all I can say on the subject, I’m afraid, but please do all you can to spread reassurance. The last thing we want is a state of panic prevailing.’

‘Of course, of course.’ He glanced back at the church. ‘My wife is very good at allaying fears. She taught psychology for some years before our marriage; understands the human mind and emotions well.’ He smiled. ‘The perfect partner for a Holy Joe like me.’

And someone who has unshakeable faith in the repentance of sinners, thought Max as he returned to his car and drove around the perimeter road to his intended destination.

The woman who came to the door was breathtakingly beautiful in Latin fashion. She looked questioningly at the stranger in civilian clothes. Max introduced himself, apologized for disturbing them on Sunday, and asked to speak to her husband. She invited him in with more grace of manner than her marriage partner, and led him along the hall saying Charlie was putting up the tree with the doubtful help of their children. She halted momentarily in the open doorway and silently watched the family scene with Max beside her.

Charles Clarkson was stringing lights around a tree in a corner of the large sitting-room, watched by four children surrounded by boxes and boxes of baubles. A delicious aroma of roast pork filtered from the kitchen, where Mrs Clarkson had presumably been doing her wifely duty until answering Max’s ring.

The two teenage girls, along with James and Daniel, had glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes as they anticipated dressing the tree in red and gold splendour. The oldest sibling, a slim and lovely dark-haired girl of about sixteen, aired her past experience of this occupation.

‘How much d’you bet me the lights won’t work now they’re on the tree, Dad?’

He climbed down the stepladder, saying, ‘It’ll be different this year.’

A cheer rose only to become a groan as the lights flashed on, then died. Mrs Clarkson stepped into the room to say, ‘I knew it wouldn’t be different this year, darling, so I bought a new set. It’s in the cupboard under the stairs. Captain Rydal would like a word with you, Charlie. Why don’t you use the office while we put the new lights on the tree?’

Clarkson’s expression hardened as he spotted Max. ‘Thought you’d turn up sooner or later. That affair last night, I suppose?’

The children all gazed at Max with interest. James and Daniel smiled. The adolescent girls gave him an optical once over. How different from the McRitchie home with its obsessive relationships. How attractive. How beckoning. The family Christmas of his childhood. The doctor was a man much blessed.

The wishful moment passed as they walked to the small room Clarkson used as an office, with shelves of medical books, wire trays filled with forms and information sheets, a computer, printer and Dictaphone. In short, an extension of his surgery.

Clarkson wasted no time. ‘I contacted the hospital this morning to confirm that Greg was DOA. Shona is right now undergoing facial surgery. Julie is dangerously traumatized. Mavis is—’

‘Riding out a flash of insanity,’ Max interceded forcefully. ‘You considered her behaviour nothing more than the kind of extravagance common to most women now and again.’

‘That was a medical assessment, not one made by a detective looking for a solution to a baffling pair of crimes. It was the correct diagnosis at that time.’

Max fought to keep his temper under control. ‘So what is your medical assessment of the theory that Mavis cut up her daughter and stabbed her husband?’

‘That theory can only be assessed by studying forensic evidence,’ Clarkson replied, steely eyed.

Equally steely eyed, Max said, ‘I’m asking if, in your medical opinion, the woman you claimed was merely behaving extravagantly could have attacked her family last night.’

Clarkson studied him silently for a moment. ‘This is not the same killer as the one who attacked young Clegg. That’s what you’re hoping to prove?’

‘I’m hoping to prove this was murder while the balance of her mind was disturbed. That will take a great deal of time. All I want from you now is your opinion on that being a possibility.’

‘Yes, it’s a possibility. I’m not prepared to go further than that.’ They faced each other aggressively for several moments, then Clarkson sighed and perched on his desk in less confrontational manner. ‘I should have thought you’d know this fact by now. People under stress either bottle it up and act a part, or they behave extravagantly. Maybe even eccentrically. That can continue until the cause of the stress is resolved, no matter how long it takes. Conversely, something minor suddenly makes the burden unbearable and they snap. A doctor can’t foresee the future. All he can do is treat the condition he’s faced with.

‘For instance: a young mother with a new baby and a truculent toddler tries to cope alone while her man is in a war zone. The kids sense her distress and play up. She comes to me for help. I give her a mild sleeping-draught for the baby who keeps her awake most nights, and advise her to organize some help for one or two mornings each week until her husband gets back. A week later a saucepan of milk boils over, the toddler puts red felt-tip scribble on the wall, her husband fails to telephone at the usual time. Any of those things – or all of them together – tip the balance. The baby is wailing so she silences it with a pillow over its face. Or she simply drops it from the window.’

He looked at Max with narrowed eyes. ‘A doctor has no more control over saucepans that boil over, or toddlers who scribble on the wall than you had over whoever clouted Kevin then went on to kill the bandsman.’

Thoughts of an exploding saucepan in the McRitchie kitchen kept Max silent. Had milk boiling over to sully Mavis’s immaculate cooker last night been the trigger to violence?

Clarkson straightened and opened the office door. ‘You’ll get the truth from the children when a psychiatrist skilfully coaxes them to speak about what happened last night. The McRitchie tragedy has happened. Over. I’d concentrate on your unresolved case of the head-basher, because he could do it again.’ He held out an arm in invitation to precede him from the room. ‘How about a cup of coffee with a dash of something to keep out the cold before you go?’

It was typical of this man to change moods so swiftly. Max caught himself accepting because the pull of that family togetherness was irresistible. The coffee was served along with the inevitable mince pie, and the lights twinkled on the tree as it grew more and more splendidly gilded. Watching and enjoying the brothers’ and sisters’ fond rivalry in that room where family relationships were so successfully balanced, Max knew that this was what he wanted for himself. No more Christmases spent alone.

Phil Piercey had spoken to Corporal Samms, who had attended last night’s disco incognito. A man of twenty-four who had a pink, chubby face that made him resemble a senior schoolboy; a tough, enthusiastic policeman who had once been refused alcohol because he was thought to be underage. He had suffered untold ribbing from his colleagues over that incident. Samms had confirmed to Piercey that Sapper Rowe had shown no undue interest in adolescent boys, much less taken one to the unlit areas of the Recreation Centre.

‘He’s top notch at controlling sound and lighting. Did some special effects for the song contests. Best male and female.’ He had chuckled then. ‘Gave the thing a bit of a boost, thank God. Some of the kids hadn’t a clue. Most of ’em didn’t have a voice.’ As Piercey had made to leave, Samms said, ‘Tell you what, though. Rowe looked more than interested in that redhead lieutenant helping Mr Fellowes pick the winners. She’s a real looker, mind, but I’d say there’s something going on between those two that needs looking at.’

So Piercey was doing just that on this Sunday morning. Like the rest of the team, he found it hard to accept that a good-looking soldier and a gorgeous young officer had nothing better to do on Saturdays during the run up to Christmas than help out at kids’ parties. They were both possible suspects for the attack on Kevin McRitchie, which made them prime subjects for ongoing observation.

Having checked that Rowe was in his quarters, Piercey parked within sight of the accommodation block and settled to watch. He had little doubt the Sapper had plans for today.

Having munched two Mars bars and half a packet of custard creams, Piercey was thinking he might soon need to go for a pee when Rowe came from the three-storey building dressed smartly in dark jeans and a sheepskin three-quarter coat. Telling his bladder to wait a while, Piercey discreetly followed his target from the base and, surprisingly, away from town. Well, well! So where was the lad heading? Not to visit the bird his mates reckoned he had in town.

The road was reasonably busy, so there was little chance of Rowe sensing he was being tailed. Passing through a large village where children were playing in the snow while their parents stood chatting outside the church entrance, Rowe then turned right on to a narrow lane compacted with ice that looked to be leading to a forest area.

Piercey grew very interested now. Could Rowe possibly be taking him to the answer to why Kevin and Clegg had been attacked? Had the two victims been involved with Alan Rowe in drug distribution, after all? Was Rowe going to meet the boss man at some isolated forest cabin? Could this rendezvous be a meeting place for a paedophile and young victims? Piercey’s interest deepened into excitement. He had been instrumental in wrapping up their last murder case back in April. Was he about to do the same again?

Because there was now no other traffic along this country lane, Piercey dropped back and only saw Rowe’s car when the many bends allowed him a glimpse of his target through the trees some way ahead. The solid layer of compressed snow on the road surface demanded considerable concentration to negotiate the bends, so Piercey was taken by surprise on rounding one of them to find Rowe had pulled up outside a small inn that looked like a former hunting-lodge.

Resisting the reflex impulse to stop, Piercey drove on round the next bend and eased into a small clearing, praying he would not sink in softer snow. His prayer was answered. Climbing from behind the wheel he was engulfed by utter, utter silence and a breathless stillness that enchanted even this tough, cynical policeman. Unable to resist standing for a minute or two in this scene of natural beauty, his breath frosting in the air, his cheeks tingling, Piercey pushed to the back of his mind all thoughts of murder, domestic violence, paedophilia and drug abuse. This was pure, this was clean, this was innocent.

It did not last. He had a job to do. Coarse dark hairs with a natural kink had been found at both scenes of attack, and this man he had followed had dark curling hair. He was their strongest suspect. Grabbing his binoculars, he crunched over the frozen white layer between the trees until he had a clear view of the inn. Then he saw that one of the three other vehicles on the forecourt was owned by Lucy Farmer. Excitement mounted. She was definitely in on Rowe’s criminal activity, and he had them red handed.

Finding good cover that gave him a full view of the inn’s facade, he scanned it through the magnifying lenses. He spotted the pair in an upstairs room. There did not appear to be a third person there, so their contact had not yet arrived. Good. He would be able to get a good view of him and his vehicle registration when he turned up.

Even as he relished that, the entire concept collapsed before his eyes. The upper-class lieutenant and the down-to-earth soldier went into a frenzied clinch that became an equally frenzied race to pull each other’s clothes off.