Twelve

They said little during the slow drive; slow because traffic heading to town was heavy. Shopping, skating, eating; all these drew crowds bent on Christmas fun. After all his years in this job, Tom still experienced that sense of disbelief that life was continuing normally all around him while he was dealing with tragedy. This morning it was especially poignant. If, as they strongly suspected, Mavis McRitchie’s mind had snapped causing her to attack her family, three children were now virtually orphaned. Their grandparents would have to be informed, although they would be hospitalized for some time yet.

There were also two parents facing the turkey, tinsel and twinkling lights season with the funeral of their talented only son to arrange. Tom could not forget Norman Clegg’s bitter expression as he demanded that some ‘real’ policemen take over the task of finding his son’s killer. They still had no leads apart from two matching hairs from the scenes of the attacks on Kevin and Tony Clegg. The Cleggs’ unbridled grief and the McRitchies’ unconcern both weighed heavily on Tom as Heather Johnson drove towards the hospital alongside merrymaking Germans. They could do nothing yet to ease the one, and they had failed to understand the full import of the other.

He had returned home in the early hours and settled on the settee so as not to disturb Nora, but he had only half-dozed. When he had dropped off, the scene he had just witnessed became his own home with his family massacred. A desperate nightmare. Curiously, he was so hungry he had eaten an enormous breakfast with a silent Nora facing him across the table. She knew him in all his moods and made no attempt to break through his bleakness. Gratitude to her, and for his loving family, unharmed and strangers to the undercurrents that had brought tragedy last night, had led him to enclose Nora in a strong embrace and hold her for a long while before he left the house where his three daughters were still sleeping off the pleasures of the Graumanns’ hospitality. He had so much to be thankful for.

He turned now to the young woman beside him at the wheel. ‘Looking forward to being at home for Christmas? Will your brothers be there?’

Heather smiled. ‘They’d better be, or my mother will want to know why. Keith – he’s Kevin’s age – is totally caught up in the restoration of an old World War Two aeroplane. Spends every free moment there, to the detriment of homework and study. Dad has a sneaking interest in it, too, so Mum has to put her foot down sometimes. I’m the only other female in the family. I disappointed her deeply by taking up what she regards as a masculine profession.’ She flashed Tom a glance. ‘I think she hoped I’d work as a florist, or in a perfumery. I understand. Surrounded by dirty shirts, football boots and model aircraft she longs for another woman to talk to, some pretty things amid all the male clutter.’

‘I’d welcome a little male clutter,’ Tom murmured reflectively.

‘I guess that’s what Greg McRitchie wanted, until he realized Kevin wasn’t into macho pursuits and pushed the lad out of his life. What’s going to happen to him now?’

‘It depends on how he takes this news, most probably. He’s a minor and will have to go with whichever set of grandparents will have him and his sisters when the medics declare them fit.’

Breaking through the congestion in the town centre, Heather was able to pick up speed for the final five kilometres to the hospital. Swinging on to the autobahn when the lights turned green, she said, ‘If I were the welfare worker handling the case, I’d try to split them up. There’s mutual dislike between those girls and Kevin. Anyone trying to cope with all three as well as grief for a son, or having to face the truth of a daughter who stabbed her husband to death and cut up her child, would be crushed by the responsibility.’

‘And the kids themselves would do better in different households,’ said Tom. ‘We don’t yet know the situations with the grandparents. If there’s illness or disability, there’d be no question of putting girls of seven and eight there.’

‘Or in a house where the grandfather couldn’t be trusted with them.’

‘Out of the frying-pan,’ agreed Tom. ‘Those poor kids have a lot to overcome before they can start being balanced human beings.’

They fell silent for a while and only spoke again on reaching the hospital. Then Tom asked if she was happy about what she had been asked to do.

She turned to him frankly. ‘I’ll keep in mind how I’d approach one of my brothers with devastating news, although I won’t be breaking it to him. I suppose I’ll be there as someone familiar whom he trusts.’

Tom smiled encouragingly. ‘You’ll get it right, the way you did when you brought him from RAMSCH. The Boss said you were brilliant.’

They walked to the main entrance and Heather asked, ‘Do I tackle him about the attack at the party, if I get the chance?’

‘Play it by ear,’ he advised. ‘I’m sure the psycho will control the meeting. He knows Kevin relates to you quite strongly, so I don’t imagine he’ll interfere if the boy wants to get things off his chest to you. After all, he’s in there for the purpose of delving to the root of his fears. Although those might be replaced by others now.’

They split up inside the building, Tom to check on the girls in intensive care and, more pertinently, on the state of Mavis McRitchie, suspected of murder. Heather took the lift, telling herself to concentrate on the vulnerable, confused boy not her own feelings.

Professor Braun came at a call from the woman at the reception desk, smiled and shook her hand before leading Heather a little way along the corridor. He waved a hand at a chair, then sat at the desk to study her with bright eyes. He was small and neat, with auburn hair that tended to stand up in tufts around his pointed face. He reminded Heather of a red squirrel.

‘This is much of a tragedy at this stage,’ he declared. ‘He runs from his family because he feels there is no love for him there, and now they have all been hurt. There is no father any longer and the mother, she is in deep trauma. His small sisters, also. This news must be given; he must be allowed to see them to know it is the truth we tell. Also, the little girls will be hopeful to see the big brother. One who has not been hurt. One who can look after them now. It will work in two ways, you see.’

Feeling she must reveal it, Heather related what Kevin had told her. ‘It might not, sir. Kevin and his sisters dislike each other intensely. Of course, you’re the best judge of what he needs right now, but I doubt whether seeing him will comfort those girls or Kevin himself. Possibly do the reverse.’

She went on to tell all they knew about the relationships in that family, in the process giving an explanation of the cat Kevin wanted to see. The medical man listened gravely until Swinga Kat was mentioned. Then he smiled.

‘I have such a son, Hedda. Always with the guitar. Perhaps I should bring them together in a little while. And later you can come with the Kat boys, eh? Let us now see Kevin.’

They walked through to a side-room where Kevin was watching television. His face lit up when he saw Heather and he got up eagerly.

‘They told me you might come today. Have you brought Johnny, Callum or Malc?’

‘It’s Sunday,’ she said carefully. ‘They’re doing family things. When term ends next week they’ll be along, sure thing.’

‘Thanks for coming, anyway.’ He silenced the TV and sat on the bed. ‘Have you managed to speak to Mr Fellowes about the discos yet?’

Heather glanced at Braun, who gave a slight nod to go ahead. ‘He thinks it’s a great idea and he’ll put it to the committee at the next meeting,’ she said, knowing the plan would go no further now.

‘Awesome!’ he breathed. ‘I’ll get busy with programming. It’s important to strike the right balance. The kids want that.’

This small-framed, gentle boy had come alive in a flash. Heather found it difficult to hide her feelings as she listened to his enthusiasm, and she prayed the Professor would intervene. He did not, so she supposed he had his reasons for letting Kevin emerge from his shell before telling him facts that would put an end to his hopes.

Some minutes later, having calmed down somewhat, the boy confessed with a wry expression that he had not got into too much trouble over running away.

‘They said . . . well Professor Braun said,’ he amended with a shy smile for the psychiatrist, ‘that if I gave back all the things I took and wrote notes to everyone saying sorry, it would be OK.’ His eyes appealed to Heather. ‘I didn’t mean any harm. I didn’t know what else to do to stop them sending me home. You know why I couldn’t do that, Heather.’

To her relief, Braun then intervened and she understood what he had been waiting for. Quietly and calmly, the psychiatrist told of an incident at his home in which his father and sister Shona had been badly hurt.

‘The surgeon operated on Shona and she is very slowly getting better. Your mother and Julie are also in this hospital suffering from shock, but they are otherwise unhurt. Kevin, I have to tell you that your father died last night.’

The boy sat as if mesmerized. Heather had seen similar unwillingness to believe tragic news several times during her career, and sat quietly leaving the German to deal with it. He also sat silently waiting for his patient to absorb what he had been told. It seemed an age to Heather before there was any reaction.

‘He’s really dead?’

‘Yes. It’s possible for you to see him, if you wish, but perfectly all right if you decide not. I can take you, whenever you ask, to see your mother and sisters. It could be that they do not know you, for now, but that will pass before long.’

Kevin’s large eyes looked steadily at Braun. ‘I don’t want to see any of them.’

The Professor nodded. ‘Later, perhaps.’

‘No. I hope I never see them again.’ His gaze swivelled to fasten on Heather. ‘I suppose I’ll be sent back to the UK. Can you fix it for me to live with Gran and Grandad Knott? They’re fond of me, and he’s a wicked piano player. I’ll be happy there.’

On leaving the Medical Officer’s harmonious household, warmed by the family affection he had witnessed and by the tot of brandy in his coffee, Max was sobered by a message on his mobile from Derek Beeny on duty at Headquarters.

‘The Garrison Commander called, sir. Would like you to see him at home for a short meeting at midday.’

It was already eleven thirty. Just time to drive to the Mess, run his shaver over his chin again and spruce up a bit. Max knew why he had been summoned semi-officially. Colonel Trelawney, CO of the Royal Cumberland Rifles had become Garrison Commander four months ago when an outgoing battalion had been replaced by the mechanized regiment in which Greg McRitchie had served, and in whose Officers’ Mess Max lived.

Max knew John Trelawney; had encountered him last April when an officer and a sergeant in the RCR had been murdered, and another officer disappeared in suspicious circumstances. SIB had got to the bottom of both cases, but causing the perpetrators to pay for their crimes had been less than satisfactory. It still rankled with Max, but all detectives were familiar with the maxim ‘win some lose some’. This time, Trelawney would be personally concerned about Tony Clegg, an RCR bandsman, as well as the McRitchie tragedy.

There were several cars on the flagged forecourt of the large, double-fronted house when Max arrived. A tall, brown-haired boy of around seventeen in well-cut black jeans and a yellow sweater over a black shirt opened the door and smiled a greeting.

‘Hallo, sir, I’m Paul Trelawney. Come in. My parents are in the sitting-room with Major and Mrs Colley.’

He led the way, and Max was certain he was following a future Sandhurst cadet with a commission in the Cumberland Rifles just waiting for him. Max was surprised to learn that Garth Colley was here, a man he knew vaguely as the second in command of Greg McRitchie’s regiment. Whereas the attack on Kevin had prompted no more than a telephoned enquiry, the murder of a serving soldier during a savage attack on his family in his married quarter was a very serious matter.

In the spacious sitting-room two men stood beside an electric fire with artificial glowing coals set in an ornate fireplace, drinks in hand. Their wives had settled on adjacent chairs facing them, also with drinks. On the padded window-seat was a girl of around fourteen reading a book while idly stroking a ginger cat. Another attractive family Christmas scene, thought Max, catching sight of the decorated tree in an alcove.

John Trelawney turned from his conversation to smile at Max. ‘Good morning, Captain Rydal.’

Max returned his greeting in similar vein. The Garrison Commander did not know him well enough yet to use his first name. Until a week ago 26 Section had been based elsewhere, and Max had had only two official meetings with his host last April.

The wives were introduced to Max. Both were smartly dressed and typical of their breed in that they socialized with ease and charm.

‘You’ve just moved in to the base, I gather,’ said Gaynor Trelawney.

‘Seven days ago. Seems longer,’ replied Max.

‘Well, no wonder,’ exclaimed Brenda Colley. ‘But it must be easier to be on the spot now, rather than make an hour’s drive from your old headquarters.’

Max nodded, thinking how well-informed she was. ‘A definite advantage, although we’ve barely settled in yet.’

‘There always seem to be disasters and sadness around Christmas,’ she observed, echoing Grannie Rydal’s words once more.

‘By the way, the rapt maiden at the window is our daughter Megan,’ said Mrs Trelawney lightly.

The girl glanced up from her book and smiled. ‘Hallo. This is Marmaduke. Couldn’t call a tom Marmalade – that’s the breed he is so we called him the next best thing. Do you like cats?’

Being tactful, Max said, ‘I prefer dogs, but Marmaduke looks a very fine animal.’

‘He’s a wimp,’ declared Paul, busily fixing a run of small lights around the walls of the alcove behind the tree. ‘Lies there having his belly tickled all day. Has no idea what a mouse is.’

John Trelawney said, ‘I think that’s our cue to repair to my study, gentlemen.’ He looked at Max. ‘Whisky, G and T, brandy?’

‘Brandy dry would be fine, sir.’

‘I wouldn’t try the mince pies. Megan made them so they’ll be full of cat fur.’

‘Paul, behave!’ admonished his mother, but she was smiling at Max. ‘Do you have children, Captain Rydal?’

Immune by now to that question, Max merely said no.

‘With Paul as an example, I expect you’re glad,’ commented Megan, resuming her reading.

Max followed the two senior men after accepting a cut-glass tumbler filled with his chosen drink. The study was utterly masculine in style and content. Heavy desk with hi-tech equipment and adjustable chair, bookshelves lining two walls with a third covered in regimental photographs and certificates, golf clubs in one corner and in another a fitted cabinet bearing a silver statuette of an old-time rifleman on one knee firing as if in the front rank of a square formation. Around the handsome piece were several silver cups and an engraved presentation shield. The trophies of a successful career.

Trelawney sat by his desk, the other two settled in worn leather armchairs. Despite the casual approach, Max knew there was an official bias to this get-together and prepared to answer some probing questions.

‘I’d like you to give Major Colley and myself an appraisal of last night’s tragedy,’ John Trelawney said in calm tones. ‘Early days so far as gathering evidence, of course, but was it another in an ongoing spate of violence that has already claimed the life of one of our most promising musicians?’

Max felt it would serve no purpose to prevaricate, so he put his near-certainty forward. ‘During our investigation into the attack on the McRitchie boy we discovered serious behavioural undercurrents in the family, which we would have referred to Welfare when we had evidence of our suspicions.’

‘Can you tell us what these undercurrents were?’ asked Colley.

Max nodded. ‘Corporal McRitchie ran his family like a military platoon. His fondness for his daughters was a mere step away from sexual; his total lack of interest in his son’s life and welfare could be translated as abstract abuse. Mavis McRitchie was treated as no more than cook-housekeeper, which led her to seek consolation from her neglected son. If what Kevin told one of my sergeants is true, his mother’s attentions had grown unwelcome and unacceptable. Both parents had made life unbearable for him at home, so Kevin absconded from the hospital in the middle of the night because he couldn’t face going back to them.’

Major Colley looked concerned. ‘McRitchie was a good soldier, an efficient and reliable NCO, a man I would have expected to rise steadily through the ranks. I knew little of what he was like at home with his family, of course.’

‘None of us knows how our men conduct their private lives, until something like this brings facts to our attention,’ reasoned John Trelawney. ‘So what are you saying, Captain Rydal? That the Corporal’s death was the result of domestic violence, unrelated to the murder of Musician Clegg?’

‘We believe that’s so, sir. Mavis McRitchie had been showing signs of acute stress prior to last night – Major Clarkson will testify to that – and it’s my personal belief that she ran amok with a kitchen knife while the balance of her mind was disturbed.’

‘And young Clegg?’

‘At present, we’re linking his murder with the attack on Kevin.’

‘You’re divorcing the assault on the boy from the violence to his family last night?’ exclaimed Colley in disbelief.

‘Because there are many similarities between what happened to him and Clegg, it strongly suggests an entirely separate motive behind those attacks. We do have forensic evidence which supports that belief.’

‘But no suspect?’ asked Trelawney.

‘Not yet.’

‘But the one took place at a children’s party, and the other four days later in the open near the perimeter road!’ Colley protested. ‘Where’s the similarity?’

Max visualized that small body curled beside overturned figures of a queen and a bishop, with snow settling on them all. Into his mind came his conversation with Livya this morning; his feeling that something of significance had been said. Good luck with the knights and bishops. Of all the chess pieces, why had she mentioned those two? Because a bishop had featured in Clegg’s murder? Perhaps . . . but why the knights? A red queen had been beside the dead boy, not a knight.

Max started to feel that tingling sensation that usually preceded clarity after days of impenetrable fog. He recalled Tom describing the scene in the Recreation Centre’s toilets. This pathetic young kid dressed up as a black knight. They had been following up all the wrong assumptions. It was not music, not drugs, not paedophilia; the missing link was chess, and they had a large number of chess fanatics on the base right now!

By sixteen hundred hours all members of the team save Max and Tom had gone home cold, depressed and tired after their disrupted night. No advance could be made on the murder of Greg McRitchie. In-depth questioning of neighbours, and those who had been present at the Badminton Club last night, produced nothing to alter the belief that Mavis McRitchie had been pushed too far and gone berserk with the knife. Neither she nor her daughters were in a condition to be questioned, and this looked set to continue for a considerable time. The grandparents were being informed. More misery at Christmas!

Piercey had reported his discovery at the forest inn, which had raised eyebrows but brought further gloom because a sexual liaison had destroyed the promising theory of criminal collusion between the glamorous lieutenant and the Mr Fixit sapper.

During the briefing Max said nothing of his belief that chess linked Clegg’s murder with the attack on Kevin, because he could not yet understand why or how. Yet his guts told him he was right, so he mentioned it to Tom as they also prepared to call it a day. He received a sceptical look in response.

‘Think, Tom! Clegg was lying on an outdoor chessboard and killed with one of the giant bishops. You said Kevin was dressed as a black knight. That’s another chess piece.’

Tom put down the topcoat he was about to don and propped himself against the nearest desk. ‘Bit fanciful even for you, isn’t it?’

‘Not when you take into account that there’s an important chess event taking place here, and that it’s a game that breeds very intense emotions.’

‘I thought you knew nothing about it.’

Max covered that smoothly. ‘I know enough to be aware that the level of play here requires devious minds and a very strong will to win in some of the players. I aroused murderous glares when my mobile rang in the concentrated silence of that hall.’

Tom folded his arms and asked too casually, ‘You’ve been watching some of them?’

‘What I’m saying is, that in any kind of top-level contest you’ll find those who take competitiveness to extremes. They have to be top dog.’ He waved a hand at the empty desks vacated by his team. ‘Good God, we’ve just heard them tell us members of the Badminton Club say Greg McRitchie was a bad loser; had to be fully in the limelight.’

Tom nodded. ‘In every aspect of his life. OK, suppose we have a chess nut on the base.’ He grinned at the pun. ‘Wouldn’t he, or she because there are a couple of women doing battle with the kings and queens, wouldn’t it be more profitable to attack the competition than a couple of random lads?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Max agreed with a sigh. ‘I’m clutching at straws, but it is another link between Kevin and Clegg which is worth following up.’

‘Well, we’ve got nothing else at the moment. Piercey has just put the dampers on the slender possibility that Rowe was our man.’

‘Mmm.’

‘What are we going to do about that situation?’

Max got to his feet and reached for his coat. ‘I’ll talk to her on the q.t. We’ve enough on our plate without making her folly official unless we have to.’

‘Stupid woman! With every unattached officer eager to take her on, why risk her career by seducing a squaddie?’

‘Between you and me, I’d guess she did it for the excitement of flouting the rules. A bit of rough, as they say.’

They walked together through the darkened incident room, shivering in the damp coldness of a building that was still not adequately heated, and Tom harked back to their earlier discussion.

‘When did the chess players arrive here?’

‘In ones and twos during last weekend, depending on where they were flying in from.’

Tom held the door open for Max to go through. ‘So some were here on Saturday when Kevin was attacked.’

‘Must have been.’ Max waited while Tom entered the security code. ‘The commissioned ones were in the Mess in force by Monday evening.’ As they crossed the crisp snow to their cars, Max swore. ‘Bugger it! They were all at dinner with me when Clegg was killed.’

‘The perfect alibi. So we investigate the rest tomorrow.’

Max halted by the vehicles and glanced across them at the tall tree now floodlit and sparkling, remembering the family scenes he had viewed this morning and wishing he had one of his own to return to.

He turned back to Tom. ‘My guts could feel different in the morning, so let’s sleep on it.’

‘If you say so. They’re your guts. Goodnight, sir.’

‘Goodnight, Tom. Enjoy your family,’ he added hollowly as he slid behind the wheel.

He parked behind the Mess, where welcoming lights spilled out to sheen the iced garden areas adjacent to the building. As he walked to the main entrance, a surprising sense of gladness to be living alongside others partially negated his melancholy mood. The foyer now contained a fir, lit and spangled with gold. Gilded bells hung at intervals on the walls decorated with holly. From the ante-room came the sound of lusty voices singing rude army jargon to the tunes of well-known carols. The subalterns rehearsing for their dubious entertainment next week. In the small annexe where coats and regimental headgear could be hung, a large bunch of mistletoe was suspended. Christmas had officially arrived.

Going up to his room, Max reflected that this was the nearest to a family scene he would get. A rather large, rowdy family, but he could join or leave them as he wished and there would be no hurt feelings, no post-mortem on his behaviour. There was an envelope on the floor just inside his room. He snatched it up, because it bore just his first name in blue ink, and read the short message.

I’m out of the competition, beaten by a Gunner not long out of nappies! He’s brilliant. How about buying me a consolation drink before dinner? In the event of duty making this impossible, a phone call at whatever time will dry my tears!

Amazing how moods could switch so swiftly, how a disastrous day could suddenly glow with promise. He made coffee and arranged his books, CDs and videos of classic war films on the shelves above the desk. If he planned to stay put for a while he should empty the last of his boxes to put in store with the rest. Maybe he could leave the search for other living quarters until the cold weather ended.

In his second-best shirt – he had worn the best one to the hotel last night – and his silver-grey suit with the jazziest tie he possessed, Max headed for the bar. How did he console a prospective lover who had failed to become champion of something he knew and cared little about? A game was just a game in his book. Nothing to get steamed-up about. Yet some of these players did, and one of them could have . . . He thrust the thought away.

Livya was already drowning her sorrows in the company of the squadron leader who had sat next to her at the official dinner, and who had been knocked out yesterday, Livya had told him. Max would happily knock him out now, with a punch to the chin. She looked disturbingly attractive in a close-fitting coffee-coloured top and a cream skirt that outlined her thighs as she perched on the high stool.

‘You’re one ahead of me,’ he greeted, tapping her lightly on the shoulder. ‘Or maybe two.’

She looked round swiftly and smiled. ‘A girl has to seize her opportunities. I wasn’t sure you’d be free tonight.’ She turned back to the good-looking pilot and slid from the stool. ‘Thanks for the drink, Pete. I owe you one.’

Walking beside her to a pair of low seats by a square table, Max said, ‘You’ve just ruined his evening.’

‘He’s married. Can’t wait to hitch a lift home tomorrow to wifey and small son.’

Max gave a wry smile as she sat and asked for another G and T. ‘You’ve punctured my ego. I was congratulating myself on beating the opposition.’

She laughed. ‘Idiot! I don’t play those kind of games. Just chess.’

‘Look, sorry about the kid just out of nappies. I thought you had a straight run after the champ flew home unexpectedly.’

‘Gunner Kinsey had a straight run, but I think he’d have got there anyway.’

‘You don’t look like a loser.’

‘Oh, I never rail against being beaten by a superior player.’ She looked at him enquiringly because he was making no attempt to get the drinks. ‘Is something wrong?’

He smiled. ‘Absolutely not. I’m just making a slow and delicious study of you before my bloody mobile rings.’