Scotch Mist

Reaching the Mess he realized he did not want the noisy cameraderie usually to be found there, either, so he continued around the perimeter road to the Medical Centre. Parking outside the building, he punched Clare’s number on his mobile to discover whether she was still there or had left for home. No reply, so he tried her mobile.

Her greeting came against a background murmuring that suggested that she was in some public place. ‘Hi, Max! Are you still working?’

‘Just locked up. I wondered if you’d like to go to Herr Blomfeld’s to carry on where we left off on Tuesday.’

She laughed. ‘I’m here now, drinking a glass of our favourite Riesling.’

Max was on the point of saying he would be there as soon as possible when her next words silenced him.

‘I’ve introduced Duncan to Herr Blomfeld. You know his funny English; he beamed and said, “So now we have the double doctors”, adding that the wine was with the greetings of the house. We assume that means we don’t have to pay for it.’ A short pause while she murmured something and MacPherson’s base gave a reply. ‘Come and join us, Max. You two can get to know each other socially and you can drive me home to save Duncan a lengthy detour.’

‘No thanks,’ he replied curtly. ‘I’m not in the mood to play gooseberry . . . or run a taxi service. Have a nice evening.’

For long minutes he sat at the wheel, staring into the murk while painful memories paraded before him. The shattering break with the second woman he had really loved had revived his grief over losing Susan and their embryo son. For a few short months Livya had driven it to the recesses of his mind, made him feel whole again. Now he was once more aware of isolation, even when among his colleagues. The yearning to have something to go home to was still strong in him. A wife, a real home, children. Why were those normal things so difficult for him to find and hold on to?

Cutting through his jumbled thoughts came the sudden certainty that Eva McTavish had taken her own life. Doormats, like worms, finally turned. Years of petty humiliations at the hands of an uncaring man had culminated in the final act of public contempt on returning after an absence of three months. A hundred imagined or stress-related ailments had failed to draw his sympathy. She was the one taking the pills. Her responsibility.

Too browbeaten to walk away and start a fresh life, Eva could not face the long procession of lonely years ahead, so decided to go out with a shower of gold and silver stars, cascades of red and green and blue, swirling, glittering wheels and a thunder of explosions to make her departure more impressive than her existence had been. What was it Jean Greene had said? We’re all born to play our part on the world’s stage, but that sad girl stayed in the wings. Maybe, but Eva gave a bravura farewell performance.

Still staring into the shadowy distance, Max took up his mobile again and punched in the number of a woman facing the prospect of her lonely years with great fortitude.

‘It’s Max,’ he said when Brenda Keane answered. ‘I’ll be passing your way shortly. Will it be convenient to call in?’

‘Oh, yes!’ came the enthusiastic response, ‘It’s such a gloomy old evening, Micky and I will welcome company. If you haven’t already dined you can help me eat a chicken casserole I’ve made.’

‘On way,’ said Max, his spirits lifting immediately.

As he drove through streets where lamps silvered the fine rain that was not visible in the darkness, he was glad he could avoid the main highway into town which was sure to be gridlocked at this hour. Coming up to the turning which would take him to his flat he had the momentary thought of going there and telephoning Brenda with an excuse, but he still shied from the prospect of some pre-packed concoction with only himself for company, and drove on.

When Brenda opened the door and smiled a welcome he was glad of that decision. Short blonde hair shining with health, cheeks rosy from the warmth inside her flat, and violet-blue eyes showing her pleasure at his arrival; at the end of a day like he had just spent this woman in black jeans and sky-blue jumper was a lovely sight.

‘Come in out of the rain,’ she urged, and led the way to her L-shaped living room softly lit by two attractive Tiffany lamps. ‘I’m glad you decided to come. I’ve made a ridiculously large casserole. It’s so difficult to cook for one. There’s always too much and I get sick of eating it up day after day.’

She turned in the centre of the room and gave a soft chuckle as she indicated the wooden rocking-cradle of old Germanic design. ‘Can’t wait for him to be old enough to share meals with me.’

‘How is he?’ asked Max, crossing to the cradle.

‘Bathed and fed, but wide awake. I told him you were coming, so he stayed up for you.’ She joined Max, smiling at the baby who was kicking his feet and waving tiny fists with excitement. ‘Say hallo to Max, Micky.’

The baby gurgled and blew bubbles, which made her laugh. ‘I’m sure he said your name, Max, aren’t you?’

He was lost in marvelling at how small this love child was, how vigorous and aware. Were they all like that? Would Alexander Rydal have looked and behaved so energetically if he had lived? A faint frown creased his forehead. A fatherless child gazing up at a childless father. Imagine if he was looking down at his own son and preparing to eat dinner with Susan. How different everything would be.

‘Drink this while I put vegetables on to boil,’ said a voice, and a glass of wine was put in his hand. ‘Do take off that jacket and relax,’ Brenda added. ‘You look so smart I feel slightly scruffy in comparison.’

Returning to the present, Max said, ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes after a sea of men in disruptive pattern combats, believe me. Can I do anything to help? I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to buy a bottle along the way. Everything was shuttered and barred on a night like this.’

She smiled. ‘I’ve just opened the one you brought last time. These days I only drink in company. Parenthood puts the brakes on things like that. Or it should. As a midwife I saw a few women who ought never to have become mothers.’ She raised her glass. ‘Prosit!’

He repeated the toast and drank, then stood the glass on a small table and removed his jacket to lay it across a chair. Brenda had disappeared into the kitchen, and he was about to take up his glass when Micky began to whimper. It increased in volume until it became a full-blooded scream. What had seemed to Max to be playful kicking and punching the air was now a violent protest against lying in that cradle. The little face was beetroot red and screwed up as if in pain.

Max picked up the distressed child and began to rock him as he walked back and forth. Amazingly, the screams soon subsided into shuddering snivels as blue eyes gazed up in curiosity into dark ones, and the dark ones saw what they wanted to see.

‘Ah, you must have a magic touch.’ Brenda was emerging from the kitchen to see to her baby.

‘Shhh,’ Max said swiftly, because the blue eyes had closed and all was quiet again.

‘Give it a few minutes, then put him back in the cradle,’ she advised in a half-whisper. ‘By then the meal will be ready.’

They sat at the table, Micky sleeping contentedly, and Max asked if all babies fell asleep so instantly.

Brenda nodded. ‘It can be very deceptive, though. Just as you’re slipping back into bed they can wake just as instantly and start screaming again.’

‘I interviewed a woman this week whose daughter fell asleep over a plate of fish fingers and got smeared with ketchup. It astonished me, but her mother says she does it all the time.’

Brenda frowned. ‘How old is the child?’

‘I’m no good at guessing a youngster’s age,’ Max said, concentrating on his food. ‘Three? Three and a half?’

‘She needs to see a doctor. It sounds like a form of narcolepsy. It could be dangerous, Max. Surely the mother can’t believe it’s natural behaviour.’

Max returned his laden fork to the plate. ‘It didn’t appear to be of concern to her. She actually thought it rather amusing.’

‘Amusing? What if the child’s in the bath and the mother goes to answer the phone? She could fall asleep, slip beneath the water and drown. Amusing? What kind of mother is that woman?’

Seeing how serious his medically qualified companion was, Max said, ‘I’ll pass on your concern to our MO and suggest she has a look at the girl.’

‘With some haste.’

‘If you say so,’ he agreed, and continued eating while recalling Jenny Greene asleep with her face in a plate of food while Paddington Bear bought a new tablecloth.

Conversation became general for a while, until Brenda said, ‘I’ve had another letter from my parents urging me to go back to the UK. Neither of them is in good health.’

‘Oh? How do you feel about that?’ He really wanted to know.

‘I haven’t told them about Micky, or that I got a job out here in order to meet up with Flip again. Chasing a married man is how they’d see it. They believed it was simply a career move.’ She rose and gathered up their plates. ‘I’ll make coffee.’

That was no answer, and while Brenda was in the kitchen Max gazed at the picture of a desert sunset that hung on the wall. Philip Keane had bought it for her after their tour of Iraq because he knew the desert had fascinated her. Max had been there briefly and could never live with a picture like that one. Endless sand turned red by a huge dying sun; unforgiving terrain with few signs of life. Oh, no, it looked to him disturbingly desolate.

He was still in the grip of that impression when she returned with a tray bearing coffee and two slices of Sachertorte.

‘Another reason why I’m glad you called in,’ she said, indicating the chocolate cake with a smile. ‘My great weakness, and I’d have eaten it all myself. Are you all right?’ she then asked in concern.

‘Fine.’ To take attention from himself, he asked, ‘Shouldn’t your people know they have a grandson?’

As if to underline his right to exist, Micky began to cry, setting the cradle rocking and breaking the tentative intimacy that had arisen on this first extended visit. It had been no more than coffee and biscuits on the previous two occasions.

The baby’s demands had to be met, so Max tactfully took his leave after downing some coffee. The cake remained uneaten.

Outside, he found the drizzle had been replaced by fog which grew ever thicker as he drove to his flat. It soon became hazardous, visibility such that other vehicles’ red rear lights only penetrated the pall when he was almost upon them. And so it must be for those behind him. Risky to progress, even more so to stop.

Much as he disliked using sat nav Max now found it invaluable. Without it he would most likely never have found the short drive leading to his rented home. Turning into it he almost collided with a Range Rover parked in his designated space. Duncan MacPherson’s, he supposed. Well, the large Scot would not be returning to base tonight. If he was fool enough to try he would be out of luck, because Max blocked his vehicle in and wearily climbed the outside steps to his front door.

After tossing and turning for several hours, Max gave up the attempt to sleep and went to his kitchen to make tea. While it brewed he surrendered to sudden impulse and opened the door to the shared lounge between his and Clare’s apartments. In the dimness he could just make out the blur of pillows and a blanket on one of the long settees. He then closed the door as quietly as he had opened it, and drank his tea. That did the trick. He fell asleep as soon as he returned to bed.

As he ran the electric razor over his dark stubble he vowed to have a straight word with Klaus Krenkel the minute he reached his office. One of those Polizei youngsters who had been with him and Heather at Max-ee-million had provided Otto Gans with the name of the British soldier policeman who had ‘browbeaten Greta and falsely accused her of being a terrorist’.

Brushing his teeth with angry vigour Tom could see the pompous expression on Gans’s podgy face. A jumped-up local businessman who was also some kind of town official. The sort who invariably made protests, offered unasked-for advice, criticized fellow committee members and insisted on every word being included in the minutes, Tom was certain.

To clear the incoming lane at the gate Tom had been obliged to lead the man back to Headquarters. It had been out of the question to conduct a conversation with him in the fine misty rain, but the sight of the battery of computers, telephones, maps, security lights and CCTV cameras had simply increased Gans’s belief that SIB was the British equivalent of the KGB.

The man would not listen to Tom’s explanation. He ranted about his friends in high places who could make things very awkward at a word from him, mentioned his certainty of winning the upcoming election for Burgermeister, and warned Tom that he had no notion of what he had stirred up by insulting and threatening his daughter.

On his demanding to speak to the ‘chief officer’ Tom was able truthfully to say the Garrison Commander was at a NATO conference. This had appeared to strengthen Gans’s belief in Soviet-style secret plans, and he had only departed because Tom had been obliged to reveal Miles Crawford’s name as Deputy Garrison Commander. The one consolation had been Tom’s confidence that Gans would get short shrift from a man deeply worried about his son’s burns, who still regarded the ‘nine to five Fritzes’ as the enemy in two bitter wars.

He had no illusions about who would emerge victor from that meeting. Nevertheless it riled him, because there was little chance of Crawford then brushing the whole incident under the carpet. He was sure to summon Tom to explain, and read him a lecture on keeping good relations with their hosts. He was that kind of officer. With regard to a further visit to Max-ee-million to get the facts on the free gift of giant rockets, Tom realized he must relieve Heather of the duty and go himself.

By the time Otto Gans had departed, fog had descended and looked like remaining. A phone call to the RMP Post resulted in the Duty Sergeant telling Tom there was a reported serious accident near the crossroads, which had closed the route to his house. A call to Nora revealed that Maggie and Gina had arranged sleepovers with friends, but that Beth and she were having a heart-to-heart about the new baby which was going well. That news of the older girls’ plans – a deliberate tactic to avoid facing their parents, Tom was certain – strengthened his decision to spend the night and enjoy a good hot meal in the Mess.

He ate breakfast in the communal silence of men who were never chatty in the morning. The women, who were, always gathered as far as possible from their grouchy male counterparts, and talked quietly. Tom just nodded to Connie, Heather, Piercey and Beeny who were grouped as an isolated quartet, SIB not being particularly popular with regimental members. For almost a year their promised accommodation attached to Headquarters had been a distant prospect. Now, with fresh MOD cuts in expenditure, they despaired of ever seeing it built and resigned themselves to their present situation.

When Tom arrived at Headquarters he found Olly Simpson on duty to field calls and take appropriate action, and a fair-haired man in a navy suit and a rugby club tie, who was checking a pile of files on his desk.

‘Hallo, Staff,’ said Tom with pleased surprise. ‘When did you get back?’

Staff Sergeant Pete Melly got to his feet with a rueful smile. ‘Not until four this morning. I was making good time from the ferry port, but the bloody fog descended so I joined a group of truckers in an eaterie along the autobahn, then had a few hours’ kip until it cleared enough to make driving easier.’

Melly had taken leave in an attempt to mend his marriage before the divorce became final. The fact that he had returned early suggested that he had been unsuccessful, so Tom refrained from mentioning the subject.

‘An eaterie? I thought you’d been in the UK not the US.’

Melly grinned. ‘It’s all the Country and Western I’m into. Gets you talking American.’

‘Huh, so long as you don’t start on hoots mon! We’ve had a bellyful of that these past few days.’

‘So I heard. Olly says everyone’s out on the events of Tuesday night, so I’ve started on clearing up the Gibbons case. We can get a report on the Garrison Commander’s desk ready for his return.’

‘Good. There’s also that charge of sexual harassment that’s a non-starter. Get that wound up as well. Then we’ll have a clear period to get to the bottom of these other cases that are tenuously linked.’

‘Until something else comes in,’ said Olly Simpson, eating a Mars bar beside the silent telephone.

‘That’ll rot your teeth,’ Tom muttered. ‘Didn’t you have breakfast?’

‘Three hours ago. A man has to top up on energy foods.’

Tom wondered why Simpson was not overweight. He was forever eating chocolate bars, yet had a physique often referred to as wiry. He was the really deep thinker in the team; enjoyed enigmatic situations as much as Max, and frequently came up with aspects of a case nobody else had considered. His consuming interest was the rise and fall of past conquerers – Romans, Greeks, Normans, Celts, for instance. Unlike Tom, he welcomed the arrival of the Drumdorran Fusiliers and would surely soon have a friend or two in their ranks.

He caught Tom’s eyes as he walked past to reach his office, and said in a low voice, ‘Hetty’s coming over at the weekend to spend a few days to see if she can stand being an army wife any better than she did before. He came back early to fix up somewhere they can live together while she decides. It looks promising.’

At that point Max walked in looking somewhat red-eyed. Tom guessed he had had another bad night, and cursed the Cordwell woman who had let his friend down so badly.

‘Morning, sir,’ the three men chorussed, one speaking through a mouthful of Mars bar.

Max returned their greeting, then perched on the edge of a desk. ‘Everyone’s out getting evidence that’ll allow us to get this case moving towards a conclusion . . . hopefully! Oh, hallo, Staff. Good to see you back. How did it work out? Any chance of a reconciliation?’

Tom exchanged glances with Simpson that spoke volumes, but Melly smiled and said he had high hopes.

‘Great! Good man! Any probs let me know and we’ll sort them out. I’ll précis what we have so far to put you in the picture.’ Max then gave a concise account of the case concerning Eva McTavish, and began to outline the more complex problem. ‘Last thing yesterday, George Maddox was told by the explosives guys that the bonfire had also contained a selection of aerosol containers – we’ve had that problem before, if you recall – and some firecrackers left over from Chinese New Year. These, together with the IED, produced the dangerous big bang. Having been professionally serious on Wednesday about the IED, they last evening accused us of having overreacted, even quoting, somewhat smugly, alarm clocks and sticks of dynamite in suitcases.

‘So that’s the present state of play, Staff. The annual dickheads decided to put the wind up everybody, and I’ve a good idea who they were, but we have to work out the who and why regarding the additional item that caused the real damage.’

‘Have the explosives guys found remnants of a cheap suitcase?’ asked Melly, straightfaced.

Max scowled. ‘Men who risk their lives on a daily basis in a warzone tend to regard us as buffoons when it comes to real soldiering. My initial belief that someone was bent on causing danger to lives no longer stands up. Without the aerosols and crackers, the IED – we’ll continue to call it that – was probably designed just to cause the bonfire to collapse with a loud bang. So we’re back to my familiar line that someone was making a statement. Yes, I know,’ he added. ‘On my hobby horse again. But it’s the most obvious explanation, and we have on this base a legion of men, and women, who are well primed on the behaviour of combustible material and who are never short of things to complain about.

‘The absolute urgency to trace the perpetrator has been reduced, but we still have to find whoever was driven to express a grudge by that method.’ He straightened from his perch on the desk. ‘We also need firm evidence that Eva McTavish willingly and deliberately took her own life before I can file a suicide report. Although I believe it to be true, there is still a small area of doubt that should be investigated. Don’t you agree?’ he asked, turning to Tom.

Tom nodded, but he wondered what had made Max so certain the woman had taken her own life.

‘When the team comes in at the end of the day, they should bring in enough evidence to clarify what’s presently opaque. In the meantime, I suggest we tie up the Gibbons case and that dreamed-up claim of sexual harassment.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Melly, giving no sign that he had already agreed that with Tom.

Tom was irked by this issue of orders without consulting him first, but in his present mood he would find most things irritating. At some time today he would receive a summons from Miles Crawford, and he would have to go to Max-ee-million to meet the blond German Heather had arranged to rendezvous with at noon. She had been vocally disappointed when Tom had called to say he would take her place.

‘I’m not setting up in competition. I don’t fancy him,’ he had finished brusquely.

When Max went to his office, Tom followed him. ‘Better put you in the picture,’ he began. ‘Our dearly beloved DGC may be on the blower any minute with another bleat.’

‘Before you tell me why, get young Oliver out there to make us some coffee. He’s only sitting on his backside beside a phone that’s thankfully quiet. If there’s a bleat in store I need an injection of caffeine.’

‘Good idea.’ Leaning from the doorway he gave Olly the request, adding, ‘If you’ve left any choc bars in the tin add a couple of those.’

While they waited, Tom asked if Max had managed to reach his flat before the fog and the road accident had closed the main route through town. Max countered with ‘Did you?’ which suggested to Tom an unwillingness to reply to that. So where had he spent the night? Was there a new woman hovering in the wings?

‘I stayed in the Mess. The cause of the expected bleat delayed me until there was a near grey-out. Too risky.’

‘Oh, am I likely to receive a bleat from Nora, too?’

Tom hesitated on the brink of telling him about the expected baby, then thought better of it. He should ask Nora before spreading the news around. Not that Max would say anything to others, but she should agree on when they went public, as it were. Telling their girls had been disaster enough, without a mix of congratulations or gentle sympathy from friends. They, themselves, were still hovering between pleasure and dismay.

Coffee and Twix bars were brought in, then Tom related the substance of his encounter with Otto Gans. When he finished, Max actually grinned.

‘Ever see that film about a Colonel Blimp? Gans sounds like an inflated dogmatist.’ The grin became a chuckle. ‘I’d love to listen in when he encounters Miles Crawford. Who d’you reckon as the winner?’

‘The DGC, no doubt, but he’ll still give me stick. Possibly you, as well.’

‘Won’t be able to resist it,’ Max agreed. ‘Colonel Trelawney’s back on Sunday, thank God.’ He bit into the second Twix baton. ‘Unless the team brings in evidence that must be acted on immediately, I suggest we let things lie until Monday. We have a mess dinner tonight to welcome the Drumdorrans – attendance obligatory – and the funeral’s being held tomorrow. Adequate reason to keep relations sweet while emotions run high. I don’t know about you, but what appeared to be a mountain is fast turning into a molehill.’

‘Those guys and their bloody IEDs!’

‘Mm, but even an alarm clock and dynamite in a suitcase is more sinister than aerosols put in for a laugh. We have to discover who was behind that.’ His telephone rang, and he raised his eyebrows enquiringly. ‘Do I say you’re not available at present?’

‘Yes.’ He got swiftly from his chair. ‘I’m off to Max-ee-million, but don’t tell him that.’

Max decided he would instead talk to Jean Greene himself; suggest she take Jenny to Captain Goodey for advice. He took a chance on finding her at home. If she was not, he could always telephone later. He could telephone now, come to that, but he felt the need for action.

The spur had been removed from both investigations, which left him feeling restless. An alarm clock and a stick of dynamite. How often had that ploy been used in the black and white war films he had collected over the years? The description improvised explosive device had been used so often in connection with the war in Afghanistan one’s mind immediately read terrorist activity into the letters IED. Particularly in a military setting.

What he had now to ensure was that whoever inserted one into the bonfire with the intention of making a point, drawing attention to his anger over some personal sense of injustice, was given appropriate punishment. As for Eva McTavish, the team would surely come up with evidence to show she had been pill-popping at the Sports Ground, or knocking back the vodka. A suicide note would clinch the matter, but Hector had almost certainly destroyed it. If challenged, his mother would doubtless have no hesitation in backing up his claim of a newscutting having been sent to her. It was a lie Hector knew they would recognize, but be unable to prove. Frustration in every direction, and a boring dinner tonight to make much of the new Scottish members of the Mess. Small wonder he felt distinctly unsettled.

Arriving at the familiar house, it looked as if Max had caught Jean Greene on the point of going out. Jenny was being lifted into her car seat, and several stout carrier bags stood on the pavement by the open boot. Max drew up and got out. Jenny spotted him and yelled his name while resisting her mother’s attempt to put her legs through the restraining straps. Laughing, Max joined Jean who had realized she was facing the impossible and was lifting the wriggling child out of the car again.

‘I’m not used to such flattering female attention,’ he said, still laughing as he took Jenny from her. ‘Hallo. Not watching Paddington buy a new tablecloth today?’

Jenny shook her head. ‘Mummy has to get rid of the bloody bottles.’

Trying hard to wipe the smile from his face, Max looked at Jean and was surprised to see a tide of red flooding her face.

‘She repeats everything I say,’ she offered lamely. ‘I didn’t know she’d overheard my phone conversation just now.’

Max nodded but he had seen the furtive glance she gave at the bags on the pavement, and guessed there was more behind her unease than her garrulous child’s embarrassing repetition of an oath.

‘Maybe she was asleep again, and woke while you were still speaking to your caller,’ he suggested. ‘That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about.’

‘I have an appointment, Max,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Make it this afternoon, then you can have tea with us. Jenny’d love that.’

‘I won’t keep you,’ he assured her. ‘I happened to tell a friend yesterday about how Jenny falls asleep so easily at any time of the day, and she said you should talk to a doctor about it. She’s a nursing sister, so she knows what she’s talking about. I told her I’d pass her advice to you.’

‘Oh, yes. Thank you. I’ll do that.’ She took the small girl back from him. ‘Jenny, we have to go to see Stephanie. She’s waiting to show you her new kitten.’

The kitten proved to be a greater attraction than Max, so Jenny was soon strapped into the seat and urging her mother to hurry.

‘Thanks, Max. I’ll do that,’ Jean repeated, and when he made no move to go, added, ‘It’s good of you to take so much trouble. I appreciate it.’ Then, when he held his ground, smiled a goodbye. ‘I really should be on my way.’

‘Of course. I’ll help you to put the bloody bottles in the boot,’ he murmured, returning her smile. ‘Taking them for recycling?’

‘Yes. I can manage them, thanks.’

Ignoring that, he walked to where the bags stood and lifted the first. When Jean tried to take it from him, insisting that she was quite able to deal with them, Max’s guess became a certainty. Setting the bag inside the boot he pulled a vodka bottle from it – then several more – strangers in a collection bearing wine or lemonade labels. Jean was now looking as guilty as he expected.

‘I’ll take these to check for finger prints,’ he informed her crisply. ‘Eva McTavish’s prints, which I’ve no doubt will be on each one of these vodka bottles.’