French Leave (24 page)

The smile slipped a little, but not much. ‘Off course. Please to come inside this most attractiff apartment. A residence so suitable for a lady as yourself, madam.'

Max could not dispute that. Airy, with large windows, it had pale walls and ceilings with toffee-coloured carpets throughout. The bedroom was furnished with twin beds zipped together, which could be separated or used as a large double, fitted wardrobe units, a folding leaf table with two chairs, a TV and DVD player, two small armchairs and a broad shelf with a telephone and a computer point. In all, a bed-sitting room.

The en suite bathroom had double washbasins, a shower cubicle and a corner jacuzzi. This was an apartment for a working couple, Max thought, deeply impressed. They had entered through a main door opening on to a small hall. The agent now took them back to that hall and opened the door that revealed a compact but fully-fitted kitchen.

‘It is complete just for yourself,' he explained, ‘but venn you wish to haff the friends you can use this.'

He flung open the third door leading to a large square room containing a walnut table with eight chairs, a sideboard stocked with china and glasses, two settees and four armchairs with side tables. It was the crowning delight of this offer and Max studied it enviously. He had been wrong. The rear windows certainly had pleasant rural views, but this enormous picture window at the front overlooked the road to a distant view of a lake and manor house. Wonderful!

While Clare chatted to the man with the painted smile, Max imagined living in a place like this with Livya. Not with anyone else in the adjoining flat; he would fight shy of sharing. He had once done it at university. Never again. His neighbour had used the communal room as if it were his own, filling it with rowdy friends and girls who damn near wrecked the place.

He would advise Clare to turn this down for that reason. Anyway, could she afford this superior apartment? It then occurred to him that she might not live here alone. Would the husband be sharing it as a reconciliation? He knew nothing of Goodey, although base gossip had it that he was a captain in the Blues and Royals, with some kind of title. Max had dismissed it as exaggeration, but maybe there was some truth in it. His mouth twisted. A Guards officer of that stamp would be able to afford both apartments.

They parted from the agent, saying they would be in touch soon, and Clare drove to the riverside inn where Max had pulled the unconscious girl to safety. He felt curiously resentful when Herr Blomfeld greeted Clare by name, at a place he had only introduced her to two weeks ago.

It was much more pleasant in the garden this evening than it had been on that other sweltering occasion. It was also a Thursday, not a Saturday which was the traditional night to relax and have fun. They ordered, and Max waited for Clare to ask his opinion of the apartment. Instead, she raised her wineglass.

‘Celebrate with me the discovery of my perfect new quarters. I fell in love with it the minute we walked in.'

‘You're going to take it?' he asked, his stein still firmly on the table.

‘When we've drunk the toast, I'm going to call our German fashion model and clinch the deal. I can't afford to lose it to someone who gets in before I do.' Her eyes were bright with excitement. ‘Farewell to dreary officers' mess bedrooms, communal dining and male bravado. I'll be a
woman
there.' She looked pointedly at the stein. ‘You won't celebrate with me?'

He raised it immediately. ‘Off course, madam. Here's to your happiness at Mariensplatz.'

They drank, then she said, ‘You're welcome to visit.'

‘In that large sitting room? I'd need to bring at least ten others or we'd be communicating with semaphore.'

She laughed, then used her mobile phone to secure the apartment. Their food arrived. Clare chatted easily as they ate: how she was getting to know the local area, how she planned to spend her leave periods exploring further afield, how she intended to update the medical regulations used by her predecessor.

Max listened, but did not heed her words. She spoke what used to be called BBC English. Livya's low voice held very slight Slavic undertones, which made it very appealing. Clare's speech was quiet, assured and soothing. As doctor to patient? Livya's was crisp, concise, authoritative. As a military ADC. Except when she teased.
Reduce the revs, Steve
!

‘. . . along the towpath?'

Max came out from his reverie and registered the questioning look from the very different woman facing him. ‘Sorry?'

‘Let's take a walk. It's too soon to return to khaki boredom.'

The discreet lighting along the towpath came on as they strolled beside the river, which was not only back to its usual level, but swollen by the great storm following the heatwave. Water had poured from the hills during two days and nights of excessive rainfall. They were silent for a while; then Max spoke of his pleasure in rowing this waterway.

‘A solo sport,' Clare commented.

‘I suppose I'm a solo kind of man these days. I used to indulge in team sports. Obligatory at school and during basic military training, of course, but I opted out as soon as I could.'

‘But you're the athletic type, Max.'

He gave a short laugh. ‘I do my quota of physical exercise, Doctor. Cross-country running, hill walking, swimming, press-ups.'

‘On your own?'

He threw her a quizzical look in the semi-darkness. ‘You get no fitter if you do it with others.'

‘So, why the shunning of team sports?'

It was peaceful there with only the soft gurgle of surging water, the occasional plop of river creatures seeking food, and their own footfalls on the earthen path. It seemed natural to give her the true answer.

‘My father is a brilliant sportsman. When he was younger he represented the Army so many times he couldn't fit his trophies on one single shelf. He still plays squash and tennis, fences at his club and turns out for his polo team whenever he's able to. He's pretty well known, so you can guess what happened when I grew old enough to participate.'

She glanced up at him, her face pale in the half-light. ‘You were expected to be the star player in every team?'

‘When they discovered I wasn't, it seemed sensible to go solo in things athletic.'

‘
Very
sensible. For that same reason I stopped trying to beat my father on the racing circuit,' she admitted quietly. ‘I became a doctor, which he isn't . . . and you became a policeman who finds missing officers undergoing trauma, which Andrew Rydal can't do. Makes things easier all round, doesn't it?'

‘Absolutely.' He smiled. ‘What canny people we are!'

Not until he lay in bed, relaxed and not yo-yoing, well after midnight, did Max realize just how canny Clare was.
Give a male patient a touch of TLC
and he'll pour out his heart, pronto.
Along that shadowy towpath he had told her about Livya and his dashed hopes for a resolution to their situation. Oh yes, she had laid on the TLC quite lavishly, and he had poured out his heart. She now knew a great deal about him, but he still knew next to nothing about her.

The Incident Room was buzzing on that Friday morning. After a somewhat languid period, two cases were now producing intriguing information.

Max began by telling his team the outcome of his interviews with Dan Farley and members of Lewes CID. ‘The ball is now firmly in their court. Having been given the bikers' reg numbers by Lieutenant Farley, they brought the four in very swiftly for questioning. As you'll guess, they denied everything; said Farley must have noted their reg numbers when they dropped him just short of the White Ram at his request.'

‘They do admit to picking him up along that road?' asked Heather.

‘The Lewes guys told them there were witnesses to that at the outset. The ringleader, called Sean, claimed they had overheard Phil Hawkins, the son in the taxi business, tell a caller they didn't go as far as Brighton on Sundays. They heard him tell his father to look out for a young man with dark hair who'd be carrying a blue holdall and walking along the Lewes Road. Sean says as he and his mates were going to Brighton they decided to help the guy out. He thought he said as much to Phil, but he couldn't be sure. They offered Farley a lift and he got on the pillion. Soon after, he took a call on his mobile and asked to be put down as his plans had changed. They continued to Brighton and never saw him again.'

‘The Sussex guys
believed
that?' asked Piercey incredulously.

Max grinned. ‘Sean was wearing a very upmarket shirt exactly like the one Farley said they had stolen, and one of their women constables in another room called the number of Farley's mobile. It rang in Sean's pocket. Mobiles have their moments of glory, however much we curse them in railway carriages and restaurants.'

Intent on his doodle, Olly Simpson asked, ‘What had they to say to that, sir?'

‘Ah, story number two was that they diverted down a side track to drink some coke, and Farley got worked up about the delay. Said he had a flight to catch at Heathrow. Said he'd lose his job if he didn't get back that night. He tried to persuade them to take him all the way; began bribing them with designer clothes. Forced them to take them. They kept telling him no way could they go up to Heathrow, but he grew wilder and wilder and more and more agitated, pressing his gold watch on them. And his mobile. And all the cash he had on him.'

‘Were Lewes CID rolling on the floor with laughter by then?' asked Connie Bush, highly amused.

‘The next bit's even more inventive. They reckoned Farley then lost it and produced a gun. “'im bein' in the Army, like”,' Max added in a suitable accent. ‘That obliged them to restrain him with whatever was available.'

‘He wasn't foaming at the mouth when they rode off, by any chance?' asked Beeny. ‘Pity if they missed out on that.'

‘So why didn't they go straight to the police?' asked Heather. ‘Don't tell us one of their beloved grannies turned up her toes suddenly and grief put all else from their minds.'

‘Our friend Sean reckoned they had rightly to tell the Army in Germany, where the “nutter” was frantic to fly to. They tried everything they could think of, but never managed to make contact. The one time they connected with a number in Farley's personal phonebook, the person spoke in a foreign language.

‘That's when we get to story number three. Firstly, they intended to go back and release him when he'd had enough time to calm down. Then they reasoned that, being a soldier, he'd have no problem getting free. They'd only wanted to teach him a lesson or two; show him he couldn't order them around like other soldiers. They couldn't credit what had happened. If they'd had any idea he wasn't as tough as they're cracked up to be, they'd have checked that he'd gone off to Germany all right.'

Max surveyed the amused expressions on the faces of his team. ‘It wouldn't be the least funny if Farley hadn't been resourceful and determined. Those dickheads had secured him so tightly to the upright that only a fox chasing a pigeon, and a hell of a lot of ingenuity, provided his means of escape. If witnesses hadn't seen him climbing on Sean's pillion, and similarly dressed bikers outside the White Ram further along that road, minus a passenger, my attention wouldn't have been focussed on that area. Farley could have died in that barn. Not for a gold watch and a few designer clothes,
but because he's a soldier
. That's the value those louts put on one of their country's fighting men. I'd charge them with attempted murder, but you and I know they'll get away with a lot less.'

‘How is Lieutenant Farley?' asked Connie, the most compassionate member of the team.

‘I called the hospital first thing this morning. He's doing well and should return to duty early next week.'

Heather gave Piercey a sly glance. ‘He wasn't in a shallow grave, after all.'

The Sergeant narrowed his eyes, looked knowing. ‘Jack Carr still has to be traced.'

Max glanced at Tom. ‘I'll leave you to review that case. Where are we at with it?'

‘Some disturbing facts have been discovered by Piercey,' Tom said heavily. ‘I'm not able to follow them up because my girls are innocently caught up in the business.'

He outlined what Zoe Rogers had told Piercey about Jake Morgan and the sixth-formers' club. He also revealed what Maggie, Gina and Beth had said about what went on in the summerhouse at Captain Morgan's married quarter.

‘Zoe's use of the initials J.S. suggest Carr, alias Smith, was the person who made life exciting for her, and her comment that he went AWOL would confirm that belief. Now, she's apparently a consummate actress who could make a drama out of frying an egg, so we have to tread carefully. On the surface it could be that this enterprising foursome is selling stuff that Carr acquired illegally, or at least somewhat questionably.'

‘We've no solid evidence that what the kids are presently handling ever passed through Carr's hands,' Staff Melly pointed out. ‘According to local storekeepers, Carr only made lists, never stole the stuff. That's always puzzled me, because he has a history of thieving.'

Tom nodded. ‘That's why I said there are disturbing facets to this case. We've never sussed where Carr got his supplies.'

‘We've not come upon anyone who'll admit they bought things from him, either,' Connie reminded them.

‘Yet Zoe spoke several times of J.S. And surely the mention of his going AWOL clinches the fact that it's Carr,' Piercey insisted. ‘When I encountered her during the storm she said her friend had gone off without leaving an address, and that was three days after Carr vanished. The link's there. Got to be.'