Czech Mate (11 page)

‘Mmm,' said Tom non-committally.

‘Yes, I know it's a long shot, especially when there are places enough out there where troops can buy stuff, but a dealer with a contact on the inside is one jump ahead.'

‘But a young boy?'

‘Who wouldn't be risking half as much as a soldier, and who would supply his mates. Catch 'em young.' He gave a faint smile. ‘One of my wilder ideas, I admit, but worth following. There's the additional question of the dependant son of a serving soldier being coaxed into spending a night at the home of a supposed talent scout with a special interest in youths.'

‘
That
I do believe needs our investigation.' Tom's voice hardened. ‘Neither parent is likely to protect that lad.'

Shrugging on his topcoat, Max asked casually, ‘Did you know there's a cut-throat chess championship being fought out here over the next week or so?'

‘I heard rumours. Last year Camberley, year before Cyprus. Nice little jolly for those who get their kicks from board games. I'd spell it b-o-r-e-d, but each to his own.'

‘They're not all intense eggheads.'

Tom cast him a speculative glance. ‘Is that a fact?' When Max failed to rise to that, he said, ‘Like any other grand sporting contest, it's spawned ambitious amateurs. I'm reliably told by my offspring that everyone's playing it now.' He buttoned his padded coat, scowling. ‘Maggie's getting “expert tuition” from a German boy who lives over the road. She says he's the local junior champ at the game. I've advised Nora to keep an eye on what game it is. They're spending a lot of time together and I can't believe they're playing chess for all of it.'

Max chuckled. ‘Come on, Tom, remember what you got up to in your teens.'

‘I do. That's the root of my concern.'

Heather Johnson was not a lover of snow. It looked very pretty before it turned to slush, but she felt it could only be gushed over from inside a cosy house, looking from a window at a snow-draped garden sparkling in sunshine, knowing she had not to drive anywhere. Her journey to the hospital was cold and demanding. She then spent an age finding a parking place where she was unlikely to be blocked in by a thoughtless or distraught driver.

The children's ward was bright with colour, and members of staff were engaged in hanging sparkling silhouettes of bells and angels on the walls. At home in England there would be friezes of frosted snowflakes to create the atmosphere of Christmas. Here, they had enough outside.

Kevin McRitchie was stretched listlessly in a chair at the end of the ward, where smaller children were playing with books and toys. Heather approached him and smiled.

‘Hallo, Kevin. My name's Heather. I'm with SIB. Captain Rydal's caught up with something today, so he asked me to see how you're getting on.' He showed little interest, so she said, ‘When my brother Keith was in hospital he found there was little to amuse a boy of thirteen. Plenty of toys and girlie dolls, but no clever gismos or space games. He likes that kind of thing. And pop, of course. He'll be green with envy when I tell him I've been talking to someone his age who leads his own group. Swinga Kat's a really cool name. Did you think that up?'

Kevin nodded, sitting straighter. ‘Heard it on a cop show on telly. Guy said his office wasn't big enough to swing a cat, and I thought it sounded awesome.'

‘It does.' She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Where's your bed? Could we go there to talk away from the noise of these tinies?'

‘If you like. They said I had to sit out today, but if you're there they won't go on at me.'

They walked together to his bed. He sat on it and Heather took the visitors' chair. ‘Are they strict here? Getting on at you all the time?'

He looked mulish. ‘They say I can go home before long, but I don't feel well enough.'

‘That's because there's nothing to do here. Keith was the same until I took him some mags, puzzles and his Walkman. He soon felt better.' She reached in her shoulder bag. ‘I managed to pick up a couple of puzzle books in the NAAFI shop. The Musicmaker mags were back copies I guessed you'd already read, but I thought you might like to borrow my Walkman and some CDs my brother gave me a couple of years ago. Old stuff by today's scene, but stuff that's stayed the course. Pop classics, I guess.'

His large eyes gazed at her in surprised wonderment, and she anticipated his next words. ‘Why doesn't
she
bring me something like that?'

‘Your mother?'

He nodded, concentrating on the boxed CDs and murmuring, ‘Yeah, yeah,' as he read the titles.

‘It's not been easy to get to and fro since you were admitted.'

‘You got here,' he muttered, still studying the CDs.

‘We have special vehicles for rotten weather. Besides, your mother has a lot on her plate, cooking meals and looking after your sisters, too.'

‘
Them!
' His mouth twisted in contempt. ‘They've got their precious dadda.'

‘But he's often on duty, and they're too young to be left on their own. That, and the weather, is why your mother hasn't been to see you, I expect.'

He looked up, eyes bright with an emotion Heather could not immediately identify. ‘She's been. Every day. She'll turn up any minute now, and spoil this like she did when the officer came.'

‘You mean Captain Rydal?'

‘Yeah. He's all right. Knows what it's all about.'

‘But your mother doesn't?' Heather prayed the woman would not come just as she appeared to be gaining ground.

Turning a CD box over and over in restless hands, Kevin said jerkily, ‘He took the brats away from her, so she tries to . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘Nothing.'

Heather was experienced enough to move on. ‘What's the food like in here?'

‘The pits.'

‘That's what my brother said. Still, you'll be back home shortly for meals you like.'

‘I don't want to go home.' It was blurted out with something approaching desperation.

‘Why's that, Kevin?' she asked gently.

There were threatening tears in eyes that appealed for understanding. ‘He hates me, and she just wants to cuddle me all the time. I'm too old for that now. I don't like it. My mates don't have to put up with it. I've told her, but she just cries and says she might as well be dead and out of it because no one would care.'

Deeply concerned, Heather said swiftly, ‘She doesn't mean that. Mums tend to exaggerate when they're upset.'

‘She means it.
She
hates me now, because I won't do what she wants.' He dropped the CD on the coverlet and gripped Heather's hand. ‘Can I trust you?'

‘Of course you can,' she assured him soothingly.

‘Last Saturday she got upset because he was making a big deal out of dressing the brats in their costumes. Then she began to fiddle with mine, pulling it straight and that.' He took a deep breath. ‘She touched me . . . you know.
There
. I pulled away and shouted at her. She followed me to the door, crying. I told her if she did it again I'd leave home. I went and sat in the car with the door locked, until he came out with the brats. I could see the light on in my room. She was up there touching my things.' He clenched Heather's hand as if it were a lifeline. ‘
She
did this to me. She hurt me because I said I'd leave. I'm not going back there. I'm
not
!'

Phil Piercey and Derek Beeny arranged with the headmaster to interview the boys separately during their mid-morning break and the period that followed. They should have played football, but the pitch was too icy and the sportmaster intended to show videos of professional championship matches. Swinga Kat musicians could afford to miss some of that.

Johnny King, thickset with heavy features, resembled his heavyweight boxer father in looks but not ambition. His sights were set on beating the hell out of drums instead. He appeared pugnacious enough when summoned, however.

‘I don't know any more now than last Sunday,' he stated, standing feet apart, arms folded, ignoring the invitation to sit.

‘Neither do we,' said Piercey crisply, ‘but we're not Kevin's mates. You know him well and we think you can help us if you put your mind to it. Sit down and answer our questions . . . there's a good lad.' He added the last, conscious of Jean Bakewell, school secretary, whose presence fitted the description of appropriate adult.

Johnny sat with obvious unwillingness. ‘I only know Kev in the group. His drive to make it, like. He only talks music and gigs when we get together. We don't do anything else. I mean, he's brilliant on guitar, and that, but he can't tell you a thing about Beckham or Schumacher. He's never heard of Hobbits and never read Harry Potter. Fact is, I don't think he reads anything except music mags. See what I mean? He's a dead loss without a guitar in his hand.'

Beeny perched on the corner of a staff-room table to ask quietly, ‘Does he ever seem hyped up when you get together?'

‘You mean is he on drugs? No, he's just a nutter when it comes to Swinga Kat.' He forced a grin. ‘A
nice
nutter. I mean, he's a mate, and all that.'

‘But you have other mates who know about football, Lord of the Rings and boy wizards – mates you see when you're not playing drums?'

‘Yeah, course. The group isn't all there is going.'

‘Got a girlfriend, have you? asked Piercey in chummy manner.

Johnny cast a swift glance at Miss Bakewell and hedged. ‘There's a group of us meet up sometimes.'

‘Are Malc Carpenter and Callum Peters in that group?'

‘Yeah.'

‘But not Kevin McRitchie?'

‘He's not into girls.'

‘Oh, why's that?' asked Beeny.

‘He's not gay,' came the immediate response from this sharp lad. ‘Least, I don't get that he is.' He cast another glance at the woman sitting quietly to the side of the room. ‘He's just—'

‘Yes?'

‘I . . . I can't say.'

‘Yes, you can,' Beeny told him encouragingly. ‘This conversation is completely confidential.'

‘And Miss Bakewell is very hard of hearing.' Piercey winked at the boy before turning to her. ‘Isn't that right, ma'am?'

She played along. ‘Sorry, I didn't quite catch that.'

Beeny moved from the table to sit on a chair next to Johnny. ‘You were going to tell us why you believe Kevin's not into girls.'

Johnny appeared to be fighting a battle with his conscience, but eventually decided it was all right to speak frankly. ‘Shona and Julie rule the roost in that house. What they want, they have. What they say goes. They tell tales about Kev. Things that mostly aren't true. His dad believes them and gives Kev punishments – military punishments.' He looked disgusted. ‘His dad says the family's like a platoon. Has to have strict discipline.'

‘How does Kevin's mum rate that idea?' asked Piercey, almost casually.

Well into letting everything out of the bag by now, Johnny said, ‘She's just the reverse. Treats Kev like a baby. Still kisses him when he goes out or comes in, and insists on tucking him in when he goes to bed.' Colour flooded his face. Either embarrassment or indignation. ‘He used to lock his door, but she's hidden the key. That really upset him.' Deferring to Miss Bakewell's presence, he leaned forward to whisper, ‘He thinks females are the pits.'

Max drove into town where the streets had been cleared by snowploughs, and stores were being invaded by women driven by the present-buying frenzy. Toyshops, in particular, were filled almost to overflowing. Yet again Max caught himself wondering how it would be to have a child, several children, to introduce to the delight of Christmas.

He could vaguely recall his mother helping him to unwrap parcels in bright paper. The mental vision he had of her was possibly due more to photographs of a dark-haired, smiling woman with laughing blue eyes, than to his actual memories of her.

Those early Christmases had been wonderful, with his father hauling in a giant tree and mounting a stepladder to arrange coloured lights and baubles on it. There had been grandparents in carpet slippers and woollen jumpers, who had made a great fuss of him. Yet he had always wished for a brother or sister to play with.

One year he had been given a puppy, but his grandparents had had to have it back because his father had been posted to Malaya and took his family with him. Three months later, Max's mother had died of a virulent fever and he had been sent home to boarding-school. Christmas had never been a glad, warm, wonderful time again. He needed his own children to revive that loving feeling.

Almost imperceptibly, his thoughts moved on to Livya Cordwell. His hopes had been dashed on two evenings when she had failed to appear, but last night had been very successful. She had made a point of joining him on entry, and had stayed with him until the obligatory parting of the ways in the first floor corridor. The official dinner for the guests was being held tonight. Max planned to invite her to dine with him on Saturday at what he had been told was the best hotel in town. He was very, very attracted to her and those ten days were passing too swiftly.

He was having to relearn the art of courtship rather quickly. For the past three years his dealings with women had been strictly on the professional scale. The memory of Susan had always hovered on the social scene. He would never forget her, but Livya Cordwell was too vital to let slip through his fingers.

Lost in speculation, Max arrived at his destination before he was ready to abandon his pleasant thoughts. Tucked away in the sleazier area of town, the so-called studio had frosted windows bearing huge black exclamation marks on each side of a black door. Above the premises a white-fascia board bore the word RAMSCH in scarlet letters edged with black.