Czech Mate (12 page)

Max decided the owners had either a defiant sense of humour, or they were attempting to be quirkily trendy.
Ramsch
translated as rubbish, leftovers, bits and pieces. Probably a true description of the business conducted here. How had Kevin known of this place? Possibly from an advertisement in a pop magazine designed to lure such as he with the promise of fame?

Driving around the corner, Max could see the large square extension at the rear of the building. The film studio where every type of action was recorded? He parked at the end of the long, narrow street, then pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar. Climbing from the car he replaced his polished leather boots with muddy ones, and exchanged his wool topcoat for a shabby anorak kept with the boots in the car for investigating in rough terrain. He then thought he looked more the part he prepared to play.

Crunching over the snow, Max turned the corner and pushed open the heavy black door to be met with the heady perfume of joss-sticks. The tiny reception area had scarlet walls and a desk at which sat a surprisingly classy-looking girl in her early twenties. The black velvet curtain over an archway behind her was the perfect backdrop for her blonde colouring and the ice-blue classic suit she wore.

She smiled invitingly as she assessed the tall, chunky man dressed the way many visitors to
Ramsch
were. Max had no doubts that she was as good a judge of people as himself and his team on initial contact. Her voice was low and husky as she asked how she could serve him. Wording suited to what went on here, Max thought.

He replied in English, rather brashly, that Gunther was the man who could provide the service he needed. Knew just how to handle what he had in mind, he added with a wink.

Still smiling, she got to her feet and vanished behind the velvet curtain. Guessing he was now being viewed through a hidden peephole, Max scratched his head, studied his finger nails, spat on his handkerchief and rubbed at a spot on his sleeve, looked at his watch and muttered, ‘Come on. Come on.'

The girl returned and beckoned him to the nether regions – the large square area filled with cameras, some hanging from gantries, others scattered about the floor. To one side was a glass-walled cubicle containing a small desk with telephones, and a control panel with a suspended microphone.

Gunther, who came from the cubicle to meet him, was so exactly as Max expected it was as though they had met before. Stick thin and wearing black jeans with a mustard silk shirt, he had spiked gingery hair and matching designer stubble. There was no smile, no proffered hand.

‘There was a recommendation to visit me?' Gunther's English was precise but expressionless.

Max thrust his hands in his pockets. ‘Met this guy in a bar. Got talking, found we had similar interests. Know what I mean? Said you could fix me up.'

‘He has a name, this guy?'

Max gave a conspiratorial smile. ‘Fritz, wouldn't you know?'

‘And you have a name?'

‘George. Look, I run a nice little business in erotic videos back home, but I needed new blood. Came over to Europe looking. Found myself some new models. Two guys, three girls. All willing to do anything. Know what I mean? Immigrants who need the money. Exotic they are. Just right for my market. Problem! My studio's in London and no way can I smuggle them all over there.'

‘You want to film them here?'

‘Yeah. You have the props, the right set-up. Can do?'

‘Of course. That is why this
Fritz
sent you here.'

‘Problem! I have to go back on Sunday. Gives us just two days.'

Gunther was in business. ‘If your models are good, OK, but it takes time. My studio is booked from mid-afternoon on Saturday. Tomorrow free. We do what we can. Maybe more Saturday morning. Come!'

Max followed the German to his office to discuss the number and length of the videos. Then came the demand Max had been waiting for. A large advance payment to reserve the studio for a day. In cash.

‘Problem,' said Max with the right amount of regret. ‘I don't carry that many euros on me, especially this time of year on crowded streets. I'll nip off and pick 'em up the easy way. Back in an hour.'

Gunther stared at him. ‘The offer is open for one hour and one half. Then the studio is available for others.'

‘Sure. Understood,' Max replied with a nod. ‘I like a guy who runs a tight business. We'll work well together.'

They began walking back to the curtain and Max lowered his voice. ‘Fritz in the bar hinted that you're also right on for supplying a man on the move a long way from his regular supplier. That right? Can you fix me up for when I come with the models tomorrow?'

There was silence until they reached the archway. Max glanced at Gunther. ‘How about it?'

‘I cannot help you. Try Florian at the Pink Pig.' He pushed aside the curtain. ‘One hour and one half only, George.'

Max returned to his car knowing Gunther was definitely into porn, but not drugs. Florian at the Pink Pig probably held the monopoly in this town. Which knocked on the head the idea that Kevin McRitchie was being bribed into supplying as a result of the Swinga Kat video. Klaus Krenkel would be aware of what went on at
Ramsch
, but porn was usually tolerated provided it didn't involve minors or animals. Nothing about Gunther had suggested he dabbled in those areas. Another ‘Florian' would run that criminal business. Even so, Max determined to drop a word in Klaus's ear about Gunther's offer to introduce Kevin to a supposed talent scout. The
Polizei
might not be aware of
that
sideline.

Tom was having a fruitless morning one way and another. The men in Greg McRitchie's platoon were tight-lipped on the subject of their corporal. Understandably. Not one was foolish enough to rubbish someone in a position to make them pay for being a blabbermouth. There was certainly no hint that he was admired as some could be, especially during active service when understanding leadership often saved lives. His fellow NCOs said, if somewhat guardedly, that he was worth his two stripes despite tending to be overly inflexible.

Lieutenant Lucy Farmer said she had been his platoon commander too short a time to know much about his personal life, but he was hot stuff on squad drilling. Also, the standard of his men's turnout and living quarters was always exemplary. He set a perfect example with his own appearance and bearing, which made him a valuable NCO.

‘Maybe he's a little rigid in his attitude,' she conceded as she and Tom drank coffee in her office. ‘I've not so far been in action against an enemy, but I'm sure the most successful commanders under fire are those who remember at all times that soldiers are human, not robots.'

Tom found himself being charmed by her vivid looks and outgoing personality, which brought to the surface his unshakeable belief that women should never be sent to war zones. Imagine this glowing, vital creature being peppered with bullets on some Godforsaken battlefield. No, all wrong!

In the midst of these thoughts his mobile rang. Excusing himself, he walked out along the corridor to take a call from Heather Johnson.

‘Where are you?' he asked.

‘At the hospital. Sir, Kevin has just indicated that his mother is too free with her loving gestures. He says she handled his penis before he left for the party on Saturday. He made his disgust apparent, probably swore at her, and said if she ever did it again he'd leave home. Seems she got wildly upset and angry because he stormed out and locked himself in the car until his father brought his sisters out.

‘He's presently in a nervous state because the doctor has said he can go home before too long. It's genuine fear, sir, and I understand why. His father gives him military punishments, whatever that means, his sisters crow over him, and his mother is venting her sexual frustration on him.'

‘We'll have to put Welfare on to that. All those kids are being used by their parents to satisfy some element lacking in their own lives. Now Kevin has made a definite claim of sexual abuse intervention is permissible.'

‘Here's the crunch. Kevin claims his mother committed the assault on Saturday. He says it was her punishment for his threat to leave home. I asked if he actually saw her with the weapon in her hand, and he said he did. I can't credit that's the truth, sir. He could be lying due to his dread of returning to that unhappy situation at home.'

Tom sighed. ‘Well, whatever, we can't question him further without a medical presence, probably a psychiatrist. See if you can get the nurse to give him something calming, then head back to base.'

‘One more thing, sir. I called Connie Bush, but she had missed Mrs McRitchie at the house by fifteen minutes. A neighbour said she was on her way here.'

‘All the more reason for you to leave. The medical staff can deal adequately with her.'

‘I told Connie Kevin has accused his mother, so she's going to talk to other women who were playing badminton on Saturday. They'll be able to say whether or not she was there the whole time. Logically, I can't see how she could get from the Badminton Club to the Recreation Centre and back in the time span, even supposing she was a mind-reader and knew Kevin would go for a smoke exactly when he did.' She lowered her voice. ‘She's walking towards the ward now. Time to make myself scarce.'

Tom stood for a moment thinking about this development. The badminton courts were on the opposite side of the base to the Recreation Centre. Mavis McRitchie only occasionally participated in a game ‘with three other duffers'. If Tom knew anything about keen, experienced players on a Saturday night, they would be most reluctant to surrender a court to four women who hardly knew one end of a racquet from the other. That meant Mavis might have had the opportunity to slip away unnoticed. Two problems with that. Surely Shona and Julie would miss their mother, despite watching ‘Dadda' being brilliant, and rush to complain of being left unchaperoned. And, as Heather had pointed out, how would their mother have known her son would be alone in the toilet at that precise time? No, Kevin had to be lying.

He began walking back to Lucy Farmer's office, again beset by the problem of timing. The attack surely had to have been made by someone at the party, by an acquaintance Kevin had arranged to meet, by a passing user who nipped in for a quick snort or, and here was a new angle, by two squaddies who knew the bar was closed and only a tinies' party going on so planned a spot of cottaging. The team had ruled out the first theory by questioning the adults twice, so that left—

Outside the door of Lucy Farmer's office, which Tom had pulled half-closed on leaving, he was halted by her urgent words. She was speaking in an undertone, but Tom could still hear the gist of her half of a telephone call.

‘Calm down, Alan! No one's
on to us
. You've just got the jitters . . . Yes, you
have
. Why would anyone suspect anything? . . . Rubbish! We've been very careful to cover our tracks . . . No, our arrangement still stands, unless you haven't the bottle to carry it off. I've more to lose than you, don't forget . . . Good, that's my boy! Ciao.'

Tom counted to ten before lightly tapping on the door and pushing it open. She was standing by the window with a mobile in her hand, and regarded him with total composure as he again apologized for having to take a call during their discussion. He then thanked her for her input on Corporal McRitchie, and said his farewell.

The snow was still crisp beneath his tread as he walked to his car and slid behind the wheel. Could that sexy redhead have been talking to the man she had worked in tandem with at the party? Sapper
Alan
Rowe? They had both had access to the storeroom and the rear loading doors, going in and out to change over equipment between games. Jack Fellowes' statement had them in there packing everything away ready for the fancy-dress parade at the time Kevin had been attacked.

Tom frowned at the windscreen. Yes, it was a possibility, if they had been in cahoots! She could have gone out by the rear door while Rowe covered for her, slipped upstairs through the front entrance, snatched the club from the wall and struck Kevin, then hidden in the adjacent women's toilet when the Clarkson boys clattered up the stairs. In the uproar following their cry of murder down in the main hall, nobody would have noticed Lucy Farmer's return to the storeroom. It all fitted very well, but what motive would she have for hurting a lad who simply dreamed of musical fame? He sighed heavily. Therein lay the crux of the case. What motive had anyone for attacking that boy?

Musician Tony Clegg was hyped to the hilt as he left the building with the Bandmaster's congratulations ringing in his ears. He had passed his first grade examinations on the French horn with distinction; both the written paper and the test pieces. Drums, trumpet, xylophone, and soon he could add the French horn to his musical expertise. Captain Booth had also told him he had been promoted.
Lance-Corporal
Clegg! He was really going places now.

Clegg loved every aspect of his life and still could hardly believe he was being paid to enjoy himself so much. Music had been his passion for as far back as he remembered. His greatest wish had been to play in a band, and he had been a star in the local youth orchestra. They were all volunteers, of course, so when Clegg left school he needed to find a job. For six months he had worked in a large DIY store, which he had hated, but his wages paid for his advanced music lessons. Then the leader of the youth orchestra arranged to take them all to a massed bands concert at the Albert Hall. The Coldstream Guards, resplendent in scarlet uniforms, had shown Clegg the exciting future he could have.

The Royal Cumberland Rifles did not command the distinction of a Guards regiment, and their bandsmen wore green rather than scarlet, but Clegg was with a military band, and he had gained a paid profession that was utterly fulfilling. A bonus was that music lessons were provided free.