Czech Mate (18 page)

Max ate lunch in the panelled restaurant, imagining Livya on the other side of the table, her dark hair gleaming and those lustrous eyes revealing the emotions he hoped to arouse. He then noticed two extremely elegant women at a nearby table beaming and nodding at him, and he realized he had been smiling at his thoughts. Well, he told himself, if I can attract a pair of upmarket
Frauen
without even trying, all should be well tomorrow.

His attraction rating took an immediate nosedive when his mobile rang. Smiles turned to glares so that Max felt obliged to leave his coffee to cool while he walked to the foyer to take the call.

‘Thought you'd want to hear one or two items of interest,' said Charles Clarkson. ‘I contacted the man dealing with Kevin McRitchie at the hospital. The boy has retreated into self-imposed silence and shows signs of retro-hysteria. Panic, in layman's terms. No visitors for twenty-four hours minimum.'

‘Bugger it,' Max swore softly. ‘We need to question him most urgently.'

‘I called on Mrs McRitchie a while ago. She's certainly hyped-up, as you indicated, but that might not be such a bad thing. She appears to have recovered from the shock of the attack on her son and is concentrating on the rest of her family. She had decided to give the hospital a miss anyway, so was not upset by the news I gave her.'

Max was astonished. ‘You didn't think she was behaving abnormally?'

‘That's confidential information concerning a patient. I can't comment further.'

That was typical Clarkson-speak and Max scowled. ‘As her doctor you are, of course, the best judge of her state of mind.'

‘Most women behave abnormally at various times in their lives, Rydal. Don't look for criminal signs in simple human exaggeration.'

The line went dead leaving Max irritated by the man, as usual. It added to his frustration over being denied access to the lad who could surely advance this case. Unfortunately, medical authority overruled that of the police. Max could do nothing. With that line of investigation blocked he would have to find another, but where, for God's sake?

Deciding to abandon his coffee, he caught the eye of his waiter and settled his bill. Then he went to the reception desk to book a room for tomorrow night. The slim, extremely polite German explained that they were heavily booked – the time of year, sir – so all he could offer was a small double overlooking the car park.

Max had to settle for that, knowing other hotels would most probably be booked solid, too. With his earlier upbeat mood fast plunging, he turned from the desk to see Lucy Farmer standing beside the lift doors. Dressed in a long, fur-trimmed blue coat and pale suede boots she was an eye-catching sight for any man. The young one with her seemed practically mesmerized by her visual impact. Max felt he had seen the tall, dark-haired man before somewhere. His jeans, Aran sweater and sheepskin jacket marked him as British in the indefinable way clothes do. A relative or friend of the stunning Lucy? More than a friend? They stood very close to each other and were talking earnestly, oblivious of what was going on around them.

As he watched, Lucy gripped her companion's arm as if to emphasize what she was telling him and to remove his expression of doubt. Then, abruptly, she sent him off with an imperative gesture and a dazzling smile.

Stepping into a telephone booth where she would not spot him, Max saw Lucy cross to the reception desk, hand over a room key and settle the proffered bill. The urbane receptionist smiled, nodded and pocketed the additional notes she slid across covered by her hand. It was done so smoothly Max guessed it was not the first time. So what was the young lieutenant up to with the curly haired man evidently willing to do her bidding?

Max followed her to the street, and for almost forty minutes watched her shop in the more expensive stores. Nothing incriminating in that. He returned to his car none the wiser about the unexpected encounter. Driving back to the base he reasoned that she must have a free day, or have been granted leave to meet up with a relative from the UK who was just passing through. Hence the hotel room? But why had
she
settled the bill and slipped the man a tip?

Lucy had attended the dinner last night, so it could not be she who had occupied the hotel room. Unless she had driven out there very late. Max made a note to check on her movements at the conclusion of the dinner. There could be a simple explanation for what he had seen. Her companion had an urgent appointment to meet, a train or plane to catch, so she had undertaken to pay his hotel charges with a tip for services rendered. A girl for the night? On the surface, the hotel did not look to be the kind of establishment that had the provision of prostitutes as one of its services, but a venal, enterprising member of staff could be running it on the side.

Reaching the main gate Max impulsively turned in the direction of the hall attached to the garrison church, where the chess championship was being played out. Denied his interview with Kevin McRitchie this afternoon, and having had his anticipation of dining with Livya spoiled by Clarkson's call, he surrendered to the urge to see her. She had told him she was doing well, but the near-unbeatable RAF corporal was threatening to repeat his long-running triumph.

Max's entry disturbed the concentrated atmosphere, causing heads to turn. Max knew then that he could never become hooked on a game that demanded silence throughout. Games should be fun accompanied by vocal enjoyment, but he supposed chess addicts would claim it was an erudite mental contest not to be lumped together with the mindless snakes and ladders, dominoes and tiddlywinks. Certainly not with the barbaric rugby or soccer.
They
were games. Chess was on a higher plane altogether. He would tease Livya about it tomorrow.

She spotted him, and broke away from the circle of observers around a pair who appeared to be deep in thought as they gazed at the state of play on the board before them.

Drawing him to a far corner, Livya whispered, ‘Are you here out of interest, or on business?'

He replied in an undertone, ‘I came to see if you're real or a figment of my imagination.'

She smiled. ‘First an egghead, now a figment. Can you stay for a while to watch?'

He smiled back. ‘If I watch anything it'll be you. Those two look set to stay that way until the wind changes.'

‘It's a very tense moment,' she chided. ‘The next move will be crucial to the outcome.'

‘Have you played today?' She looked immensely attractive in uniform. He wondered what she would wear tomorrow, which led to thoughts of how easy it would be to remove with slick expertise.

‘I'm to take on the winner of this game.'

‘At midnight?'

Laughter lurked in her eyes. ‘What are you really doing here, Max?'

Casting a glance at the others in the room to satisfy himself they were still watching the motionless contestants, he reached for her hand and held it. ‘I've just been told the only available room is small and overlooks the car park. I've reserved it, but if you'd prefer to leave after dinner we'll do that.'

Amusement still dominated as she whispered, ‘Are you chickening out, Captain Rydal?'

‘God, no! I'd accept the ticket kiosk
in
the car park if you'd share it with me.'

At that moment Max's mobile rang. Heads swivelled round, eyes glared, oaths spilled from the two players. Livya pushed him swiftly through the swing doors and followed, holding them steady so that they closed without a sound. The caller was Tom. Max told him he would call back in a few minutes, then made a rueful face.

‘Have I committed the ultimate sin?'

‘Very definitely. Mobiles are forbidden in there.' Her lips twitched. ‘You'll have to sleep in the ticket kiosk while I occupy the small room. The punishment has to fit the crime.'

‘If you say so, ma'am, but in my job I've learned a lot about breaking and entering. If it gets too cold in the kiosk . . .'

‘Make that return call,' she directed, pushing him towards the outer door. ‘
À bientôt, mon ami
.'

As a result of Tom's report of Klaus Krenkel's information, Max then drove to the RMP station near the main gate to consult George Maddox. He could have phoned or e-mailed, but he wanted a face to face conversation.

Maddox was a highly experienced policeman. Dark-haired, sturdy and erect, with a square face that could show menace or sympathy equally swiftly. When he spotted Max he abandoned his computer and approached with an alert expression. His uniform was starched and immaculate, his boots like black mirrors.

‘Afternoon, sir. I was about to send info across to you. Came in late morning.'

Max smiled. ‘Anything approaching a breakthrough, Sergeant?'

‘I wish! Evidence found at the scene of the second attack is negligible. A mass of prints on the weapon eliminates any hopes in that direction. Forensics are checking if there's even a partial on the chessman to match those on the weapon used on the McRitchie boy, but it's more than likely the assailant was wearing gloves in that low temperature last night. No chance of boot prints. A fresh fall of snow after the attack covered what would certainly have been Clegg's and at least one other set leading to that chessboard. Same with tyre marks. Passing traffic was light, and our vehicles plus those of the ambulance overrode any useful impressions.'

Max sighed. ‘The big minus is that no one appeared to have been in the area to see what was happening and go to the lad's aid.'

‘That's right. We've appealed for people to come forward if they were near the Recreation Centre around the vital time. Trouble is, the place wasn't in use last night and it's on the far side of the base away from the NAAFI, the Sports Centre and the accommodation blocks. On a freezing evening around supper time there'd be no cause for people to be there.'

‘Which strengthens the belief that Clegg had an arrangement to meet his killer,' said Max with a nod.

George Maddox waved an arm at two corporals busy at their computers. ‘The lads have been checking out possible suspects, and anyone we have an eye on as possible drug pushers. They were all elsewhere and with company.' His dark eyes gazed frankly at Max. ‘Clegg's clothing bore no traces of drugs and there weren't any condoms in his pockets. Same goes for the McRitchie lad.'

He walked three steps to his own desk in a corner of the small room and took up several sheets of an official report. ‘Here's evidence that the attacks were made by the same person.' He read from the pages. ‘Matching head hairs, dark brown with a natural kink or curl, and unusually coarse. Specimens of identical spittle on both weapons suggestive of excessive force or emotion. Dead skin samples have the same DNA.'

‘It's good to have that,' Max said. ‘Once we've apprehended him it'll provide strong support in the case we present. Unfortunately, unless we obtain samples of their DNA from every single person on this base of their DNA, it doesn't take us further forward right now. The spittle is interesting. Upholds our theory that arranged meetings between the victims and the perpetrator turned unexpectedly ugly. The nearest available weapon was snatched up in uncontrollable rage. The man we want is of very unstable temperament, Sergeant.'

Maddox gave a sour smile. ‘Plenty of them around here, especially on a Saturday night.'

‘All set for the disco tomorrow?'

‘I've had to defer leave for Sampson, Glenn and Parsons. They won't now go until Monday. Two weeks before Christmas, squaddies will be on the rampage in town this weekend. I can't afford to reduce my street patrols.' He nodded. ‘The kids at the disco will be safe, sir.'

‘I'm sure they will.' Max prepared to leave. ‘I called in to give you some news concerning Lance-Corporal Treeves we've just had from the German guys.'

Maddox drew another sheet from the several he was holding, and grinned. ‘I was keeping the good news until last. Pathology report came in an hour ago. Verdict is Treeves suffered adult Sudden Death Syndrome during that drive back here. Corporals Stubble and Meacher are cleared of any responsibility for his demise.'

‘Great!' exclaimed Max. ‘That must be a huge worry removed. Uncomfortable having something like that hanging over you. Curious affliction, that. I've only ever once before come across it. A girl of two years. The parents were under suspicion and questioned remorselessly. Harrowing!'

‘Indeed,' agreed the father of two children.

‘We've been advised to question Treeves on the subject of his possible participation in the theft of our equipment.' He related what the Turkish girl servant had claimed. ‘Treeves' complicity can never be proved or disproved now. The
Polizei
only have her word on the subject, and we must let sleeping dogs lie. Treeves' parents will remain in ignorance of the accusation, which is the only upbeat outcome of the sorry affair.'

He had been transferred to a side-room that had been occupied by a small, very sick boy. Overnight, he had vanished. Kevin was sure he had died. Lying awake in the early hours he had seen a lot of activity; people going in and out, a man in a long robe carrying a cross, a sobbing woman and a man with downbent head being led away by the priest.

That boy had died very conveniently. Being moved to a place on his own made Kevin's plan much easier. He hated being with all the tinies in a ward kitted up to resemble fairyland. They cried in the night. One started, and woke everyone else. Then the rest began to holler. And they were sick and messed themselves. The place stank. There was one kid of nine and another of eleven, but they had palled up and ignored him. They only spoke German and were too young to be interesting, anyway.

Everyone around him spoke in German, of course. He knew quite a lot, but had no intention of letting on. The nurses and doctors used English when they approached him, but he had started to pretend he did not understand what they were asking. It was easy, and they had cancelled their plan to send him home. That prospect had really frightened him, because no way could he go back there after telling the policewoman his mother had bashed him on the head.