Czech Mate (21 page)

‘Mmm,' he agreed, thinking of his chances of spending tonight in the small double overlooking the car park.

He stopped right outside the black door of RAMSCH. No need for pretence this time. ‘If he's here, you take him in hand. He'll be frightened, desperate, liable to make a run for it. He liked and trusted you, told you intimate secrets concerning his mother's petting. Convince him we pose no threat. Above all, assure him we don't intend to return him to his family.'

Heather smiled confidently. ‘Leave it to me. I understand adolescent boys. Had lots of experience.'

Max pushed open the door and they entered the small scarlet-walled area, where the same blonde sat at the desk. Today she wore severe black and looked classier than ever. Her eyes widened at the sight of Max, then the professional smile appeared.

‘George! You did not come as arranged yesterday.'

He produced his police identity, and so did Heather. ‘This is an official visit. No need to announce us.'

Pushing through the black velvet curtain they entered the studio presently set up as a gymnasium, where naked actors would doubtless have sex in every possible position on the equipment. Gunther, in emerald stretch trousers and a matching silk shirt, came from his glass-walled control cubicle with eyes narrowed.

‘You did not come with euros within the time I said. The studio is now booked for filming. I have no deal with you.'

Max held up his identification. ‘No deal, Gunther, just a straightforward hand over. I've come for the soldier's son you collected from the hospital in the early hours this morning.'

Gunther's eyes closed to mere slits as the import of Max's identity sank in. ‘There is no boy here. You have mistaken made.' His precise English began to go awry. ‘I have filming here, that is all. You are please to go.'

‘I'll go when you produce Kevin.' Hoping to God he was right about this, Max upped the pressure by producing his mobile. ‘If he's not brought out here within five minutes, I make a call. The
Polizei
are standing by, and they'll be swarming all over this building before you know it.'

Visibly nervous, Gunther tried to brazen it out. ‘I do nothing wrong here. All is over the board.'

‘And a bloody sight more under it,' he snapped. ‘I know about the talent scout living on the Dutch border you offered to take Kevin to meet. How many boys have you supplied him with? The local police will be
very
interested in that side of your business.' He studied his watch. ‘Two minutes have already passed. Fetch that boy!'

Still Gunther made no move, and Max began to think Kevin had been taken out of reach. Then Heather began to speak in a silky tone.

‘Kevin is my sister's son. Her husband is a very big man. Could easily make a meal of someone as puny as you. He has a lot of tough pals. If they should happen to learn about what you intended to do with his boy . . .' She let that sink in, then added, ‘Ever seen what a team of angry squaddies can do to someone they don't like?' She held up her own mobile. ‘I make one call, they'll be here faster than the
Polizei
and, believe me, you'd rather have German lawmen here than British soldiers bent on revenge. Well, what's it to be, Gunther?'

He held up both hands defensively. ‘Please, not to call. I bring him. This is what I intend. After the filming I take him to his father. All along I intend.'

‘Then why say there's no boy here?' demanded Max, glancing again at his watch. ‘The five minutes are up.'

‘He call me. Said to fetch him damn quick. I go to help him, that is all,' Gunther said swiftly, walking backwards in the direction of a rear door. ‘
He
call
me
. I do not
take
him. He said he has nowhere to go. I
help
him, that is all,' he reiterated. ‘You have charge of him now. I have business in one hour.'

Max glanced at Heather. ‘Go with him. I don't trust that emerald snake.'

He waited for about five minutes and was about to explore the back area when he saw, with relief, his sergeant leading Kevin forward with her arm around him. No sign of Gunther, but that did not matter. He was not the concern of the British Military Police.

The boy's face was ashen and streaked with tears. He looked pathetic in bright pink fur-lined boots, pyjama trousers, a padded coat with a company logo across the left breast, a football scarf and a scarlet pull-on knitted hat with a pompom.

‘Hallo, Kevin.' Max greeted him gently and smiled. ‘Johnny, Malc and Callum have been worried. They told me Swinga Kat can't function without you. During the drive back you can call them on Sergeant Johnson's mobile, if you like. Tell them you'll be in charge soon.' He laid a reassuring hand on the lad's head. ‘Let's get going.'

Before starting the engine, Max called in to report that they had found Kevin, unharmed. He asked Jakes, who had fielded the call, to notify the hospital and request that the doctor dealing with the case be available when they arrived with his patient in about forty-five minutes.

Getting underway, he heard Heather, on the back seat with Kevin, telling him he was not in trouble with them for saying his mother had attacked him, because they had known all along she could not have done. She talked easily, as she probably did with her brothers, while assuring him that his theft of clothes and money could be sorted by returning what he had taken and apologizing to his doctor. Then she asked why he had sought refuge with Gunther. His reply was so quiet Max could barely hear him.

‘He said he knew a man who promoted young musicians. He was sure the man would be enthusiastic about my talent.'

‘Gosh, how exciting,' said Heather warmly.

‘I can't go home. I just
can't
. So I thought if Gunther took me to the man, I could start working for him until I had enough money to recruit my own group. That's what I want, Heather. That's the only thing I want.'

‘Of course it is. When you have a talent of any kind, you have to use it. My brother Keith's a whizz at making model aeroplanes. He wants to work for Boeing when he leaves uni. That's a few years ahead, so he's reading up as much as he can about aircraft design, and he's made friends with a former pilot who's restoring a wartime bomber at the local transport museum. Keith helps him sometimes on a Saturday. He doesn't get paid for it, but he's learning a great deal and making useful contacts for when the right time comes.'

There was a short silence, then she said quietly, ‘Gunther's friend wouldn't have been able to help you, Kevin. It's difficult for foreigners to get work here unless they specialize in a field in which there's a national shortage of experts. I reckon the music scene is just as difficult to break into in Germany as it is elsewhere. You're also under age. D'you know what I reckon is the best thing you can do?'

‘What?' It was faint, but interested.

‘Johnny, Malc and Callum are dead keen on building up Swinga Kat. You're talented enough to do that, make it good enough to do gigs for the younger kids on the base. Why don't you talk to Sar'nt-Major Fellowes. See if he'd help with it? Add your share of the entrance fee to your pocket money, and see about having music lessons. I might be able to help you sort that out.'

‘Would you?'

‘I'll ask around. But, Kevin, first of all we have to let the doctors at the hospital sort out your problems. Once they've done that we can get started on those plans. No, don't put on that face. Until they know why you don't want to go home, they can't help to make things easier for you there. Isn't that common sense?'

A moment or two of silence, then, ‘I s'pose so.'

‘You'll talk to them, let them help you?'

He must have nodded, because Max heard her say, ‘Great!'

‘Will you come and visit?'

‘Sure I will. I'll bring Johnny, Malc and Callum, too.'

A long pause. ‘Your Keith's lucky. My sisters are right little bitches. I
hate
them.'

Tom first drove to the Recreation Centre, where Alan Rowe should be giving instruction on how to create ingenious indoor games. A notice on the door advised that all regular classes had been suspended until the second week of January to allow for special Christmas and New Year events to be held. The building was locked. A telephone call to Jack Fellowes revealed that preparations for the disco had been completed yesterday. He and the other helpers would be there at 19:00 to add the final touches. He did not know the present whereabouts of Alan Rowe.

The young Sapper was not in his room; his neighbours said he went to town. On his tod, as usual. They believed he visited a bird. Why else would he go at every opportunity and refuse their company? Piercey had reported Rowe as having said his girl was on UK leave, so Tom asked when she was due back. Blank expressions all round. They knew nothing of a relationship with a female squaddie.

Tom had no better luck at the Officers' Mess. Lieutenant Farmer had driven to town last evening and stayed overnight. She planned to return in time for the disco. Sitting in his car, pondering the continuing link between those two, and trying to hit on what motive they could have for attacking two lads crazy about music, Tom was alerted by the sound of his mobile in his pocket.

‘Tom Black.'

It was the Padre. ‘Ah, glad I caught you. Young Tony Clegg's parents are having coffee with us and Captain Booth. They're naturally very upset after talking to the Bandmaster about their talented son, and Mr Clegg is demanding to be told what efforts are being made to apprehend the killer of their only child. I contacted Captain Rydal, but he's unable to help at the present moment. Is it possible for you to come for a short while to calm his agitation, and to give these bereaved parents some degree of assurance that everything possible is being done?'

Tom made a U-turn after saying he would be there in ten. What could he tell the Cleggs? That they had no idea who had killed their son, or why? From the outside the house was a copy of other senior officers' quarters, but Tom thought the interior bland and rather soulless. Justin Robinson greeted him warmly, then introduced Tom to Norman and Phyllis Clegg. Both looked drawn and heavy-eyed. Norman was a short, small-boned man with the ferocity of a terrier. Brushing aside Tom's murmured condolences, he launched into a sharp-voiced attack.

‘Have you got him yet? Him who did for our Tony?'

Tom made allowances for grief and replied quietly. ‘It only happened thirty-six hours ago, sir. We're following up every lead.'

Clegg's foxy face inched closer to Tom's. ‘I read the papers, you know. Not your trashy tabloids. The classy editions. I know very well that if a murderer isn't caught within the first twenty-four hours the trail goes cold. Those are the words of high-ranking men, not your bobby on the beat, mind.' He drew in breath so sharply it pinched his nostrils. ‘I want some real policemen brought in on this case.'

It was a line Tom had heard before from distraught relatives. ‘We
are
real policemen, Mr Clegg.'

‘I mean Scotland Yard.
Proper
detectives.'

‘Your son was a soldier, the crime was committed on military property most probably by another soldier. The case therefore becomes the responsibility of Special Investigation Branch. There's an entire team working on it, I assure you.'

‘With nothing to show for it!'

The Padre intervened at that point. ‘Mr Clegg, why don't we all sit down and let Mr Black tell us of the measures being taken? I can add my assurances that the Branch is manned by personnel highly trained in detection procedures.' He waved a hand at the chair vacated by the overwrought father. ‘Please, sir.'

Mrs Clegg was crying into a wet handkerchief. Beside her, Estelle Robinson was patting her hand and smiling. Glancing up at Tom, she said, ‘Sit there!'

It sounded like an order, despite the smile. Swiftly conjuring up words that would convince Clegg SIB were hot on the trail of the killer, Tom perched on the chair and was instantly handed a cup of coffee and a plate bearing two mince pies. Without asking, the Padre's sunny wife refilled every cup from the large percolator and dispensed pies from a china bowl resembling a woven basket.

Ignoring the Christmas largesse, Tom looked steadily at Norman Clegg while giving him some idea of the exhaustive questioning they had undertaken.

‘I can support that, sir,' said the Bandmaster. ‘Two members of Mr Black's team travelled with the band yesterday in order to find out all they could about Tony. Who were his friends, what were his interests, what kind of lad he was.'

‘I can tell him that,' came the sharp response. ‘He were liked by everyone he met. His interests were music, music, music, and he were blessed with a great gift for it. What kind of lad was he? The best son anyone could wish for. Honest, loving and hard-working. Our Tony was the salt of the earth, that he was.'

Phyllis Clegg let out a wail and buried her face in the wet handkerchief. Mrs Padre patted her shoulder and smiled.

Tom allowed a moment of silence. ‘Our questioning has given us the same information. Your son was popular with his colleagues; his musical talent aroused no resentment or hostile jealousy. He was a clean-living young man with no interest in drink, drugs or unsuitable women. So, sir, you can see our difficulty in trying to understand who would have a reason to attack him.'

Clegg's nostrils grew pinched again as his rage increased. ‘I can tell you that. You called our Tony a soldier. Not so. He was a
musician
. You've just admitted he didn't do any of the offensive things soldiers get up to. I've seen 'em, pissed to their ears on Saturday nights, tumbling from pubs to urinate in the street while calling out obscene invitations to decent girls passing by. Many's the time the local landlords've had to call out you lot to break up fights started by men from the nearby camp. Uniformed thugs is what they are!' He pointed a shaking finger at Tom. ‘You find out who was crazy with drink or drugs on Thursday and it'll be one of them. When you get him, I hope you put the bugger against a wall and shoot him.'