Czech Mate (25 page)

‘No such luck.'

‘I didn't sleep much, either,' he confessed, irrationally cheered by the thought that she had also lain awake.

‘Oh, I slept, but was woken half an hour ago by a call from Flight Lieutenant Mabbs to tell me Corporal Hollins has to fly home on compassionate grounds. It means my game is now first on today's agenda.'

‘I'll come straight over and have breakfast with you.'

‘Too late. I'm well into room service rolls, orange juice and coffee.'

Daunted, he said, ‘I'll pick you up and drive you back here, then.'

‘Jeff Mabbs is doing that. I guess he's already on his way.'

‘Oh.'

A softer tone. ‘I'd have enjoyed the motor bike ride more, Steve.'

At seven a.m. what he had spoken of last night seemed somewhat juvenile. He had dealt with violent death and the shattering of a family in the interim, so he found himself unable to reply in the same vein.

‘Does the champion's departure to the UK mean you're on the fast track to taking the trophy for the army this year?'

A short pause at his change of mood. ‘Nothing in life is certain, Max. I'm not counting any chickens.'

Deeply disappointed in his hope of at least sharing breakfast and repairing the breach caused by passion so starkly interrupted last night, Max read caution in her words.

‘Well . . . good luck with the knights and bishops this morning. See you around.'

When the call ended he had the curious feeling that something of significance had been said. Something that should have made more impact than it had. Going over their conversation he homed in on the star player flying home on compassionate leave, but the import of it remained elusive.

He thought of it again now as he drove to Charles Clarkson's house, and came to the conclusion that the link was the prospect of McRitchie relatives flying over to take charge of the children. What a responsibility to shoulder unexpectedly!

Out of the blue came a distant memory of his grandmother speaking of her bosom friend who had had to take into her home twin babies, because her daughter and son-in-law had been seriously injured in a road accident. Grannie had asked why there always seemed to be disasters around Christmastime. Little Max had not understood that. It was a happy time. Families gathered for fun and presents. Everyone loved everyone else. How could there be disasters? Time had changed that innocent belief and, true to Grannie's words, there were often disasters during the so-called festive period. The Boxing Day Tsunami being one of the worst.

The future for the McRitchie children caught up in tragedy this Christmas time was a huge question mark; yet had it not been fraught with uncertainty before? One way or another, Kevin and his sisters had surely been on course for family disaster.

Driving past the tall, decorated tree weighted with snow, that was floodlit at night, Max's mood grew even bleaker. There had been a tree in the hotel restaurant last night, and his yuletide optimism had unexpectedly returned. Beautifully decked fir, huge log fire, happy people wherever he looked, love and laughter. The warmth, the wine, the invitation in Livya's smile and eyes banished all those barren Christmases following the death of his mother. It had not mattered that the hotel room was not large and luxurious. He had seen only her slender body as he had started to remove her clothes.

Then the intrusive ringing from his mobile. Tom had not known of his plans for the night, but multiple violence demanded his presence, no matter what. The shocking news had shattered his romantic overture instantly. Livya had understood; she knew about duty. She had empathized, done her utmost to make it easy for him, but it had been deeply galling. This one night to secure what he badly wanted, and fate had taken it from him.

The next few days, at least, would be devoted to garnering evidence to support the belief that Mavis McRitchie had attacked her family while the balance of her mind was disturbed. They must also urgently continue to seek a solution to Tony Clegg's murder before there was another.

Against all that, how could he hope to make headway with the woman who had allowed him to glimpse a revival of happiness? In truth, after this morning's conversation he was unsure how things stood between them; was unsure what she expected from him. An assured, ‘Well, these things happen. Another time, perhaps?' Or would the wily chess player want him to make a determined move to keep the game in play?

Deciding on the latter, Max made a sudden left turn to drive to the church hall where Livya would be locked in intellectual battle. He really needed to see her, make her aware of that need.

He had forgotten it was Sunday. From the church across the road came the sound of lusty voices raised in an Advent hymn. All the more poignant in view of last night's tragedy, Max thought as he slid from his car. Mindful of the rule of silence, he entered more cautiously than the last time, after switching off his mobile. The scene was much as it had been before: two players concentrating on the chess board, surrounded by intent spectators. Despite Max's care, the squeak of the swing doors sounded offensive in the near reverent quietness. Heads turned.

Holding up a hand in apology, he tiptoed to join the aficionados who would understand from the position of the pieces in whose favour the game was going. The black and red figures meant nothing to Max, but they unfortunately reminded him of the ones lying alongside Tony Clegg's curled body coated with snow. That image swiftly vanished when Livya glanced up and smiled at him. It was no casual smile. It said: I hoped you'd come.

He smiled back, holding up crossed fingers, then her attention returned to the table. But he felt his inner chill begin to melt. Tapping his neighbour on the shoulder and indicating with his head that they should retire a few yards, he then asked in a whisper who was winning. A silly question, apparently, because at this level of skill a game was not won until the final clever twist.

Max left the silent hall, careful to minimize the squeak of the door as it closed behind him. After the electric lighting he found the bright glare of snow harsh on his eyes. The road was now filled with people spilling from the church, wrapped warmly against the bitter wind that was keeping the temperature only a few degrees above what it had been all night.

The Padre spotted Max and crossed to him, leaving his wife chatting to those who liked to make their piety obvious. ‘I've just heard about the McRitchie family,' Justin Robinson said with urgency. ‘Can I do anything for them if I go now to the hospital? What's the situation? I understand Corporal McRitchie died in the ambulance.'

‘Yes, he did,' Max said, plunging back to grim reality. ‘Mavis and the two girls are in deep shock, so I imagine they're mostly in need of medical help for now. The hospital priest will be able to give you a better account of their spiritual needs than I can.'

Robinson wagged his head. ‘Terrible! Terrible! An entire family afflicted again. We tried our best to give comfort to the Cleggs, but the pain is too raw for them to accept sympathetic support just yet. Now this! Estelle and I have been bombarded with the concerns of our congregation. Have you
no
idea who is killing these people?'

‘What happened last night is a separate issue. It's no indication that we have a deranged killer on the base. That's all I can say on the subject, I'm afraid, but please do all you can to spread reassurance. The last thing we want is a state of panic prevailing.'

‘Of course, of course.' He glanced back at the church. ‘My wife is very good at allaying fears. She taught psychology for some years before our marriage; understands the human mind and emotions well.' He smiled. ‘The perfect partner for a Holy Joe like me.'

And someone who has unshakeable faith in the repentance of sinners, thought Max as he returned to his car and drove around the perimeter road to his intended destination.

The woman who came to the door was breathtakingly beautiful in Latin fashion. She looked questioningly at the stranger in civilian clothes. Max introduced himself, apologized for disturbing them on Sunday, and asked to speak to her husband. She invited him in with more grace of manner than her marriage partner, and led him along the hall saying Charlie was putting up the tree with the doubtful help of their children. She halted momentarily in the open doorway and silently watched the family scene with Max beside her.

Charles Clarkson was stringing lights around a tree in a corner of the large sitting-room, watched by four children surrounded by boxes and boxes of baubles. A delicious aroma of roast pork filtered from the kitchen, where Mrs Clarkson had presumably been doing her wifely duty until answering Max's ring.

The two teenage girls, along with James and Daniel, had glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes as they anticipated dressing the tree in red and gold splendour. The oldest sibling, a slim and lovely dark-haired girl of about sixteen, aired her past experience of this occupation.

‘How much d'you bet me the lights won't work now they're on the tree, Dad?'

He climbed down the stepladder, saying, ‘It'll be different this year.'

A cheer rose only to become a groan as the lights flashed on, then died. Mrs Clarkson stepped into the room to say, ‘I knew it wouldn't be different this year, darling, so I bought a new set. It's in the cupboard under the stairs. Captain Rydal would like a word with you, Charlie. Why don't you use the office while we put the new lights on the tree?'

Clarkson's expression hardened as he spotted Max. ‘Thought you'd turn up sooner or later. That affair last night, I suppose?'

The children all gazed at Max with interest. James and Daniel smiled. The adolescent girls gave him an optical once over. How different from the McRitchie home with its obsessive relationships. How attractive. How beckoning. The family Christmas of his childhood. The doctor was a man much blessed.

The wishful moment passed as they walked to the small room Clarkson used as an office, with shelves of medical books, wire trays filled with forms and information sheets, a computer, printer and Dictaphone. In short, an extension of his surgery.

Clarkson wasted no time. ‘I contacted the hospital this morning to confirm that Greg was DOA. Shona is right now undergoing facial surgery. Julie is dangerously traumatized. Mavis is—'

‘Riding out a flash of insanity,' Max interceded forcefully. ‘You considered her behaviour nothing more than the kind of extravagance common to most women now and again.'

‘That was a medical assessment, not one made by a detective looking for a solution to a baffling pair of crimes. It was the correct diagnosis
at that time
.'

Max fought to keep his temper under control. ‘So what is your medical assessment of the theory that Mavis cut up her daughter and stabbed her husband?'

‘That theory can only be assessed by studying forensic evidence,' Clarkson replied, steely eyed.

Equally steely eyed, Max said, ‘I'm asking if, in your medical opinion, the woman you claimed was merely behaving extravagantly
could
have attacked her family last night.'

Clarkson studied him silently for a moment. ‘This is not the same killer as the one who attacked young Clegg. That's what you're hoping to prove?'

‘I'm hoping to prove this was murder while the balance of her mind was disturbed. That will take a great deal of time. All I want from you now is your opinion on that being a possibility.'

‘Yes, it's a
possibility
. I'm not prepared to go further than that.' They faced each other aggressively for several moments, then Clarkson sighed and perched on his desk in less confrontational manner. ‘I should have thought you'd know this fact by now. People under stress either bottle it up and act a part, or they behave extravagantly. Maybe even eccentrically. That can continue until the cause of the stress is resolved, no matter how long it takes. Conversely, something minor suddenly makes the burden unbearable and they snap. A doctor can't foresee the future. All he can do is treat the condition he's faced with.

‘For instance: a young mother with a new baby and a truculent toddler tries to cope alone while her man is in a war zone. The kids sense her distress and play up. She comes to me for help. I give her a mild sleeping-draught for the baby who keeps her awake most nights, and advise her to organize some help for one or two mornings each week until her husband gets back. A week later a saucepan of milk boils over, the toddler puts red felt-tip scribble on the wall, her husband fails to telephone at the usual time. Any of those things – or all of them together – tip the balance. The baby is wailing so she silences it with a pillow over its face. Or she simply drops it from the window.'

He looked at Max with narrowed eyes. ‘A doctor has no more control over saucepans that boil over, or toddlers who scribble on the wall than you had over whoever clouted Kevin then went on to kill the bandsman.'

Thoughts of an exploding saucepan in the McRitchie kitchen kept Max silent. Had milk boiling over to sully Mavis's immaculate cooker last night been the trigger to violence?

Clarkson straightened and opened the office door. ‘You'll get the truth from the children when a psychiatrist skilfully coaxes them to speak about what happened last night. The McRitchie tragedy
has
happened. Over. I'd concentrate on your unresolved case of the head-basher, because he could do it again.' He held out an arm in invitation to precede him from the room. ‘How about a cup of coffee with a dash of something to keep out the cold before you go?'

It was typical of this man to change moods so swiftly. Max caught himself accepting because the pull of that family togetherness was irresistible. The coffee was served along with the inevitable mince pie, and the lights twinkled on the tree as it grew more and more splendidly gilded. Watching and enjoying the brothers' and sisters' fond rivalry in that room where family relationships were so successfully balanced, Max knew that this was what he wanted for himself. No more Christmases spent alone.