Czech Mate (27 page)

The boy sat as if mesmerized. Heather had seen similar unwillingness to believe tragic news several times during her career, and sat quietly leaving the German to deal with it. He also sat silently waiting for his patient to absorb what he had been told. It seemed an age to Heather before there was any reaction.

‘He's really dead?'

‘Yes. It's possible for you to see him, if you wish, but perfectly all right if you decide not. I can take you, whenever you ask, to see your mother and sisters. It could be that they do not know you, for now, but that will pass before long.'

Kevin's large eyes looked steadily at Braun. ‘I don't want to see any of them.'

The Professor nodded. ‘Later, perhaps.'

‘No. I hope I never see them again.' His gaze swivelled to fasten on Heather. ‘I suppose I'll be sent back to the UK. Can you fix it for me to live with Gran and Grandad Knott? They're fond of me, and he's a wicked piano player. I'll be happy there.'

On leaving the Medical Officer's harmonious household, warmed by the family affection he had witnessed and by the tot of brandy in his coffee, Max was sobered by a message on his mobile from Derek Beeny on duty at Headquarters.

‘The Garrison Commander called, sir. Would like you to see him at home for a short meeting at midday.'

It was already eleven thirty. Just time to drive to the Mess, run his shaver over his chin again and spruce up a bit. Max knew why he had been summoned semi-officially. Colonel Trelawney, CO of the Royal Cumberland Rifles had become Garrison Commander four months ago when an outgoing battalion had been replaced by the mechanized regiment in which Greg McRitchie had served, and in whose Officers' Mess Max lived.

Max knew John Trelawney; had encountered him last April when an officer and a sergeant in the RCR had been murdered, and another officer disappeared in suspicious circumstances. SIB had got to the bottom of both cases, but causing the perpetrators to pay for their crimes had been less than satisfactory. It still rankled with Max, but all detectives were familiar with the maxim ‘win some lose some'. This time, Trelawney would be personally concerned about Tony Clegg, an RCR bandsman, as well as the McRitchie tragedy.

There were several cars on the flagged forecourt of the large, double-fronted house when Max arrived. A tall, brown-haired boy of around seventeen in well-cut black jeans and a yellow sweater over a black shirt opened the door and smiled a greeting.

‘Hallo, sir, I'm Paul Trelawney. Come in. My parents are in the sitting-room with Major and Mrs Colley.'

He led the way, and Max was certain he was following a future Sandhurst cadet with a commission in the Cumberland Rifles just waiting for him. Max was surprised to learn that Garth Colley was here, a man he knew vaguely as the second in command of Greg McRitchie's regiment. Whereas the attack on Kevin had prompted no more than a telephoned enquiry, the murder of a serving soldier during a savage attack on his family in his married quarter was a very serious matter.

In the spacious sitting-room two men stood beside an electric fire with artificial glowing coals set in an ornate fireplace, drinks in hand. Their wives had settled on adjacent chairs facing them, also with drinks. On the padded window-seat was a girl of around fourteen reading a book while idly stroking a ginger cat. Another attractive family Christmas scene, thought Max, catching sight of the decorated tree in an alcove.

John Trelawney turned from his conversation to smile at Max. ‘Good morning, Captain Rydal.'

Max returned his greeting in similar vein. The Garrison Commander did not know him well enough yet to use his first name. Until a week ago 26 Section had been based elsewhere, and Max had had only two official meetings with his host last April.

The wives were introduced to Max. Both were smartly dressed and typical of their breed in that they socialized with ease and charm.

‘You've just moved in to the base, I gather,' said Gaynor Trelawney.

‘Seven days ago. Seems longer,' replied Max.

‘Well, no wonder,' exclaimed Brenda Colley. ‘But it must be easier to be on the spot now, rather than make an hour's drive from your old headquarters.'

Max nodded, thinking how well-informed she was. ‘A definite advantage, although we've barely settled in yet.'

‘There always seem to be disasters and sadness around Christmas,' she observed, echoing Grannie Rydal's words once more.

‘By the way, the rapt maiden at the window is our daughter Megan,' said Mrs Trelawney lightly.

The girl glanced up from her book and smiled. ‘Hallo. This is Marmaduke. Couldn't call a tom Marmalade – that's the breed he is so we called him the next best thing. Do you like cats?'

Being tactful, Max said, ‘I prefer dogs, but Marmaduke looks a very fine animal.'

‘He's a wimp,' declared Paul, busily fixing a run of small lights around the walls of the alcove behind the tree. ‘Lies there having his belly tickled all day. Has no idea what a mouse is.'

John Trelawney said, ‘I think that's our cue to repair to my study, gentlemen.' He looked at Max. ‘Whisky, G and T, brandy?'

‘Brandy dry would be fine, sir.'

‘I wouldn't try the mince pies. Megan made them so they'll be full of cat fur.'

‘Paul, behave!' admonished his mother, but she was smiling at Max. ‘Do you have children, Captain Rydal?'

Immune by now to that question, Max merely said no.

‘With Paul as an example, I expect you're glad,' commented Megan, resuming her reading.

Max followed the two senior men after accepting a cut-glass tumbler filled with his chosen drink. The study was utterly masculine in style and content. Heavy desk with hi-tech equipment and adjustable chair, bookshelves lining two walls with a third covered in regimental photographs and certificates, golf clubs in one corner and in another a fitted cabinet bearing a silver statuette of an old-time rifleman on one knee firing as if in the front rank of a square formation. Around the handsome piece were several silver cups and an engraved presentation shield. The trophies of a successful career.

Trelawney sat by his desk, the other two settled in worn leather armchairs. Despite the casual approach, Max knew there was an official bias to this get-together and prepared to answer some probing questions.

‘I'd like you to give Major Colley and myself an appraisal of last night's tragedy,' John Trelawney said in calm tones. ‘Early days so far as gathering evidence, of course, but was it another in an ongoing spate of violence that has already claimed the life of one of our most promising musicians?'

Max felt it would serve no purpose to prevaricate, so he put his near-certainty forward. ‘During our investigation into the attack on the McRitchie boy we discovered serious behavioural undercurrents in the family, which we would have referred to Welfare when we had evidence of our suspicions.'

‘Can you tell us what these undercurrents were?' asked Colley.

Max nodded. ‘Corporal McRitchie ran his family like a military platoon. His fondness for his daughters was a mere step away from sexual; his total lack of interest in his son's life and welfare could be translated as abstract abuse. Mavis McRitchie was treated as no more than cook-housekeeper, which led her to seek consolation from her neglected son. If what Kevin told one of my sergeants is true, his mother's attentions had grown unwelcome and unacceptable. Both parents had made life unbearable for him at home, so Kevin absconded from the hospital in the middle of the night because he couldn't face going back to them.'

Major Colley looked concerned. ‘McRitchie was a good soldier, an efficient and reliable NCO, a man I would have expected to rise steadily through the ranks. I knew little of what he was like at home with his family, of course.'

‘None of us knows how our men conduct their private lives, until something like this brings facts to our attention,' reasoned John Trelawney. ‘So what are you saying, Captain Rydal? That the Corporal's death was the result of domestic violence, unrelated to the murder of Musician Clegg?'

‘We believe that's so, sir. Mavis McRitchie had been showing signs of acute stress prior to last night – Major Clarkson will testify to that – and it's my personal belief that she ran amok with a kitchen knife while the balance of her mind was disturbed.'

‘And young Clegg?'

‘At present, we're linking his murder with the attack on Kevin.'

‘You're divorcing the assault on the boy from the violence to his family last night?' exclaimed Colley in disbelief.

‘Because there are many similarities between what happened to him and Clegg, it strongly suggests an entirely separate motive behind those attacks. We do have forensic evidence which supports that belief.'

‘But no suspect?' asked Trelawney.

‘Not yet.'

‘But the one took place at a children's party, and the other four days later in the open near the perimeter road!' Colley protested. ‘Where's the similarity?'

Max visualized that small body curled beside overturned figures of a queen and a bishop, with snow settling on them all. Into his mind came his conversation with Livya this morning; his feeling that something of significance had been said.
Good luck with the knights and bishops
. Of all the chess pieces, why had she mentioned those two? Because a bishop had featured in Clegg's murder? Perhaps . . . but why the knights? A red queen had been beside the dead boy, not a knight.

Max started to feel that tingling sensation that usually preceded clarity after days of impenetrable fog. He recalled Tom describing the scene in the Recreation Centre's toilets.
This pathetic young kid dressed up as a black knight
. They had been following up all the wrong assumptions. It was not music, not drugs, not paedophilia; the missing link was
chess
, and they had a large number of chess fanatics on the base right now!

By sixteen hundred hours all members of the team save Max and Tom had gone home cold, depressed and tired after their disrupted night. No advance could be made on the murder of Greg McRitchie. In-depth questioning of neighbours, and those who had been present at the Badminton Club last night, produced nothing to alter the belief that Mavis McRitchie had been pushed too far and gone berserk with the knife. Neither she nor her daughters were in a condition to be questioned, and this looked set to continue for a considerable time. The grandparents were being informed. More misery at Christmas!

Piercey had reported his discovery at the forest inn, which had raised eyebrows but brought further gloom because a sexual liaison had destroyed the promising theory of criminal collusion between the glamorous lieutenant and the Mr Fixit sapper.

During the briefing Max said nothing of his belief that chess linked Clegg's murder with the attack on Kevin, because he could not yet understand why or how. Yet his guts told him he was right, so he mentioned it to Tom as they also prepared to call it a day. He received a sceptical look in response.

‘Think, Tom! Clegg was lying on an outdoor chessboard and killed with one of the giant bishops. You said Kevin was dressed as a black knight. That's another chess piece.'

Tom put down the topcoat he was about to don and propped himself against the nearest desk. ‘Bit fanciful even for you, isn't it?'

‘Not when you take into account that there's an important chess event taking place here, and that it's a game that breeds very intense emotions.'

‘I thought you knew nothing about it.'

Max covered that smoothly. ‘I know enough to be aware that the level of play here requires devious minds and a very strong will to win in some of the players. I aroused murderous glares when my mobile rang in the concentrated silence of that hall.'

Tom folded his arms and asked too casually, ‘You've been watching some of them?'

‘What I'm saying is, that in any kind of top-level contest you'll find those who take competitiveness to extremes. They
have
to be top dog.' He waved a hand at the empty desks vacated by his team. ‘Good God, we've just heard them tell us members of the Badminton Club say Greg McRitchie was a bad loser; had to be fully in the limelight.'

Tom nodded. ‘In every aspect of his life. OK, suppose we have a chess nut on the base.' He grinned at the pun. ‘Wouldn't he, or she because there are a couple of women doing battle with the kings and queens, wouldn't it be more profitable to attack the competition than a couple of random lads?'

‘Yes, of course,' Max agreed with a sigh. ‘I'm clutching at straws, but it is another link between Kevin and Clegg which is worth following up.'

‘Well, we've got nothing else at the moment. Piercey has just put the dampers on the slender possibility that Rowe was our man.'

‘Mmm.'

‘What are we going to do about that situation?'

Max got to his feet and reached for his coat. ‘I'll talk to her on the q.t. We've enough on our plate without making her folly official unless we have to.'

‘Stupid woman! With every unattached officer eager to take her on, why risk her career by seducing a squaddie?'

‘Between you and me, I'd guess she did it for the excitement of flouting the rules. A bit of rough, as they say.'

They walked together through the darkened incident room, shivering in the damp coldness of a building that was still not adequately heated, and Tom harked back to their earlier discussion.

‘When did the chess players arrive here?'

‘In ones and twos during last weekend, depending on where they were flying in from.'

Tom held the door open for Max to go through. ‘So some were here on Saturday when Kevin was attacked.'

‘Must have been.' Max waited while Tom entered the security code. ‘The commissioned ones were in the Mess in force by Monday evening.' As they crossed the crisp snow to their cars, Max swore. ‘Bugger it! They were all at dinner with me when Clegg was killed.'