Czech Mate (3 page)

‘There are a number of possible motives for an attack of this kind. We have first to whittle down which is the most likely. My eldest girl described Kevin as smaller than many of his classmates, with big eyes more like a girl's. He's middling bright but hopeless at sport. The perfect target for bullies, you'd think, but he holds his own because he's a whizz on the guitar and can strut his stuff like the top pop idols. So Maggie says.' He surveyed the team. ‘Input?'

‘Macho schoolmate, captain of every sports team and half as big again as our Kev discovers his hot girlfriend prefers a weedy warbler to a beefy scrum half. Giving the opposition a good hiding at a tinies' party would add to his humiliation,' suggested Piercey.

‘Wrong kind of weapon for that premise, I'd have thought,' Heather reminded him tartly. ‘A classmate is more likely to use a knife or give him a violent kicking.'

Derek Beeny, Piercey's friend and frequent partner, offered another slant. ‘A lad like that would catch the eye of paedophiles. The sexy pop performances would rack up the attraction. Maybe he's been propositioned. Several times by the same guy. Frustration could mount to instigate a savage attack. And as Phil said, dealing out the punishment at a party for small kids would add spice to the deed.'

Connie Bush said thoughtfully, ‘What if one, or both, of his parents has had a serious set-to with someone on the base? I met Greg McRitchie several years ago when he gave evidence in a case. He's a solidly built, aggressive type you'd think twice about tangling with, so why not get back at him through his puny son? Hit the easier target.'

Olly Simpson elaborated on that. ‘It'll be worth looking at the McRitchies' neighbours. If Kevin's a rising pop star and starting to flout the rules, could be he's driving them spare with a surfeit of rock, pop, rap, hip-hop, whatever's his scene. Full blast, hour after hour, antisocial noise can drive the most placid folk to retaliate with aggression.'

Silence fell. Tom broke it. ‘I've heard no mention of a deranged intruder.' Still silence. ‘OK, it's an outside possibility, but we have to check it out.'

Staff Sergeant Pete Melly volunteered to liaise with George Maddox on that, and Olly Simpson was detailed to chase up anything of relevance on Kevin's musical activity. Leaving Sergeants Roy Jakes and Bob Prentiss to consolidate the search for Lance-Corporal Treeves, the remainder went about the time-consuming business of tracking down and questioning the children who had attended the party. Bringing up their home addresses on the screen, they swiftly divided the list into areas each would cover and set off in vehicles with chains on the wheels.

Max went first to the local
Krankenhaus
where, according to the early morning report along with copies of last night's statements from George Maddox, Kevin McRitchie was still in intensive care but medically stable. No one was prepared yet to offer an opinion on the effects of the head injury, but that was understandable. The hospital had a good reputation; the staff were renowned for their success rate. The McRitchie boy would have the very best care.

Sunday morning church bells were summoning the faithful along the route, where good Germans were answering the call dressed in padded coats, thick boots and fur hats. People familiar with bitter winter temperatures dressed to combat them. Children in chunky anoraks, woollen hats, scarves, and boots covered in cartoon characters walked sedately hand in hand behind their parents, on their best behaviour.

Max studied them, wondering what it was like to have children. Small offshoots of oneself. He had been tossing that thought around a lot lately. Did it mean he had worked through the grief for his lost son still in Susan's womb in death? Certainly, the invidious doubt about who had actually fathered the boy had been ruthlessly crushed in the past few months. Closure, the Americans called it. What name had they for the curious aftermath?

The hospital was hushed. Many of the departments closed at weekends. Treatment in hiatus? Max's boots left wet prints on the floor of several immaculate corridors. He imagined a plump
Frau
hurrying after him with a mop. A nurse approached and smiled at him. He smiled back, and the thought jumped into his mind that the new location might have some advantages, after all. Only fifteen kilometres from the town where attractive women must abound. And a new year was in sight. Time for a fresh start?

Just inside the IC Wing Max showed his identification to a male nurse who made signs of barring his entry, then asked after Kevin's progress. Satisfactory. The usual hospital language. Given permission to go to the patient, Max walked past beds surrounded by machines, tubes, drips and hoists to reach one in the far corner. A slender brown-haired woman in a crumpled grey and turquoise tracksuit lolled in a chair with her eyes fixed on the small figure whose head was swathed in bandages. She seemed unaware of another presence until Max spoke.

‘Mrs McRitchie? Captain Rydal, SIB. We're investigating the attack on your son. I'd like to talk to you about it.'

Dark eyes gazed up at him as if she had not understood his words, so he squatted beside her and tried again.

‘Your husband is a serving British soldier, and the attack on Kevin took place on a military base, so the case has to be handled by the Military Police. Could we, perhaps, find the coffee shop and talk there for a short time? Kevin is asleep. He won't miss you, and you look as though some coffee would be welcome.'

Max stood and held out his hand. Still as if in a trance, Mavis McRitchie took it and allowed him to help her from the chair. Even then he had to coax her away from her son. Telling the nurse where she would be if wanted, Max then took her elbow and led her to the lift that would take them to the ground floor coffee shop.

It was not open. At weekends there were no outpatient appointments, and official visiting hours were some time away. The nurse who had smiled at Max passed by in the reverse direction and hesitated before approaching them to say they were much too early for coffee and snacks. Max explained who he was and the situation regarding his companion, who had been all night beside her injured son. Studying Max and apparently liking what she saw, the nurse then said she would take them to the staff canteen and arrange for them to have something to eat and drink without questions asked.

Settled in the corner with large cups of coffee and a plate holding two soft rolls filled with ham and cheese, Max had to remind himself he was on duty and reluctantly parted from the nurse with only a warm smile of thanks. He sat for a while letting Mrs McRitchie nervously sip her hot drink with both hands holding the cup. She ignored the plate he pushed towards her.

‘You'll feel better if you eat,' he said quietly. ‘Have you been with Kevin from the moment he was brought in?' She nodded. ‘How about your husband?'

She shot a curious look across the table at him. ‘He had to see to Shona and Julie, of course.'

‘Your daughters?' She nodded again. ‘I understood a friend was looking after them.'

‘Last night, yes. Greg went to collect them and give them their breakfast. He knows what they like to have on Sundays. Porridge, teddy bear biscuits and toasted marshmallows.' She gave a wan smile. ‘He said it's important for them to carry on as usual, not to be alarmed by what happened. The way we go on now will make all the difference to how last night affects them in later life. Girls aren't as tough as boys. If a big drama is made of what happened to Kevin fear could lie dormant until they're young women, then come to the surface to make them unstable and neurotic. He won't have their lives blighted by this.'

Max had to struggle not to ask
What about his son's life
?, but he already sensed a possibility not put forward by the team an hour ago. Child abuse was frequently perpetrated by parents. Fathers more often than mothers. He began to probe the family's relationships.

‘I believe you and your husband took Kevin and your daughters to the party, telling him he must keep an eye on them until you picked them up at nine thirty.'

‘Yes.'

‘Then what did you do?'

‘We played badminton like every Saturday. Never miss.'

‘I see. Keen on the game, are you?'

‘Greg is. He's a brilliant player.' Again the wan smile. ‘I sometimes make up a set with three other duffers.'

Max was starting to get a picture he had come across more times than he cared to remember. ‘So you have a sitter for the girls every Saturday?'

‘Oh, no. Greg won't have sitters. You hear dreadful stories about kids being hurt by them; shaken to death when they cry a lot. No, they come to the club with us. To watch Dadda play. They love their dad.' Her fingers aimlessly pushed the plate of rolls about the table, her concentration on it while she spoke. ‘Weekends are their special times. Breakfast in bed on Saturday as an advance reward for tidying their room. Then off to town for lunch at a pizza place and to buy their presents.'

She then glanced up at Max. ‘Greg likes to supervise how they spend their pocket money. Won't have them buying rubbish. Checks toys to make sure they bear the seal of safety and that they're from reputable European or American manufacturers. Anything made in the Far East is taboo. Well, you hear such awful stories about kids swallowing eyes that fall out of dolls, or being injured by sharp points projecting through soft toys, don't you?'

‘It's wise to be careful,' Max agreed. ‘So family Saturdays end with badminton. Do the girls play?'

‘They're
far
too young,' she said almost admonishingly. ‘Do you know it's easier to injure yourself during games and sports than most other activities? Greg doesn't want anything happening to his babies while their bones are still growing.'

The unwelcome picture was growing clearer by the minute to Max. ‘How about Kevin? He's old enough to play, surely.'

‘He prefers to stay at home with his music.' Her voice grew softer, warmer. ‘Can't think who he gets his talent from. Not me, that's for sure. I'm not clever at anything.'

‘From his father?' Max suggested, recognizing a battered wife. Battered by words, not fists, but almost as degrading.

‘That's a laugh,' she retorted, suddenly animated. ‘He can't even accept that his only son's passion is twanging a guitar and
caterwauling
.' She concentrated again on fiddling with the plate. ‘There was even a time when he suspected Kevin wasn't his.'

Sensing that shock was driving her to unburden her inner feelings to a man who seemed interested in what she had to say, Max allowed a brief silence before asking, ‘Has he cause to doubt it?'

She slowly shook her head. ‘It was always Greg from our schooldays. He knew that. Kevin was born nine months after our wedding. Greg was that proud and excited he borrowed from a mate one of those vans with loudspeakers and drove around calling out, “I've got a son. I've got a son.” Real daft he was in those days.'

Max knew the type. To sire a male child was a macho achievement for such men. ‘And when your daughters were born?'

Her nervous fingers now set to work on one of the rolls, pulling tiny pieces from it to drop on the plate. ‘We'd been trying for five years for another one. Greg couldn't understand it after being so quick off the mark first time. He grew very moody. Sent me to the doctor for tests, but he said we were just too anxious. When Shona appeared Greg was so disappointed he went on a bender. Julie came a year later. That's when he decided three kids were enough.'

A large woman in an overall appeared beside the table to ask if they had finished their snack. Max asked for two more coffees and smiled inwardly at her expression of disgust at the mutilation of the ham and cheese rolls by people who had no real right to be in the staff canteen. They got their coffees, however.

‘So how long was it before your husband recovered from the disappointment of having two girls, Mrs McRitchie?'

She sipped the hot drink as if she had asbestos lips, gazing at the region of Max's chest with a glazed look in her eyes. When he was on the point of repeating the question, she raised them to meet his.

‘Those first years he took Kevin everywhere. Footie matches, swimming – Kev could swim before he was two, you know – excursions to museums where they keep old steam engines or aircraft through the ages. They saw the lions at Longleat and the tigers at Marwell. Greg had a mate in tanks who wangled a ride for them. Strictly against the rules, but . . .' She sipped more coffee, then put the cup in the saucer with energy. ‘Every weekend they were out flying kites or model gliders; sailing toy boats on the lake; trekking over the moor; camping in the woods.'

Poor kid, thought Max. Manhood being forced on him in hefty doses. He waited to hear what he knew must come.

‘The dog was the last straw.'

‘Yes?'

Her eyes grew glassy with unshed tears. ‘Little Kev showed no interest in old trains and planes; lions and tigers frightened the life out of him. He was sick and screamed in the tank. He cried to go home in the tent in the woods, and point blank refused to fly a kite. Sat down and sulked. Then Greg brought home this dog whose owner was going overseas. A German Shepherd. Kevin took one look and ran to hide behind me, shaking like a leaf. That was the moment Greg lost all interest in him,' she added in a faraway kind of voice. ‘Funny, isn't it, to think a dog could do that?'

Two

T
om was sitting with Jack Fellowes, running through the statement given to Sergeant Maddox last night, when his mobile rang. Nodding an apology, Tom rose from the chair beside which was a small table bearing coffee and a mince pie brought by Sheila Fellowes, and walked through to the hall.

‘Tom Black,' he said briskly, hoping for news of Lance-Corporal Treeves.

‘I think you should get around to the McRitchie quarter, talk to the father,' said Max. ‘There's a definite problem with his attitude to the boy which needs probing further.'