Czech Mate (30 page)

He remembered the childhood belief that if he did not show enough appreciation of the good things, something nasty would happen as a punishment. God forbid that anything bad should happen to his family . . . and therein lay the cause of his mood. Heavy on his mind were thoughts of the McRitchie children, Tony Clegg's bereft family and the angry bewilderment of Treeves' parents. His job involved dealing with the aftermath of unexpected death, but there was an overdose of it at the moment. He yearned for a more upbeat case – restoring a lost child to its parents, tracing an estranged partner. Bringing joy into someone's life.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. Half past six. Time to bring some joy into his own life. Time to go home. The central office was empty apart from Roy Jakes, who was on late duty. The rest of the team were out checking on who used the outdoor chess board on a regular basis. A thankless task, in Tom's view. They would most probably have realized that and gone home. He did not blame them.

He was reaching for his topcoat when he spotted Max crossing purposefully in his direction. Tom's heart sank. What bloody bee was in his bonnet now?

Max burst in and announced tersely, ‘We finally have the link. It
is
chess.'

Tom said nothing, just waited with scepticism as he listened to details of the killing of Ian Luckett, three years ago.

‘The tragedy caused Mrs Luckett –
Estelle
Luckett – to have a mental breakdown. She and her husband divorced a year later.' Seeing his expression, Max added urgently, ‘This isn't a wild theory of mine, Tom. I've spent an hour and a half in my office collecting evidence. As I suspected, Padre Robinson married Estelle Luckett six months ago. I called Jack Fellowes. When pinned down, he wouldn't swear she was in his sight at the time Kevin was attacked at the party. As he originally stated, there was a great deal of activity in preparation for the fancy-dress parade; people in and out of the storeroom to clear away the games equipment, and children rushing around the hall. It was generally agreed that Mrs Padre did bugger-all save smile the whole time. She could have slipped upstairs on Kevin's heels, and hidden in the ladies' toilet when the Clarkson boys turned up. Her descent would have gone unnoticed in the hullabaloo those boys created by crying murder.'

Tom was beginning to see light at the end of the tunnel, but the tunnel was a long one. ‘How about Clegg?'

‘My call to the Padre connected with an answering machine, but I was luckier with the church organist. He gave me a concise run-down of weekly activities. On Thursday evenings, Estelle Robinson holds a discussion group for teens, main topics being sex, drugs, alcohol and family abuse. Ideal subjects for a teacher of psychology.' Max gave a grim smile. ‘Those sessions end at eight, and the route from the church hall to the Padre's house runs past the Recreation Centre.'

Tom gave a long, slow whistle. ‘She could have spotted Clegg maybe playing around with the chess pieces, and it set her off.'

Max nodded. ‘I had a word with Major Clarkson on the subject of mental breakdowns and their aftermath. Typically, he at first declined to comment on the grounds that he's not an expert. When pushed, he said he understood that in some cases there were retrospective lapses that could induce violent behaviour. He advised me to speak to the psycho in charge of the case, and I then realized he thought we were discussing Mavis McRitchie.'

‘Another nutter!' Tom muttered, growing more and more convinced this was a true breakthrough.

‘I called the hospital and asked to speak to Professor Braun, but he's not there on Mondays. They wouldn't give me his private address.'

‘Ah, he'd surely insist on reading the medical records concerning the breakdown before he'd be in a position to tell us anything, even if he was prepared to ignore medical ethics.'

They were both quiet for a moment or two as they absorbed this new theory, seeking flaws in it. Then Tom said thoughtfully, ‘Well, I guess we might have cracked both cases, sir, but I'm buggered if I can see how we'd present a solid case to the Garrison Commander. There's not even forensic proof.'

‘Dark hairs with a natural kink found at both crime scenes,' Max reminded him. ‘That pointed us in the direction of Alan Rowe, but Estelle Robinson is also a brunette and her curls could be natural rather than salon-induced. We'll now give her car a good going over. The attack on Clegg was so savage, traces of his DNA could have been deposited on the car seat from her clothing. Our first task is to interview the smiling lady.'

Tom's anger smouldered. ‘That woman met the Cleggs at the airport, looked after them. She gave them coffee while they talked to the Bandmaster and me, poured out their grief. Christ, she even told Norman Clegg he should understand and forgive his son's killer. And she smiled as she said it!'

‘Well, it's my guess we'll find she has no recollection of mounting either of those attacks. A professional appraisal of her medical condition will probably lead to another ruling of manslaughter while the balance of her mind was disturbed.'

‘I'll disturb it a hell of a sight more when we get at her,' vowed Tom, grabbing his coat and heading for the door. ‘He must have known his wife is dangerously unstable, yet he raved at me to sort it because his parishioners were very alarmed. The
bastard
!'

Max followed him from the still-shambolic new building. ‘People with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which I guess that woman is suffering from, can behave normally much of the time until something induces a flashback to which their reactions are involuntary. The Padre wasn't with his wife on either occasion, and they've been married only for six months. He probably has no idea she can behave so violently when something triggers memories of her gifted son's tragic murder.
And
its traumatic public aftermath.'

Tom faced Max across the roof of his car, his eyes blazing with anger. ‘You're not
sympathizing
with her?'

Max returned the glare calmly. ‘I'm professionally analysing a case we are about to bring to a resolution.'

Tom choked back words that would have overridden their tacit friendship and exceeded its permissible limits. He slipped behind the wheel tight-lipped, the image of Clegg's snow-shrouded body vivid in his memory.

They sat with their own thoughts during the short drive across the base. The tall tree was now bright with coloured lights, and there were smaller ones in many windows of the married quarters. It was a fine, cold evening with very little wind. A rash of brilliant stars echoed the artificial points of light on festive trees; frost glittered in the car's headlights. The sound of young voices raised in carols came from the Recreation Centre as they passed, and soldiers laughed and chatted as they walked together around their military home. The season of goodwill was in full swing. Life was continuing normally.

The two detectives remained silent as their boots crunched the snow-covered path leading to the Padre's house, where lights in the entrance hall and a small window to the right of the front door showed that the Robinsons were at home.

Justin answered their knock wearing a thick grey sweater over his dog collar. ‘Come in, come in,' he invited, standing aside to let them in. ‘I'm just indulging in a hot toddy and several of Estelle's superb mince pies. Can I offer you the same?'

Max remained in the hall beside the small nativity scene. Tom halted beside him, unable to see in the Padre's expression any knowledge of why they were there.

‘It's your wife we've come to see,' Max said in official manner. ‘We'd like a word with her, please.'

‘She's not here, I'm afraid. Can I help?'

‘Where is she, sir?' asked Tom, his anger now suppressed by the urgent demands of responsibility.

Justin gave a puzzled frown at Tom's tone. ‘She's taken some members of the youth discussion group to the Christmas Market.'

‘On her own?' Max demanded sharply.

‘I understand they linked up with those competitors in the chess championship who wished to do some shopping before they leave tomorrow. I saw them off in one of the buses twenty minutes ago. Is there something wrong?' He received no reply, because his visitors were already starting down the path towards their car.

Tom raced along the perimeter road towards the main gate, conscious of the extreme tension of his passenger who was jabbing numbers on his mobile phone. One by one, Max contacted their team and told them to head into town. There was no doubting his apprehension. The clipped tone and the urgency of his commands told Tom his boss had real fear of a further tragedy.

Outside the base the roads were busy: late commuters returning home and the usual crowds flocking to the colourful, noisy night market. Tom had to reduce speed but overtook whenever he dared.

‘It's unlikely to happen there,' he remarked quietly, keeping his eyes on the traffic ahead. ‘Kevin and Clegg were on their own, isolated.'

‘We don't know it'll always be that way. Can't you pass this line of dawdlers?' Max demanded tersely.

‘I'm not familiar with any diversions as yet, sir.' Tom swerved back in line as a massive truck hurtled towards them, and he attempted further reasoning. ‘The accent in the market is on St Niklaus, Krampas and nutcracker soldiers. No black knights or red queens there to spark a flashback.'

‘For God's sake, man, she's with the chess competitors and the winner was a brilliant nineteen-year-old male reminiscent of her murdered son!
Now
will you force a way through this hold-up?'

German traffic police were controlling the flow in the vicinity of the huge parkland area covered with stalls. Max flashed his identification and they were waved through to the approach road where normal parking was presently forbidden. With much use of the horn, Tom blasted their way forward until the solid mass of pedestrians ahead refused to part. They had to abandon the car, wishing they were wearing uniform and driving an official vehicle with siren and flashing lights. Not that it would have made much difference. People filled the narrow way from hedge to hedge, leaving no room to step aside.

The dry, clear weather had brought shoppers in droves tonight. The park housing the market was extensive, so there were numerous paths between the rows of illuminated stalls, each aisle filled with a moving mass of warmly clad men, women and children. The trees in the park were hung with coloured lights or electric decorations, and festive music blasted from loudspeakers.

Having fought their way to the park entrance, Max and Tom edged into a small unoccupied triangle of ground behind one of the wrought-iron gates to plan their strategy. Above the relentless piped music they agreed to move out to the furthest aisles and work inwards towards each other, maintaining contact on their phones. As members of the team arrived they would be directed to work inwards from the other two directions, thus forming a slowly enclosing square.

‘If all goes well we'll find her simply enjoying the outing, and escort her from the park without fuss,' said Max. ‘Whoever spots her first calls the other, then any members of the team who have arrived. They'll be directed to home in on the nearest adjacent aisles to block any exit, and to guard these gates that are the only means of leaving the park.'

Tom's eyes narrowed. ‘She can't make a run for it, in the accepted sense.'

‘But it'll be hellish easy for her to evade us for hours in this mob.'

‘To be honest, sir, I think your fears are groundless. If chess is what prompts the desire to kill, she would surely have attacked that young gunner before now. The contest took place in the church hall. Virtually her home ground,' Tom pointed out.

‘She never went there; didn't meet any of the contestants,' Max countered sharply. ‘Tonight is the first time, and if someone mentions Kinsey's former success as junior champion she's unstable, Tom, therefore unpredictable. She's also with a group of teenagers, some of them boys. We
have
to find her.'

They parted, Tom turning left and Max to the right, their phones switched on and held to their ears. It was impossible for Tom to do more than shuffle at the general pace as he headed for the western bounds of the park. He counted ten aisles before trees rose up as a barrier several feet from high enclosing railings. In total, at least twenty to search, not counting the crossways linking them at intervals.

Troubled by conflicting and disturbing thoughts, Tom moved purposefully between shoppers eating hot sausages, or crêpes crammed with mouthwatering fillings; past children with balloons on long strings who munched gingerbread men, toasted marshmallows or chocolate-coated fruit on skewers. His eye was caught by a father with two small girls clinging to his hands, reminding him of ‘Dadda' McRitchie and his little darlings who would never come here again.

He pushed on, raking the kaleidoscope of rosy faces with a penetrating glance, ready to feign interest in the nearest stall if he should see their quarry. In the next aisle he found the press of people increasing. Local residents had eaten their meal and joined the throng. More would arrive as the evening wore on, making it even more difficult to find a specific person. A needle in a haystack!

As he edged past a static group around a stall selling nutcracker soldiers, carved wood toys and festive masks, he heard Max instructing Piercey and Beeny to search the horizontal linking lanes from east to west, and Connie Bush, who had just arrived with Roy Jakes, to start in the central aisles and work outward to meet himself and Tom. Good. Team members were starting to gather.

Turning right at the park's extremity to enter the next aisle, Tom welcomed the change from a harsh female voice hyping-up a well-known Christmas pop song to the purer sound of children singing more traditional folk tunes over the loudspeakers. The pop song had been too reminiscent of Kevin and Swinga Kat. Another child's hopes down the drain!