French Leave (3 page)

‘Yes.'

Touchy subject so move on, Max told himself, trying to assess Farley's character. Not aggressively masculine in build, how did he rate personality-wise? Narrow face with strong bone structure, firm mouth but somewhat dreamy grey eyes. An idealist? Rather too trusting until he discovered his mistake? Afghanistan would test his inner and outer strengths.

Max explained why SIB was taking some interest in what had occurred during the mock assault. ‘What's your opinion of the suggestion that Smith was murdered by one of his fellows? Would you rate that a possibility?'

Farley, perched on his bed, looked nonplussed. ‘You're not taking the call seriously?'

‘Until Smith is traced, or until we discover who made the call and why, we have to. How well do you know the missing man?'

‘I only joined the regiment two months ago. I've not had time to familiarize myself with their personalities,' he said somewhat defensively. ‘As soldiers they're a decent enough bunch, although it was evident from the start that Smith didn't integrate well.'

‘Oh?' said Max encouragingly.

‘He was always alone when I saw him walking about the base, and during short breaks in activities he never sat with a group of mates. I mentioned it to Sar'nt Miller during my first weeks with the platoon; said Smith didn't seem a real team player. He promised to have a word with him, but he's been occupied with personal concerns and there's a hell of a lot to do before an exercise: checking equipment, getting vehicles overhauled, lecturing the men on manoeuvres during simulated battle. Things get sidelined until the end of the exercise.'

‘So tell me exactly what happened when you became aware that Smith was missing.'

Leaning back against the wall, Farley described how Sergeant Miller had reported the absence of a man, last seen around half an hour into the mock assault. ‘The platoon was widely spread out over undulating terrain. Easy for a man to fall from a ledge, or collapse from illness. No live ammo that day so we weren't wearing high visibility vests. I wish to God we had been. Smith would have shown up on the coordinators' screen and we could have pinpointed his position right away. As it was, we assumed Smith was in trouble and instigated an immediate search. I called up a helo and we took the Warriors back out there. We did our best, but we had to give up when it grew dark. The men were dead on their feet. We presently have three men in the sick bay with heat exhaustion. The new MO is apparently on the warpath over it.'

‘He's arrived at last, has he?' asked Max with interest, because much of SIB work involved liaison with the Medical Officer.

‘
She
. A tough cookie according to my boss, Captain Fanshawe.'

‘That'll liven things up a bit,' said Max getting to his feet. ‘Thanks for your input. I'll leave you to your futuristic novel.'

‘Sorry I couldn't give you a concise summation of Smith's character. As I said, Sar'nt Miller will be more helpful on that score. He seemed quite certain Smith had done a bunk,' he added thoughtfully. ‘I can't see it, myself. If the man meant to go AWOL, why attempt it under such difficult conditions? He'd wait until we returned to base and go out in civvies one evening, taking enough cash and his credit card to get him where he planned to go.'

‘That's the logical way of thinking, but in my job I've found people can behave in an unbelievably irrational manner. We have three possibilities here. Smith collapsed from heat or other causes and is out there waiting to be discovered, something occurred during the exercise to make him so desperate to get away he had to go immediately,
or
he was killed when the troops were all intent on their individual efforts to capture the objective. The first and third of those possibilities will certainly mean searching for a body. It could also mean the same if Smith simply debunked without prior planning. Whatever we discover to be true, your platoon will be one man short for Afghanistan. Or more, if that phone call was genuine.'

Phil Piercey found Sergeant Miller at home with his wife, and sons aged around eleven and fourteen. The three males wore only brief shorts. Mrs Miller, a short, plump woman with part blonde, part dark hair that she was either allowing to revert to its normal brown shade or badly needed a dyeing session at the base salon, wore a bikini top with her shorts. The patio door was open, although no cooling breeze entered. The interior of the house was stifling. Phil's starched shirt had already grown limp and was sticking to his back. He still felt overdressed.

Eric Miller was mystified by a visit from SIB until Piercey told him of the phone call and suggested they talk in another room. Used to people's reactions to unexpected news, Piercey noted that this sergeant took it in his stride. Away from the rest of his family Miller became completely professional.

‘Smith's done a runner. I'm surprised he waited so long to do it.'

‘Any ideas on why he chose the worst possible time?'

Miller's mouth twisted. ‘Couldn't take any more. Spineless little worm. Saw that right away. Sneaky, snivelling little creep. No guts. Waste of space.'

‘You didn't like him?' asked Piercey, tongue-in-cheek.

Miller was too well into his stride to notice the flippancy. ‘Just twice in my career there's been a squaddie rotten to the core. First one's still serving time for double rape and GBH. Smith's the second. He'll end up behind bars, take my word.'

‘Dead men don't go to jail. Unless he had a civilian contact he might not have survived the extreme heat. How about the suggestion someone in the platoon did for him during the assault?'

Miller shook his head. ‘Nah. That little turd isn't worth risking a murder charge, although I'd applaud any man who took it. He's gone, I tell you. Done a runner.'

Back to where they had started. Piercey tried a different tack. ‘Know anyone who might have had it in for him?'

‘The whole of 3 Platoon, and probably half the other two. More than that, I reckon. Always fiddling around with his daysack until the rest had gone ahead of him. Bloody wimp!'

Piercey realized he was getting nothing useful from this biased man, and the odour of his sweaty body was growing overpowering in that small room. He tried one last question.

‘Who were Smith's mates?'

Miller grunted. ‘He didn't
have
mates. He tried sucking up when he first joined us, but they don't take to arse-lickers any more than I do. He was on his own from then on.'

‘You made no attempt to get to the bottom of his problem?'

The simmering aggression exploded into a verbal attack on Piercey. ‘His
problem
was he never should have been born. Yours is you have no idea about soldiering. Pussyfooting around asking damnfool questions and prying into people's personal lives, that's you lot. If you find the slimy bastard alive you'll no doubt get the social morons to spend time and money trying to understand what makes him so unpopular. The West Wilts is a regiment of tough fighting men. If they have
problems
, they sort 'em out without help.'

‘By looking the other way when someone they don't like runs from group persecution to possible slow death? Or by terminating his life themselves?' snapped Piercey.

Miller smirked. ‘That's for you fancy-boy plods to find out, isn't it?'

TWO

‘
H
i, gorgeous. Pinch me so I'll know I'm not dreaming. Here's my most sensitive spot.' The dirty laugh accompanying these words was clarified by a thumb pointing to the swell in his tartan underpants.

Connie held up her identification, as did Heather. ‘Sergeants Bush and Johnson, SIB,' she announced, ignoring the lewd approach often heard from squaddies before they realized who the two young women in civilian clothes were. ‘Sorry to interrupt your siesta, but we need to ask you a few questions about the disappearance of Private Smith.'

Heather addressed herself to Charles White, who was sprawling on the adjacent bed where the dividing curtain had been pulled back. ‘We were told you are best mates who've been with 3 Platoon the longest. That right?'

White's leer was as lascivious as Corkhill's. ‘This is a have-on, in't it? You two are strippers sent by the lads.' He sat up, linking his arms around his spread knees. ‘I'd get more excited if you wore a sexy uniform and a copper's helmet.'

‘Put some clothes on,' ordered Connie. ‘We'll wait for you in the recreation room. Get moving!'

‘What?'

She rounded on Corkhill. ‘What,
Sergeant
!'

White's jaw dropped. ‘Are you two for real?'

‘
Very
real,' they said in unison.

Down in the communal recreation room, presently empty, the two women compared notes. Connie, a keep fit addict whose fresh, healthy bloom added to her attractions, raised her eyebrows at her friend.

‘The likely lads in person. Why do so many mothers rear male chauvinists?'

‘If I have boys they'll be told what's what from the baby stage,' vowed Heather, who followed Connie's addiction to fitness, but was one of those women who remain the same size in defiance of diets and exercise.

‘Londoners, those two,' observed Connie. ‘Unlikely that they made that call to George Maddox.'

‘Unless they're good mimics. They're the sort to think it a real hoot.'

‘How about murder?'

Heather pursed her lips. ‘I'd say their brand of crime, if they ever strayed in that direction, would be robbing frail old dears of their shopping, and then only in partnership.'

‘I agree. More mouth than menace.'

The pair under discussion appeared at that moment wearing shorts, and T-shirts bearing rude logos. They still looked suspicious.

‘Why you picking on us?' demanded White. ‘We don't know nothing about Smith.'

‘We're talking to everyone who was in the Warrior with him on the day he disappeared. Piper and Allen couldn't tell us much.'

‘Except that you two were close, and old timers with 3 Platoon,' added Heather.

Corkhill bristled. ‘We don't know no more than them. Kept himself to himself, did Smith.'

‘By his own choice, or because he was ostracized?'

Some of White's cheekiness returned. ‘Big words, Corky.
Siesta
and
ostracized
. Words we squaddies wouldn't understand.'

Heather smiled. ‘Perhaps you'd understand them better at Section Headquarters.'

‘No way!' cried Corkhill.

‘No way,
Sergeant
!'

White turned placatory. ‘Look, Sarge, Smith was first out that morning. He farted around with his daysack, as usual, while the rest of us got on with the job. We didn't see him after that. We told Lieutenant Farley that.' Some of his chauvinism returned. ‘You wouldn't be familiar with combat, but I promise you we don't faff about smiling and chatting while approaching the enemy.'

Connie had had enough. ‘Don't patronize us, sonny! A member of your platoon came to harm during an assault and possibly died. Our job is to discover what happened that day and attempt to trace his whereabouts. I promise you we don't faff about, either, so unless you stop behaving like ten year olds and answer our questions properly, we'll take you both in.'

Heather turned on Charles White. ‘So what happened in the Warrior en route to the objective? You understand that French expression, do you?'

‘Nothing happened,' he replied sullenly. ‘It was too bloody hot and we was packed in there. You wouldn't know what—' He broke off.

‘No, we don't know what it's like,' agreed Heather. ‘That's why we're asking you. There wasn't the usual banter? Nothing to upset Smith?'

Len Corkhill took over. ‘Seven of us in like sardines. Can't see much except the guy sitting opposite. Stinks of diesel. Noisy? I tell you! Bloody motor's riding the ground like a ship on a stormy ocean. Banter, you say? There's plenty of that at other times. In the back of a Warrior, usual thing is to have a kip. In that heat we bloody near passed out.'

‘OK, we get the picture,' said Connie. ‘Let's leave that and talk about those other times when banter
is
possible. Did Smith join in?'

‘Told you. Kept himself to himself.'

Heather held his stare until he looked away. ‘Why would someone like that join an organization that actively promotes team attitudes?'

White answered. ‘You'll have to ask Smith when you find him.'

‘Did he never make a bid to join in; make friends?'

‘Chose the wrong one, didn't he. Jim Garson, killed on patrol in Basra, was Mason's best mate.'

‘Lance Corporal Mason?' asked Connie. Getting a nod, she probed further. ‘Smith tried to get chummy with him?'

‘Had a stripe on his sleeve, didn't he. That little creep always had an eye to the best chance. He didn't know about Jim, of course.'

Seeing emotion now on the faces of these two macho lads, Connie sensed a revelation. ‘
We
don't know about Jim, so tell us.'

The pair exchanged looks, then Corkhill told the tale. ‘Jim was the best. Core player in the footie team, could hit a target dead centre with one eye closed, played a mean guitar. Jokes? Had a never-ending supply. You were on a loser playing snooker with Jim.'

White took over. ‘Jim had it all. You know, the birds were all over him. But he never once cheated on Sharon. Not once. Crazy about his two girls.'

‘Loved kids,' added Corkhill. ‘That's what made it so bleeding obscene.'