French Leave (4 page)

‘Yes?' urged Connie.

White was visibly moved. ‘On patrol through this village some little girl approaches him holding out a toy. Jim stops to look at it. Next minute he's dead. Bullet between the eyes.'

There was a short silence, then Heather said, ‘Smith couldn't measure up, of course.'

‘No replacement would,' said Connie. ‘OK, that's all, lads.'

Letting White and Corkhill return to their beds, the two women lingered where the air conditioning was at least working at half power. ‘Four down; two to go,' said Heather with a sigh. ‘I think we're on a road to nowhere. Piper and Allen dismissed Smith as a non-person. These two had strong opinions of him, but tried not to air them by baiting us instead. Lance Corporal Mason will be totally biased when we manage to track him down, and Ryan is in the sick bay with the others. Let's take a lunch break.'

Once they were enjoying the cool atmosphere in the NAAFI, Connie said thoughtfully, ‘I'm feeling sorry for the mysterious Smith.'

‘Why?'

‘I don't know. Perhaps because no one else is. None of the four we've interviewed care what happened to him.'

‘Well, he had the misfortune to replace one of those men who are at the heart of every regiment. When they're lost in tragic circumstances, they become even more revered. Tough for anyone to have to fill those shoes. Even so, no man is so unlovable he has no friends at all.'

Spearing some cucumber with her fork, Connie took up that last point. ‘None of those four referred to him as Smithy. It's the universal nickname for Smiths. Denying him even that points to real dislike, apart from inability to accept him in place of Jim Garson. He'd been with the West Wilts for eight months. Time enough to overcome resentment over their lost colleague, surely.'

Heather sipped her tea. ‘Something
must
have happened that day to make the poor bastard so desperate to leave he was prepared to take such a risk. And
someone
knows what it was. We have to keep digging.'

‘I'll tell you one thing, Heather. I wouldn't rate being befriended by those two we've just interviewed as much of a plus for anyone, even the lonely Smith.'

Max returned to his room at lunchtime to shower, change his damp shirt and eat a light snack. The high temperature had reduced his appetite over the past few days.

The dining room was sparsely occupied. It was not uncommon for people to regard Fridays as ending at noon so far as work was concerned. Max had even intended to take the entire day off until Tom had called him in from the river.

George Maddox admitted they received plenty of mischievous calls leading nowhere, and Max believed this must be one of them. Smith was probably now happily ensconced with a fräulein and chuckling over his escape from arduous soldiering. After all, if one of his fellow squaddies had wanted him out of the way, surely he would have knifed him in the guts down some dark alley in town on a Saturday night, making it impossible to trace the perpetrator.

Taking up a cheese salad from the counter, Max headed for a table by the window. He then diverted to another where a woman dressed in a khaki skirt and shirt with neatly rolled-up sleeves sat alone, eating salad too. She looked up as he neared and sent Max's thoughts in a much more pleasant direction.

‘I'm sticking my neck out here,' he said with a smile. ‘If you'd prefer to eat alone I'll take myself off.'

It seemed very likely that she would tell him to do just that. Her cool optical appraisal practically voiced a rejection, so he hastily explained why he had approached her.

‘A Medical Corps captain who's a stranger in the Mess. Our new MO is a woman, I've just been informed. I put those two together and deduced that you are she. I'm Max Rydal, SIB. As we'll liaise now and then I thought we should get to know each other.'

The appraisal continued until she said, ‘You don't look too fearsome standing there with a salad in your hand. Why not sit here and eat it?'

He settled, facing her. ‘If we're talking
fearsome
, I heard a rumour that you're on the warpath.'

Blue-grey eyes regarded him candidly. ‘Word gets around quickly. Yes, I'm on the warpath. That exercise should have been curtailed. Men should not have been put under such duress in these temperatures.'

Taking in her no-nonsense blonde hair, sensible make-up and immaculate shirt (didn't women sweat in the heat?), Max said mildly, ‘They're soldiers, ma'am.'

‘They're human animals like the rest of us.'

‘Ah, but the rest of us don't have to fight in hot countries. The West Wilts are scheduled for Afghanistan in October.'

Her eyes sparkled. ‘My views on that war can't be aired on military property.'

Noting the gold band on her left hand, Max asked, ‘Does your husband agree with them?'

Again the candid appraisal. ‘You're very inquisitive for an encounter of just five minutes' duration. Do you act the detective in every situation?'

‘Do you act the military expert when away from your surgery?' he riposted, goaded by her fresh manner.

A faint smile softened her expression. ‘Touché. I'm Clare Goodey, by the way. And if you say “oh, goody, goody” our liaison will be a thorny one.'

Max smiled back. ‘Suffer from that, do you? The usual reaction when I tell people I'm a policeman is to send them away post-haste, frantically trying to recall what they might have said that could be incriminating.'

She leaned back in her chair, quite relaxed now. ‘Several years ago in Florida I was eating at a roadside restaurant when in came the local sheriff and his
deputee
, both massive men with necks like bulls' and shoulders that could barge down a steel portcullis with one shove. They were each hung around with a truncheon, handcuffs, rubber-coated flashlight and a very business-like gun in a leather holster.'

Her mouth twitched in another smile. ‘Gee, I thought, these guys will order the hindquarters of a cow apiece and wash it down with a ten gallon jar of root beer loaded with three dozen ice cubes. Know what they each had? Slice of quiche with salad, and iced tea.' Her smile broadened. ‘I've never been in awe of policemen since that evening.'

Max laughed. ‘So, I'm already on the bottom rung of your ladder of respect. I should be eating a mammoth steak and a mountain of chips instead of this rabbit food.'

‘Don't fret. I'll be living in the Mess until I find more congenial quarters. You'll have chances to redeem yourself.'

They fell to discussing the difficulty of tracking down suitable accommodation. Max assumed her husband would not be sharing with her, but forbore to probe again into that relationship. Clare made no attempt to discover his own marital state, so he thought that subject was best left alone.

They both poured themselves coffee in the ante-room where Clare surprised Max by saying, ‘I suppose you're caught up in this awful business of the soldier who went missing during a mock battle.'

‘Word gets around quickly,' he replied, using her earlier words.

‘I have three participants in my sick bay suffering from heat exhaustion and hypothermia.'

‘We'll need to speak to them,' he said over his coffee cup.

‘Not yet, you won't.'

Max put his cup and saucer firmly on the low table. ‘Let's sort this from the start. Unless a patient's condition would be endangered by questioning, we have the right to interview him or her if we feel we could gain useful evidence.'

Her eyes narrowed. ‘As I'm the only person qualified to judge a patient's condition, you'll have to abide by my rules. Those men are exhausted and semi-delirious. Ask me tomorrow. I may allow questioning then.'

Max's hackles rose. ‘You realize the missing man might be lying somewhere on the brink of breathing his last. Your patients could point in the direction to save him.'

‘It's too late for that. Anyone lost out there beneath this intense sun for this long without water would be dead by now. That's why I'm on the warpath over this exercise. My job is to keep soldiers fit to do the job they enrolled to do. Any mad macho scheme that endangers their fitness will meet with my fierce opposition.' She got to her feet. ‘I'm small, slim and female, but don't let any man on this base underestimate me.'

‘Smith, you say? I dessay I can call up his record for you,' Staff Sergeant Canning told Tom. ‘As for a printout –' He hissed through his teeth – ‘Bloody lack of juice has set the printer on the blink. How are we expected to run an army on half power?'

‘Same way we're expected to run it on reduced funds and last decade's equipment,' offered Tom, voicing a universal grouch.

‘And we always manage it, somehow. Ah, here we are. Smith J.H. Take a look-see.'

Tom studied the screen showing a somewhat faint image of Smith's personal details and a rundown of his service with the West Wilts. The date of birth showed him to be just twenty. Place of birth given as Bournemouth. Nationality, British. Next of kin: Edward Frederick Smith (father), with a Bournemouth address.

A lad who had lived all his short life in his home town? mused Tom. Recruits who had never left home before were the ones who found it most difficult to settle on joining. Not unnaturally, they could not take the taunts of others who had had more experience of life, and they had a rough ride for a while. However, Smith had been approaching the first anniversary of signing on, so he should have found his feet by now and sorted out how to integrate.

Smith's educational standard just met the minimum requirement, and he apparently had no technical or manual skills. The grade he was given after basic training showed he was an average recruit, no more. During eight months' service with the battalion he had received no disciplinary charges or warnings. Reasonably well behaved, then.

Tom glanced up at Harry Canning. ‘Nothing here to suggest he'd do a runner, as Sar'nt Miller claims.'

Canning grinned. ‘Read on screen the records of half the regiment and you wouldn't recognize the men you meet. Seem like model soldiers according to what's on there,' he added, pointing at the pale image. ‘That simply classifies them, but they're all individuals, aren't they? So Private Bloggs has a low educational standard. Does that make him thick as a plank? You'd be surprised how many Bloggses make first-rate soldiers. Brains that might not absorb academic subjects can be right sharp on tactics.' He grinned again. ‘More use to us than guys who can quote Shakespeare as they panic under fire.'

Tom straightened from studying the screen. ‘And Smith was a sharp tactician?'

‘He was sharp. That's as far as I'll go.'

‘Oh?'

‘Nothing specific. Just things I heard,' Canning said hastily. ‘Anything going, Smith was first in the queue. Unless it involved effort, hard work, or loss of free time. Then he was nowhere to be seen.'

‘Not popular, then?'

Canning's eyebrows rose. ‘You know what it's like, sir. Every so often you come across a soldier you know right off is a bad 'un.' He waved a hand at the computer. ‘Doesn't say so there, but experience tells you.'

Tom knew what the other man was saying. He had come across men who exuded malevolence, although they had already committed a crime when he had encountered them.

‘Thanks for that, Staff. I need to take a look at Smith's room. Detail someone to go with me as a witness. You'll get a copy of the inventory.'

Smith's living space was still enclosed by curtains, although the other occupant of that room was lying asleep in full view from the corridor. The NCO with Tom made to rouse the man, but Tom stopped him.

‘We'll do this as quietly and swiftly as possible.'

Pushing aside the curtain, he entered to find the bed neatly made, as Smith had left it to go on the exercise. The room told little about its occupant. No photographs of family or friends; no girlie calendar; no posters of pop groups, footballers, racing-car drivers or other enthusiasms. Curious. All young men hung their walls with such things. It was as if Smith had taken away his personality, knowing he would not return. Had he planned to leave the ranks when he set off from here?

Tom nodded at the scratch pad held by the corporal. ‘Not much to list so far. Let's open the locker.'

As Tom and his companion stared at the contents, there was a rustle of curtains. They parted and a face appeared.

‘'Ere, what you two doing in there?' The body attached to the head then came through as the curtain was tugged further open. ‘That's Smith's stuff. Who said . . .' The erstwhile sleeping soldier's words tailed off as his puffy eyes took in the sight of stacked DVDs and two boxed players still shrink-wrapped. A smaller box atop those contained a dozen or more iPods in styrofoam packs.

Tom informed Smith's neighbour of his identity and began questioning the bemused lad, who was wearing only jazzy underpants.

‘Were you aware of what Smith had in this locker?'

A slow shake of the head.

‘What's your name?'

‘Spanner, sir,' he said, eyes studying the treasure he had been living next to without knowing. ‘Me and Smith don't mix much, like. We're in different platoons, so we weren't mates.'

‘Smith kept himself to himself?'

‘Yeah. Wouldn't have the curtain back. Not ever.'

‘That bother you?'

Another shake of the head. ‘Suited me if he preferred to hide himself away.'

Tom pulled the curtain fully back and told Spanner to put on some clothes while he and Corporal Franks listed the contents of the locker. It looked as if Smith had either been stealing from local stores or was acting as a fence for a local dealer. This information would have to be passed to George Maddox to follow up on.