French Leave (8 page)

‘Go on.'

‘Smith was the opposite. Off-duty he tried to latch on to groups, butted in where he wasn't wanted, and made himself a bloody nuisance. Couldn't do anything on his own; always trying to muscle in on what was going down. Even tried to
buy
a place with some of them,' he added in disgust. ‘Yet, when they all acted as a platoon, Smith wasn't bloody having any of it. Made sure the rest did the donkey work. Crafty sod always hung back, fiddling with his sack or rifle. I saw it time and time again. He'd be useless in a war situation.' He faced Tom defiantly. ‘The West Wilts are better off without him, sir, take my word.'

‘So did you make certain of that by killing him during that assault?'

Miller visibly relaxed. ‘No chance. I was with the Warrior the whole time. Any case, he wasn't worth risking a murder charge. He did a runner. It's obvious.'

Tom changed direction. ‘Lieutenant Farley said he'd had a word with you about Smith's isolation from the rest of the platoon, and you'd promised to do something about it. Did you?'

‘Like I said, there wasn't anything anyone could do. Smith was a bad 'un through and through.' He drew in breath and exhaled gustily. ‘Lieutenant Farley's new to the regiment. He hasn't had any experience of squaddies yet. Doesn't understand them.'

‘But you do, Sergeant, and I deplore your lack of command in letting the situation reach such a dangerous stage. You should have negotiated Smith's transfer to another platoon. Better still, to another company. I suspect your overt hatred of him encouraged the men to treat him likewise.'

Tom allowed a silence to extend long enough to make Miller uneasy once more. ‘Yes, some men are so inefficient, such obvious misfits, so completely averse to team activity as soldiers, it makes you wonder how they ever passed their basic training. Why they would have enlisted. What do you do about it? You do your utmost to help turn them into useful members of your platoon and, when that doesn't work, you move them on in the hope that they'll settle down elsewhere. You do not hang on to them harbouring such violent feelings as you have about Smith. There has to be a hidden agenda here, Sergeant Miller, and I need to know what that is before we can both go off and enjoy the weekend.'

Max found Lance Corporal Mason in the NAAFI reading motorcycle magazines. He was alone. Introducing himself, Max sat at the small table and commented on the super machine pictured on the cover of one of the thick, glossy editions. Mason seemed unsurprised by Max's arrival, but he was unprepared for this SIB captain's knowledge of motorbikes and entered into a discussion almost warily, as if he suspected some kind of trap. His enthusiasm for the subject soon overcame suspicion, however, and he slowly relaxed.

It was a little cooler in the NAAFI than it was outside, but the air conditioning was not working at full power. A few men and women had sought relief from the heat there, amusing themselves with cards or other games while consuming cold drinks, but Max guessed most of the personnel had gone to the open air beer gardens or to the river.

The base swimming pool was closed. It had become dangerously overcrowded and, therefore, highly unhygienic. A notice on the door informed prospective swimmers that for the duration of the heatwave the pool could not be used, by order of the Medical Officer.

Seeing the notice en route to the NAAFI Max applauded Clare Goodey's decision, but he feared there could be repetitions of last night's incident along stretches of the river. The
Polizei
would be kept busy this weekend . . . and George Maddox's team, if soldiers were involved.

The motorcycle theme had run its course, so Max got down to business. ‘You'll be aware that SIB is looking into Private Smith's disappearance during the recent exercise?'

Mason nodded. ‘Aye, but there's nowt I can tell you about it.'

The round, freckled face and steady clear eyes suggested a solid, down-to-earth personality to this detective experienced in summing up people's honesty. Max gave a faint smile.

‘We haven't found anyone who can, so far. Nor have we talked to anyone who had a good word to say about Smith. I understand he replaced Jim Garson, who was killed in Basra.'

Mason again nodded and those clear eyes clouded. ‘My best mate from schooldays. We joined the West Wilts together. Jim was the best. It shouldn't have happened. Never.' He appealed to Max. ‘Why is it them that go early?'

This lad of twenty-two had clearly not yet recovered from the loss of someone who had been akin to a brother. ‘The person who has the answer to that universal question doesn't exist, I'm afraid,' said the man who had asked it so many times following Susan's death. ‘So you would have found it difficult to accept the man who took Jim's place? Any man, in fact.'

‘No, that's not right, sir. We have to mix in or the platoon isn't effective.'

‘But it wasn't possible to get along with Smith?'

After a moment's consideration, Mason said heavily, ‘He knew about Jim, how it was with him and me, but he never let me alone. Sidling up when I needed to be on my tod; making comments on what I was doing or reading. Trying to be part of my private time.'

‘Trying to take over where Jim left off?' suggested Max.

Mason's eyes immediately sparkled with anger. ‘That's it. Exactly it, sir. He'd somehow found out a lot about Jim. He'd talk about jaunts we'd done together and about how much he liked all the things Jim liked. It was as if he was climbing into Jim's skin.' His voice grew husky with emotion. ‘It was
sick
. When I told him to bugger off, he came back with a handful of DVDs. Said they were a gift to cheer me up, help me forget.' He found it difficult to say the next words. ‘It was the last straw. As if a few DVDs could wipe out the loss of the best mate I ever had.'

Max understood his outrage. ‘How did you react to that?'

Suddenly recalling who Max was, Mason said sharply, ‘I never laid a finger on him. I chucked his
gifts
on the floor and stamped on them, told him never to come near me again.' He took a deep breath. ‘All right, I grabbed him by his T-shirt and slammed him against the wall while I told him. That's
all
.'

‘Did he get the message then?'

Mason nodded. ‘He tried it on with others after that. Giving them stuff; hanging around listening to private conversations, then passing on what he heard to others. He was a real creepy bastard.'

‘Disliked by everyone in the platoon?'

‘Just about.'

‘No one was upset by his disappearance, then?'

‘I guess not.'

‘So no one looked too hard for him when Lieutenant Farley mounted a search.'

Recognizing the trap at the last minute, Mason said, ‘The Redcaps haven't found him, even with dogs. He wasn't out there, sir. He'd legged it at the start of the assault. None of us had any doubts.'

Dan Farley had fully equipped himself for the job. Loose, light-coloured clothes, plenty of bottled water, fleshy fruit and energy bars, a compass, a map, his state-of-the-art mobile phone and a survival pack. Finally, not least in importance, a sun hat. Now he was actively doing something he felt much better.

Trish's call yesterday had boosted his confidence; restored his natural ability to be decisive, take action, seek a resolution. She had abruptly ended the conversation on hearing about Afghanistan, but when they met he would banish her fears. She wanted him enough to make the call and plead for a resumption of their heady affair. Making up would be stimulating and memorable, he knew, and it would happen as soon as he could organize leave. First, he must satisfy himself that he had done all he could to find John Smith.

The man who'd brought the quad bike on a trailer had been waiting for him, and had agreed to Dan's request that he return for it on receiving a phone call from him. Having driven these vehicles over wild ground for fun with friends, Dan was familiar with what they could do and set off as soon as he had secured his equipment to it.

It was now five hours into the search and the heat was getting to him. Not bothering to cover the ground over which the last assault had been made, Dan had marked his map of the entire military exercise ground into six squares and began tackling each in turn. His watch, in addition to the position of the sun, told him it was noon. The hottest time of the day. He had only covered two of the squares so far, but he knew he must take another break. The ground appeared to be moving as in a mirage, and his command over the vehicle was growing erratic.

Beneath his small, three-cornered tent he drank water, then poured some slowly over his head. Then he ate several energy bars, some dates and two oranges. With another slurp of water he swallowed salt tablets. He then set the alarm on his watch for an hour hence, lay back, and closed his eyes.
Rest during the height of the day; move when it's cooler
. Both his father and grandfather had instilled that piece of wisdom in him from boyhood. An hour's rest now would be worth two of activity later in the day. He dozed.

There was a deafening crash; the earth shook. Dan shot upright, pulse racing. His first thought was that night had fallen. His second that he was liable to lose his small shelter, which was flapping wildly and tugging at the pegs he had only pushed by hand into the dry, dusty earth. It took just seconds to identify a major storm, and act.

Scrambling from the tent he swiftly pushed everything beneath it, then took a mallet from his pack and hammered at the tent pegs. It was a race against time, because the wind was growing more and more ferocious and the gusts carried the smell of rain. Knowing the dry earth offered little anchorage, Dan faced the possibility of losing what shelter he could produce unless he could secure it more surely against the storm winds.

Fighting a powerful surge of air, shivering in the sudden cold blasts, Dan started the quad bike's engine and manoeuvred it carefully so that the fat wheels rested on the guy ropes. It did not matter that the pegs broke under the pressure. One side of the canvas was now firmly grounded, and the vehicle itself provided a barrier against the gale.

Another great thunder clap shook the ground. It was followed by another and another, until it was as if the earth would split open. Lightning flashed into the semi-darkness like an alternating neon sign. Then the deluge began, hammering at the canvas above Dan's head and blotting out all sight of anything beyond his frail haven.

An hour passed. The storm appeared to be centred directly above the exercise ground, for the thunder and lightning continued unabated while torrential rain fell like a solid curtain. Dan thought he might as well be sitting in the open. He was wet through, along with everything under canvas that had pulled free from one corner. It was now flapping so forcefully that it threatened to dislodge the corner not held fast by the quad bike.

Soil that had been baked dry was unable to absorb the amount of rain falling, so it was rushing into mini rivers from any rise in the ground. These were meeting and forming great surges of water seeking an outlet. One of these mini rivers overwhelmed the man huddled beneath inadequate shelter, engulfing him up to his waist and threatening to sweep all before it. Dan had already stowed his gear and supplies in his backpack, and he slipped it on, ready to make a dash for greater cover during a lull in the storm.

There was no lull, but he moved fast when the water surged over him. The seat on the quad bike provided the only higher perch available to him, but full exposure to the elements was preferable to being swept away.

During the next half hour the storm moved away, but rain continued lashing down relentlessly. The area around Dan had become a flood plain. Knowing it would be next to impossible to read the map or compass in the heavy downpour, Dan decided to drive to a distant wooded rise, which would be safe to enter now the lightning had ceased.

The tough vehicle fired up at the second urging. Dan set it in motion with hands that shook with the cold. The quad bike battled powerfully against the impeding flood, but Dan had to constantly wipe his goggles to keep the trees in his sight. It took a good ten minutes to reach the edge of the wood, where he drove through, on to a fire break running straight as far as he could see.

It was still wet in there, the leafy cover not being dense enough to keep out such heavy rain. Water also lay in this area, but shallower and more static. When Dan left his seat, only his feet were covered. Shrugging off his backpack, he unstrapped it and pulled out his map.

His attention was otherwise caught, however, when he shifted slightly and his boots encountered something solid. He glanced down and experienced a jolt of excitement. Caught up by the bracken at the foot of a tree was a helmet bearing the badge of the West Wiltshire Regiment. Beside it was an SA80: the rifle used during the recent exercise.

FOUR

W
illiam Fanshawe was a genial, relaxed, modern type of infantry officer, who would surely earn respect and regard from the members of the company he led, Max thought. Dressed in shorts and a white polo shirt on this hot Saturday morning, Fanshawe greeted him without a hint of the reserve Max often encountered in his fellow officers.

‘You're following up this business of Smith, I imagine. I doubt I can offer anything useful, but come on in.'

Max followed the sturdy, dark-haired captain who, rumour went, had turned down the chance to play professional cricket for Sussex and instead joined the West Wiltshire Regiment. He still wielded a bat with great panache in inter-services matches, his personality reflecting his sporting gusto.

The garden of this married quarter resembled the kind of entry frequently seen at the Chelsea Flower Show. Fanshawe led Max to a corner arbour shaded by a rose-covered trellis, where wrought iron chairs stood around a matching table. There was an ornamental pond where the dolphin fountain was presently not playing due to restricted power, and this was surrounded by a mass of pink and white flowers. The lawn was burned brown by the heat, but Max guessed it would normally look as perfect as a bowling green.