Dutch Courage (12 page)

She half-turned to look at him. ‘His future. Youth and excitement have become the perogative of his children now. It's all out there waiting for them. What's awaiting him? An endless line of sick complainers, retirement and old age. It's suddenly hit him that he's a member of yesterday's generation. When that happens men can resort to fancying and, in extreme cases, trying to initiate children who're growing into adults. Some women start dressing like teenagers and indulging in girls' nights-out, where they drink to excess and ensure they capture the attention of every male in sight with their antics.'

Tom stared at her as she poured soup in a bowl and came to sit facing him. ‘I doubt he's even
forty
yet.'

‘It has nothing to do with age, love, it's
circumstances
. Wealthy bachelors in their sixties can still seek fresh fun and excitement in the belief they have eternal youth. Heavily married men with a large batch of children often feel the way I've just outlined. That's when their sexual fantasies can grow too strong to resist.'

Tom remained silent, watching her drink her soup. Her hair was again fastened back with a scrunchie, emphasizing the lean lines of her face, her large hazel eyes and her smooth throat above the open neck of a pale woollen shirt that had seen better days but was comfortable around the house.

‘The other rumour I heard this morning from Petra Townsend was that the helicopter hero was hit last night by a car and left in the road badly hurt. His wife must be wondering if the Grim Reaper's sending him a stark message. Is he OK?'

‘He'll bounce back.'

‘Good. She's pregnant again after two miscarriages, I hear. Shocks like that won't help her condition.' She put her spoon back in the empty bowl. ‘There may be a couple of jam tarts in the tin. Fancy one with a cup of coffee?'

Tom declined. ‘I was just thinking how nice it is to have the house to ourselves for a change. The girls won't be home for at least another hour. How about going upstairs for something more enjoyable than a jam tart?'

She gave a regretful smile. ‘I wish.'

‘Do I take it that's a no?'

‘Until tonight, love. I must push on with that bridal gown. The wedding's at the end of the week and I've two flower-girls' dresses to make yet.' She gave him her fond teasing smile. ‘Have the jam tarts for now.'

Normally he would have an appropriate response to that. Today, he collected bowls and his plate to take to the sink. ‘All that froth and fantasy, to say nothing of the bloody ridiculous expense for a pointless spectacle. That's all it is these days. Couples have been having sex, if not actually shacking-up together, for years. Some even have their kids as page-boys or whatever. Weddings are no more than glorified parties where the wife-to-be can flounce around in a copy of something she's seen in a soap or a gossip magazine. It's totally meaningless.'

‘Ours wasn't . . . and you'd talked me into bed long before we tied the knot,' Nora reminded him quietly.

He swung to face her. ‘You didn't wear a bloody great crinoline covered in spangles, and Maggie was only a twinkle in my eye.'

She reached for his hands and clasped them warmly, searching his face with her gaze. ‘When our girls marry they'll probably want a bloody great frilly crinoline covered in spangles, or if the fashion then is to wear a virginal white wetsuit, they'll want that. It's the day every woman dreams of from infancy. It's
her
day, whatever the situation. It's special. Don't put on that face, love. All three of your daughters will want the full works when the time comes, so you'll have to keep your opinions to yourself, especially if they want their children to walk down the aisle with them. It's how things are these days.'

Tom drew his hands from her grip. ‘You're now telling
me
I'm a member of yesterday's generation.'

‘We both are, but I'm too fulfilled and busy with plans to need girls' nights-out to shore up my happiness.' She paused fractionally before asking, ‘How about you?'

He forced a smile, conscious of the pull of flesh around his facial scar. ‘I don't need girls' nights-out, either.'

Nora smiled back and gave him a swift kiss. ‘Must get to the sewing machine. That's a date for tonight, chum. The future's bright.'

So why did he feel so bleak as he left the house and returned to his office?

Max lunched off toasted cheese and tomato sandwiches prepared in the tiny kitchen at their headquarters, which had to substitute for a regular canteen. Staff Sergeant Melly had taken on responsibility for keeping cupboards fully stocked with the makings for snacks, light meals, and comfort eating for when cases reached stalemate. He continually complained that the comfort supplies vanished even when things were going well. The complaint fell on deaf ears.

Max took two chocolate-coated caramel slices to have with another mug of coffee, justifying this on the grounds of being unable to interview Sam Collier and so progress the investigation. The ‘comfort' was not needed to offset concern over Livya, of course! He was about to start on the second cake when Rex Southerland rang to say Captain John Fraeme, commander of A Flight and Collier's close friend, was back on the ground and ready to help in any way he could. The cake beckoned, but Max reluctantly returned it to the tin, where its brethren sat invitingly. He could always have it with a cup of tea before the briefing later on.

The sun had appeared to provide warmth and brightness to a dismal grey day. It should have lifted Max's spirits. It failed, even though he told himself he had little to grumble about compared with Sam Collier. Or Charles Clarkson.

Entering the command offices of 678 Squadron Max found, as usual with the Army Air Corps, a more laid-back atmosphere than there was in regimental headquarters. The ‘flyboys' had absorbed some of the more relaxed attitudes to military life practised by the RAF, which must be engendered by the fact that airmen mostly left their large parent group on the ground to operate in the vast freedom of the sky. Max was not wholeheartedly enamoured with flying, invariably glad to unbuckle his seat belt and step out to the open air once more. He supposed being occupied at the controls would put a different slant on the activity.

John Fraeme was in a small office reading a report. On his desk were a mug of coffee and a plate bearing two Wagon Wheels. Crumpled foil beside the plate suggested he had already eaten a third. He glanced up and got to his feet, hand outstretched.

‘Hallo. Grab a seat while I rustle up some coffee. How d'you like it?'

‘Black, no sugar,' said Max, noting his firm handshake and relaxed approach. A man well in control of himself. He studied Fraeme as the pilot wrapped himself around the partition to say to someone in the next office, ‘Coffee for my visitor. As it comes, nothing added. Thanks.'

Collier's friend was around five-nine and sinewy, with close-cropped dark curly hair showing grey strands at the temples. He had the kind of intelligent good looks and frank gaze that would do wonders for recruitment on a poster, and old ladies afraid of flying would happily take to the air with him. Max was neither a timid pensioner nor a youth yearning to be an ace flyer, but experience told him this man was not behind or involved in the ‘punishment assault' on Collier. John Fraeme was the type to resolve problems with words, not fists . . . and resolve them he
would
!

Sitting behind his desk again, Fraeme said, ‘I guess you've not yet been able to talk to Sam. I heard he's under observation.'

‘That's right. Best for him, a nuisance for us.'

‘Bizarre business. Why Sam?'

‘Why, indeed, but these things always happen for a reason and I'm hoping you can shed some light on that. All I know of Collier has been garnered from media coverage of his action in Afghanistan, and the horse's mouth account of it by Baz Flint and Jerry Lang this morning. Your squadron commander told me Sam is well liked, a true team player. Can you elaborate?'

Before Fraeme could speak, a pale-faced corporal entered with a mug he put on the desk before scuttling out as Max thanked him. John offered the chocolate biscuits. Max declined.

‘I always need a chocolate fix after flying,' the other man confessed. ‘The shrinks would have an explanation for it, no doubt.'

Max laughed. ‘I can give you that. Chocolate prolongs the buzz.'

‘Do you fly?' John asked with interest.

‘Only as a passenger.' He waved a hand at the biscuits. ‘Those things pep me up when I'm down, and keep me up when I'm up.' He sobered. ‘So you get a buzz when you fly. Does Sam Collier?'

‘I guess we all do.'

‘And in a combat situation?'

He nodded. ‘Even more so, I'd say. Fear and excitement meld to produce a state comparable to a drug-induced high. Only when danger no longer threatens do we begin to wind down.'

‘That's when you need a chocolate fix.'

The pilot regarded him shrewdly. ‘What is it you want from me?'

‘Major Southerland told me you're one of Sam's close friends, yet it appears you don't often crew with him. Why's that?'

‘Good friends don't necessarily make good flight partners, although Sam and I do. As flight commander I select crews because the character and aptitude of each man makes for good teamwork. I actually have two guys who're so mismatched temperamentally and professionally it would be madness to send them aloft together in a combat situation. Flying helos is a dangerous pastime, Max.'

‘So you crew with someone whose qualities suit you better than your friend Collier's?'

The other man frowned. ‘No, you're not getting it. A Flight has four Lynx and eight pilots. Within that group are guys who've discovered they operate best with certain others, so they expect to share a cockpit when they're both on duty. When one is away, they pair differently but return to the original arrangement. Sam and I operate well together, but equally well with two guys who are unhappy as a crew. It makes sense to split them, so I normally crew with Ray Fox, and Sam with Andy Richards.'

‘Who had half his hand shot away during that daring rescue in Afghanistan.'

John looked uncomfortable for the first time. ‘That was bloody bad luck.'

‘Particularly when Collier was exposing himself so totally outside the aircraft and remaining unscathed. It's not surprising that some people felt resentful of all the media puff centred on him rather than the whole crew.'

The other man gave Max a level look across his desk, and his manner hardened. ‘A Flight operates as a team every which way. In your line you work independently, which is why you're here alone right now and there are SIB guys all over the offices and hangars questioning personnel one-to-one.'

‘And the point you're making?' Max asked crisply.

‘Is that we're not in the business of flogging one of our team members and dumping him in the road because we feel
resentful
of something he's done. We're too close-knit to put anyone out of action. We need each other too much. We're drastically undermanned, in case you hadn't heard.'

Max let several moments pass, then said, ‘Point taken. So you can't give me a lead on who might have assaulted Sam?'

‘None at all.'

‘How long have you been close friends? You meet socially? Wives equally friendly?'

John drank some of his coffee which must by now be cold. Max recognized it as playing for time. ‘We've always hit it off,' he said eventually. ‘When he joined the squadron he was single and a sergeant, heavily involved with the Blue Eagles display team. We didn't meet up much in those days.'

‘You got together more often once he was commissioned?'

‘Well, he bowed out of the Blue Eagles when he started dating Margot, so he resumed normal squadron duties.'

‘And he moved into the Officers' Mess,' Max added smoothly. ‘Do you and your wife make foursomes with the Colliers?'

‘We have two kids. A girl of two and a babe of nine months. Not much chance of foursomes of the type you mean.'

‘Your close friendship operates mostly on professional lines, then?'

‘I guess so,' he agreed after a pause.

‘So tell me, what has your pal Sam done to provoke such a brutal attack last night?'

John Fraeme leaned back in his chair, relaxed once more. ‘You'll have to ask him, won't you.'

Six

C
harles Clarkson slowly raised the gun, steadied his hand, then pulled the trigger. He did the same five more times. His score came up in lights above the target. Not bad. Anger always sharpened his skill. He signalled that he was reloading, and a fresh target popped up. He wanted to put all six in that solid centre, but two just nicked the side of it. A third target recorded the same. Setting the gun down he then removed the ear protectors. His present anger must be too great for perfect aim.

‘Fine shooting, sir,' said the ex-sergeant who issued weapons and ammunition at the Army Rifle Club.

Charles pushed the gun and equipment across the counter. ‘I've done better. I'll have another go tomorrow.'

‘Tomorrow
afternoon
, sir?'

‘Is there a problem?'

‘Well, Wensdees, the ladies come from midday to fifteen hundred. They have lunch in the restaurant and a bit of a meeting. Mostly chat, reely. They use the range for around ninety minutes, then go off in time for the kids coming back from school.'

‘I'll give it a miss, then. Thanks, Joe.'

He walked through to the bar knowing very well what the man was telling him. If he was using the club to hide out, tomorrow would be a great mistake. The female members would not allow him through the door. Ordering a double whisky from the barman, who today seemed too busy with paperwork to yarn like he usually did, Charles took his drink to a window overlooking the busy road running past the base and stared at the passing cars. All those people heading somewhere! How many of them were facing public vilification and professional censure? How many had children who had suddenly become tongue-tied in their presence? How many had working colleagues who tried too hard to pretend nothing had changed?