Dutch Courage (15 page)

Eating supper in the Sergeants' Mess, where Connie Bush and Heather Johnson were talking animatedly together at a nearby table, Phil guessed they were gushing over fish-and-chip Sam once more. His hackles rose. Collier was no bloody hero if guys were prepared to beat the living daylights out of him to get at the truth. Looking at the flushed expressions on his female colleagues' faces, Phil's hackles rose further. How he would enjoy exposing the bastard as a fraud. Worse. A guy was not given a flogging for simply telling a few white lies.

When Connie and Heather glanced his way, then conspired in obvious merriment, Phil pushed back his chair and walked out, his mind made up. Walking to his car, he got in and headed around the perimeter road towards the Armoury and its surrounds. Max had said he would talk to George Maddox about searching that area in the morning, depending on what he learned from the victim that might make it unnecessary. Why not look around now; steal their thunder?

Tuesday evening, at the hour when soldiers were either eating, cleaning their kit, phoning girlfriends or chilling out together. Only the Duty Officer and Sergeant were liable to be in the vicinity of the Armoury after dark, checking for intruders and examining the security system during ‘rounds'.

When Piercey arrived there it was deserted. He left his car, taking up the powerful torch kept in it, and skirted the Armoury well clear of the area within which he would activate the floodlights. Collier's attackers would not have risked being illuminated; they would have taken him to a wall well out of public view to deliver their brutal message.

The REME workshops loomed in the darkness ahead. Piercey exercised the intelligence he claimed was put to better use with SIB than in a helicopter to guess the location of the likely spot. Somewhere only dimly lit by the lights on the corners of the workshops, but not too far from the road. Collier was a big, hefty man to drag or half-carry for a considerable distance if they had punched him almost senseless before conveying him in a car or Land Rover.

Maybe they had merely jumped him, shoved a hood over his head and pinioned his arms. If so, they could have then marched him right to the rear of the workshops. During training sessions, Piercey had been hooded and manacled to demonstrate how even the toughest of men could be subdued and dominated. He had hated the experience; had never forgotten that terrible helplessness.

For a brief moment he felt empathy for Collier, but that was soon superseded by the near-certainty that the man had got his rightful comeuppance. Sam Collier had sinned in a big way, for sure. Eight years of policing told him so.

He rounded the corner of the tall building and began to search the rough ground with the beam of his torch as he walked slowly alongside the rear wall of the workshop. Next minute, he was seized and thrust against the bricks, his arms outstretched spreadeagle fashion and held in clamp-like grips. Fear shot through him, his back already twitching with anticipation of the blows to come.

Sam at first thought he was dreaming. He had recently had a recurring one of being in a strange room that had no door; no escape route. This room had a door that stood open, and he could hear the murmur of male voices not far away. The bed was hard, so he attempted to turn over to a more comfortable position. Pain raking across his back set him gasping, and he froze as memory of the cause of that pain came at him like a rocket-propelled grenade.

Realizing where he must be he fought the nausea rising in his throat. How had he got to the Medical Centre? Christ, it would be common knowledge now. How much time had elapsed since it happened? Had he said anything without being aware of who was listening? Dear God, what had they told Margot? How would he face her; how could he lie his way out of this?

Struggling to calm his heartbeat and his ragged nerves, Sam recollected the events of that evening . . . how long ago? It was presently night-time. Which night? The same one? It had happened on the evening of the day Margot had done the unthinkable and betrayed him by going behind his back to SIB. She had portrayed him as spineless and ineffective to that scar-faced warrant officer.

Although Margot had diluted his anger in her usual fashion, the rift had remained through supper. When the phone call came he had no hesitation in going to meet the man he was certain had sent the letters and frightened Margot. He had gone determined to settle the issue with reassurances and a handout, but he had no sooner approached the shadowy figure waiting there than two others had grabbed him from behind and pinioned his arms while the third thrust a sack over his head and tied it tightly around his neck.

Totally unprepared for violence, he had swiftly lost all sense of what was happening when they roped his arms together and forced him to walk. He remembered the alarming sensation of fighting to breathe; a nightmare reminiscent of Sierra Leone. He was then pushed into the boot of a vehicle and taken on a short, bumpy journey.

He was dragged out and marched over rough ground where his head was used as a punchbag until he was almost choking on his blood, and was so disorientated he would have fallen if they had not held him steady.

Nausea returned with a vengeance as Sam's mind shied from recalling the degradation of that final act. They had released his arms and held him spreadeagled against a wall. The pain had grown with each lash. His last cohesive memory was of buckling at the knees and sinking to the ground, awareness fading with the growing anguish in his head and body.

For some time Sam lay bathed in sweat created by unleashed fury against those who had attacked him. He lay unwilling to move and revive the painful aftermath of physical punishment. How could he ride this out? A police investigation would be launched. The punches to his head he could possibly explain away with a deal of invention, but how to account for the thrashing – a punishment far exceeding his crime?

In the quietness of that small ward, he reviewed the few things he recalled about that attack. The man he was expecting had not been one of the three; his distinctive voice had not said any of the violent phrases directed at him. Sam could make no more sense of them now than he had as they vented their brute force so sadistically. He lay bewildered and uncomprehending. What was happening to him?

At that point he heard Margot's voice asking if he was yet awake, and a man telling her to go in and find out. Sam quickly shut his eyes, intending to keep them closed until she had left. The roundabout was spinning ever faster and his hold on the handrail had slipped a little more.

Seven

C
harles Clarkson rose early from a night of wakefulness interspersed with brief periods of troubled sleep. Although he dispensed soporific aids to patients he would not take them himself. Ria had refused them, and the children slept as calmly as usual. Much as he hated to admit it, they found an element of excitement in the present situation. To be fair, the strained relationship with their father did appear to bother them, but they were too young fully to appreciate the blow he had been dealt.

Going downstairs, he saw several envelopes on the doormat. His mouth tightened. More abusive letters. There had been four last night. After opening the first he had destroyed the others, saying nothing to Ria although she would surely be prepared for hysterical reactions from some parents on the base.

Gathering up this fresh batch of hate mail, his head brushed against something as he straightened. Daniel, his artistic youngest, had fashioned an Easter mobile with dangling papier mâché eggs decorated à la Faberge. As he steadied it, Charles realized his hand was shaking. Less than forty-eight hours had passed since he had been accused by that child. It would be a week before the Joint Response team would give their report. A lifetime of waiting.

Deciding to leave Ria sleeping, he breakfasted on tea and a bacon sandwich. Then he pocketed the unopened envelopes and prepared to head for a quiet session with Sam Collier before SIB set to work on him. A fellow feeling perhaps? Charles felt as battered mentally as the pilot was physically.

He got no further than the front door. The word PAEDO had been written in white paint on the windscreen of his Range Rover. Retreating to the small cloakroom at the foot of the stairs, he lost the breakfast he had just eaten, then he sat on the lavatory seat as tears formed in his tightly shut eyes. Dear God, what had he done to Ria and the four wonderful children who gave his life its greatest meaning?

Max drove first to the Medical Centre set on interviewing Sam Collier. He had not received a message advising that the pilot had had to be hospitalized, so he should now be fit for questioning on the events of Monday night. Collier's evidence would surely lead to a swift resolution of the case.

The reception area was deserted, so Max walked through to the small ward where the patient was awake and gazing through the window. His face was black, blue and yellow with bruising, the cuts in his lip and cheek showing red against it.

‘Returned to the land of the living, eh?' Max said by way of greeting. ‘I almost drove over you on the perimeter road, which would have made you look even worse than you do now.' He smiled and sat on the chair. ‘I'm Max Rydal, SIB. Have you had breakfast?'

‘They offered what they called the full English. Bit difficult with broken teeth, so I settled for porridge.'

‘In much pain?'

‘What do you think? I suppose the guy who ran me down drove on?'

‘You recall being hit by a vehicle?'

Collier shook his head with care. ‘I don't remember anything. It was a shock to find myself here in this state, believe me.'

‘When you say you don't remember
anything
, what exactly do you mean?'

‘I mean I have no idea how I got hurt as badly as this.'

‘Yet you spoke of the guy who ran you down.'

The surprisingly dark eyes gazed frankly at him. ‘You just now revealed that you found me on the perimeter road.'

So he was going to play games, was he? ‘How much have you been told about your injuries?'

Collier shifted gingerly on the pillows; then said, ‘I know they were very edgy all day yesterday about the state of my pupils and internal bleeding. No problem, apparently, because they let me sit up to eat the porridge. The rest I can tell for myself when I move or look in the mirror.'

‘Why were you walking along the perimeter road near the Armoury and the classrooms after dark on Monday?'

‘I wish I knew.'

‘Were you going to meet someone?'

‘I've no idea.'

‘Is it usual for you to take solitary walks at night?'

‘I'd say that's very unlikely.'

‘Your wife said you received a phone call and rushed from the house by the rear door.'

‘How extraordinary!'

‘She also said you told her you would “sort out the bastard once and for all”. What did you mean by that?'

‘How do I know? I told you I don't remember anything about what happened.'

‘Who is the bastard you planned to sort out?'

Collier gave a faint smile which, because of his sutured lip, became more of a grimace. ‘A guy banging on about borrowed DVDs he claims I never returned; about my share of a taxi fare I still owe him; about joining a quorum investing in some scheme to make several grand? Take your pick. You know how it is.'

‘Sure I do. I also know what happens when patience runs out. Guys get beaten up. Especially if they risk taking solitary walks at night.' Max left a silence to allow his meaning to sink in. ‘This was about much more than DVDs or a taxi fare, wasn't it?'

‘You're saying someone ran me down deliberately?'

‘I'm saying you know exactly what happened on Monday night,' Max said forcefully. ‘I advise you to drop this pretence and give me the full details. We'll get the truth eventually, and you'll face a charge of perverting the course of justice if you continue to maintain this attitude. You were beaten up, Collier. Quite bizarrely, and I know you know why.
The truth that has to be told.
Isn't that it?'

Collier sat silently, gazing at Max as if he were talking nonsense.

‘What's the last thing you remember?' He clearly caught the man unprepared. But not for long.

‘Eating porridge for breakfast.'

‘You want this persecution to continue?' Max challenged. ‘You're prepared to expose your wife to the danger of suffering a similar brutal attack?'

That brought a swift reaction. ‘Leave my wife out of this.'

‘Impossible, she's already involved. Have you also forgotten the two weeks of escalating harassment she was subjected to?'

‘I knew nothing about that.'

‘And the anonymous letters you received. Does your amnesia cover that?'

‘What letters?'

‘How far back does your loss of memory go?' Max continued relentlessly. ‘Do you recall spending four months in Afghanistan? Remember how to fly a Lynx? Know your wife's name, and your mother's? How old are you? Where were you born?'

‘What the hell's going on here?' demanded Charles Clarkson from the doorway. ‘Who gave you permission to badger my patient?'

Max got to his feet. ‘You did. Said he'd be well enough to answer questions this morning.'

‘
Questions
, yes. Not Nazi style interrogation. He's had enough. You'll have to leave.
Now
.'

As soon as Max walked from the ward, the door was firmly shut by the doctor whose ruling overrode that of the police in all but rare circumstances. Clarkson had dark rings under eyes which were unremittingly hostile, and he was paler than usual. Max guessed the anger directed against him was due to more than this small breach of protocol.

‘We need answers from Collier.'

‘He's my patient. You should have obtained my permission before browbeating him.'

‘You weren't here. In fact, there was no one in evidence at all. Whoever did that to him could have walked in, finished the job, and walked out again. It
is
possible they haven't let up on him yet.'