Dutch Courage (2 page)

‘Two days later, the car was nowhere in sight after my walk. I had to call a taxi to get home. There it was, neatly parked in our driveway. For the next few days I hid in the bushes to watch, but I suppose he guessed and changed tactics. The following afternoon I came out of the NAAFI to find both rear tyres had been let down.'

Tom was incredulous. ‘And you still didn't say anything to your husband?'

‘No.' It was almost defiant. ‘He's a pilot. If he makes an error of judgement, he and the men he's transporting could fall out of the sky. He doesn't need more pressure than he's under at present. The media hype, photographers popping out of doorways. He hates it and it's getting to him.'

‘Some men would revel in it,' Tom commented.

‘Sam's not like that. He says he was just doing his job. It's only being puffed off because the MoD wants to compensate for the bad news about this unpopular war. Hurrah for our brave boys, and all that.'

Tom kept his views on the subject to himself. He knew a faint sense of envy; not of Collier's undoubted cool courage, but of his ability to win such devotion from this woman who could surely have any man she chose. Was she allowing hero-worship to govern her feelings for him?

‘Mrs Collier, he will have to cope with this the way other husbands do, whatever their job entails. He'll surely want to protect you as much as you're trying to protect him.'

‘I know, I know. That's why I'm here. Sam's . . . well, he's hasty. If SIB handle it no one will get hurt.'

For hasty, read violent? ‘Are you suggesting . . . ?'

She waved her hands in a negative gesture. ‘I don't know why I said that. An official approach will be better, is what I meant. You can more easily check on those nuisance phone calls, smashed eggs on the doorstep, skull and crossbones posters under the windscreen wipers.'

‘All
that
has been going on without your husband's knowledge?' he exclaimed, almost accusingly.

‘But the bastard's gone too far with that stunt this morning. He has to be stopped before something really drastic happens.' Her brown eyes appealed to him. ‘Please help me.'

Out in the Incident Room Phil Piercey was gazing moodily at Tom's office door. ‘She's been in there long enough to set it on fire!'

‘Go in with more coffee. Catch 'em at it,' suggested Connie Bush with amusement.

Heather Johnson, always at odds with Piercey, concentrated on her computer, saying with a bite, ‘She's married to a commissioned hero, who's also a hunk and a half. Highly unlikely she'd take a carnal interest in our 2IC. As for a gawky, goofy sergeant, she wouldn't even have noticed you, Phil, believe me.'

‘She's right,' Connie agreed. ‘We're women. We know.'

‘Yeah, and you've both got the hots for her so-called hero. I saw you both growing orgasmic over his pictures in the papers.'

‘Grow up!' snapped Heather, punishing her keyboard in her annoyance.

Connie's attention remained on their colleague. ‘Why the
so-called
hero?'

Piercey shrugged. ‘I read between the lines of some newspaper accounts. While the “hunk and a half” was all too ready to recount what had happened, a few of the men he operates with have been tight-lipped on the subject. Guys like him get my shackles up. Jump on the fast track and keep on running.' Addressing the backs of the two women sergeants' heads, he added, ‘You know who that bit of crumpet in there is, don't you? The daughter of Major General Sir Preston Phipps. So how did a spotty-faced student pilot come to take her fancy, eh?'

‘Because he's a hunk and a half?' offered Derek Beeny, Piercey's friend and frequent working partner.

‘Balls! Girl like that can choose from any number of brawny Hooray Henrys at polo matches or horse trials. Why waste herself on someone from the wrong side of the tracks?'

Connie Bush chuckled. ‘You must be a closet reader of Catherine Cookson.
Wrong side of the tracks
, for God's sake!'

‘Didn't you see the TV interview with his people when the news first broke? They run a fish-and-chip shop. Two young lads go to the local comprehensive, and their daughter does doorstep deliveries in a van with their name on the side. Hardly silver spoon territory, is it?'

‘So yours is?' challenged Heather, swinging round to confront him. ‘I'd put used car sales on a par with fish-and-chips. They're both high street businesses. If Collier's a kettle, you're the bloody pot, Phil!'

Clearly stung by this attack – unusual in the frequent wordy confrontations with Heather – Piercey offered a weak defence. ‘I've nothing against his family background. I'm just saying he's a jumped-up nobody who's wallowing in the attention he's getting over something that's being blown up out of all proportion.'

‘So maybe his wife wants us to give him round-the-clock protection,' murmured Beeny with a smile.

‘From men like Phil, I imagine,' said Heather with sarcasm.

Connie stirred things further. ‘I'll volunteer as his personal bodyguard, like Kevin Costner with Whitney Houston in that film. They grew
really
close.'

The interchange abruptly halted as Tom's office door opened and he ushered his visitor between the desks to the main entrance, then on out to where she had left her car. The eyes of the two women assessed the cost of Margot Collier's clothes; the four men in the room were lasciviously assessing the shape beneath the clothes as they watched her departure. When Tom re-entered, his team appeared to be hard at work.

‘Piercey, my office!'

Heather gave a malicious smile. She knew the summons was not to give the bumptious sergeant a special assignment. He was about to get a blast from a tongue well-known for its ability to reduce men – and women – to little more than dust on the ground. Even so, she was as eager as the rest to discover what Margot Collier had divulged to their boss. Surely, she was one woman who could have no problems in her life.

Years of practice enabled Max Rydal to come from the depths of sleep when all his senses were urging him not to. Someone was moving stealthily about his room. He lay perfectly still, opening his eyes to mere slits. Then he sat up abruptly as recollection returned, and switched on the bedside light. Livya Cordwell, the woman he had spent the last three days and nights with, turned from the wardrobe to face him.

‘Sorry. I should have remembered this door squeaked.'

Max took in the fact that she was fully dressed, with her suitcase at the door. A swift glance at the clock had him tossing aside the duvet. ‘You were going,' he accused. ‘Going while I slept!'

She did not deny it. ‘We said our deliciously long, lingering goodbye last night, Max. Airport farewells are dire.'

‘Dire or not, I want that extra time with you.' He headed for the bathroom. ‘Give me ten and we'll go together.'

Swiftly performing the basics in the bathroom, he returned to pull on pale slacks and a burgundy roll-neck sweater, before snatching up his wallet and car-keys. As Livya made to open the door, he stopped her and drew her against him.

‘Can't do the job properly with an audience of thousands,' he murmured, proceeding to ‘do the job' very thoroughly.

The hotel corridors were quiet as they made their way to the vestibule, where a girl in a button-front overall was vacuuming and dusting. She gave them a knowing look.

Livya smiled up at Max. ‘She thinks you're an errant husband and I'm your bit on the side.'

He squeezed her hand as they walked to his car. ‘You couldn't ever be any man's bit on the side. You'd always be the main course.'

There was very little traffic about that early in the morning. Max was tempted to drive slowly to spin out the period of intimacy before arrival, but it was vital for Livya to catch her flight and there could be a snarl-up nearer to the airport.

He wished she had not to leave. The long weekend with her had been comprehensively stimulating. Half Czech, darkly attractive, Livya was intelligent, warm, funny and challenging. After three years of emotional hiatus following the death in a car crash of his pregnant wife, Max very much wanted to pursue and strengthen this relationship. There was much to hamper that desire. To paraphrase Gilbert and Sullivan, a soldier's life was not a happy one when it came to romance. The demands of duty overrode all else. Meetings had to be abandoned, promises invalidated, important occasions missed, all at very short notice when military orders so demanded.

A soldier who was also a policeman had the frustration of being on call day and night during a vital case. On their first serious date Max had been summoned on the very point of taking Livya to bed. The mutual attraction had nevertheless flourished, perhaps because she was herself a soldier and understood the unavoidable disruptions to personal plans.

An additional problem was that she was based in London, which meant one of them having to fly to or from Germany in order to meet. All in all, it was a hit and miss romance. Livya had chanced her arm in opting to stay for another night and take the early flight to Heathrow. Providing it arrived on time she could dash to her flat, change into her uniform and reach the small unit commanded by Brigadier Andrew Rydal at the appointed hour. The fact that his lover worked for his father was a small cloud on Max's horizon, because she had a better understanding of the man than his son had ever had. Although loath to admit it, Max was jealous of Livya's high regard for the talented, charismatic widower; resentful of the many hours they spent together when his own with her were so scattered and few.

The flight was listed to depart on time, but the check-in clerk broke the news that thick fog over London and England's east coast made a diversion to Southampton necessary. Livya was highly annoyed.

‘Even if I decline the coaches laid on to bus us to Heathrow, and take the train at my own expense, I won't make it to the office until after lunch. What bloody ill luck!'

Max said soothingly, ‘Can't be helped. If London's fogbound it'll be obvious that flights will be diverted.' He smiled at her. ‘Southampton's more convenient than Birmingham.'

‘I should have flown back last night,' she declared, unappeased by his attempt at consolation.

‘It was probably foggy then.'

She flashed him a look full of irritation. ‘Always got a pat response, haven't you.'

‘Not always, no,' he said, stung by what he saw as an undeserved snipe at him.

She laid her hand on his arm. ‘Sorry. I warned you airport farewells are dire.'

‘Only when flights are delayed and there's nothing left to say.' Was that another pat response, he wondered. ‘We have thirty minutes. Long enough for a coffee and croissant. Come on.'

He took her arm, led her to the small cafe near Passport Control, and ordered for them both while she settled on a high stool beside a pedestal table. When he joined her he broached the subject of their next meeting.

‘If nothing serious breaks I should be able to get over for a couple of days in three weeks' time. We could do dinner and a show, or drive up to overnight in the Cotswolds and enjoy some interesting walking.' He smiled. ‘Your turn to choose, ma'am.'

‘Both would be nice, but the weather is sure to be the deciding factor. It usually is.'

She sounded distracted and merely played with her croissant. Max felt she had already departed in spirit. He was disappointed and grew defensive. ‘Surely he's not such a martinet he won't make allowances for a diverted flight.'

‘He's not aware of my intention to come here,' she replied, knowing Max was speaking of his father.

‘Oh, I understood . . .'

‘I lied.'

‘You
haven't
told him about us?'

‘My personal life is divorced from my work.'

‘So why are you in a state about being diverted to Southampton?' he challenged, curiously shaken by her confession. ‘Are you loath to tell him you're being bedded by his son?'

‘Why would I be?'

‘I can't think of a reason, but maybe there's one I don't know about.'

She stood, picking up her cabin bag. ‘You should have stayed in bed, Max, then this pointless conversation wouldn't have taken place. I'm concerned by the delay because I take my job seriously and I'm meticulous about being where I should be during the specified hours. If you weren't so concentrated on bedding me you might have understood that by now.'

He made to follow her, but she joined a fast-growing queue leading to the passport controller's desk and made no attempt to glance back. Cursing his clumsy handling of the situation, Max watched Livya vanish beyond the screens. He did know she loved and valued the work she did for the élite Intelligence unit headed by his father. He also knew she willingly sacrificed personal plans on demand. Her surprise decision to stay for one more night had delighted him, and what a night it had been. Yet she had allowed an unavoidable fact of life to demolish that pleasure. Or had it been his own jaundiced attitude towards her professionalism, he wondered as he plodded back to his car.

Driving moodily to the hotel where they had stayed together, he went up to their room for the lengthy shower he had bypassed to drive to the airport. Her perfume hung in the air in the bedroom; the scent of her talcum and some discarded tissues bearing her lipstick that sat in the small bathroom bin, all served to exacerbate his sense of loss.

Once more he pondered the notion of applying for a transfer to the UK, but it could be to somewhere so far distant from London the journey to meet up could be equally lengthy. In any case, he was not sure enough of Livya to make a serious career move at this stage.

Still experiencing a sense of anti-climax, Max decided to head for the restaurant where breakfast was now available. Nothing but a mountain of paperwork awaited him in his office, so he lingered over a substantial meal eaten while reading the English newspapers he had picked up on leaving the airport. All the usual crises and idiocies bumped up by newsmen anxious to increase circulation. Max put the papers aside in continuing dissatisfaction.