French Leave (17 page)

Max drew a blank at both locations, by which time he guessed his suspicion could be right. Somewhere between the village taxi office where Farley had definitely used the telephone on the wall, and Meerston Ford from where Jem Hawkins was driving to meet him, something happened to the missing lieutenant. In Max's opinion this had now become an official case for SIB, and he was on the spot to investigate.

Sitting in the car in a Brighton car park, he rang Farley's mobile. Still switched to voicemail. Then he called the parents' home and casually asked to speak to Dan. The woman expressed regret, saying her son was presently in Germany. She sounded genuine, although she could be covering for him with great skill. Next, Max called Tom, who answered against a background of TV and girls' laughter.

‘I'm in Brighton. Has Farley turned up, by any chance?'

‘Captain Fanshawe said he'd notify me if he did. Hold, and I'll check.' Several minutes later, he said, ‘Not a sign, and his mobile's still on voicemail.'

‘I know. His mother claims he's in Germany. I just called her.'

‘Could be lying.'

‘If necessary we'll get the local boys to check. Tom, there's something about this I don't like. The girlfriend told me he stormed out with his overnight bag at fourteen thirty yesterday. He booked a taxi in the village, then failed to be in the pickup area. I've had no luck at rail stations or car hire firms so, unless someone gave him a lift right through to Heathrow, he's probably still somewhere between the south coast and London.'

‘Face it, he could be anywhere by now. So we're mounting a case?'

‘Yes. I seriously doubt this guy has gone AWOL. I'd guess what he felt for the girl was well and truly cancelled out yesterday. Rather than run away, he'd return to the life he loves with increased determination. Something happened down here to prevent him taking that flight on Sunday night. Get the team checking UK hospitals right away. If there's no joy there, first thing tomorrow enter Farley's details on HOLMES as missing under curious circumstances.'

‘Got it,' said Tom. ‘Are we linking this with Smith?'

‘Let's leave that in the air for the moment.'

‘You don't think Farley could be hiding out at the kennels?'

‘No way. That girl and her mother rate soldiers so low I'm amazed Farley was ever allowed to darken their doorstep. Let's move fast on this. I've a bad feeling about it.'

Ending the call, Max sat for a few moments considering his next move. It was now almost nine p.m. and the August sun was setting. By the time he reached Bournemouth it would be too late to visit Smith's parents. That would have to wait until morning. He was hungry and needed a bed for the night. Pointless trying to find an available room in a beach resort during school holidays; better to drive west and stop at a small wayside pub before it ceased providing meals.

Before moving off he called Livya's landline. Answer machine. He punched in her mobile number. Voicemail. He left a brief message giving no indication of his whereabouts. If she returned his call later, he still would not tell her he was in the UK. As things were, he could not gauge when he would be free to see her and have that vital discussion on their future.

Finding a meal and a small but comfortable room at an inn near Sompting, Max enjoyed the convivial atmosphere until he began to yawn. As often happened, his mind remained busy when his body told him to rest. Although his mission tomorrow was to gain information about John Smith, it was Dan Farley who occupied his thoughts as he lay in the double bed facing a small window.

Driving from the village to Lewes he had studied the route with a policeman's eye. Long stretches with no signs of habitation between small clusters of cottages and muddy tracks leading to farms. Little possibility of witnesses to a car or lorry taking up a young man carrying a blue holdall, unless other vehicles had passed at that precise time. A general call for drivers of those vehicles would have to go out if Farley was not soon traced. Although not wearing uniform, he would have his service identity on him and, in these days of terrorist activity, the taking of a military hostage was an ever-present risk.

Tom presided over the morning briefing, glad the ball was back in SIB's court. Last night four members of the team had called every hospital within a semi-circular area surrounding Brighteye Kennels. They judged this by calculating how far a vehicle could conceivably travel between fourteen thirty on Sunday and the time of the last flight to Germany that same night. That only dealt with the supposition that Farley had been offered a lift to a point where he could easily reach Heathrow; that a car he was travelling in as a passenger, or one he had hired and was driving, had been involved in an accident so serious he was unable to call the base. The two women sergeants and Derek Beeny, and Olly Simpson, who had both returned from UK leave, all offered negative results in this task.

‘Heather and I took the western sector, although he was unlikely to be heading in that direction if he intended to take that evening flight,' said Connie.

‘According to the taxi driver he was in a panic to reach Lewes station,' added Heather. ‘Surely that indicates his determination to return?'

‘Not necessarily,' put in Phil Piercey. ‘It's possible to travel to the ends of the earth from Lewes. A guy on the run would be in a panic to reach a rail station.'

‘Why would he be on the run? It was just a row with the girlfriend,' jeered Heather.

Piercey adopted the superior expression he used during spats with her. ‘Isn't the obvious staring us in the face? Farley put an end to Smith during the exercise, then went out there solo to move the body to a more permanent resting place and plant Smith's rifle and kit in the wood to divert searchers to that area. He gets Brownie points for his brave effort to trace one of his men, which earns him a semi-official seventy-two in the UK, ostensibly to mend a break with his girl but in reality to make his getaway.'

‘He did see his girl. The mother confirmed that he was there, and the pair terminated the relationship, after which he stormed out,' Connie reminded him.

‘And we accept that as gospel?' he countered. ‘They're all lying.'

‘Including the taxi driver?' snapped Heather.

‘No, not the taxi driver,' Piercey said with mocking patience. ‘His son gets a call from a male wanting to be taken to Heathrow. A compromise shortens the journey to Lewes rail station, and he agrees to walk along to where the father would pick him up. The unknown male tells the son – still on the phone, mark you – to tell the father to look out for a young, dark-haired man carrying a blue holdall. That description would fit any number of men. What proof is there that the caller was Farley? Come to that, what proof have we that the caller
was
young, dark-haired and carrying a blue holdall? Neither father nor son ever saw him. It could have been a local yobbo baiting the taxi family.'

As usual, Piercey had propounded a dramatic theory that was on the wild side, but actually just within the bounds of possibility. Tom recognized the reasoning behind it and hesitated before commenting, as did the rest of the team.

‘OK, let's consider that,' he said eventually. ‘As far as the first part of the theory is concerned, it should be easy enough to check whether Lieutenant Farley was operating closely enough to Smith to be in isolation with him at some time during the assault, so he could kill him and hide the body to retrieve later.'

Even as he outlined this, Tom sensed he was dealing with pulp fiction, but he pursued the theme further. ‘The second development in this scenario is perfectly possible. Farley was out on that exercise ground alone for an entire weekend. The storm extended the time, of course, but he could have interred a body and planted equipment well away from the burial site in a reasonably short time.'

Piercey was nodding agreement, much to the evident annoyance of Heather Johnson. Tom continued with his summary:

‘The girlfriend and the mother could have been lying about Farley's visit and the row that sent him from the house with no means of transport, and that would make them accessories to a killer's escape from justice.'

As Heather opened her mouth to protest, Tom frowned her into silence. ‘The last premise is something I have to accept as sound. The taxi-driving father and son received a phone booking around the time Farley is said to have left Brighteye Kennels. Neither of them ever saw the caller, and that description certainly could fit numerous men. Therefore it has to be discounted as evidence related to the disappearance of Dan Farley.'

Heather opened her mouth once more, but Tom pushed on before she could make her point. ‘Now we have to consider the negatives. Lieutenant Farley only joined the West Wilts two months ago. In that brief period would he have found cause enough to kill one of his platoon – not an NCO with whom he'd have considerable contact, but a private soldier he had had no personal dealings with? No disciplinary charge to handle; no request from Smith for an interview. In addition, even supposing there to be cause to kill, why do it when the risk of being seen was so high?'

‘Temporary insanity,' put in Piercey as Tom paused for breath.

Ignoring that, Tom rounded off his case for dismissing the entire premise. ‘Having committed murder and successfully disposed of the corpse, why immediately make a run for it and advertise himself as the killer? We had never hinted that we had him marked as a suspect; and he had put himself firmly on the side of right by recovering the rifle and kit. Why ask for extra leave to visit the girlfriend, knowing we could easily check that? Why not casually drive from the base on Friday evening and not return?

‘And before you produce inventive answers to those questions, Piercey, consider the fact that our canny boss is experienced enough to know when people are lying. He believes the account of a lovers' quarrel that sent Farley from the house in a fury. He also believes something stopped him from catching that flight as he fully intended. Something serious enough to prevent him sending word of any kind to account for his absence. All in all, I go for the assumption that a military officer has come to harm. We must act on that belief.'

EIGHT

M
ax took advantage of a full English breakfast before heading for Bournemouth, and was glad of the fact on encountering a police diversion sending all westward bound traffic through Lyndhurst. Always a bottleneck, in August the narrow main street became choked with Auto-Sleepers, caravans, cars with laden roof racks, cyclists, hikers and motorbikes. Today's diversion created chaos and a tailback stretching to the M27, where Max joined it.

After seventy-five minutes of inch-by-inch progress, Max reached an area where a number of vehicles began turning right into a restricted-width lane. He followed, guessing the drivers knew something strangers to the area did not. He guessed correctly. Although this lane eventually emerged to the west of Lyndhurst, enough people had taken it to create a mini tailback at the junction with the main road. He had avoided the worst of the congestion, however.

Once on the A35 and chugging sedately towards Bournemouth in the bumper-to-bonnet stream of traffic, Max could not help a smirk of glee at the thought of all the satnavs telling people to take roads that were closed off. All the same, he used his after stopping at the Cat and Fiddle pub for half a shandy and the use of the toilet, which large numbers of drivers who had been stuck for hours on the road were also doing.

At twelve thirty, the Smiths were likely to be at home for lunch. Max had not phoned ahead. If John Smith was hiding out with his parents it would have given him time to skedaddle. When he reached the Kinson area, the automated female voice told him he had reached his destination outside a semi in a long street of similar houses. Max said a polite ‘Thank you, ma'am,' and drove on until he found a kerbside space free to park in.

Back outside number eleven he pushed the bell, noting the clean, crisp net curtains at the bay windows and the spotless red and fawn tiles of the tiny forecourt between the door and the low front wall bordering the pavement. Mrs Smith was obviously house-proud. She was also older than Max had expected. John Smith was already twenty, so Max had put the mother at around forty-five. The woman who opened the door was nearer sixty, he guessed. Had Smith been a midlife surprise?

Max smiled and asked if she was Mrs Stella Smith.

‘Yes,' she replied cautiously. ‘We don't want to change to paying for our gas with the electric company.'

‘It's nothing like that,' Max assured her, holding up his service identity. ‘I've come to talk to you about your son. And to your husband, if he's at home.'

The woman's expression immediately softened and pale pink tinted her cheeks. ‘Oh, how kind of you to keep in touch with us. Please come in. Ted'll be so bucked by your visit. Not a day passes without us talking about John. Our only child, as you know. Come in, come in,' she invited warmly, stepping aside to allow him access to a long, maroon-carpeted hallway.

Squeezing past Max after shutting the door, she led him to the end of the narrow passage smelling of furniture polish and a mouth-watering aroma from the kitchen. Stella Smith was either a remarkable actress, or the absent soldier was not here.

Edward Smith was in a wheelchair and looked even older than his wife. His thin face lit with pleasure when Stella explained why Max had come. ‘Sorry,' she added, turning to him. ‘I didn't catch your name. I'm awful with names. They go straight in and straight out again. Sign of old age.'

‘Not at all. Many young people are the same,' Max returned, liking her lack of artifice. Concentrating on the invalid, he offered his hand. ‘I'm Max Rydal, Mr Smith.'