French Leave (20 page)

‘It wouldn't make you a coward, darling. You'd be taking a stand against oppression.'

That had finally removed the blinkers; that had delivered the coup de grâce to hormonal madness. He had snatched up his bag and left the house in a fury, eager to distance himself from her as fast as possible. The taxi proprietors were a dead loss. All he could get from them was a vague agreement to take him to Lewes rail station if he was prepared to walk to meet the man along the Lewes Road. But even walking would get him away from Trish, so he had set out still burning with anger.

At Lewes he could catch a train that would eventually get him to the vicinity of Heathrow. Better still he could hire a car, which he should have done on arrival, instead of letting Trish pick him up. Another blinkered decision. He had tramped that country road, counting each step as one more towards the regiment and sanity. He could not get there quick enough.

When the motorbike had pulled up beside him and the rider had asked if he wanted a lift, it had seemed providential. It had seemed even more so when their short exchange had led to Sean revealing that he was heading for Brighton, and would be glad to take Dan on the pillion. So, like a trusting fool, he had eagerly climbed aboard.

They had not travelled far before several other bikes pulled out from farm tracks to form a small convoy. Even then Dan had not grown suspicious. It was common for several mates to go out in convoy on Sundays. Sean told him they were planning to chat up the talent in Brighton. It sounded about right.

Dan's first slight concern had come when Sean and his three mates turned off the road down a rough track. On asking what was going on, he was told they were just stopping for a coke. It had all happened very quickly after that.

Beside a delapidated barn he had been grabbed and held by the three, while Sean tipped out the contents of the blue bag on the ground and selected two smart shirts and an expensive leather jacket from the pile of clothes. He had then pulled off the gold watch given by Dan's parents on his twenty-first birthday and tossed it in the pannier with the mobile phone.

At that point Dan believed they would ride off, but Sean had by then studied the contents of Dan's wallet, and a simple mugging turned into something much more serious. Discovery of the service identity card turned the four into full-blooded thugs, ranting about squaddies beating them up at the New Year pop concert in Brighton. Throwing insults, they poked him in the chest and slapped him around the head to augment their feelings about military bullies.

He had then been dragged to an upright beam in the disused barn and secured to it by a thick rusty chain, wound several times around his chest beneath his arms and tightly padlocked. After a few more punches and kicks to show their contempt for soldiers, they had walked away, jeeringly telling him that he and his kind were supposed to be tough enough to handle anything, so handle
this
.

Dan had now been a prisoner for two nights and days. After his initial period of self-blame and depression he had rallied, determined to show those louts that soldiers
could
handle anything. He had surveyed the interior of the barn to assess what was available to aid his escape. A disintegrating tractor at the far end of the huge building; a low spread of mouldy hay; a few rusty tools; a wheelbarrow without a wheel. All these were at least twenty yards away.

Much nearer, but still beyond his reach, was a length of rope, loosely coiled. Close to it on a broken plank was a small drum of lubricant. If he could just get hold of that rope! During these days he had wriggled and twisted his upper body in constant endeavours to draw the rope nearer with his feet, but had only succeeded in bruising and tearing his skin as the tightly-wound chain bit into him.

He had then resigned himself to waiting to lose enough body weight to enable him to slip through the chain. Hunger was a problem, of course. His last meal had been a light lunch before Trish had outlined her preposterous terms for an ongoing relationship. It was now late Tuesday evening. Dehydration was not a worry, luckily. It had rained heavily on Sunday night and yesterday, so the rusty container on the cross-beam within arm's length had filled with water from the open section of the rotting roof. Unfortunately, he had also been drenched to the skin and had shivered convulsively until the sunshine had warmed him.

During the period between mid-morning and early afternoon, the sun shone directly on him through the open side of the barn. It was a mixed blessing. Although it dried his clothes, it sapped his strength and made him drowsy. Each time he slept, or when spasms in legs bearing his weight night and day caused him to droop, the pain in his chest increased as the chain bit into now raw and festering flesh.

Throughout his captivity he had regularly moved his limbs to keep the circulation flowing and to retain flexibility. He had kept his brain active by reciting poems and passages of prose that had been compulsory learning for school exams, by quoting the names of classmates and fellow sportsmen, and by vocally itemizing the salient points of lectures on tactics and warfare weaponry learned at Sandhurst. Even so, he was starting to feel unwell and slightly confused.

Throughout the past weary days he had prayed for someone to come down that lane and notice the blue holdall, his clothes in a heap beside it, and the sodden paperback. Someone walking a dog; a pair of lovers; a farmer who owned the land and the broken down barn. His only visitors had been a colony of rats, fat pigeons who dropped through the gaping roof to seek grains on the dusty floor, and a dog fox, whose interest in the scent of human blood was growing worrying.

Leaving Minnie Carr, Max sat behind the wheel with his mobile phone. He first sent Tom a long text outlining his interview with ‘Smith's' real parent. Then he called Livya's landline. Answer machine. He tried her mobile and she answered.

‘Hi, honey. I'm a weary traveller seeking a bed for the night, and wanting you to be in it with me.'

‘Max! Where are you?'

‘Acton. Where are
you
?'

‘With Andrew. He's giving a small cocktail party. Friends, not VIPs who have to be entertained. What are you doing over here?'

Disappointed by her news, Max said, ‘Investigating a case . . . and wanting a serious discussion with you.'

Muted voices in the background told him she had not fully listened. Her next words confirmed that. ‘Andrew says join us.'

The last thing he wanted to do. ‘I'm not dressed for it.'

More muted voices. ‘He says come anyway. It's not a formal affair. Assuming you've a hired car it should take you only forty or so minutes, and you can drive me back to my place later. What a lovely surprise. See you soon.'

That appeared to be that, because she disconnected. For around five minutes he fought the impulse to drive to her apartment and sit outside until she arrived, but he surrendered to the wiser course of action. It was not that he did not wish to see his father – over the past few months they had slowly come to know each other after years of no more than a dutiful relationship – but he was geared up to consolidate future plans, and socializing before he got Livya alone would take up his precious time in the UK.

Deciding that however informal this get-together might be he could not appear dressed as he had been since leaving Sompting after breakfast, Max freshened up and put on a clean shirt in the toilet of a large department store. When he reached his father's elegant apartment he donned the smart jacket he had packed in his flight bag.

Livya opened the door to him and her kiss set his hopes soaring. They would surely agree on plans for their future. Wearing a cream swirling skirt and the magenta silk shirt he liked so much, she looked as lovely as ever. He silently cursed this delay before they could head for her flat.

The spacious room furnished with pale leather settees and armchairs had assorted glass-topped tables conveniently placed for seated guests and, despite Livya's description of a small cocktail party, Max had expected to see upwards of twenty people standing on the pale-green carpet. Instead, he found just four couples seated comfortably in close proximity, with drinks and small dishes of cocktail savouries on tables beside them. Somewhat disconcertingly, conversation ceased and all eyes turned to study the new arrival.

Andrew rose with a smile and outstretched hand. ‘What a lucky chance you could join us, Max.'

Completing the handshake, Max registered his father's immense vitality, which seemed to make nonsense of the exhausting itinerary in Washington Livya had described. A man of impressive physique with well-defined features, green eyes and dark, wavy hair not yet streaked with grey, Andrew Rydal's usual distinguished air was today heightened by additional verve. Max had always felt slightly lacklustre beside his parent, and the feeling was stronger now as he stood before the assessing eyes of these friends.

‘How are things after being attacked by a tree?' Andrew asked with apparent concern.

‘Fine.' Max had no intention of talking about it before these elegant strangers.

‘He's still strapped around the chest. Likely to remain that way for some weeks,' Livya confided. Then she turned to explain to the guests. ‘Fractured ribs.'

They all murmured sympathetically as Andrew began the introductions. Max's impression of four couples was erroneous. Two were actually married to each other; the rest were single friends or army colleagues. Livya appeared to know them all well and was at ease in their company.

More so than the host's son, who had spent two significant days following a double investigation and wanted just to relax with her. He was not a lover of cocktail parties and only attended those duty obliged him to. Right now he was having to share the woman he loved and needed with nine others. Small wonder his response to the light conversation was minimal.

One guest was determined to draw him out on the subject of police work, however. Surprisingly, it was a rather glamorous woman his father had introduced as a French cultural envoy. The title conveyed little to Max, save that Helene Dupres must be concerned with the arts. He could not imagine the slender brunette in a beige silk suit to be promoting architecture or the historic development of French civilization. She had the poise of an actress, the eye of an artist in her choice of clothes and accessories, and music in her beguiling voice. Why should she be so interested in the work of a military detective?

After he had given rather stilted answers to her questions, she glanced at Andrew with a warm smile. ‘I think your so clever son is very much like you. He obeys orders not to speak of his military activities . . . especially to a
frog
.' Her laughter robbed the comment of any resentment, and everyone also laughed. Then she turned her attention back to Max. ‘So we must speak of other things. What do you choose to do when you are not chasing criminals?'

Feeling this was turning into an interrogation before the assembled company, Max offered a prompt and very uncharacteristic reply. ‘I chase Livya.'

Unperturbed, Helene asked, ‘And do you catch her?'

‘Stop tormenting him, my dear,' said Andrew with a laugh. ‘Haven't you yet caught on to the fact that we don't discuss affaires de coeur with the openness your countrymen do?'

Unabashed, Helene said, ‘Ah, the very cool Englishman! Then I shall ask Livya for the information when we are alone. In French, of course! That will make it allowable in this country.'

Everyone laughed, and Andrew topped up glasses with perfect timing. The minutes passed. Several times Max tried to give Livya an optical message that he wanted to leave, but she did not act on it. Eventually, he decided enough was enough and got to his feet.

‘Thank you for asking me to join you,' he said to his father. ‘It's been very pleasant, but I must take Livya home now. Our last meeting was cancelled because of your sudden call to Washington, and I have to fly back to Germany tomorrow. My professional demands,' he added, emphasizing that he also did significant work for the Crown. ‘I'm sure you'll understand that we have things to discuss before my early flight in the morning.'

‘Of course,' Andrew agreed. ‘Pity your time in the UK is so limited, but it's good to see you in fine fettle after that brush with storm damage.'

Max said the conventional farewells to cocktail guests one hardly knew, then took Livya's hand to walk from the room. Andrew accompanied them to the door saying, ‘When you've wound up your present case, take long leave and come over for a real break. We'd both like that.'

‘Let me know when
you're
taking long leave and won't be whisking Livya off to a conference at a moment's notice, and I'll fix it.'

Andrew seemed surprisingly nonplussed for a moment, then he nodded. ‘Sorry about last weekend, but you know how it is.'

Livya had collected her light coat during this short exchange, so they said goodbye and left. She was quiet in the lift and while they crossed the hushed foyer where the night porter had just come on duty. Max had left his car at a meter a short walk away through back streets that were empty at that hour; people had already set out for evening entertainment, and were not yet coming home. Livya's high heels clicked rhythmically on the pavement, which was growing damp from fine rain.

By the time they settled in the car it had become a downpour. Livya dabbed her face dry with a tissue, and pushed back her wet hair. She still had not spoken and Max finally recognized that she was annoyed. Not a good start to what he had planned.

‘Sorry to drag you away when you were enjoying yourself,' he said turning to her. ‘But we only have tonight together and we need to talk.'

‘I agree,' she responded coldly. ‘The first thing is to make you aware of my strong objection to being treated as “the little woman”. Especially in front of my boss and a group of intelligent people. “It's been very pleasant, but I must take Livya home now”,' she mimicked. ‘I make my own decisions; you do not make them for me. Because I've allowed you to become my lover, it doesn't give you ownership, Max.'