French Leave (5 page)

The thought put a faint smile on Tom's face. Tit for tat. SIB could unload this on their uniformed colleagues in return for being landed with Smith's disappearance. Had he been running a lucrative sideline selling stolen goods on the base? This discovery now raised the possibility that he had run from a boss man who supplied the goods: pirated copies of genuine DVDs to sell at a generous discount. The notion that J.H. Smith had fled from barrackroom persecution vanished and was replaced by a feeling that his disappearance had little to do with the Army.

After counting the number of DVDs in the three stacks, Tom left Corporal Franks to list the titles and put a cross against any porn films. Then he focussed on Private Spanner, now sweating in jog pants and a T-shirt, his pale hair standing up in spikes.

‘You really didn't know Smith was obtaining this stuff and storing it here?'

‘No, sir,' Spanner repeated emphatically. ‘I never saw him bring any of it in.'

Tom believed him. ‘You're in a different platoon, you said. Why were you two sharing quarters?'

‘It's temp'ry, sir. The room I was in got flooded when a pipe fractured. While me and my mate are moved out, they're drying the carpet and mattresses; patching up the walls. Our own stuff's only just getting dry. Some of it's US now. Sar'nt Thurslow said we can claim for damage to personal property.'

‘So how long have you been sharing with Smith?'

‘Four weeks, but we've been on exercise for ten days. Only just got back.'

‘Before that I presume you spent your off-duty time in the next block with your platoon. Smith could have easily carried stuff in without being seen. Did he ever sell any to you?'

Spanner looked alarmed. ‘No, sir, never. I'm not part of what he was doing, I swear.'

‘I didn't say you were. Was it general knowledge there were cut-price goods to be had on the base?'

For the first time Spanner's eyes avoided Tom's gaze. ‘There's always word going around there's someone with a friend of a friend who can get things at a special rate. Nothing illegal,' he added hastily. ‘Tickets for footie games, and that.'

Tom followed up on that. ‘They do it from the goodness of their hearts, do they? What's the pay-off? MoD property?'

‘Don't know nothing about that, sir,' Spanner mumbled. ‘I keep my nose clean.'

Tom dropped the subject. He was well aware of low-key wheeler-dealing in the ranks. It was no different from any large establishment employing people prepared to trade the firm's property for something they desperately wanted. No different from MPs who traded honours for lucrative contracts with a family business. It happened.

‘In the days running up to departure on exercise did Smith show signs of being nervous or anxious?'

Visibly relieved at the change of subject, Spanner faced Tom frankly. ‘Didn't notice anything but, like I said, we didn't have much to do with each other.' He frowned. ‘You really asking me if he had a reason to piss off, make himself scarce? If he did, sir, why wait until nearly the end of the exercise? There was the same chances early on.' Looking at the corporal writing a long list of DVD titles, he added, ‘Crazy to leave that lot behind.'

Tom drove home to shower, change his shirt and get a sandwich for lunch. Nora was alone, reading a book in the shade of the single tree in the garden of their rented house.

‘Hallo,' she greeted warmly. ‘Have you finished for the day?'

‘I had high hopes until George Maddox landed us with a stonker. Where are the girls?'

She left her chair and crossed to the kitchen door to give him a brief kiss. ‘Ugh, you're all damp and sweaty. Our offspring have gone with the Popes for a picnic by the river. They'll swim, of course, like hundreds of others. There'll be so many in the water it'll overrun the banks.'

Taking in her brief shorts and bikini top, Tom said, ‘I'm going for a cool shower. I could make room for one more in there.'

‘Never pass up an opportunity, do you? It's too hot.'

‘Not for what I have in mind.' He drew her indoors and began untying the lace holding the cups of her bikini top together.

Her eyes sparkled. ‘OK, it's a fair cop. I'll come quietly.'

The shower lasted quite a while. With three daughters of thirteen, eleven and nine running around the house, and the demands of Tom's job making a joke of regular working hours, chances for intimate togetherness were frequently widely spaced. A few months ago Tom had had what psychologists would probably call a mid-life crisis, although he did not believe he was anywhere near his mid-life yet.

A beautiful woman involved in a case SIB was handling had made him aware of how humdrum he had allowed his sex life to become. A romantic five days in Cornwall at Easter, while grandparents entertained and cosseted Maggie, Gina and Beth, had revived both passion and Tom's self-assurance as a lover. This sweltering weather had curbed his exuberance somewhat, but he had come to terms with what he had renamed a marriage crisis and was, consequently, easier to live with.

Wearing just towels, Tom and his wife sat in the kitchen to eat ham-and-tomato sandwiches, and drink tea.

‘Pity you have to go back,' Nora said sleepily. ‘We could have dozed the afternoon away together. I'll have to do it on my own.'

‘I won't have my woman turning into a lazy slut.'

She tweaked the towel at his waist. ‘Call Max and say something's come up.'

He laughed. ‘Something will if you keep doing that. I'm sorry, love, I have a feeling I might be working over the weekend. A guy's missing and George had a call suggesting murder.'

Nora finished her sandwich and wiped her fingers on a piece of kitchen towel. ‘An anonymous call, of course.'

‘It has to be investigated.' He nodded at her interrogatory gesture with the teapot and his mug. ‘So far, the evidence points to just about everyone he came into contact with being possible suspects.'

‘Not popular?' Nora added sugar to his mug, which she had refilled, and leaned back in her chair, causing the towel to fall open and reveal a lot of her legs.

Tom stretched out a hand and began stroking them, saying, ‘Impression I got was he's a sharp, self-centred bastard whom no one would mourn if he were torn asunder by ravenous wolves before their eyes.'

‘That bad, eh? Why wasn't he posted elsewhere to avert this possibility?'

Tom popped the last piece of his sandwich in his mouth and spoke through it. ‘The West Wilts have been in heavy demand over the past eighteen months. Iraq last year, where they lost three men; now they're on standby for Afghanistan in October. This guy vanished during last week's exercise.'

Her eyes widened. ‘No wonder. Surrounded by enemies at home, he'd be facing another lot with guns out there. He's run from that prospect, take my word. I might have done the same in his situation.'

Although he held the paperback up at eye level, Dan Farley was not reading the words on the page. Max Rydal's visit had revived his sense of failure. Should he have kept a sharper eye on his men during that assault? The objective had been a former Taliban stronghold bombed into near ruin two years earlier, but recently reoccupied by a sizeable group with two rocket-launchers. Their task had been to capture the shell of the building (in reality a brick structure that changed identity to suit the exercise requirements) with enemies and launchers intact, or to force the hostiles to retreat abandoning their weapons.

He sighed. He had been on a high when the marshals had registered a verdict that Purbeck Company had effectively driven off the enemy in disarray and taken control of the rocket-launchers. He had been on the brink of total exhaustion, but enormous inner satisfaction had compensated. Then Eric Miller had delivered his bombshell. Why had it to be a man from 3 Platoon? The additional couple of hours searching for Smith had damn near finished him as he had struggled to appear in command, while a knot of culpability tightened in his chest.

For the past eighteen hours he had asked himself how he could
lead
men, yet keep an eye on what was going on behind him. Useless to wonder why Sergeant Mimms and Corporal Freeman had not seen Smith drop out during the assault. They had both explained that half the men would have been out of sight at a time, when covering stretches of deeply undulating ground. They said it was impossible to advance on an exposed target and check what every other man was doing. Their job was to direct the advance, not mollycoddle the squaddies.

Dan knew they were really telling him his job, but he still felt unhappy. If Smith was dead, and he might very well be, it would go on record that a soldier under Lieutenant Farley's command was lost, and had died in suspicious circumstances. There would be an official enquiry; questions and accusations. Smith's parents would raise hell; go to the newspapers with their story. Max Rydal had mentioned the possibility of murder. If that proved to be the case, as Platoon Commander, Dan would be asked why he had not been aware of violent feelings against Smith and acted to prevent such a tragedy.

Highly agitated, Dan threw the paperback to the foot of his bed and sat up. His face and body were running with perspiration; his pulse was racing.
Get a grip
.
Get a grip
, he told himself through gritted teeth.
He'll probably turn up somewhere and be charged with going AWOL. No official enquiry, no sensational accusation by parents in the
Daily Mirror.

Filling his electric kettle, Dan switched it on, then took another shower before returning to pour boiling water on a teabag. His grandfather had been one of the famous Desert Rats and advocated tea as the best drink in hot climates. His father, a tank commander during the drive to expel Iraqis from Kuwait, agreed. What would they say about the Smith affair?

‘For God's sake leave the subject alone,' he muttered to himself, and moved to gaze from his window at the exciting view of the Quartermaster's stores. Subalterns were allocated rooms that overlooked such places. More senior officers had views over the playing fields or tennis courts.

He jumped nervously when his phone rang. Too late, he realized he had failed to switch it to voicemail, as he had intended. He had no desire to speak to anyone right now, but he crossed to see who was calling. His heartbeat increased as he recognized the number showing, and he fought an inner battle over whether to pick up or ignore it. His hand apparently moved of its own volition.

‘Trish,' he greeted non-commitally.

‘Hi, Dan.' It was quiet and experimental, and set his senses tingling. He could visualize those wide blue eyes and silky blonde hair. God, she was beautiful!

‘Hi,' he said thickly.

‘How are you?'

‘Pretty exhausted. Just finished an intensive exercise.'

‘Poor you.'

‘It's my job.'

She had always accused him of throwing those words at her to end their arguments, leaving her no leg to stand on. It appeared to silence her now. He was afraid she had ended the call, but he was wrong.

‘Can we talk?' she asked emotionally.

‘Isn't that what we're doing?'

‘Don't be a beast! You know what I mean. Can't you come over? You must be able to get leave to sort out your private life.'

‘Trish, what's this all about?' he asked warily, unwilling to believe this was happening when he had given up hope.

‘You know what it's about. I said we should give ourselves some space to sort out where we're heading.'

‘We have. Two months of space.'

‘I miss you, darling,' she confessed in a rush of words. ‘I don't want us to break up. I couldn't bear it.'

‘You were the one who decided I wasn't what you wanted. You knew why I was at Sandhurst when we first met. The Army's my chosen career. It's a family thing. I worked bloody hard to get my commission and there's no way I'll chuck it in. No way. You knew that from the start. Why did you let it go so far before you decided you didn't want a soldier for a lover?'

‘Don't,
don't
,' she pleaded. ‘Let's talk about it.'

He sank on his bed, running an unsteady hand through his hair. ‘You'll only say the same things. You don't want a boyfriend who can be sent away at a moment's notice. You don't want a lover who has to obey orders and put his job before anything else. You don't want a partner who might have to fight. Nothing's changed, Trish.'

‘
I
have, darling. Please come over. I'll meet you anywhere. Even at Heathrow. I've been utterly miserable since you went to Germany. I
want
you, Dan. I want you so much it hurts.'

His resistance was fast ebbing, and when she began to speak softly of what she wanted to do with him again, exciting him with erotic memories of their passionate lovemaking, Dan became putty in her hands and agreed to cross to the UK as soon as he could arrange extended weekend leave.

They talked for almost an hour, compensating for more than eight weeks' silence. Eventually, Dan unburdened himself and told her about Smith and how he felt culpable. He failed to notice that her voice had cooled a little when she told him not to be silly.

‘They can't expect you to watch over them as if they're kids, Dan. If you were with a civilian company the boss wouldn't hold you responsible for what other employees did, would he?'

‘That's no comparison,' he told her with gentle tolerance. ‘We were heavily engaged in combat in preparation for our tour of Afghanistan, starting in October. Out there, the fighting will be for real.' Into the silence he said, ‘Trish, are you still there?'