Indian Summer (2 page)

Tom grunted. ‘So where are the lads who found him?'

‘Out on patrol. I've split them up so's we can call them in one at a time.'

‘Good. We'll talk to them after we've had a word with Captain Goodey.' Tom moved swiftly to where it seemed the orderlies were about to push the stretcher into the ambulance. He wanted to see the dead man in the hope of recognition before he was taken from the scene.

Catching sight of the two policemen who looked set to bring a halt to proceedings, the Doctor confronted them with an air of irritation. ‘He'll probably be in the Medical Centre until at least tomorrow afternoon. You'll have full access to him there until he's removed for the post-mortem.'

Tom wondered if she would have been as brusque with Max, who had suddenly rented the apartment next to hers a month ago, causing speculation in the Officers' Mess.

‘We need to identify him asap so that we can notify next of kin.'

‘And can you?' she demanded.

He studied the distorted features, the protruding eyes and the gaping mouth. This man had died desperately fighting to hold on to life as it was choked out of him. He glanced up at the woman dressed in casual grey trousers and a thick Aran sweater.

‘We'll know who he is by morning. Can you give me your initial assessment of the time of death; how long he'd been in the water? Cause of death isn't in doubt, of course.'

‘Isn't it?' she said crisply. ‘All I'm prepared to say at this moment is that life is extinct. I'll have more for you when I've had a proper look at him, but the cause of death could remain uncertain until the pathologist opens him up.'

Tom and George Maddox were left watching her departure alongside the wheeled stretcher, as Tom murmured, ‘We
knew
life was extinct, ma'am.' He turned to George. ‘Call in James and Johnston. Let's hear their evidence. What's your impression of them? Did they do it?'

‘They seemed genuinely shaken. Could have been an act, but I don't think so. They're average young guys still flushed with the excitement of achieving their ambition to join the Army. Only got their Cumberland Rifles badges four months ago. Everything's still shiny new.' He gave a caustic laugh. ‘
This
wasn't on their agenda. It's not a glorious death in battle, and all that bravado nonsense.'

‘They'll learn,' commented Tom, still musing on Clare Goodey's remark. Those latex tentacles were tightly wrapped around the victim's throat, his death mask was typical of asphyxiation, there was no sign of blood darkening the water, no cartridge cases on the bottom of the tank. How the hell else did she imagine the poor bastard had breathed his last?

Jock Johnston bore out Maddox's description. Tom saw a squaddie whose uniform was new and proudly worn; a young man of around eighteen with bright eyes and downy cheeks that would need a razor only every other day, if then. If he had been initially shaken, excitement had replaced the sense of shock. He described the discovery of the body in upbeat manner which convinced Tom of his lack of complicity.

Dennis James was much the same type of youngster, albeit a little more streetwise. He told a similar version of the discovery, reiterating Johnston's denial of seeing anyone in the vicinity or hearing voices in argument, cries for help or sounds of frenzied splashing.

An hour passed before Tom drove to the Medical Centre leaving the uniformed men to search the area, and check the whereabouts of the RE diver and the model maker who had both been involved with the tank and its contents. Did they have solid proof of their movements at the end of the day?

Captain Goodey was in her consulting room writing when Tom entered shivering slightly in the early hours' chill. A small electric fire gave welcome warmth and flushed her cheeks attractively. A very attractive woman altogether, Tom thought, yet in this predominantly male environment she knew exactly how to hold her own. She had taken up her post on the base just six weeks ago, but no one was left in doubt that the new doctor was not in the least intimidated by the macho majority she worked with.

Without glancing up, she said, ‘If you want to examine the body, Mr Black, you'll find him in the small room at the end of the corridor. I'll join you when I finish this report.'

He turned about without a word. The room was normally used for examinations. Aside from the couch on which the body lay there were shelves bearing packets of rubber gloves, lubricating jelly, syringes and swabs in sterile packs and a pile of folded drawsheets behind a concertina screen. Dimmed lighting gave an impression of a hallowed glow over the covered corpse. On a chair beside the couch lay the purple jellyfish in a sealed plastic bag.

Someone had removed the sinister-looking tentacles from the dead man's throat, closed the horrified eyes and the mouth that had appeared to be crying for help, giving the face a more peaceful expression. Efforts were always made to render the job of confirming identity less upsetting for loved ones or close friends, and a photograph taken now would be suitable for a computer match.

Tom had just uncovered the body fully to look for blemishes, scars or tattoos when Captain Goodey walked in the room.

‘Two moles on the right forearm, a small scar behind the left ear,' she said. ‘There's also a magenta butterfly with the name Brenda beneath it on the right buttock and an indigo one with the name Flip on the left one. Quite ingenious. They're positioned so that when he clenched his buttocks the butterflies would appear to kiss.' Seeing Tom's expression, she gave a faint smile. ‘No accounting for taste, but it must have been bloody painful while it was being done.'

‘Even more so to have it changed when the affair with Brenda ended on the scrapheap.'

‘If it didn't, the poor woman's in for a shock tomorrow.' She pulled the sheet back over the sturdy body leaving the face uncovered. ‘I'd say his first name is Philip, wouldn't you? Flip?'

‘Possibly, but the lads take on all manner of names with no obvious origin.' He looked her in the eye. ‘What have you put in your report, ma'am?'

‘That's confidential.'

Holding on to his temper – it was three a.m, he had had no more than a brief shallow sleep, and he was cold – Tom said carefully, ‘Kissing butterflies aren't much help in a murder investigation. Time of death is.'

Her voice softened. ‘Yes, of course. I estimate that he died around ten to twelve hours ago.'

Tom stared at her. ‘But there were hundreds of people milling around that tank at that time.'

She returned his steady gaze. ‘He didn't die in the tank.'

‘You're saying he wasn't strangled with that synthetic jellyfish?'

‘All I can say is that he
probably
died from asphyxiation. The jellyfish was pure window dressing. It's up to you to discover why.'

Ninety minutes later an identity match was found. The victim was Corporal Philip Keane, Royal Cumberland Rifles, who had returned from Afghanistan six days ago.

‘Survived the Taliban to end up dead in a water tank,' mused Tom. ‘Give it another couple of hours, then round up the appropriate officer and the Padre to break the news to Mrs Keane and get a positive
ID
from her.'

Max Rydal stood alone holding an untouched glass of champagne, brooding as he watched his father and the bride greet their guests. After twenty-six years as a widower, Brigadier Andrew Rydal had just married a chic, vivacious French Cultural Envoy fourteen years his junior. Helene Dupres appeared to hold him in thrall because he had apparently acquiesced in the elaborate wedding arrangements Max considered more suited to the betrothal of young lovers embarking on their first experience of wedlock.

This reception at the Saint Germaine Cultural Institute promised to be as extravagant as everything else about this marital union. Designer frocks, huge hats, immaculate morning suits and colourful uniforms had progressed from the church to the elegant salon in the building where the bride held a semi-diplomatic post. She was elegant in cream lace; the groom was handsomely distinguished in full dress uniform. Both looked to be overflowing with happiness.

Max had been in two minds about flying over from Germany to attend. From the age of six, when his mother had died, Andrew Rydal's military career had led to Max attending boarding school before moving on to university and the Army. It was the lengthy separations rather than any quarrel between them that had caused father and son to become little more than polite strangers on the few occasions that they met.

The receipt of the wedding invitation had been a bolt from the blue. Max had had no inkling that Andrew had formed such a close bond with a woman after all these years, yet it was not that which had hurt him so deeply. It was the fact that Livya Cordwell, Andrew's
ADC
and the woman Max loved, had not warned him of the impending marriage; had worked on the arrangements, written all the invitations, yet had said nothing of it even when lying in his arms a few weeks ago.

Her defence was that it had not been her place to jump the gun; that Andrew was the right person to break such news to his son. Max had been unable to accept that from someone who had already agreed to become his wife, if they could sort their careers so that marriage worked for them. They had quarrelled bitterly over where her loyalties primarily lay, and they had not been in contact since then.

Facing evidence that Livya's military career meant more to her than he did, Max had impetuously discarded all hopes of a future with her and rented an apartment adjoining Clare Goodey's with the intention of embarking on a bachelor life with women galore. Now here he was, watching Livya doing her duty among the many influential guests, knowing his feelings for her were still to be reckoned with.

As if conscious of Max's scrutiny she glanced across to where he stood, expertly excused herself to two high-ranking French military officers and their ladies, then approached.

‘Hallo, Max.'

The familiar scent of her washed over him, reviving memories. ‘Quite a shindig, isn't it? As a member of the Joint Intelligence Committee I thought my father would prefer to keep a low profile.'

She ignored that. ‘You didn't write acceptance of the invitation so I was surprised to see you there in the church.'

‘As the groom's son I didn't feel a reply was necessary. That gold embossed card was surely a mere formality. As it happens, I haven't a big case on at the moment, and they're holding an Open Day at the base.' He gave a faint smile. ‘I might have been roped in to do conjuring tricks or put on a Mickey Mouse outfit. It's a good time to be away from there.'

Her dark eyes studied him appreciatively. ‘Amazing, but this is the first time I've seen you in uniform.'

‘Can't stand penguin suits and top hats, that's why.'

Although, like him, she was an army captain, Livya today wore an ivory silk cocktail suit with a tiny feathery confection on her dark hair. Very feminine. Very deceptive! He longed to tell her how lovely she looked, but resisted the urge. He nodded towards the doorway where guests had finally stopped filing past the newlyweds.

‘They look appropriately blissful.
Hello!
magazine isn't covering this, by any chance? Or some French glossy equivalent? Has the MoD approved this exposure?'

‘Don't be beastly, Max! Helene was widowed at nineteen after six months of marriage to a
TV
cameraman. He drowned filming submerged wrecks. She adores Andrew and this is her big day.'

‘And his, presumably.'

‘You know it is.'

‘No, I don't,' he said swiftly. ‘Until that invitation arrived I knew nothing about this connection. He wouldn't think of confiding in his stranger son, and
you
decided . . .'

‘
Don't
Max! Wrong time and place.' After a short hesitation, she said, ‘We have to talk. Tonight, at my place?'

‘I'm booked on the late flight back,' he lied, uncertain how to play this.

‘You're not working on a big case . . . and tomorrow's Sunday. Change the flight booking.'

‘What is there to talk about?' he challenged.

‘
Us
. You proposed to me over the phone last month. Have you forgotten?' She began edging away. ‘I have to go. Time to ease the top table guests in to the restaurant, or it'll be dinner rather than lunch by the time four hundred are seated.' Still edging away, she added persuasively, ‘Don't let's behave like sulky children over things said on impulse. Kiss and make up? Please come tonight, Steve.'

He watched her walk away all brisk efficiency again. Her use of that pet name prompted by his confession that he had always wanted to emulate Steve McQueen's motorbike escapade in
The Great Escape
had shaken his defences. She was not the type of woman to go all dewy-eyed at weddings and she would certainly not want an extravaganza like this, so he was reasonably sure her olive branch had not been offered on a surge of romantic fervour.

He strolled across to join the great and the good filing through to a restaurant bedecked with masses of flowers. He had at least three hours in which to decide whether or not to take up Livya's invitation. He hoped to God when the meal ended that some fool would not give a speech full of risqué honeymoon jokes that would make him want to crawl under the table.

When Nora appeared in the kitchen, dressing-gowned and yawning, Tom was just finishing off a couple of fried egg sandwiches. Glancing at his empty cereal bowl and the dregs in the tall cafetière, she said, ‘Lucky for you I'm not one of those wives who expect breakfast brought to them in bed on Sunday morning.'

He grinned. ‘I'm no sucker. Start that and I'd be expected to do it for the girls, too.'

‘No, you wouldn't. They don't emerge from their duvets until half the morning's gone.' She filled and switched on the kettle, then took a pot of yoghurt from the fridge. ‘So what was the emergency that wrenched you from my loving embrace this time?'