Requiem Mass (37 page)

‘You’ve got a good memory.’

‘I saved the stamps, as I said, and later I looked at them again, trying to make some fucking sense of what was happening around me. I was curious about the letters – so many – and asked him about them that evening. He mentioned that his uncle had died; said that the letters were legal, said he had a legacy. He was quiet, withdrawn but I didn’t remark on it. He never was a gabby man.

‘But I’m sure it was from that day that he started to change. We didn’t really notice at first but we began to realise that he wasn’t saying anything. He avoided us and I noticed he wasn’t eating much. He started to lose weight.’ Bayliss took a deep breath. ‘Then the nightmares started. Two, three times some nights he’d wake up in a sweat and shouting. I couldn’t make out many words – he kept screaming “NO! NO! NO!” again
and again. And once there was a name, “Carol.”’

‘You’re sure it was Carol?’

‘Yes. Positive. I was already wide awake and I heard it clearly. I talked about it with him the next morning, and that’s when I realised he was in a terrible state. It bloody creeps up on you, when you’re with someone every fucking day. You assume you know them so well. But really, they’re changing, sickening, before your eyes and you don’t even notice.’

‘Yes, I know.’ Something in Fenwick’s voice brought Bayliss back to the present and he looked at him keenly.

‘You do, don’t you? So you know how I felt that morning, realising how fucking bad it all was suddenly. I went up to him first thing and challenged him to tell me what was wrong. He was becoming a danger to us, but he was also a mate, and I was bloody angry with him for putting me, us, in an unacceptable position. I couldn’t shop him, but he needed help. He looked awful. Not eating, lack of sleep – he’d aged then, fifteen years – and his skin had a sallow, dead look to it. Vic just stared through me as I spoke to him, he didn’t say a word. It was as if he was completely fucking disconnected.’ Bayliss drew another deep breath. ‘His silence made me furious. I was losing sleep too; we were due to go out again within days and our preparation was suffering. He could end up getting us killed. He just moved to walk past me and I grabbed his arm. He was on me, in an instant. One second I was standing talking to him, the next I was on my chest in the dirt, his knees in my back and on my arms, left hand gripped under my jaw. I was powerless. I twisted round to look up into his face, trying to smile, joke it off, but I could hardly move and my mouth was clamped shut. I couldn’t breathe to get the words out; his whole weight was bearing down on my chest. His eyes were dead, flat like a shark’s, no fucking expression in them. I’d thought we were mates, but I couldn’t see the man I knew there, just a stranger prepared to fucking kill me! I didn’t know what he was going to do. I’ll never know. Another bloke from our patrol came on us just then – thought we were larking about. Vic just got up, dusted himself down and walked away.’

Bayliss was silent for a long time, then he pulled himself together and described how he’d told the CO and about how they took Rowland off active duty for a while. All had seemed normal until just before Christmas.

‘A few of us joined in a small combined exercise. It was unusual, involving us in something like that, but some bright fuck somewhere decided it was our turn. We shared a camp with another Regiment. All right really, most of them. Except that there was this couple of arseholes, real big mouths after a couple of pints. They were bigoted, racist pricks but the racist bit stopped soon enough when they met our Jimmy Ray, black as the ace of spades and a fucking big lad! So that left them with religion and women as topics for abuse. Religion was out – they could tell they weren’t going to upset us with that one – but women remained fair game. We all like a bloody good joke but they went way beyond that. They resented us being there and it pissed them off that we refused to get worked up.

‘Vic didn’t really notice them. He was still unsociable and he rarely hung around in the bar. But we had an evening’s break in the exercise and went to this local pub. Vic joined us in the bar and these two pricks were there, well oiled. They just wouldn’t let up that night. A few of their mates egged them on and eventually things got out of hand.

‘There’d been a rape locally – two seventeen-year-old girls on their way home, no escorts. Our two comedians started making remarks about these girls, how they’d been asking for it; and it got worse. Their mates tried to calm them down but they’d fuckin’ lost it by then. They came over to us. We were about to leave but they grabbed my arm. Vic was still with us. I tried to take the heat out of things but they weren’t having any of it. They kept on about these bloody girls and then started asking if we had sisters, girlfriends, wives, and were they having fun in our absence; they were very explicit as to the fun. It was juvenile stuff, petty, nasty, and they did it quietly, no shouting or raving any more, just in our face. Another mate was standing next to me and I could feel him tense up. He was fucking furious. I learnt later that his aunt had been raped and it had
virtually finished her off. Anyway, he starts forward, and I grab his arm. I’m concentrating on him, you see, holding him back.

‘Next thing I know, one of them, the cockier of the two, says something and he’s on the floor. He just went down, smashed his head on a big table on the way, and he’s lying there. I look round and Vic is standing on my other side, just behind me, rubbing his right hand. And everyone else is looking at him. The man on the floor isn’t moving. There’s blood coming from his nose; you can tell it’s broken. Then I notice his eyes are open, just staring up at the ceiling. I bend down and feel his carotid artery – no fucking pulse. His eyes are turned back in his head so that only half the pupil is showing – there’s no reaction there. I put a glass that’s on the table to his mouth and nose – no condensation.

‘We continued with AR and cardiac massage until the medics arrived. It seemed fucking for ever but it was only ten minutes. When they took him away I noticed that Vic had gone; apparently the MPs had arrived while we were trying to resuscitate the man.

‘I didn’t see the blow that had killed him – oh, he was dead by the way, killed instantly. Apparently it was just one punch, so fast no one saw it start or finish.’ Bayliss took another deep breath. ‘It’s affected me like no other death! He was on our fucking side, you see, a prick and a bully but one of ours.’

‘And of course, a few days before it could have been you.’

Bayliss checked Fenwick out for sarcasm. He found only concern.

‘Yes, it could have been me. I was interviewed by the MPs, but they were in a fuckin’ difficult position – trying to decide what case to put together, and against somebody who was marked out for higher things. Vic was held in custody at first, but opinion started to swing round in his favour and eventually he was allowed out until the inquest, provided he stayed on the base. No one wanted to rush in and get the charge wrong. They were still working on a case when he disappeared a few days later.’

Bayliss suddenly stopped talking and his head snapped up.
He ran silently to the front of the building, gun in hand. He flattened his back against the bare wooden wall by the cart-wide entrance. Seconds later, Cooper peered in cautiously. Bayliss had him in an arm-lock, gun to his head, smashed against the wall, before Fenwick had time to speak.

‘It’s my sergeant. Let him go, Bayliss.’

Cooper turned round slowly, straightening the badly crushed tweed jacket; there was a tear in one elbow where it had snagged on a nail. He viewed it glumly. He looked every bit his age.

‘I came to make sure you were all right, sir.’ His sombre attempt at dignity was laughable in the circumstances but Fenwick kept a completely straight face.

‘Quite right, Sergeant. I had warned Mr Bayliss to expect you but it seems he has a little bit of a problem controlling his finely tuned reflexes. I’m sure he’s waiting to apologise.’

Bayliss muttered an embarrassed apology and extended his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Cooper accepted it, pumping it once. Then Bayliss went on with his story.

‘It was early January but I didn’t know for sure he’d gone. They tried bloody hard to keep it quiet.’

‘Then why was his name on the computer printouts we were given?’

‘It shouldn’t have been. Are you sure?’

Cooper flicked back through his notebook. ‘Here we are, Rowland, A.R.V.’

‘That’s not him. His initials are V. R. – Victor Robert – that’s another man.’

‘No wonder Major West prevaricated; he had no idea how we’d found the man’s name and made the link! Go on.’

‘There’s not much more to say. He was gone; so was his passport, full kit, clothes.’

‘What about money?’

Bayliss snorted: ‘First that’s what gave them comfort – his chequebook and cards had been left behind – but they’d forgotten the legacy, over a million.’

‘A million!’ Both Cooper and Fenwick looked shocked and
worried; a man with that amount of ready money was dangerous.

‘When his uncle died he was the only heir. Over the years the old man had made a bloody packet.’

‘So, he had passport, clothes, money and promptly disappeared after killing a man in an unprovoked attack! No wonder the military authorities are touchy!’

‘Yes and if the press put the story together it will be very embarrassing. And that’s not the worst of it. When I said that he’d taken his kit, I meant everything, weapons and all.’

‘How the hell did he manage to take weapons with him?’

‘I don’t know. No one knows. The procedures are bloody tight – particularly given the range of weapons we have. The log shows he handed his equipment in, right down to his personal pistol and knife, but rumour has it that they’re not there now.’

‘So what is his standard kit?’ Cooper’s question was edged with contempt and Bayliss looked uncomfortable for the first time.

‘I don’t know, but I can tell you what he favoured.’ The list was frightening: a Browning High-Power – 9 mm calibre, magazine fed, 10 rounds, reliable and accurate up to 50 metres; an Ingram MAC 10 submachine pistol, 11.4 mm calibre, a shortbarrel weapon with very high rate of fire; survival knife.

‘Anything else?’

‘I can’t say; all those would be easy to conceal – tuck one into a cross-draw holster, the other into a long pocket. Other weapons would be more difficult to hide.’

‘But if he had, say, been able to walk out with what he wanted, what else would he have taken?’

‘Just about anything! As well as the others, an assault rifle, perhaps a sniper’s rifle, explosives, grenades – the list’s endless. As for the assault rifle, he preferred the old NATO 7.62 mm; he’d have gone for that. Very accurate.’

‘And the sniper’s rifle?’

‘It would depend what was there – and he’d need matched ammunition and telescopic sights. But, if he’d had a choice? The Accuracy International PM – the L96A1. It takes 7.62 mm
calibre ammo. The magazine gives him ten rounds, more than enough to take out key targets and a range of up to 1000 metres. That comes with a Schmidt & Bender PM6 × 42 sight. It’s my favourite and it’s good in poor light. Vic’s had all the special training he needs – not just the marksmanship but in camouflage and concealment, just as important. As for explosives and how much ammunition, that’s bloody hard to tell but,
if
he’d had free rein, you should assume he had TNT or C3/C4; blasting caps, fuses of some sort – safety or Detcord primers, detonators, perhaps timers and electrics as well.’

‘He’s a one-man frigging army!’ Cooper could no longer contain himself.

‘That, as I’ve been trying to fucking tell you, is
exactly
what he is! It really doesn’t matter what weapons he actually took, I’ve told you his favourites but he’d use whatever’ll get the job done, basically. He’s done the sniper training, of course, that’s very special.’

‘And he’s had it all?’

‘Oh yes, he had it fucking all.’

Time was passing, and with every minute Fenwick became more frantic to be moving, to be
doing
something to stop the menace Bayliss had described, but he knew that to rush off would be disastrous. There was still more that he didn’t know about Rowland than he did, and Bayliss had to be good for some of it.

‘Let me see your knife.’ Fenwick could still envisage the long wound across Katherine’s neck like a grotesque, second smile.

Bayliss twisted away suddenly and when he turned again, he had an unsheathed hunting knife in his hand.

‘Sergeant, take this and ask forensics to match it against Katherine Johnstone’s injury.’ It went straight into a plastic evidence bag.

‘Now,’ he walked towards Bayliss, ending up inches away from him, ‘is there anything else you need to tell me that you think I should know?’

‘I think you know it all already.’ Bayliss looked tired and
very sad. ‘Vic was a fucking great guy, Fenwick, one of the best. And a friend. If I thought …’ He paused and squeezed the bridge of his nose tight. ‘If I thought there was a hope of finding the old Vic and bringing him home, I’d do it myself. But that’s a pipe dream. Something’s happened to him and it’s flipped him over the line.’

‘The line?’

‘Between the killing that produces heroes and the kind that creates the murderers you have to find – and you’d better find him. You have to stop him.’

‘Why us?’

‘Now it’s my turn to get personal, Chief Inspector. Not just “why us.” Why
you
? I could try and track him down, sure I could, but then what would I
do
with him? I think he’s fixated, you see. Heaven help anyone that stands between him and his goal.’

‘Thanks!’ For the first time there was sarcasm in Fenwick’s voice.

‘It’s true. The military powers-that-be could find him – will probably find him thanks to your help – but they’re not going to take any prisoners! Vic’s slipped from the legion of honour to the legion of the damned. To everyone else, he’s now the fucking target.’

Fenwick studied the man carefully. Behind the bluster – the only way he appeared able to cope with the personal dilemma in which he had found himself – there was genuine concern for his old friend. He voiced the obvious question: ‘Why turn him in?’