French Leave (23 page)

The clock above the bar in the White Ram was an hour slow, the landlord explained, when Max questioned only eleven chimes.

‘Never bother to change it in the spring. Only have to change it back again in the autumn. My reg'lars know that. What can I get you?' he asked in a real Sussex burr.

Max ordered half a shandy. He was thirsty and wanted to ask a few questions of the landlord. His thirst was quenched, but he learned very little. The people who had seen the bikers had stopped for jacket potatoes and salad on their way home from a week at a Dorset caravan park. The police would know where they lived. John Kearns had taken their details.

Max left the pub and drove to the village where Farley had used the wall telephone to call for a taxi. Witnesses said they had seen a young man with a blue holdall getting up behind a biker two or three miles from the village, so Max decided to make it his starting point for a slow drive in the direction of the White Ram. He was convinced Farley had come to some harm somewhere between those two sites. If he found evidence to support that belief he would call up military reinforcements for a full-scale search.

For the next two hours he drove down rutted farm tracks and knocked on doors all the way along his journey back to the pub. It was August, and harvesting was in progress. Farmhouses were empty, everyone being out in the fields, turning swaying carpets of ripened crops into a number of tight, golden rolls scattered across the stubble. Watching a distant combine harvester crossing one field, Max had a terrible fear that the slicing blades might cut into a human body, lying injured where it had been left after a knife attack.

Telling himself he was letting his imagination swamp his calm intelligence he drove to within two miles of the White Ram, where a narrow overgrown track ran off on the far side of the road. The surface was appalling, but Max drove down it with determination while reflecting that the car hire people would not be happy with the state of their vehicle when he returned it at Heathrow.

Bumping and lurching over ground a tractor would cope with more easily, Max eventually reached an overgrown field where a disused, ramshackle barn stood as evidence that whoever owned the land had not used this corner of it for some years.

But
someone
had!

Max called Tom from the hospital where Dan Farley had been taken in the ambulance.

‘He's a very plucky, lucky guy,' he said, after giving his friend the welcome news that he had found the young officer. ‘He's being treated for fever, induced by drinking rainwater from a vessel containing traces of insecticide, and for blood poisoning resulting from rust particles entering suppurating weals on his chest and back. He's also slightly hypothermic and traumatized.'

‘But he'll recover?'

‘Fully.' Watching the pathetic traffic of patients being wheeled on trolleys along the corridor, Max said, ‘Tom, he won't go to Afghanistan the untried boy straight from Sandhurst that he was. I wish that bloody self-absorbed wench at Brighteye Kennels could see him now, although I doubt it would ever occur to her, or to her mealy-mouthed family, that he's a mile higher above them in human stature. Always has been.'

‘Have you informed his parents?'

‘First thing. They're on their way here. You'll tell his commanders?'

‘Soon as you've given me the story.'

‘Only as far as I know it. Farley's somewhat incoherent at present, but he's given us plenty to work on. Despite throwing up now and then, he's quoted clearly and insistently a set of four reg numbers he memorized. Said they were on the machines of the louts who assaulted him. The local guys are tracing the owners, and have put out a general “wanted for questioning” bulletin. I'd say it's highly likely they're the four who were seen from the window of the White Ram on Sunday.

‘I'm not certain a charge of attempted murder would stick, but that's what they deserve. Farley was assaulted, then secured to a vertical beam by a rusty chain, wound several times very tightly around his chest and padlocked. They rode off leaving him that way in an abandoned barn at the end of an overgrown and unused track. They knew it was extremely unlikely that he would be discovered and released. They must also have known he would die a slow, unpleasant death unless the unlikely happened. I'd call that attempted murder, wouldn't you?'

‘Any chance they intended to return and let him go in a day or two?'

Max pursed his lips in consideration. ‘That's what they'll plead, and the prosecution won't be able to disprove it. It'll be Farley's word against the four of them.'

‘How the hell did he get himself in such a situation?'

‘What I was able to deduce from Farley's jumble of comments is that he accepted a lift to Brighton so he could make his way to Heathrow, then three others made up a convoy. They took him down that track and robbed him of a gold presentation watch, his mobile phone and several items of expensive clothing that were in his holdall. When they opened his wallet to take his money, they found his service identity and began beating him up. What had been a group mugging turned into something pretty nasty.

‘When I found him he was half naked and lying in his vomit in a confused state. He mumbled something about chasing a fox, and grease on the end of a rope. Didn't make sense, but his lower body was thickly smeared with engine oil so I took a look in the barn. There was a drum of lubricant on a cross-beam, within reach of an upright with a rusty chain at its foot. Directly above the vertical was another cross-beam. Over it hung a rope with a handhold loop tied at both ends. It didn't take much for me to work out that Farley had greased his body, then hauled himself free of the chain restraint with the aid of the rope loops. In his weakened, fevered state it must have taken a Herculean effort.'

‘So he was free, but quite ill. What if you hadn't acted on your hunch?'

‘He'd have crawled to the road and waited for a passing good Samaritan. Might have taken time and enormous effort, but he'd have done it, believe me. This lad's fighting mad beneath his exhaustion. Tom, I'm going to delay my return until tomorrow. I need to get a clearer account from Farley when he's recovered a little. I also want to square things with the local guys. They should be able to pick up the bikers without much trouble, and I'd like to see these specimens of manhood who think being tough means hijacking a solo stranger, robbing him, then leaving him to die.'

‘OK. Nothing vital has developed here. I'll be in touch if it does. Farley needs a military rep on hand to fight his corner. Those yobs will concoct a story that's sure to heap the blame on him: he threatened them with a weapon, they had to restrain him for their own safety, etcetera.'

‘You've got it, Tom.'

‘What I've got is four likely lads seizing an opportunity to exercise power and help themselves to some unfortunate's attractive belongings. Take a victim somewhere off the beaten track, relieve him of his valuables, then ride off, leaving him to find his way back to civilization. That I understand. What I don't, is why they then turned on him with such viciousness.'

‘Because he's a soldier.'

‘
Because he's a soldier
?' echoed Tom in emphasis.

‘That's right.'

‘Jeez!'

ELEVEN

M
ax drove into the base late on Thursday afternoon. His flight had been extremely bumpy, despite perfect weather. Something called ‘still air turbu-lence', he had been told by an RAF crewman he had once encountered. An atmospheric state almost impossible for a pilot to avoid by changing altitude. The Lufthansa one had not managed it. Not overfond of being enclosed in a flying cigar for long periods, Max had disembarked thankfully and driven through the late August sunwashed countryside, enjoying the sense of freedom.

Tired after a long morning of intensive investigative sessions with Dan Farley and the CID group at Lewes, he decided to go directly to his room. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough to lay the facts of the Farley case before his team. He did not even plan to call Tom tonight. That could also wait.

Booking a room at the White Ram last evening, Max had felt disinclined to call Livya. In truth, he was unsure what they would find to say to each other. She had apparently felt the same way, because there was no call or text from her. Better to let a little time elapse.

All the same, he had flown to the UK determined to reach an agreement about their future together. Susan's death was now behind him, and Livya had revived the need for the kind of closeness found with a loving and caring woman. It was suddenly not enough to have it only spasmodically. He was young and healthy, not the type to have sex with any willing woman, but the desire for it was strong and tormenting him more frequently. He had returned to Germany no nearer to getting what he wanted. If anything, it seemed to be further from his grasp. He would sit in his lonely room and lick his wounds. Feeble, but so what?

Pushing open the door from the Mess car park, he almost collided with Clare Goodey. He stepped aside to let her pass, but she halted and smiled. ‘Hail the returning hero!'

‘What?'

‘Found young Farley and got him to a hospital, didn't you?'

‘How d'you hear about that?'

‘Word gets around.' Her smile widened. ‘Will Fanshawe came in for his annual check-up this morning. We haven't been on good terms since I let fly about his men being put through an exercise during the heatwave, so I chatted him up a bit. Give a male patient a touch of TLC and he'll pour out his heart, pronto. How's that strapping standing up to heavy detecting?'

‘Detecting isn't hampered by it,' he replied, thinking how it had hampered lovemaking. Providentially, perhaps?

‘Want me to take a look at it?'

He shook his head. ‘It's fine.'

‘Sure? You don't look too comfortable.'

‘Rotten flight. Plane yo-yoed all over the sky. Don't think I'll bother with dinner. Get an early night.'

‘And have your bed yo-yoing? What you need is a large dose of fresh air, a stiff drink, a late supper and bed much later than midnight. I can provide the first three and steer you to the fourth.' As he made to speak, she added, ‘I'm off to look over an apartment in a rural area just this side of town. Come with me.' She cocked her head enquiringly. ‘I'd value your opinion, Max.'

She looked attractively fresh and glowing with health in a lime-green linen dress with white touches on cuffs and pockets. That scent of apples was enticing; the frank gaze from blue eyes so different from the dark depths of Livya's. He need not lick his wounds; Clare was offering soothing balm for them.

‘More TLC for a male patient?' he asked quietly.

‘If you need it, yes.' She smiled again. ‘I can't ever forget I'm a doctor. How about forgetting you're a policeman for a while?'

He caught himself smiling back. ‘Best suggestion I've had all day. Give me ten minutes.'

After a swift wash, Max dressed in a pale checked shirt and chinos, then ran his shaver lightly across his chin with one hand while combing his thick hair with the other. That took a bit of coordinating dexterity, but he looked fresher than before. Snatching up a lightweight jacket and his wallet, he descended the stairs and went out to where her jaunty car was waiting.

‘Bravo!' she said with a chuckle. ‘I timed you. Dead on the dot.'

‘A woman couldn't have done it,' he said, settling beside her. ‘They can't simply change their clothes; it has to be matching shoes and handbag and necklace and eyeshadow and perfume and . . .'

‘You stand in danger of being ordered out of my car, Captain Rydal. Male chauvinism will not be tolerated.'

He grinned. ‘Can I stay if I eat humble pie?'

For answer she started up and drove towards the main gate. Once they were through and on course for the town, Max asked for details of the apartment they were to view.

‘It's above my quoted price, but you were right. There's mainly a choice between a poky bedsitter or a place huge enough for a large family. However, this apartment is one of a pair with an adjoining common sitting-room. A German woman is very interested in one, provided someone signs the rental contract for the other. If the landlord gets two tenants signing for a minimum term of nine months the rent is slightly reduced. He wants to avoid fly-by-nighters now he's spent a lot on refurbishing the rooms. It's a great opportunity to have a place to go to away from work. It's near enough to the base to drive in swiftly on an emergency call, and the prospectus mentions peaceful surroundings with open rural views from the rear windows.'

‘Ha, I bet the view from the front windows is the gas works or a sewage farm. If they don't mention it, it's sure to be the stumbling block to the property.'

She pulled a face at him. ‘Misery!'

He laughed, already relaxing and enjoying the pleasure of an open car driven with skill and care. If only it could be Livya beside him. Such simple pleasure was surely not too much to ask for.

They arrived at the small cluster of residential buildings within half an hour to find a suave, good-looking agent waiting beside a silver BMW. He approached, offering his hand.

‘Good eeffening, Miss Goodey.'

His smile was surely the result of studying orthodontists' brochures, Max thought sourly. He took an instant dislike to him.

‘It's
Mrs
Goodey,' Clare told him coolly.

The smile could have been painted on. It remained perfect as he apologized and turned it on Max. ‘Good eeffening, Mr Goodey.'

‘My name's Rydal. I'm Mrs Goodey's legal advisor,' he said.