Scotch Mist (9 page)

Carter's tawny eyes rolled from side to side as he worked out a response, but all he came up with was, ‘They must've forgotten.'

‘You're still saying you went to the Medical Centre on Tuesday afternoon and received emergency treatment?'

‘It was bleeding really bad.'

Having looked at Carter's hands as he entered and seen no sign of heavy dressings or plasters and, aware that the man had kept them under the desk during the questioning, Tom said, ‘Why didn't Lieutenant Fleet sign you off this exercise? You can't responsibly handle a rifle with a badly damaged hand.'

‘It's a lot better. Almost healed.'

‘Overnight?' As Carter stared miserably at Tom, he added, ‘You claim to have had stitches in a bad injury on Tuesday afternoon, but by six the following morning it had healed enough to enable you to come with your platoon to participate in a mock battle. That
is
what you're saying, isn't it?'

‘It had almost healed,' he mumbled again.

‘Did you volunteer to help construct the bonfire, or were you detailed to do it?'

Taken by surprise by this change of direction, Carter said swiftly, ‘No way was I going to volunteer, and Corporal Landis knew why.'

‘Yet he detailed you for the job.'

As if aware that he had said too much, Carter gave no response.

‘Why were you so set against volunteering? Most of your mates would have seen it as a good skive from normal duties.'

‘I'm not like them.'

‘You take your duties seriously?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Show me your injured hand,' Tom demanded. Then more sharply, ‘Show me your hand, Carter.'

It was held up with the palm facing away from Tom. Then, when he could stand the long, cold stare and unnerving silence no longer, Carter set his hand palm upward on the desk. On the fleshy area at the base of the thumb was a narrow plaster of the kind used to cover a minor scratch or small blemish. Tom maintained his silence and continued to gaze right into the eyes of the other man until Carter was forced to speak.

‘I couldn't stop it bleeding,' he insisted. ‘Handling all that guff that'd been stacked in a filthy yard for yonks, Corp Naish said I could've got poison in my bloodstream. Said it was too risky to carry on.'

‘He actually said that to you?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘The staff at the Medical Centre deny seeing you for treatment.'

‘All those people with burns, they forgot who came earlier.'

Tom leaned back and took his time before saying, ‘If you return to base with me now, you'll be able to show me the person who put that very small strip of plaster on your hand, will you?'

Carter gazed miserably at the hand still lying on the desk, and kept silent. At that moment, Tom's mobile rang. A swift glance at the screen told him Derek Beeny had significant information, so he got to his feet and moved out to the corridor.

‘This had better be worth interrupting my interview,' he told his sergeant.

‘It's very relevant, sir.'

‘Go on.'

‘Your Red Alert was put into operation on Tuesday at twenty-one hundred. From then on everyone passing through the main gate was thoroughly vetted. Private C Carter is recorded as
entering
the base at twenty-two thirty. The guard does happen to have seen him drive
out
some time around sixteen thirty, which means he was well clear of the base when the bonfire was ignited.'

‘Good work! He can't talk himself out of
that
.'

Returning to the room, Tom sat for a full minute silently studying the young soldier. Carter grew visibly more and more anxious, until Tom confronted him with this new evidence.

‘Where did you go on Tuesday afternoon when the guard at the main gate checked you out?'

‘He's lying,' countered Carter swiftly. ‘There's no check going out.'

‘He says he saw you.'

‘Couldn't have. He was inside the booth looking . . .' Carter's defence tailed off as he realized his mistake.

‘There's documentary evidence of your return after twenty-two thirty when a Red Alert was in force, so where were you prior to that?'

Tom recognized Carter's silence as a battle between telling the truth or fabricating a story which could be easily disproved by SIB. He waited without prompting him. Eventually, a hesitant, embarrassed explanation was put forward. The first sentences heralded a familiar tale.

‘I met a German girl at a disco. She's not one of those tarts who go there every night to pick up a soldier and help him spend his money. She's a really nice girl. Classy. We hit it off right away, sir. I mean, it's serious.'

Tom said nothing, letting him tell the whole story uninterrupted. Carter's tanned cheeks darkened slightly as he confessed they had not yet slept together.

‘She took me to meet her family and we got on very well, except her father's a bit protective. They all speak good English. She's a really nice girl. Classy,' he repeated emphatically. Then he studied his hands and fidgeted until he realized he had to continue.

‘Tuesday was her birthday. Eighteenth. Her people had laid on a party. Not a rave-up; a family do with aunts and uncles. Corporal Landis knew I wanted to go, but he added my name to the bonfire detail. I put up an objection, so he said I hadn't been pulling my weight since we got back from the Stahn, and it was time I did.'

All Tom said then was, ‘And?'

‘Well, I cut my hand on some nails. It did bleed a lot at first and Tommo Jenks said it should be stitched. Corporal Naish was busy with some guys who'd brought a straw scarecrow, but he said I should go along to the Medical Centre.'

‘And did you?'

Carter shook his head. ‘I went back to my billet, held my hand under the tap for a bit and slapped on a plaster.'

‘So you lied to me just now?'

‘The bonfire was almost finished, and everyone was knocking off early because of the fireworks and that.'

‘So?'

‘So I went to Greta's party.'

‘We'll need corroboration of that.'

‘Why?' he cried in mild panic. ‘What happened that night has nothing to do with her family.'

‘We need proof of your whereabouts when that explosion took place. The girl's full name and address,' invited Tom firmly.

Carter was deeply upset. ‘Her father's not too happy about me going on active service; says Greta will be left abandoned and unhappy if I get killed. He wants me to leave the Army.' He studied his hands again. ‘I don't know what to do about that yet.' He glanced up earnestly. ‘Greta and me want to . . . well, we want to get married soon as possible, but if I leave the Army what else can I do? The RCR is all I know. It's all I've ever wanted to do . . . but her father . . .'

Deciding that this mixed-up young squaddie was not the person who had sabotaged the bonfire, Tom was about to tell the lad to talk things over with Ben Steele when he had cause to reverse his thinking.

‘Greta will confirm I was with her that evening,' Carter said urgently, ‘but can you talk to her at work? If SIB turns up on her father's doorstep asking about me that'll be the end of it.'

‘So where does she work?' asked Tom.

‘Max-ee-million, where we got the fireworks.'

FIVE

M
ax went to the meeting with the Officer Commanding the Drumdorrans prepared to face a proud, unyielding man. He had compiled a carefully worded account of the efforts being made to trace whoever had been responsible for the death of Eva McTavish.

However, Major Dougal Carnegie was a battle-hardened soldier with a great deal of common sense, who handled the discussion with more understanding than did Miles Crawford. Max tried to make allowances for the DGC's tetchiness, but he knew the man was difficult to deal with even when not stressed over his son's injuries. Against Carnegie's professional approach, Max found Crawford's attitude highly irritating, if not verging on the disparaging – to the Scot as well as to himself.

Seated in Carnegie's office they eventually broached the subject of the brawl in the NAAFI.

‘Very regrettable that my men should have begun their deployment here with a violent expression of their anger over the loss to one of our most respected musicians. Hector McTavish's knowledge of Scottish airs is second to none. It's always he who pipes in the haggis, leads brides and grooms from the kirk and plays the lament at the graveside.'

With a frown, Carnegie continued. ‘That's no excuse for what occurred last night, of course, and I shall be addressing the battalion at sixteen hundred to express my displeasure. I promise you there will be a marked improvement in relations with the resident units from then on.' He turned his attention to Max. ‘It'll make my task easier if the ugly business you're investigating is swiftly cleared up, allowing tempers to cool on both sides.'

He raised a hand in a silencing gesture, although Max did not believe he had expected a response to that. ‘I appreciate the difficulty of the task facing you, believe me.' He turned back to Crawford. ‘I also appreciate that concern for your son, and the absence of Colonel Trelawney at this difficult time, makes life burdensome for you, but it would be helpful if you could tell all regimental commanders on this base to read the riot act to their personnel, too. It's been an unfortunate start and we must all make every effort to nip aggression in the bud, don't you agree?'

Receiving a vague nod from Crawford, he continued with his next point. ‘The funeral of Mrs McTavish will, of course, be a traditional Scottish service. To this end I've asked our regimental chaplain to officiate and Angus Salmond will play the lament. Assuming the body will be released either today or tomorrow, we've provisionally arranged for the interment to take place on Saturday.'

He then stood, signifying the end of the meeting. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. I think we're all of the same opinion that, after an unfortunate start, we can work alongside each other amicably if the willingness is there.'

Once in the car park, Miles Crawford turned on Max. ‘Willingness has nothing to do with it. They're looking for blood, and until you pull out all the stops to get who was responsible for my boy's injuries and that woman's death, those tartan bastards will be on the rampage at every opportunity.' He slid behind the wheel of his car. ‘Sort it, and bloody fast!'

Max stood watching the car disappear around the corner by the Garrison Church wishing Colonel Trelawney was in command right now. He would handle the present problems with far more tact and finesse, which would have ensured Major Carnegie had not acted as if he and not Crawford, was the Deputy Garrison Commander. All the same, Max had warmed to the Scot's assured manner and professionalism and, unlike Crawford, he did believe willingness could go a long way towards stabilizing the aggressive situation. Staging the funeral without delay was probably wise.

He got in his own car and sat for a while staring into space. Resolving the case would also go far towards calming tempers, but he could not work miracles and there really was a cast of thousands to pick from. The only hint of a lead so far was Rifleman Carter, who had gone to have his hand stitched but never turned up at the Medical Centre. Tom had pounced on that with enthusiasm as if it were a major breakthrough, but Max guessed it was nothing but a red herring. Experience, and his well-known sixth sense, told him there was something more devious than a soldier telling lies about a cut hand behind the disaster of the exploding bonfire.

He had cause to rethink when Tom rang his mobile to report on the interview with Carter, ending with the information that he was en route to see Greta Gans.

‘I contacted Krenkel. He's sending two of his guys to Max-ee-million and I've called up Heather to meet us all there. It's a real link. She's an overseer at the factory. Checks the contents of boxes before they're sent out. Perfect opportunity to slip something extra in one, mark the label so that Carter would identify it and liberate the stuff when no one's looking.'

‘Mmm, sounds reasonable . . . but what's Carter's motive?'

Max could picture Tom's expression as he said with slight irritation, ‘We'll find out when we have enough evidence to pull him in for a recorded interview. I've left him with his platoon until I check out Fräulein Gans.'

‘Good luck with that, but if she's involved it'll be taken out of our hands by Krenkel.'

‘Yes, well . . . How did your meeting go?'

‘Like a lead balloon, although Carnegie's a reasonable man. Once the GC's back everything will run much more smoothly. Call in if you find anything significant.'

Max disconnected and was about to drive off when the mobile rang again. Thinking Tom had recalled something he should have mentioned, Max was surprised to hear Clare's voice.

‘Where are you, Max?' When he told her, she added, ‘Something of interest to you. Call in.'

That was Clare, he reflected. Brief and to the point. Glancing at the clock he saw it was nearing lunchtime. If she was free, he would suggest they repaired to the Mess for a light meal. That idea was dashed when he saw the number of people waiting. Burns and cuts suffered on Tuesday night had to be treated, and dressings changed. The four orderlies were dealing with that while a couple of pregnant women, and three soldiers with black eyes and bandaged heads sat waiting to see a doctor. From the way two soldiers sat as far as possible from the single one suggested that last night's aggression had not yet eased.

The door normally bearing David Culdrow's name now had an insert announcing that Major D MacPherson was occupying that consulting room. The door then opened and a woman with a boy whose leg was in plaster came out, followed by a man who remained in the doorway surveying the waiting patients. His attention was caught by the tall, dark-haired man in a smart grey suit, who looked too fit and healthy to be there.