Indian Summer (12 page)

With a slight frown Mel Dunstan said, ‘I took a shower in the pavilion, then rode Jetset, my own horse, to the stables where I rubbed him down and gave him his feed. Then I had my own feed in the Mess. Jousting takes a lot of energy. The shields are bloody heavy, and when your lance hits the opponent's at the gallop it sends a jolt up your arm.'

Studying the woman's slender build and very evident weariness, Heather could not help asking why she had volunteered for something so strenuous. ‘I thought jousting was a male thing.'

‘As a rule it is, but Staff Fuller is a champion eventer and a truly awesome rider who persuaded me to join the “Court” when she saw my ability in the saddle. There were three women members, so I was talked into joining to even the number. Of course, membership is constantly fluctuating – the men mostly because of re-deployment – but there are enough to keep it going. We don't tilt at the men, and our weapons are less weighty, but we get satisfaction and as much enjoyment as they do from the ancient art. I love the histrionic aspect of it; the chivalry.'

Her face had become flushed with zeal. ‘It was open combat with set rules. Knights knew their enemy and fought him with honour.' After a short silence, she said heavily, ‘Warfare is now sneaky and
dishonourable
.'

Heather was curious. ‘Why become part of it, then?'

‘I'm not. Not in the way you mean, Sergeant. My job is to discover who our enemies are, and to interpret their intentions. In short, I work to provide an even playing field for our soldiers. Track down what they're up against.'

This woman must be well able to hold her own among male colleagues. Brainy, too, Heather reasoned. A personality to be reckoned with.

‘So you packed up at eighteen hundred?'

‘About an hour earlier. We'd all had enough, and people were starting to drift away.'

‘According to the programme, the jousting was to take place during three sessions. What did you do during the breaks between those sessions?'

The other woman leaned back, folding her arms. ‘Sergeant Johnson, are you regarding me as a murder suspect?'

‘As I said earlier, ma'am, we're questioning everyone involved in the jousting to discover who might have been riding around in that guise just before midnight.'

‘Some joker, obviously. Have you yet spoken to Staff Collyns? That sounds about his level.'

‘He's next on my list.'

‘Then you'll see what I mean.'

Heather merely nodded a response to that. ‘So would you tell me what you did between the jousting sessions, particularly during the break from noon to fourteen hundred?'

The hardness in those large brown eyes became shrewd speculation. ‘The time when Keane was killed? I discarded the heraldic gear, took a shower, ate some sandwiches and fruit, read a book.'

‘Where was this, ma'am?'

‘In my room, and no one can confirm that. Even if I was the type to have a swift shag in lieu of lunch, I was too exhausted to do more than lie on my bed and relax. Alone. Sorry, Sergeant!'

It was a commonly held belief by many regiments that I Corps personnel were too clever for their own good, and Heather began to feel that way about this self-assured officer who owned a horse called Jetset and was not the type to have a swift shag when the opportunity arose. It would be worth studying Mel Dunstan's service record before the noon briefing, not that it would mention that she had a low opinion of men and might, perhaps, be into more than friendship with Staff Sergeant Fuller, the champion persuader.

‘And after your dinner in the Mess, ma'am?'

‘Ah, this'll look good in that notebook of yours. I went to check on Jetset in the stables; stayed there talking to Staff Fuller about the race meeting next month when she should carry off the trophy from beneath the nose of John Sears, who's boasting of his success on the track. It'll be interesting. His Section arrived here from Afghanistan just two months ago, so we've had no chance to see him in action.' She gave a grim smile. ‘But neither has he had advance proof of Sheila Fuller's superb horsemanship.'

‘How long have you both been on the base?'

‘Fuller's been here more than a year. I joined the Section five months ago.'

Heather returned to the subject Mel Dunstan seemed to be adroitly avoiding. ‘What time did you leave the stables following your discussion on the races?'

‘Mmmm,' she pondered, ‘must have been around twenty-two thirty. I had no reason to record the exact time.'

‘And then?'

‘And
then
,' she repeated with mock drama. ‘And then I caught up on my emails, made a couple of phone calls, had a long, luxurious bath to ease my aching limbs, went to bed with a book. You can check the phone calls etcetera, but nobody can confirm my bath and bedtime reading, I'm afraid.'

Heather closed her notebook. ‘You'll be surprised. We manage to get verification of most things. Someone could have found your room empty and, seeing a light beneath the bathroom door, guessed who was in there. Someone passing might have identified the scent of your usual talc or shampoo. We'll possibly find someone who spotted your backview as you entered the bathroom.'

The shrewd speculative quality returned to the woman's eyes. ‘You mean to interview all the residents of the Mess?'

‘If we have to. One more question. When you checked out Jetset were any of the horses missing from the stables?'

‘Sorry, Sergeant, I don't have your investigative drive. Can't help you there.'

Heather prepared to leave. ‘Sar'nt Major Black will be talking to Staff Fuller this morning. Let's hope she noticed an equine absentee during your evening meeting at the stables. There are a set number of horses on the base and somebody was seen riding one across the Sports Ground at twenty-three hundred, which means there would have been an empty stall at around the time you were there.'

‘Identify the horse, identify the rider?'

‘Not necessarily, ma'am. My investigative drive will have to discover who was wearing the disguise. If it was to carry out a joke, a lark, all well and good. If not, it's unlikely the rider would have been careless enough to take his, or her, own horse.'

Having been told that Captain Steele was running at the Sports Ground, Max drove to it via the longest way around the perimeter road hoping to psych himself up into conducting a professional interview. Anger, a deep sense of humiliation, ruled him. It was intensified by the unpalatable fact that Susan had also lusted after another man, and had died in a car with him at the wheel.

His mouth twisted with painful cynicism. Livya had rejected him for a brigadier rather than a corporal, at least aiming higher than Susan. Should that soften the blow of betrayal? No, it bloody well did not! The only difference was that the corporal had given Susan what she wanted, whereas Livya lusted in vain. Andrew Rydal was charming and charismatic, but Max was certain he had never given his
ADC
the least sign that he returned her adoration. So she had tried to make do with the younger Rydal . . . but he had not reached an acceptable replacement standard.

Realizing he had just driven past his destination Max made a three-point turn, parked the car, counted to ten, then headed for the stand overlooking the running track in the centre of which were a long jump sandpit and other equipment for field events regularly held there. There were half a dozen runners presently on the track, three of them women.

Spotting Ben Steele on the far side of it, Max walked to where the white enclosing rails left a wide gap allowing access from the changing rooms. A selection of towels and coloured sweatshirts hung there, deposited by the runners after their initial warm-up exercises.

Keeping his eye on Ben, Max reflected that this kind of running had never appealed to him. Constantly circling a prepared track would surely be utterly boring. When he ran, which was fairly often, Max drove to the upper reaches of the river and jogged over meadows, through a copse and along the overgrown towpath now used solely by ramblers and runners.

Clare Goodey had once pointed out that he appeared to indulge only in sports he could enjoy on his own – rowing, trekking and cross-country running. It had been said on the evening when he had impulsively spoken of the problems surrounding his relationship with Livya, and later regretted. He had also confessed his reason for shunning team sports. Andrew Rydal was a superb all-round sportsman, so his son had been expected to emulate his prowess. After a series of slightly less than perfect performances the youthful Max had decided to concentrate on activities that he could enjoy without spectators urging him to match his father's excellence. No, entering races on a track like this one would be certain to have him invariably coming second instead of the expected first.

Ben Steele recognized Max as he neared, and he slowed to a halt with a smile of greeting. ‘Hallo. Guessed I'd be seeing you sooner or later.'

‘Sorry to interrupt your dedicated pounding, but it is rather urgent.'

Snatching a towel from the rail, Ben mopped his face and neck. ‘Interrupt away! No dedication involved. Just finding it difficult to ease down into normal life after six months of pretty high tension.' He pulled on a red sweatshirt, saying, ‘Give me ten and I'll join you in the canteen for coffee.'

Max was soon facing a refreshed, casually dressed younger man with damp dark hair struggling to spring into curl in spite of ruthless combing. He liked Ben, had actually been instrumental in saving him from an official reprimand for involving himself in a serious case SIB had been investigating.

‘You've been promoted since we last met up, Ben.'

He grinned. ‘A week before we flew out there. Typical military timing! Make a man commander of a company just as it's going into action.'

‘Better that than taking it over because the other guy's been killed.'

Ben's grin faded. ‘You want to talk about Flip Keane, of course.' He made hand signals to the girl behind the bar for two coffees, then turned back to Max. ‘When I first joined B Company he was a lance corporal, and I knew right away he was likely to go fast up the ladder. Good team guy with sound common sense and bags of courage. Only minus was his weakness for women. He never let it interfere with duty, but I'm wary of soldiers who habitually play around. Sooner or later they land themselves in a messy situation which affects their efficiency, and that can put lives at risk.'

‘Keane was guilty of that?'

The girl brought their coffees, smiled warmly at Ben and told him in German that the biscuits in the saucers were a gift from her. Ben's colour rose slightly as he thanked her.

‘What was that you were saying about weakness for women?' asked Max dryly.

Ben gave a self-conscious laugh. ‘I lifted some heavy crates for her once, that's all. To get back to your question, Keane never put lives at risk over his amours but he did become serious over a nurse when we were in Iraq. She was in the Territorials and came out for four months with reinforcements for the field hospitals. He haunted the place. I mean, he was really deeply committed to her.'

‘Brenda?'

‘Oh, you know all this already.'

‘No. All we have is a name beneath a butterfly tattoo on his buttocks.'

Ben grimaced. ‘We all express our feelings in different ways, I guess. If she knew about it she clearly didn't take offence, because she was as serious as he. She certainly supplied the support he needed after the blue on blue fiasco.'

Max remained silent, sensing that his companion was mentally elsewhere as he gazed into the past.

‘We were on a night patrol. My first experience of real warfare as a platoon commander. We were all keyed-up; imagined dark figures moving wherever we looked. Suddenly, it was no longer imagination. Four men wearing Arab dress were moving stealthily on a parallel route a hundred yards away. They were sitting ducks. We outnumbered them four to one. I told the guys to seek cover before opening fire and, as soon as we dropped behind a rise in the ground, Keane let fly. The leading hostile went down, a perfect target. We all began firing seconds later.'

Ben's forehead creased with unhappy recollection. ‘The remaining three targets dropped flat and I was appalled to see that day's identification signal pierce the darkness. It suggested we had ambushed some of our own guys, yet we'd been given no intelligence of friendly forces operating in the area we were tasked to cover. I swiftly ordered a ceasefire and waited for a response to my own signal. None came, and I realized that in that confused moment the dark figures on the sand had slipped away. I contacted base with a sitrep. Five minutes later my patrol was called in.'

Max was intrigued by this revelation. ‘You were ordered to abandon the patrol?'

‘That's right. The men were held in a room while I was questioned by Major Quail, who was in command of operations that night. He agreed there had been no info on other forces moving in that area, but he said there had been a request for a casevac helo to collect a body.

‘My men and I were then grilled for two hours by SIB before Keane was hauled off under suspicion of manslaughter by friendly fire. I was forced to confess, along with the majority of the guys, that Keane had fired before I gave the order, which put me in a bad light for not having full control over my men. All the same, I insisted that the four we saw appeared to be hostiles and we had attacked in good faith until the identification signal was given. I demanded a full inquiry to ascertain why we had not been alerted to friendlies in the same area, but I was told by your colleagues to keep my tongue between my teeth. We were all forbidden to speak about the incident to anyone, and sleeping bags were brought for us to the room in which we had been interrogated. Breakfast was also brought there.'

‘How long were you kept incommunicado?' Max asked briskly.