Free Scotch Mist by Elizabeth Darrell Page B

well be responsible for that.
    Gaining admittance to the enclosed military area, Tom then had to drive a kilometre to reach the whitewashed building from which all training exercises were controlled, and park beside a group of Land Rovers and heavy trucks. The flat ground stretching out towards a rise topped by trees was empty of movement and looked bleak on this day of low cloud and biting wind. The Cumberland Rifles must be operating in the far reaches today.
    Inside the Operations Command Post a few men and women were gathered around a vast table on which was spread a mock-up of a desert village complete with market stalls, shops and community buildings; the objective of this particular day’s operation. Around the walls were screens depicting the reality of what was being shown in miniature on the table. Messages were being passed back and forth; the uninitiated could well believe it was real warfare.
    As Tom hesitated, to watch with interest, he was approached by a man he knew. Captain Ben Steele had put himself in danger last year by ‘doing a Miss Marple’ as Tom had put it. He had also been vaguely involved in SIB’s last case, but not by attempting to solve it. He had learned his lesson.
    As they shook hands with some warmth, Ben said, ‘Nasty business. Is it true the woman has died from her injuries?’
    Tom nodded. ‘Which puts the case one notch higher. Were you there on Tuesday evening? It was pretty grim.’
    â€˜No, but I saw the outcome of a suicide bomb a couple of months ago, over there. Much worse, and we don’t want anything like that starting up on the base.’ He led the way to a side room containing a desk and several chairs, where it was possible to make hot drinks. ‘Coffee?’ At Tom’s nod he spooned grains into two large mugs, saying, ‘Have you managed to assess what caused the bonfire to explode so violently?’
    â€˜Yes. It’s worrying and adds urgency to our investigation.’
    Ben’s dark eyes questioned that comment. ‘Not a lark gone wrong?’
    â€˜That’s what we have to discover. So far it points to something more serious.’
    Handing Tom the mug of much-needed coffee, Ben said, ‘Carter’s in my company, so I’ll be very concerned if he was in any way involved. And surprised. He’s not a beer and bovver squaddie. His platoon commander admits he’s been unsettled for the past few weeks and she faced him with his lack of concentration, but he offered no defence. Corporal Landis also tackled him. Carter apologized, but has continued to show little interest in the job. I had a quick word with him last night after Max contacted us. Carter denies any connection with what happened, but you obviously have some info which makes it necessary for you to question him.’
    Glad of the coffee and a couple of chocolate digestives, Tom asked how Carter had behaved in Afghanistan. ‘You said he became unsettled a few weeks ago. PTSD would you say? Was he caught up in a particularly violent action? Did he witness the outcome of that suicide bomb and react badly?’
    Ben leaned back thoughtfully in his chair. ‘I only observe him professionally, of course. So does Lieutenant Fleet. We both see a solid, unflappable guy who works well with the rest of the platoon, even under pressure. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is far too serious a condition to account for the change in Carter. I’ve seen the victims of what used to be known as Shell Shock. Our man seems simply to have lost interest in soldiering.’
    Putting his empty mug on the desk, Tom said, ‘Lieutenant Fleet’s assessment is that Carter is bored.’
    â€˜Ah, that’s nearer the mark,’ agreed Ben. ‘And I can’t think boredom would drive a man to do something as dramatic as the incident you’re investigating, to relieve it.’ He got to his feet. ‘Carter’s waiting in the equipment