Free French Leave by Elizabeth Darrell

such violent feelings as you have about Smith. There has to be a hidden agenda here, Sergeant Miller, and I need to know what that is before we can both go off and enjoy the weekend.’
    Max found Lance Corporal Mason in the NAAFI reading motorcycle magazines. He was alone. Introducing himself, Max sat at the small table and commented on the super machine pictured on the cover of one of the thick, glossy editions. Mason seemed unsurprised by Max’s arrival, but he was unprepared for this SIB captain’s knowledge of motorbikes and entered into a discussion almost warily, as if he suspected some kind of trap. His enthusiasm for the subject soon overcame suspicion, however, and he slowly relaxed.
    It was a little cooler in the NAAFI than it was outside, but the air conditioning was not working at full power. A few men and women had sought relief from the heat there, amusing themselves with cards or other games while consuming cold drinks, but Max guessed most of the personnel had gone to the open air beer gardens or to the river.
    The base swimming pool was closed. It had become dangerously overcrowded and, therefore, highly unhygienic. A notice on the door informed prospective swimmers that for the duration of the heatwave the pool could not be used, by order of the Medical Officer.
    Seeing the notice en route to the NAAFI Max applauded Clare Goodey’s decision, but he feared there could be repetitions of last night’s incident along stretches of the river. The Polizei would be kept busy this weekend . . . and George Maddox’s team, if soldiers were involved.
    The motorcycle theme had run its course, so Max got down to business. ‘You’ll be aware that SIB is looking into Private Smith’s disappearance during the recent exercise?’
    Mason nodded. ‘Aye, but there’s nowt I can tell you about it.’
    The round, freckled face and steady clear eyes suggested a solid, down-to-earth personality to this detective experienced in summing up people’s honesty. Max gave a faint smile.
    â€˜We haven’t found anyone who can, so far. Nor have we talked to anyone who had a good word to say about Smith. I understand he replaced Jim Garson, who was killed in Basra.’
    Mason again nodded and those clear eyes clouded. ‘My best mate from schooldays. We joined the West Wilts together. Jim was the best. It shouldn’t have happened. Never.’ He appealed to Max. ‘Why is it them that go early?’
    This lad of twenty-two had clearly not yet recovered from the loss of someone who had been akin to a brother. ‘The person who has the answer to that universal question doesn’t exist, I’m afraid,’ said the man who had asked it so many times following Susan’s death. ‘So you would have found it difficult to accept the man who took Jim’s place? Any man, in fact.’
    â€˜No, that’s not right, sir. We have to mix in or the platoon isn’t effective.’
    â€˜But it wasn’t possible to get along with Smith?’
    After a moment’s consideration, Mason said heavily, ‘He knew about Jim, how it was with him and me, but he never let me alone. Sidling up when I needed to be on my tod; making comments on what I was doing or reading. Trying to be part of my private time.’
    â€˜Trying to take over where Jim left off?’ suggested Max.
    Mason’s eyes immediately sparkled with anger. ‘That’s it. Exactly it, sir. He’d somehow found out a lot about Jim. He’d talk about jaunts we’d done together and about how much he liked all the things Jim liked. It was as if he was climbing into Jim’s skin.’ His voice grew husky with emotion. ‘It was sick . When I told him to bugger off, he came back with a handful of DVDs. Said they were a gift to cheer me up, help me forget.’ He found it difficult to say the next words. ‘It was the last straw. As if a few DVDs could wipe out the