French Leave by Elizabeth Darrell

Connie and Heather, who were seated together. ‘In the morning, check with the several stores in the area that sell guns and military-style gear for enthusiasts. Push them hard. Find out if they’ve been offered a rifle or any genuine equipment during the past three days. If they deny it, get the details of their suppliers from them. Threaten to call in the Polizei to make an in-depth investigation into their business activities, if they turn nasty.
    â€˜I’ll attempt to locate Lance Corporal Mason. He could have a hang-up over the death of his friend, which created in him an unhealthy resentment of his replacement. I’ll also have a word with the Company Commander about Sergeant Miller and the other NCOs. You stated that Miller was vitriolic about Smith,’ he said, giving Piercey a faint smile. ‘Well, even taking account of the well-known myth that sergeants occasionally eat squaddies as a mere snack, there has to be a reason for such hatred of that particular one. I’ll dig out what’s behind it from men who know more about Miller than he’ll ever volunteer to us.’ He stood. ‘Get what rest you can over the weekend. We’ll meet at eight thirty on Monday. With luck, the heatwave will be over.’
    On his way to his room, Max passed Clare Goodey in the vestibule. She was studying a large envelope she had presumably taken from her pigeon hole. It bore a UK stamp, and an official-type address on the left-hand corner. Making no attempt to open it, she appeared deep in thought. Not the right time for small talk or a request to interview her West Wilts patients, Max decided.
    After showering and dressing in chinos and a pale green shirt he went down to the dining room, feeling his appetite was now sharp enough for a decent hot meal. He sat in solitary state at the end of one long table, unwilling to join a small group of regimental men and women gathered at the second table. They made no effort to encourage him.
    He had given himself tasks for the next morning, but the remainder of the weekend was set to be lonely. He should now have been in Livya’s flat preparing to leave for dinner and the theatre. It was too early to call her. In Washington it was still the middle of their working day. When she was on duty with Brigadier Andrew Rydal it was wisest to leave her to make contact. Her call often came around midnight. He had no idea when she would come through tonight, but he hoped she would. Her message from Heathrow had necessarily been brief.
    Munching his way through chicken pie with an assortment of vegetables his spirits suddenly dropped. How could they conduct a realistic relationship situated as they were? Love at long distance was all very well when there was a home, maybe a child: roots to bind two people together, a dwelling that belonged to them both. He was presently eating alone in a communal dining room; sleeping alone in a single bed, maintaining monk-like celibacy.
    Livya, on the other hand, was at the Pentagon with an acknowledged charmer (Max still had a flutter of suspicion about the true relationship between his father and his ADC), and she was most probably being chatted up by flamboyant, extrovert CIA braggarts. She certainly would not be dining alone and, from what he knew of American bedrooms, Livya would spend her nights in a bed vast enough to hold an entire baseball team. He hoped she would be the only sleeper in it.
    Why was he hoping ? he asked himself. Why have doubts? When they were together he had none. Once more he wondered if he should request a transfer to the UK. He could be lucky enough to be posted in the South, which would make it possible for them to be together every weekend. Dropping his knife and fork on the plate in frustration, he faced the holes in that flimsy plan.
    He would still live in a small room in a military mess all week, then become a weekend lodger in Livya’s London apartment. What would he do on occasions like