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rifle and kit belonging to Smith.’
    â€˜John Smith,’ mused Piercey. ‘Are we sure this guy’s real with a name like that?’
    â€˜You can find out by taking yourself off now and questioning Sergeant Miller, who commands the Warrior that Smith was in,’ Tom said promptly. ‘Get cracking.’
    â€˜Are they on base at present?’ Max asked Maddox.
    â€˜Off-duty until Monday, but I guess most of them’ll be getting some kip ready for the discos tomorrow night.’
    â€˜Right, leave it with us on a temporary basis. If you get word of Smith let us know pronto.’
    â€˜Course, sir. Thanks.’
    Maddox left the building on the heels of Piercey, who looked disgruntled at being excluded from the rest of the briefing. Max then proceeded to delegate tasks.
    â€˜Connie and Heather, track down the men who travelled in the Warrior with Smith. Get their views on him and why he might have decided to skedaddle.’ He turned to Melly. ‘Staff, find out what you can about the men in Smith’s platoon: who are the dodgy ones that have to be kept on a tight rein, who might have a specific grudge against Smith, which of them speaks with a Brummie accent. You’ll get most of that from the Colour Sergeant. There’s not much that escapes their notice.’
    Left with just Tom in the Incident Room, Max said irritably, ‘Can’t we get one of these bloody computers up and running?’
    â€˜No chance. What power there is is monopolized by the various regimental HQs, who have priority usage. I’m fairly well acquainted with Staff Canning of the West Wilts. I’ll have him bring up Smith’s record on his computer and give me a printout.’
    â€˜Good. I’m going to have a word with the Platoon Commander who, according to George, is a new boy fresh from Sandhurst. Must be a worried guy. Losing a man with full equipment during his first command, albeit an exercise.’
    â€˜What do you reckon to the notion that we have a murder on our hands?’ asked Tom, walking to the door with Max.
    â€˜I give it one out of ten. The bastard’s probably gone off because he’s discovered soldiering is tougher than he expected, and he doesn’t fancy the reality of Afghanistan.’ Reaching their cars, Max opened all four doors of his to let out some of the heat and looked at Tom across its roof. ‘Ever see The Four Feathers ? Officer’s pals and fiancée send him white feathers because he resigns his commission when his regiment is ordered to the Sudan.’
    Tom smiled. ‘I thought it was World War Two films you knew back to front and sideways. The Sudan was well before then.’
    â€˜The sentiment is the same, wherever and whenever. Cowards aren’t tolerated by fighting men.’
    â€˜So you’ve just put forward a belief in the premise you gave only one out of ten a moment ago.’
    Max grinned. ‘It’s the heat, Tom. Addles my brain; I think I’m in a past era. Let’s make a few enquiries about the runaway John Smith to show willing, by which time he’ll have been apprehended at a ferry port.’
    â€˜Or discovered hiding out in some fräulein’s squalid bedsit, having sold the rifle and equipment to her pimp.’
    Max’s grin widened. ‘Now who’s wandering in the realms of fiction?’ he chaffed, as he sank on the driver’s seat of an oven on wheels.
    Dan Farley occupied a room in a different officers’ mess from the one Max was obliged to call home. He tracked the young subaltern down to find him clad just in shorts, lying on his bed reading a science-fiction paperback with his door open. Hastily pulling on a T-shirt after inviting Max in, he offered tea.
    â€˜Thanks, but no. I won’t interrupt your well-earned rest any longer than necessary,’ Max told him, settling on the desk chair and noting a framed photograph of a laughing blonde cuddling a