For Kingdom and Country by I.D. Roberts Page B

keep their traps shut. Lock could see a couple of dishevelled businessmen and a perplexed-looking general amongst the prisoners. They must have been upstairs, away from the party. An NCO red cap was talking to them and taking notes in a little pad. But there was no sign of the fat man. Perhaps he hadn’t gone to the brothel after all? Perhaps Singh misheard?
    Lock’s focus turned to the deep recess opposite where he had last seen his Indian friend. There was a staff car parked there, a Vauxhall 25hp D-Type, with an Indian naik at the wheel. Its engine was running. Ross was standing next to it with his back to the brothel, talking with Singh. Between his feet sat the dog, ears pricked, fascinated by the goings-on.
    ‘I could have used your help in there, Sid,’ Lock called.
    The dog barked with delight at recognising Lock’s voice and darted over to him, too quick for Singh to stop. The dog pranced around Lock’s legs, tail wagging and then suddenly it yelped in pain and backed away snarling. The provost corporal to Lock’s right had kicked him away.
    ‘Filthy mutt. Piss off!’
    ‘Hey!’ Lock said, and he shouldered the red cap corporal, sending him stumbling hard into the edge of the truck.
    Lock felt a blow to his back and he crashed to his knees.
    The first provost collected himself and raised his fist to strike Lock.
    ‘Enough!’
    Lock glanced up to see the American girl, the USNRF Yeoman 1st Class, Elizabeth Boxer, leaning against the first truck’s fender, arms folded, a cigarette between her lips. She was even more alluring than the first time he had set eyes upon her a few weeks back at CommandHeadquarters. She wore the same smart navy-blue military uniform, the three chevrons on the arm of her tightly buttoned jacket showing her rank, the same ridiculous straw hat upon her head of raven hair, with a ribbon stating U.S. Naval Reserve around the crown in gold lettering.
    ‘Miss Boxer.’
    The girl stepped forward and indicated for the two provosts to pull Lock to his feet. ‘ Petty Officer Boxer, Captain.’
    Lock scoffed. He was in no mood for games. ‘There are no women in the US forces. Who are you kidding?’
    ‘What d’you know about it, buster?’ she said.
    Petty Officer Boxer stood a little over five feet tall, peering up at him from under the brim of her straw hat, a look of bemusement upon her soft, round face. She pulled the cigarette from her lips, exhaled and raised a dark, slim eyebrow.
    ‘You look worse than you did in hospital.’ Her distinctive, husky accent was that of Boston, where every ‘a’ is spoken long.
    ‘You don’t.’
    ‘Huh. Well, what did you discover in there?’ She jutted her chin to the building behind him.
    ‘That aristocrats and alcohol don’t mix.’
    She tut-tutted and shook her head. ‘The major told you I was investigating the shooting and all you’ve gone and done is screw things up for me.’
    ‘How so, Elizabeth? It is Elizabeth, isn’t it?’
    She narrowed her dark brown eyes and Lock caught a momentary flash of annoyance. But she just gave a lopsided grin.
    ‘All right, boys, put him in the back with the others.’
    The red caps yanked Lock on towards the back of the truck.
    ‘Was Sergeant Major Underhill’s interview at the Café Baldia part of your investigation?’ Lock said over his shoulder. But he was suddenlymore interested in the familiar rotund figure who was at that moment being escorted out of the brothel.
    The fat man was half-dressed, his shirt tails hanging out and his bright-red braces dangling down to his thighs. One chubby hand was clutching the waist of his trousers to keep them up, the other had a tight grip on his trilby. Lock saw Ross indicate to the staff car, and the provosts either side of the fat man bundled him into the back seat.
    ‘Hey,’ the American girl called, tossing her cigarette aside. The provosts stopped again and Lock turned back to face her.
    She stood, legs slightly apart, backlit from the lamplight