dentists are butchers but you’ve really got problems if you come out looking like this.’
‘Good point,’ Rosie smiled. ‘I was being thick.’
‘The present is from the old man I rescued. So what are you doing up here anyway, have afternoon lessons been called off ?’
Rosie shook her head. ‘We’ve just had Mrs Donnelley for two hours of English and maths, but I came up to check up on the casualties before target practice.’
Marc was concerned. ‘Who got hurt? Was it explosives training?’
‘Walk this way and all will be revealed,’ Rosie said, adopting a serious tone while smirking to show that she found the situation highly amusing.
The pair walked through to the Group-A dormitory and reached Paul’s bed.
Paul opened one eye and poked his head above the blankets when he heard their footsteps. He forced a smile. ‘Hey, Marc! Glad you’re back.’
‘As you know, Paul decided to fake an ankle injury to get out of training,’ Rosie said, keeping up her sarcastic commentary. ‘Sadly, the silly Billy also decided to help Mrs Henderson catch dormice to feed her tarantulas and got spotted by Mr Takada running full pelt around her back garden.’
Marc smiled. ‘I told you faking was a dumb idea.’
‘Takada made me spend half an hour sparring with Luc as punishment,’ Paul explained as he peeled back his blankets. ‘My skin’s got more purple bits than white.’
Before Marc could answer, Rosie pulled him back towards the door.
‘Here we have exhibit two,’ Rosie said, as she pushed through the thin white sheet that hung in front of Luc’s bed. ‘Luc told Mrs Donnelley that he had a headache.’
Luc lay on his bed, still muddy and stinking from his morning exertions. He was reading a battered detective novel.
‘Didn’t know you could read, Luc,’ Marc said cheekily.
‘I have got a headache,’ Luc snapped. ‘Takada body-slammed me five times.’
‘Funniest darned thing I’ve seen in ages,’ Rosie nodded. ‘Takada ordered Paul to spar with Luc, but he didn’t like the way Luc enjoyed making him suffer.’
‘I always miss the good stuff,’ Marc complained.
Luc sat up and pointed angrily. ‘Can’t hit a girl, but I can hit you, Marc. So you’d better watch that smart mouth.’
‘Everyone’s sick of you picking on Paul,’ Marc said.
Luc threw down his book, sprang forwards off his bed and smashed his fist into his palm. Marc jolted with fright and hopped two steps backwards.
‘Oh you’re so brave,’ Luc said, before erupting into a huge false laugh.
‘You’re such a moron,’ Rosie said contemptuously.
‘At least I’m not a dirty whore,’ Luc said.
‘Nice,’ Rosie sneered, before turning to Marc. ‘Paul’s OK so I’m heading out to the shooting range.’
‘Catch you later,’ Marc said, giving Rosie a thumbs-up before walking up to his bed and putting his stuff down. He took the tin of banana fudge across to Paul and twisted off the lid.
‘You want one?’ Marc asked.
Paul cheered up slightly as he propped himself on his pillow and dropped a cube of fudge into his mouth. ‘I hate Takada,’ he said bitterly.
Marc nodded with a knowing air. ‘I told you not to try scamming him. He may not be big, but he’s a ruthless bastard if you mess him about. Another fudge?’
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Paul said. ‘I don’t feel that bad, it’s just my knees and stomach where Luc kept thumping me.’
*
After arriving with Marc, Charles Henderson had dumped his overnight bag in the hallway of the farmhouse and hurried across to the office he shared with Superintendent McAfferty in the school building.
‘Welcome home,’ McAfferty said warmly. ‘I took down a number from a man in Whitehall.’
‘Admiral Hammer?’
McAfferty nodded. ‘Well, his assistant anyway. He said it was most urgent. Wouldn’t tell me a thing. He thought I was your secretary, rather than your superior officer.’
The cup and saucer on McAfferty’s desk tinkled as a shell fired on the artillery range half a mile away. Henderson snatched his telephone and told the operator the number before he’d even removed his jacket or cap.
‘Hello, is that Giles Ramsgate?’
As Henderson said this, his wife stormed into the musty office without knocking.
Joan Henderson had married at age eighteen. Now thirty-one, her sunken eyes and chewed nails bore little resemblance to the beautiful dark-haired tennis player who held her husband’s hand in the framed photo on the window ledge.
‘He’s on a very important call,’ McAfferty said, as Joan stormed towards her husband. ‘Whitehall in London.’
‘I don’t care if it’s Pope Pius,’ Joan said. ‘I need to talk with my husband, right now.’
Henderson deftly grabbed the telephone off