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taken after discussing your professional duties with the Garrison Commander. Until a decision has been reached I suggest you go home and break the news to your wife.’
    Connie Bush and Heather Johnson were friends who enjoyed pairing up on investigations. They sat on chairs in Stacey Laine’s bedroom where the walls were covered in posters of pop stars and five-minute-wonder ‘celebrities’. On a shelf alongside the bed were a family of teddy bears, a panda, a giraffe and an elephant, all well-cuddled judging by their condition. Signs of emerging adolescence still clinging to the comfort of childhood.
    Stacey looked flushed and belligerent; her mother was bristling with anger one minute and fussing over her daughter the next. Both woman and girl were badly overweight; they had similar podgy features and pale eyes. There appeared to be a good mother–daughter bond between them.
    Having opened the interview with comments on the obvious subjects of the fourteen-year-old’s admiration, and shown fond interest in the stuffed toys, the SIB sergeants determined Stacey’s exact age, her favourite subjects at school, and who her friends were. Connie carefully picked up on the mention of Virginia Clarkson.
    â€˜The Medical Officer’s daughter?’ At Stacey’s nod, she asked, ‘How long have you two been friends?’
    â€˜All the time we’ve been in Germany.’
    â€˜Which is?’ put in Heather.
    Jean Laine said harshly, ‘Two years, but that’s the end of it. Stacey’s been in his house often, had invites to Ginny’s parties. When I think he could have taken Stacey in one of the bedrooms and done God knows what to her! He should be struck off the medical list and kicked out of the army. I hope you’re going to lock him up meanwhile. He’s two girls of his own, you know. They’re not safe.’
    Better at keeping her cool than Heather, Connie said quietly, ‘We’re here to establish exactly what happened last night, Mrs Laine. Perhaps you’d let Stacey tell us in her own words.’ She smiled at the girl well hidden beneath a red and black patterned duvet. ‘Take your time, Stacey. Try to remember the details as clearly as possible.’
    The girl gazed at the ceiling for a moment or two before answering. ‘I trusted him. He’s my best friend’s dad, so I never expected him to be so beastly. I’ve seen him lots of times at Ginny’s, and he’s been all right. Mrs Clarkson’s been around then, of course, so I s’pose he had to be nice . . . except . . .’
    â€˜Yes?’ prompted Heather gently.
    Stacey brought her hands from beneath the duvet and concentrated on them as she mumbled, ‘He . . . well, he once patted my bottom as I went past his chair.’
    â€˜ What? ’ cried her mother. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have sorted him then and this would never have happened.’
    â€˜How did he pat your bottom?’ asked Connie. ‘Was it a fatherly gesture from someone you know well?’
    Stacey’s head rolled a negative on the black pillow. ‘It was sexy.’
    Against Jean Laine’s snort of disgust, Heather probed further. ‘It was more than a light pat?’
    â€˜More of a grope, really. And he touched my breast at their Christmas party.’
    â€˜ What? ’ cried her mother again.
    Connie intervened swiftly. ‘In what circumstances did he touch you, Stacey?’
    â€˜We were playing charades and dressing up. He made an excuse to help me put on an old feather scarf and he brushed his hand over my breast. He smiled and said, “That’s nice, Stacey.”’
    â€˜And you didn’t mind that he’d touched you?’ asked Heather.
    The girl looked up from her twisting hands to meet their eyes. ‘Of course I minded. It was disgusting. But I couldn’t say or do anything, could