Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

He read the clue— An amble in Provence (4)— and entered the letters r-o-v-e into the empty boxes.

Too easy. He tapped his ballpoint pen on the newspaper.

An RAF officer requiring statistical enquiries in absolute secrecy. A little more tricky.

AS HE PASSED the turn to Abingdon, Millie spotted a lay-by ahead and pulled the car over.

He took out the instructions again and checked the AA road map.

He pulled away again, having memorised the route.

Twenty-five minutes later, he drove along Oxford High Street, slowing for distracted shoppers as they stepped into the road. He thought of Georgina, Mary and Rob, doing the same in Salisbury, although he had no doubt that they had probably found themselves in The Haunch of Venison for a little pick-me-up and a sandwich by now.

He turned into King Edward Street and drove to the end before turning onto a narrow, cobbled lane, passing an ancient sign announcing Merton Street.

Small cottages hugged either side of the road as he slowed to a crawl and read the names. He stopped the car outside a set of closed wooden double gates marked RHODES COTTAGE.

He was suddenly aware that Charlie’s college rooms were nearby. Hopefully, his son had found his way into a pub for lunch.

He got out and approached the faded green front door. There was no immediate response to his knock, but eventually, the door opened, and an elderly woman stood in the shadows.

“Do come in, Mr Milford. I’m Mrs Lazenby.”

Millie glanced at his car. He imagined Charlie cycling past and stopping in surprise at the sight of his father’s distinctive red Rover.

“Do you think it would be possible to open the gates such that I might park there?”

Mrs Lazenby slowly closed the front door. Millie stepped back and looked up at the low building. It was a sweet little place, but on closer inspection, the window frames were rotting and the paint was peeling from the door.

He heard a noise to his left and saw the brown gates opening inwards.

Moving them back was a short man, with wisps of grey hair, baggy beige trousers, a white shirt and, despite the heat, a cardigan and tie.

“It’s best to reverse in and drive forwards out,” said the professor. “You are statistically less likely to kill a student on a bike that way, although I have never run the actual numbers on that.”

Millie got back into the Rover and pulled forward before loudly crunching the gears in search of reverse. As he backed in, he was glad to see the professor close the gates in front of him.

He picked up one of the reels of tape and secreted the remaining five under the passenger seat.

As he climbed out of the car, the professor beckoned him toward a side entrance. Although only five feet ten, he had to lower his head to pass under a wonky beam with more peeling paint.

The cottage was cool. The ancient wattle and daub walls were crumbling, and it smelled of damp. A grandmother clock ticked in the hallway.

He squinted at a souvenir plate on the wall. His Majesty’s Silver Jubilee 1910 – 1935.

The place was a time capsule; a world away from the bustling, modern environment of TFU.

Mrs Lazenby, complete with flowery pinny, showed Millie into the kitchen where he and Belkin sat opposite each other around a small square table.

She poured the tea with great care.

The professor regarded him. “How was the drive, Mr Milford?”

“Fine. I got a little lost at Abingdon, but soon found my way back.”

Millie’s hand shook as he raised the teacup to his mouth.

Mrs Lazenby left the room and closed the door behind her.

“So, Mr Milford, what branch of the Royal Air Force benefits from your service?”

“I’m an engineer by trade. I used to keep various fighters and bombers in the air, but about ten years ago I found myself working on the electrical and now electronic side of things.”

“Interesting. Do you work with innovations like Autoland?”

“I’m impressed you know the proper name. In fact I did some work for the Blind Landing Experimental Unit just after the war and then worked with Philips to develop autopilot technology. Quite satisfying to see it in civil airliners today.”

“I’m sure it is. I see where young Milford gets his prowess from.”

Millie laughed. “I’m no match for Charlie when it comes to maths, I’m afraid. I’m much more of a practical type.”

The professor smiled. “And that is why you need some help with the numbers from us?”

“I’m not sure even Charlie could decipher these figures. It’s the sheer volume of sums needed. I think only a large computer will do.”

“Well, that’s what they’re best for. It’s frightening, actually, how quickly they can rattle through calculations. They can perform in an hour what a human would take many weeks to complete. Maybe months, actually.” Belkin clasped his hands together on the table. “So, Mr Milford. Exactly how can we help you?”

The professor spoke with a soft Scottish burr, possibly Edinburgh. Much clearer in person than on the telephone. He looked kindly and had a gentle manner.

Millie replaced the teacup on its saucer, knowing he was about to gamble with his own freedom and possibly much more.

“I need to be very careful about what I tell you. Do you think it is possible for you to treat this as an academic exercise, unrelated to anything physical, as such?”

“I see. I think so. Academic exercises are what we do best at Oxford.”

Millie delved into his sports jacket pocket and retrieved the tape. He placed it on the table between them.

“On this tape are numbers. The numbers represent distance, in feet, I think. I’d like to know if you can read it, and whether your computer could look through the readings and spot any imperfections.”

“Imperfections?”

“What I mean is, anything that makes little sense. A sudden jump in the numbers that seems implausible.”

The professor appeared to think about this and finally removed his half-moon glasses, waving them in his hand as he spoke. “You’re talking about variance, I think. A mathematical term for deviation from a datum. With the right parameters, then yes, as long as we can extract the data, we can create a routine to trawl through and highlight any sets of data that deviate outside of parameters we set. Something like a percentile scale. Do you see?”

“I think so. Basically, what I’m looking for is a pattern unlikely to exist in reality. So, for instance, you might get ten minutes of height readings in a range of say three hundred to four hundred, followed by a second or so of height readings that show one thousand two hundred, then it goes back to the original range. Do you think that’s possible?”

“I think so, yes. How many height readings are we talking about?”

Millie thought for a moment. “The tape records twenty-seven every second, and each tape runs for fifteen to twenty minutes.”

“Twenty-five thousand numbers on the tape,” said the professor. “It sounds like a lot to you and me, but to the machine, it’s just a few hours of whirring.”

“If you can read this tape, I am hoping to deliver one hundred more.”

The professor put down his tea and clasped his hands together on the table.

“Mr Milford, may I ask whether this is an official visit from an RAF officer? Or are you doing some freelance work?”

Millie looked around at the kitchen. Faded cupboards and yellowed ceiling. One door to a lower hung off its solo hinge.

“It’s not official,” he said, watching Belkin, “but it is Royal Air Force business.”

“I see. And yet I don’t. Which, I suspect, is your intention?”

“Professor Belkin, I do very much appreciate the delicate position I am placing you in. I think I can only appeal to your good nature to help an RAF engineer who needs a dose of modernity in, shall I say, a neutral environment.”