Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

McClair had blue eyes and fair hair. He looked like he’d fit on the cover of a romantic novel, but the eyes were sharp and searching.

“Well, I don’t want to disturb you. I can see you’re about to fly, which is pleasing. I just wanted to hear how you are and whether you’re ready to sit down and go through the events with us.”

“I’m fine, thank you, sir. I had a sore back, but it cleared up over the weekend.”

“Good. Your boss tells me you’re an exemplary pilot and informally I thought you should know that we do have a very early indication of the cause. But of course I will need your version of events to corroborate. I don’t want you to unduly worry, though. Now, I’m in Farnborough tomorrow and back here on Friday. Can I slot you in then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” McClair lingered for a moment. “Are you quite certain you’re feeling OK?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We want no more mishaps up there.” He glanced at the Canberra.

“It’s fine, sir. I went up yesterday and got it out of my system, so to speak.”

“Good. We’ll see you on Friday.”

McClair turned and walked back to Kilton with the stiff-backed gait common in many senior officers.

“He seemed nice,” the navigator said.

“Let’s go.” Rob donned his Mae West and climbed into the cockpit.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, he signalled to the marshallers that he was about to perform a cartridge start. He pressed the button and looked over his shoulder as a stream of black smoke emanated from the top of the starboard engine. Back in the cockpit, he watched the revolutions climb, and the engine caught.

The flight was as uneventful as it appeared on paper.

During the slow, straight legs, it was hard to keep his thoughts only on the flying.

What if it was a trap? What if she was blackmailing him?

“You’ve missed it!” Watkins called over the intercom.

“What? Oh, sorry.” Rob looked down at the needles they’d set for the orbit. He banked left, glancing ahead to check the airspace was clear.

“Want me to count you down to the next turn?” the navigator called.

“No. It’s fine.”

He shook the errant thoughts from his mind and concentrated on the flight.

After two hours and seventeen minutes they departed the orbit track and headed south.

As soon as they’d shut down, the navigator opened the hatch to let some cool air in.

Rob followed him into TFU where Kilton’s secretary, Jean, was waiting for him.

“Wing Commander Kilton would like your logbook, please, Mr May.”

“Oh, I haven’t completed it yet.”

Jean just stood there. Clearly, she wasn’t about to leave without it.

He put his helmet down, and, still wearing the rest of his bulky flying gear, he leant over a desk and filled in the entry for the Canberra flight before handing it over.

“What’s this about?”

“No need to be nervous. It’s just part of the investigation.” She headed back to Kilton’s outer office.

AS HOME TIME APPROACHED, MacLeish, Red and a few of the others headed to the bar for a couple of drinks. Rob joined them.

He downed his first pint and leant over to MacLeish.

“Jean took my logbook.”

MacLeish shrugged. “For the BOI?”

“Maybe. But she used the word ‘investigation’, which I thought was odd.”

“Ah. Then not the BOI. That’ll be the other thing. Millie’s locker and all that.”

MacLeish drank his beer and turned away.

The following evening, Rob drove the Healey cross-country through the Winterbournes, a cluster of small villages littered with army buildings.

The Bell Inn was ancient, with a small wooden door, forcing him to duck as he entered.

An old man with a white beard nursed a glass of dark ale at the bar. A golden retriever slept at his feet.

Behind the bar, a short, stout woman regarded Rob over her half-moon glasses.

“What will it be?”

Rob scanned the draught beers.

“A pint of Harp, please.”

A stuffed fish sat in a glass case mounted on the wall above the bearded man. It looked like a pike: long, with nasty-looking teeth.

The landlady gave Rob a pleasant enough smile and lifted a glass down from a hook.

She poured the lager, while the man half-turned to take him in, before reaching down to pat his dog.

“Just you, is it?” the landlady asked.

“I’m expecting a friend.”

“I can run a tab, if you like?”

“Thanks.” He nodded, and she noted the drink on a pad next to the till.

Rob picked up the pint and made his way to a small, round table furthest from the bar. He tucked himself into a corner by the fireplace.

The place smelled of old wood. Brass horseshoes were tacked to the beams and ugly Toby jugs stared out at the empty chairs.

The door opened and the young woman walked in.

She’d undergone a transformation. The black bob of hair was now shoulder-length blonde. She looked smarter, too.

He stood up. She smiled at him, waved and called out.

“Hi!”

The landlady picked up a wine glass, in anticipation of a fresh order. “The gentleman has a bill running, so what would you like?”

“Half a Guinness,” the woman said brightly. The landlady replaced the wine glass and poured the stout into a straight half-pint glass. There was a pause while she let the beer settle before topping it up. Rob remained standing, feeling awkward.

The young woman came over to the table. She looked friendly and confident, as if they met here every Thursday evening. Following years of behaviour training, he let her take her seat before resuming his.

She leant over and kissed him on the cheek.

“How are you?” she said, loud enough for the pub’s other two occupants to hear.

“Fine, thank you.”

Her new hair made a difference, but her clothes changed everything. Gone were the loose fitting tops and scruffy jeans. She now wore a smart, cream blouse and black slacks, and had a shiny new handbag. She looked as if she’d just come from an office job, not the peace camp.

She studied him with clear, green eyes. She had a turned down mouth, dimples in both cheeks.

She hung her handbag on the chair, before crossing her hands on the table.

“How was your day?”

“Fine, thank you.”

She leant in close. “Let’s wait for the background noise to rise a bit.”

His eyes scanned the empty pub.

The door swung open again and three men bustled in wearing boots, wax jackets and ruddy complexions.

They laughed about something, and the landlady greeted them by name. The woman leant forward again.

“Why did you steal Top Secret documents from the military?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You had them in your house.”

“I didn’t steal them.”

“Then why did you have them?”

She kept her serene smile. At a glance, anyone would think they were having a cosy chat about holiday plans.

The three newcomers stood at the bar and tucked into their hard-earned pints, chatting loudly about some adventure with a bailer.

She spoke again. “Georgina Milford gave them to you to hide?”

“No.”

“Then what was the arrangement, Robert?”

He shook his head. “Who are you?”

“Don’t look so worried, it will attract attention.”

“I can’t look like anything else at the moment.”

“Well, being caught with Guiding Light material means jail time. Why risk it?” She spoke with such casualness, but Rob winced at the project name.

“I wanted to return them, but… it’s complicated.”

She leant back and folded her arms, those green eyes constantly assessing him.