Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

“Which leaves sixty-four blank tapes delivered to West Porton, most of which are unaccounted for. They’ve simply vanished. Apart from these two.”

He reached into a bag and placed two tape sleeves on the table. Rob peered down. One was marked ‘Blank F1’, the other ‘Blank F2’. He recognised Millie’s handwriting.

The man continued. “The tapes themselves are at DF Blackton in Cambridge. Their computer is not fully operational, but they’ve been able to read one of them and contrary to the word ‘blank’ on the sleeve here, it contains height readings from a recent flight. And yet it doesn’t exist as a logged tape anywhere in the system.”

“Yes, the boss explained all this.”

Hoskins gave Rob an appraising look.

“I’m told there was simply no scope for a logging error. Would you agree with Wing Commander Kilton about that?”

“I suppose there isn’t. It was a well organised process.”

“You see, the lettering on the sleeves, ‘F1’ and ‘F2’, doesn’t match the way the official tapes were logged. One theory is there was a parallel project going on. A separate set of tapes generated during the Guiding Light trial flights.”

Rob put on a look of surprise. “How would that be possible?”

“Oh, it’s quite possible,” the man said, with a confident look, “with the right help.”

Hoskins stayed quiet for a while, then continued. “And if these are ‘F1’ and ‘F2’, where are the A, B, C, D and E tapes, do you suppose?”

“You think there might be more?”

“I just told you, we’ve found just two of the sixty-four missing reels.” He paused. “So you have no idea where they are?”

Rob shook his head. “Why would I?”

“Well, that brings me onto the flight information we were able to glean from one of the reels.”

He turned some sheets over.

“You may not know, but the information captured by the reels includes the geographic position and time elapsed. So, with the help of Wing Commander Kilton, we have been cross-referencing with your logbook entries.”

The investigator produced a chart of the north of England, with a route marked by a thick red line. Every so often along the legs between waypoints, a black cut had been drawn across, presumably where one tape ended and the next began. Rob recognised the track; it was the route they’d taken home after a low-level run that ended near Carlisle.

“The tapes produce a track that runs from a point in the Irish Sea just off the coast from Cockermouth, running south, coasting in at Rhyl and then a left turn east toward home.” Hoskins placed a pen on the chart just above Shrewsbury. “This is where the tape change happened.” He looked up to Rob. “Do you recognise this route?”

Rob screwed up his face in thought. “Maybe one of the northern low-level runs we did?”

The investigator nodded. “Spot on. Wednesday 22nd June. You and Speedy Johnson at the controls.” He turned over a piece of paper that had all his Guiding Light flights noted.

“Well, yes, that makes sense, but the Guiding Light run ended at Carlisle.” Rob leaned forward and pointed to the chart.

“I’m aware of that. So why do we have two additional tapes of data from that flight? And who decided that a simple exercise in running the Guiding Light equipment involved a long transit north and south when, according to Wing Commander Kilton, you could have flown straight from the airfield and run the trial locally?”

Rob glanced behind Hoskins at the frosted glass that marked Kilton’s office. He could see a dark shadow, occasionally moving, and assumed it was the boss at his desk.

“Anything you know could help me, Robert.”

“I didn’t get involved in the planning. Millie ran the project. Speedy and I just flew the routes.”

The officer made a note.

“Squadron Leader Johnson had a conversation with Lieutenant Brunson later that day. Apparently, you quizzed Milford about exactly how many tapes he would produce. That seems like an odd conversation to have if your only job was to fly where he told you.”

“I recall being a bit frustrated that we had such a long trip, when, as you say, we could have flown it locally. That’s all.”

“Anything else to add?”

“No.”

Hoskins made further notes and Rob shifted in his seat.

“Finally, we have the conundrum of the missing reels. Part of that is discovering exactly how they were smuggled out of West Porton. I don’t suppose you could shed any light on that aspect of this case? Did you for instance ever see Squadron Leader Milford making any unusual adaptations to his car? Perhaps creating a secret compartment that would fool the guards?”

Rob laughed.

“Something amusing about that concept?”

“Millie could barely operate the indicator in his Rover.”

There was another pause. Hoskins closed the paper file and placed the tape sleeves back in his case.

“Right. Well, please continue to give it your thought.”

Hoskins stood up; Rob quickly followed suit. The security officer held out his hand. As Rob shook it, Hoskins gripped it and stared at him again. Rob wondered if this was some ploy the man had seen in the movies.

“This is no time for misplaced loyalty. If anything transpires that reveals you haven’t been completely forthcoming, you will be the man who takes the fall and, believe me, it will be a very, very big fall.”

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

After an uncomfortably long time, Hoskins released Rob’s hand. He turned and made for the door.

“One thing occurs to me,” Hoskins called after him.

Rob reluctantly turned back.

“You haven’t attempted to defend Wing Commander Milford, and you don’t appear particularly surprised about these accusations. Did you suspect this was happening all along?”

“I think I’m still in shock, to be honest. But no, I don’t think there is any way on god’s earth that Christopher Milford was a traitor, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Rob left the room, and loitered for a second, just outside the door.

He needed to talk to Susie, but it wasn’t even 2PM.

Five and a half hours until his next arranged meeting with his new partner. Before that, he needed a drink.

He sat at Millie’s desk and willed time to speed up.

FINALLY, in the bar with the returning crews, Rob recognised JR from the Maintenance Unit with a few of his colleagues. In another corner were the air traffickers. It looked like a special occasion, but then he noticed one woman with puffy eyes.

“Bright’s girl,” Brunson said. “Steve Bright. He was walking out with her. June’s her name. I think.”

The enormity of the crash washed over him again. A young woman, whose name he didn’t know, in tears, her life torn apart.

The smell of the beer and smoke made him nauseous.

He was an interloper. He shouldn’t be there.

“I have to go. Sorry.”

He got up and hurried to the door.

AFTER DINNER, when Rob had left for the mess to plan Millie’s wake, Mary finished the washing up and prepared to go out for a walk.

She needed to clear her head.

As she folded her apron and put it into a drawer, there was a polite tap at the kitchen door. She opened it.

“Hello, Mary.”

It took her a moment to place Janet Laverstock. But the bouffant of blonde hair, without a strand out of place, triggered her memory.

“Hello, Janet. Is it my turn for the flower rota at church?”

Janet smiled. “No. I just wondered if we could have a chat.”

Mary made Janet a glass of squash and they sat in the garden. Janet looked nervously around, as if checking they wouldn’t be overheard.