by N Williams
The Ikarus C42 was parked near the Portacabin that acted as a club office and schoolroom within the fenced off secure area of the field. Although the aircraft was small, this one was equipped with the latest in glass-cockpit technology.
Zac quickly ran through the vital compulsory pre-flight checks and fired up the 80 horsepower Rotax engine. Within minutes, he was climbing out over Three Cliffs Bay and banking left for a heading north along the route of the River Tawe.
Zac connected his iPod into the headphone jack adaptor and selected some Gary Moore.
*
Bourse and Tourrain were running out of time. Frustrated at not finding anything at the woman’s flat to lead them to the diary, they drove back to Swansea and spent the rest of the night outside Zac’s apartment. Bourse was glad he wasn’t paying for the petrol.
They followed Zac’s X-Type to the airport where Tourrain parked the Cayenne out of sight.
Thirty minutes later, Bourse stood alongside an enthusiastic anorak by the cafe and watched the little aircraft bank away over the coast.
They knew where Zac was going; the portable radio receiver the plane spotter was listening to provided all the information they needed.
Bourse had been well briefed on Zac Woods. He knew it would be easier to target the woman but didn’t understand why the contact needed the diary. It would be easier if they just got rid of everyone who had any knowledge of it. It would certainly be prudent to get rid of Zac Woods. Now all they had to do was make sure he didn’t return from his flight.
Bourse made a call on his cell phone.
‘He’s on his way to Shobdon. Make the necessary arrangements - and make them discreet.’
*
The flight to Shobdon took Zac up along the Swansea Valley, following his flight plan above the course of the river for most of the way. The Tawe had been a magnet to Zac and his friends during the hot summers of the seventies. Even though the water was always frigid it never stopped the fun. From above it looked little more than a large dirty green winding stream.
At three thousand feet, the Welsh countryside was a patchwork of green, brown and yellow fields, stitched together by hedges and dry-stone walls.
The weather was ideal. The dreadful conditions at the start of the week had given way to a day of unbroken sunshine. It was perfect flying conditions and the view was spectacular. The steep glaciated sides of the Swansea Valley began to draw in as he approached Ystradgynlais. Rachel had been killed directly below him just a couple of days ago.
Zac flew over his old school and playing fields and several of the houses he had lived in as a child. Six houses in fifteen years - the new breed of travellers moved less often. He could spot all of the old houses as he flew north along the valley.
Less than five minutes later the bright, morning sun glinted off a lake in the grounds around Craig-Y-Nos Castle.
A flash of light from the roof drew Zac’s attention. A white stone slab stood out against the dark pitch-covered flat roof. Hidden from the ground by the crenellations around the perimeter, a large crucifix had been carved into the block of rectangular stone - something that could only be seen from the air.
Zac knew a little about the castle and Adelina Patti. Nearly everybody in the valley knew something about Madame Patti. She was the first major celebrity at a time when celebrities were otherwise unheard of - the Catherine Jenkins or Charlotte Church of her day. She had been a devout Catholic, but Zac hadn’t heard anything about the cross before. It hadn’t even been mentioned in any of the tour guides.
The Ikarus flew on up the valley, the 70-knot cruise speed slow enough to appreciate the sights. Zac turned up the music as the dry ski slope and giant plastic dinosaurs of the Dan-Yr-Ogof Show-caves passed under the port wing - the music a desperate attempt to suppress the terrible memories the place held for him. Within five minutes, he was over the Crai reservoir and following a course to Brecon. From there he banked north to Shobdon.
CHAPTER 20
Sally had to go in to work. Dehydrated and shattered from a night of constant fear, she felt like shit and her head beat out the theme tune to Hawaii Five-O, but she knew she had to go. She had spent a dreadful night in the tin-tomb before being rescued by the lift engineer. Quicker than usual, she thought sarcastically.
After she had jammed the lift, Sally had pressed the emergency call button on the control panel and then sat on the floor, ready for a long wait. She hadn’t been disappointed.
The big man shouted and banged on the door for a while. His companion was obviously still with him as she could hear them shouting at each other. Eventually it all went quiet, and Sally was sure that they had given up and gone.
It was now over an hour after she was due to be at work. She had tried to call her boss and Zac from her mobile phone, but there was no signal inside the metal-lined lift. She had tapped out a text message to Zac, knowing it would eventually be sent as soon as the signal resumed.
Her apartment had been trashed. The bastards had taken her work from the desk, and her netbook computer. There was nothing in her work notes or the netbook that would be of any value to the raiders. She checked through the mess for anything missing. Nothing came to mind.
Sally called a twenty-four hour emergency locksmith who arrived considerably quicker than the lift engineer. Another ten minutes and she had the apartment secured. She had changed, picking the undamaged bits of clothing she could find, made herself a coffee to calm her nerves and then set off for work. She decided she’d call the police from there.
*
Sally owed Olive lunch for standing in for her the night before. It had saved her from what was sure to be an uncomfortable meeting with her new “temporary” boss.
As she drove the Ka around the back of the museum building and into the car park at the front, Sally realised something was wrong when she saw the seemingly endless strands of blue and white striped tape sealing off the building. Two police cars and a black Vauxhall estate were parked outside.
There must have been a break-in at the museum overnight. That was convenient; she could report her break-in to the coppers rather than call it in.
Sally stepped from her car and stopped. She had seen a black Vauxhall like it before. The car looked like the one used by the local undertaker to ferry stiffs to the morgue.
She ran up the steps to the front doors of the building. A uniform stepped out of the shadow of the doorway and stopped her in her tracks. ‘Sorry, the museum is closed today. Been a bit of an incident.’
‘What kind of incident?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t say, please move along.’
‘I work here.’
The intransigent attitude of the officer quickly dissipated. ‘If you’d like to wait out here I’ll see if I can get the D.I. to have a word with you,' he said with what almost passed for a patronising smile.
The young police officer opened the service door and stuck his head inside the building. Within seconds another man stood in the doorway.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Boyce of Dyfed Powys Police.’
‘Dyfed Powys? But I always thought this a South Wales Police area?’
Boyce nodded. ‘Yes, it is. I’m involved in the investigation here in Cardiff because of the link to some other murders in my county, which we believe may be connected. I’m afraid that two employees were found dead here this morning. The cleaners found them inside. I understand you work here too?’
‘Yes,’ Sally was shocked. ‘Who was killed?’
‘I didn’t say anyone was killed.’
‘I beg to differ... you just said it’s linked to other murders… it’s bloody obvious isn’t it?’ said Sally, ‘You’ve got the place taped off, and it’s not likely that two staff members die of natural causes at the same time, is it?’
The D.I. looked embarrassed. ‘Okay. I’m afraid I need to ask you a few questions. I’d like to know what you can tell me about Peter Bernard…’ he reached for his notebook and read the second n
ame, ‘…and...a...Miss Olive Preston?’
CHAPTER 21
Handel Fenwick was waiting in the airfield car park when Zac landed. It never ceased to amaze him how Fenwick was always immaculately dressed. Even in casual clothes, he had kept his trousers razor-pressed and was always spotlessly clean, a standard he had maintained throughout his service as a police officer.
The short ride to Fenwick’s cottage in the older man’s nineteen seventy-three Triumph Stag was terrific fun. The wind through his hair was exhilarating as Fenwick turned the volume down on Madonna. A small silver crucifix, hanging from the mirror, tapped a rhythm against the screen.
‘Don’t you think you should put this old shed in a retirement home?’ teased Zac.
‘Not on your Nelly. This is classic British engineering,’ joked Handel. ‘Can’t beat it to keep you feeling young, and on your toes.’
Zac grinned, ‘Lovely body, shame about the engine.’
‘My wife used to say that about me.’ Fenwick switched channels to Radio Five. He dropped the Stag down to third and floored the classic through the narrow country lanes.
The three-hundred-year-old, whitewashed and oak framed cottage sat amongst manicured gardens as immaculate and well ordered as their owner.
The narrow path, leading from the little white picket gate, was bordered by a variety of roses and plants that Zac didn’t recognise. It was a living potpourri.
The low beamed ceilings of the cottage and inglenook fireplace gave the house a cosy feel, and it was a place that Zac loved to visit. The cottage must have cost Fenwick a small fortune. Property prices were at a premium in Herefordshire.
Prior to his retirement party, Zac hadn’t seen Handel since the funeral of his wife, a year before. Life was often unfair like that to retired coppers.
‘How are you finding things without Stella?’
‘Oh, you know, getting by, I suppose. What about you?’
‘Well I was okay. You know my ex-girlfriend, the one who was murdered? After we finished she eventually went on to become the curator of the Museum in Cardiff. Did remarkably well for herself; Ph.D and all the bells and whistles,’ said Zac. ‘We didn’t part the best of friends. To be honest, she did a good job of convincing me that she hated me for joining the job. This has all come as a bit of a shock. Don’t expect someone you know to be murdered, even in our old line of business.’
‘No you don't... I’m sorry Zac. It’s a lousy business. Always is when someone’s life is taken away like that. Just shouldn’t happen. Things like that make you wonder why we’re here... you know...we work hard to make a living, get taxed to the hilt, and when we come to retire, if we’re lucky enough to get there, we’re cast aside like some unwanted toy. It makes my blood boil. No one seems to give a shit. The politicians say what they think we want to hear and then stab us in the back as soon as they’re elected to power. They’re all a bunch of money grabbing...’ Fenwick got to his feet, breathing heavily, and poured Zac tea into a rose print porcelain cup. ‘Did you bring that disc you mentioned on the phone?’
Zac pulled the disc from a pocket and handed it to Fenwick.
‘We’ll have to take a trip down to my boat. All my computer equipment has been installed on the Stella - state of the art stuff. It’ll give me a chance to show you the old tub.’
*
The topless V8 Stag burbled its way to the marina at Symonds Yat. All kinds of boats were tied up along the marina’s edge. Zac followed Handel to the largest and most impressive power cruiser - a fifty-foot gin palace.
‘Shit! That’s some tub.’
‘Nice, isn’t she? A company called Cruisers makes her, and this is their 477 Sport Sedan. The ultimate in luxury.’
The name "Stella" had been stencilled in gold paint onto the side of the bow. Zac knew nothing about boats but knew that this one must have cost a packet. It looked like a million dollars, and he wouldn’t have bet against the thing being valued not far off that figure.
‘How on earth can you afford one of these? I know a Superintendent pension is good, but this is bloody ridiculous.’
‘Amazing what sort of bribes you can demand at my old rank,’ he laughed. ‘No. Seriously, I always put money aside for retirement. It was our dream to cruise the Med. Never quite got there though,’ he added.
Zac followed Fenwick up the gangplank onto the boat. It was superbly appointed and was crammed with books and computer equipment. A top of the range iMac sat on the desk along with a variety of different sized printers and several stacks of program discs.
‘I do some work for a few clients...legal stuff...and a little detective work to keep my mind active. Thirty-three years of dealing with crimes isn’t something you can just switch off. I couldn’t just retire altogether. I had to find some work, keeps the boat in diesel and prevents me from dwelling on other things...’
The office set-up amazed Zac. ‘This is better than my kit at home.’
Fenwick slipped the disc into the computer.
Zac clicked through the options to the flash video of Rachel and let his old friend watch it in silence.
‘Looks scared,’ said Fenwick after the clip had finished.
‘Yes, she does. It sounds like the folder contains some pretty electric stuff, but I can’t get past the encryption to access the information.’
Fenwick looked at the image of a folder and clicked it with the mouse. A password dialogue box appeared. ‘Mm. Not much point in trying to guess the password. It may have a limited number of attempts before it erases the information permanently. I need to transfer it onto a different hard-drive format. That’ll probably do the trick. I don’t have one on board but it shouldn’t take much to track one down. Leave the disc with me and I’ll get back to you as soon as I crack it.’
The disc drawer popped open. Handel removed the disc from the machine, clicked it into a case, and locked it in a small safe below the galley sink.
*
Zac sat silently as Fenwick took a call on his mobile and excused himself as he walked off to bring the Stag around for the journey back to the airstrip.
At least he now had someone who could offer some serious investigative clout. Handel had made some powerful connections during his service, and if anyone could get to the bottom of the mystery, Zac was sure he was the man.
*
A small white van stopped in a field alongside the airfield. A short fat man in dirty brown coveralls opened the back door and lifted the heavy fuel can from the rear.
The pilot of the Ikarus had requested a refuel before the flight back to Swansea. He located the hand-pump and pushed the end into the filler hole. After pumping in the thirty litres of fuel, he shook the nozzle and dropped it onto the grass. There was only one more thing to do. He felt inside his coverall pocket for the black spherical object his contact had delivered. The size of a golf ball, it stunk of diesel. Before he replaced the filler cap, he dropped the ball into the fuel tank.
Job done!
CHAPTER 22
The Ikarus C42 had been refuelled, had a courtesy oil check and screen clean before Zac had returned to the airport. All he had to do was hand over the payment for the service.
Back in the air, he was soon retracing his route home.
Ray-Ban shades in place, Zac was in the zone. Gary Moore had given way to Europa by Carlos Santana, and at three thousand feet in late September the sun was low and directly in his line of sight heading west. The weather looked like it would stay clear for a while.
After thirty minutes and travelling at seventy knots into a slight headwind, the aircraft was still making good time. He could see the glistening light reflecting off the bay ten miles or so ahead. Following the valley to the city, he’d then bank right over Three Cliffs Bay for the approach to the airport.
Zac was enjoying the flight when his iPhone rang. He pulled it from its leather pouch and saw a text from Sally. His smile evaporated as he scanned the text.
He’d have to take a run up to Card
iff as soon as he landed. He considered diverting to Cardiff International but then he'd have to hire a car, and he wasn't qualified to fly at night. An overnight stay might be awkward.
The white spidery supporting struts of the Liberty Stadium appeared ahead just as he heard a slight misfire from the engine. It was nothing much at first, just a missed beat within the usually reliable and regular mechanical pulse of the heart of the aircraft. The oil pressure gauge of the eighty horsepower engine appeared normal, but the miss occurred again, and then again within seconds. Zac checked the instruments; the aircraft was losing height, and the seventy knot cruise had dropped to sixty-five. The oil pressure gauge had also decided to join in the fun and was registering a drop of its own.
Lowering the nose slightly to regain some airspeed, he knew that wouldn’t cure the problem of the misfire which now sounded like more miss than fire. He had to look for somewhere to land, and fast.
It couldn't have happened at a worse time. He was over a densely built-up part of the city, with no suitable landing site within safe distance. He had only one option. Zac found a good clear stretch of the beach running east to west ahead of him, allowing him to approach into the wind. He quickly called a mayday to Swansea airport.
Relieved that there seemed to be only a handful of beach walkers, he kept the nose down slightly to make a steady descent towards the sand.
Zac had long since given up hope of restarting the engine, and switched off the magnetos and fuel pump. The last thing he wanted was to ditch the aircraft and have a fire to contend with.
The valley opened out above the white spars of the rugby stadium with about a half-mile or so to the beach. The aircraft was coming down too quickly. Zac was now level with the stepped terraces of linked houses on Kilvey Hill and the river bridge loomed ahead. The new multilevel apartments and offices of the recently developed SA1 area of the docks allowed little room for error. His only chance was to aim for the bridge, to exit the built-up area at the river mouth, and then bank quickly towards the beach. He had just one chance.
