by Amy Myers
Pullman, to Georgia’s surprise, burst out laughing, an odd sound from such a contained man. ‘You think they’ve all got six-foot-five minders to do their dirty work for them? I suppose we should follow that up though. I spoke to Martin Heywood, your rival biographer . . .’ Georgia let that pass. ‘He said there was one you couldn’t trace,’ Pullman continued.
‘Alan Purcell, who’s apparently lived in France since the 1940s and never comes to Britain.’
‘If he wasn’t here in 1975, I can’t see he could be involved.’
Georgia hesitated, then, mindful of Marsh & Daughter’s rules, said, ‘We think Jack might have gone to see him recently; the address in the Hardcastle files is a false one though.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Pullman’s eye fell wistfully on the strawberry tart.
‘Do have it,’ Georgia urged.
‘I will.’
Pullman engaging with crumbly strawberry tarts would be an interesting test of his character, Georgia thought. She watched as he attacked the tart straight on, regardless of crumbs, going straight for the central strawberry. Was that an encouraging sign, or an indication of a blinkered mind? It could, she supposed, be either. It would depend on whether the strawberry was the real McCoy or a plastic one for decoration.
‘Are we still downhearted?’ Peter asked, after Pullman had left (with what seemed genuine gratitude – for the strawberry tart at least).
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I feel that he’s on the wrong track pursuing Paul and/or the other aviation club people.’ That, she thought, might be Pullman’s plastic strawberry.
‘That’s a new track for you. That’s where you originally thought the answer lay. Is it the right track though?’
‘I don’t know,’ she answered in desperation. ‘What Pullman says does make sense. If Jack’s death is linked to those reunions, it follows that his killer was likely to be one of the aviation club contingent, and we should be following up Vincent Blake and Richard Vane, and yet it doesn’t feel right.’
Peter thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps they’ll get Purcell’s address for us.’
‘And perhaps they won’t. Has it occurred to you that he might not be living under that name?’
‘I was hoping you wouldn’t think of that. It would turn a mere nightmare into reality. Anyway, Purcell might possibly have a line on Jack’s death, but not Fairfax’s.’
‘Wrong,’ she said instantly. ‘If the former, then the latter must be relevant. What else would Jack have seen him about?’
‘General Battle of Britain stuff for the new book.’
‘Then why was Jack so cagey about it? Why the false address, and why, if we’re right, has Purcell taken a false name?’
‘Because he’s a nutter about secrecy.’
‘Make my day complete,’ she said gloomily. ‘You might be right.’
*
Her day was made as soon as Georgia returned to her own home. There was a message waiting for her to ring Martin Heywood. What could this be about, she wondered. Exchanging sob stories about police interviews? Intrigued, she rang straight back. It was a mobile number and he answered almost immediately. She was right, as it turned out.
‘I’ve had the police on my back,’ he said abruptly. ‘The last thing I need at the moment.’
‘So have we, but they’re still fishing around. I don’t see why it should affect you, however, apart from the time point of view. You’re not dealing with Fairfax’s death to any great degree, let alone Jack’s. Anyway, they seem to be going down the aviation club road,’ she said comfortingly.
‘You have no idea.’ His voice sounded bitter. ‘I was going to ring you anyway to let you know we’re beginning to plan the campaign.’
‘What campaign?’
‘The press.’ He sounded slightly surprised that she hadn’t realized. ‘We want to launch the publicity on Battle of Britain Day, September fifteenth. I’ll send you tickets. For Earth Too Hard is to be released next year.’
‘That’s your film?’ It had to be. It sounded lofty and learned.
‘Yes, a quotation from Browning. Aspirational. Really aspirational. We need press build-up, interviews and so forth.’
‘Why are you worried about a police investigation? After all, there’s no such thing as bad publicity, so they say.’
‘It depends how bad. We want the public to concentrate on Patrick’s life, not on who might have killed him. It affects the final shots anyway.’
‘You mean if we or the police discover who did kill him your film might be invalidated?’
‘Not necessarily. We might end with just a gun, exploding into darkness. The death is symbolic. Do you see what I mean?’
‘I think so,’ she lied.
‘We might choose to have just that, followed by silence and a screen relating what happened. That can be done at the last moment, and the new edition of the book wouldn’t be affected.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘I’ll tell you. You should know, anyway. It sounds crazy, but I think I’m being watched,’ Martin blurted out. ‘I’ve had some threatening letters, warning me to keep off. I have had plenty of them in the past, and usually bin them, but this time it’s different. I get the impression that this is serious, and I’ve a wife and kid to think about. I wondered if you were getting the same treatment. Do you think there’s some maniac out there who doesn’t want Fairfax resurrected – and that’s why Jack was attacked?’
The receiver felt clammy in her hand, as the memory of that tube station came back. ‘I haven’t had warning letters, but I’ve had the feeling of being followed too,’ she admitted. ‘Peter hasn’t, to my knowledge, but I’m the more visible presence.’ Although he, she thought with a shiver, was the more vulnerable.
A silence. ‘That’s bad, then. For all of us. When were you aware of it?’
‘The day I went to see Sylvia Lee,’ Georgia said. The first time she was sure about it, at least.
‘Why did you want to see her?’
‘Background. And her husband was there at the time of the murder.’
‘Aviation club again. That’s what Pullman’s interested in, you say. By the way, you told me you were interested in the sergeant pilots, as well as the officers.’
‘Yes.’ For a moment she couldn’t recall doing so, and then it came back. Tangmere. She was surprised he’d remembered. ‘We need the full picture, and Eddie Stubbs is still around, of course.’
‘Sylvia talks about them sometimes,’ he commented.
‘She spoke briefly about them to me too. Did you interview her for your film?’
‘Of course. She agreed to be represented in it, so to speak. Dancing with Patrick.’
‘I know where you got that idea,’ Georgia laughed. ‘Eddie.’
‘Right. I might be able to help over the sergeant pilots,’ he continued. ‘I talked to Vic Parr before he died, as well as Eddie and the other surviving officers.’
‘Including Alan Purcell?’
‘The great recluse? No. Not from my point of view essential. I had Hugo Barnaby for the evasion story. He was in the same group.’
She’d forgotten about Patrick’s later career, and his being shot down in France. ‘Are you covering that in the film?’
‘Of course. It’s a great story.’
Was this something they had been overlooking? Could there have been anything in that relevant to 1975? Not likely. The reunion was focused on the Battle of Britain, not the remainder of the war.
‘We have to concentrate on the pilots,’ she said, ‘which means the Battle of Britain.’
‘Just as well. Barnaby died last year. I could send you his account of the evasion if you want it. He was on the same party as Patrick. If I get a line on Purcell, I’ll let you know.’
*
‘Martin implied that Purcell could tell us about Fairfax’s evasion when he was shot down in 1941.’
‘Did he?’ Peter reached for Jack’s biog
raphy and flicked to the relevant chapter. ‘Shot down in a village outside Lille, evaded via the Garibaldi line to the Pyrenees, captured by Vichy police, interrogated, escaped, and made it – with Hugo Burnaby – over the Pyrenees to Gibraltar early in 1942.’
‘No mention of Purcell?’
‘Odd. I’ll look into it. If we ever do trace Purcell, it might be useful. Meanwhile, we’ll have to hammer on at the other pilots.’
‘Not Bill Dane again,’ Georgia decreed.
‘I agree. He could stonewall for England. Who do you reckon then?’
‘Not Matt Jones.’
‘Poor old chap. Again, I agree. Take your pick of the canny reliable Scot, McNee, jolly old Harry Williams, or doom-laden Jan Molkar.’
‘I’ll pick jolly Harry Williams,’ she said promptly. He lived in Lewes, and Sussex on a summer day was preferable to the London area.
*
‘Don’t see how I can help, dear lady. Delighted of course. Not often a pretty woman comes begging to see me at my time of life.’
‘Difficult to believe that,’ Georgia rejoined automatically to Harry. With a mane of grey hair, and strong if florid features, Harry Williams was still a fine-looking man, and although he was not able to walk too far he radiated energy, rather than shadows of a life past.
‘Still looking into Patrick’s death, are you?’
‘You liked Patrick?’
He looked at her in astonishment. ‘Splendid fellow. Still miss him. That laugh of his. I can still hear it. His voice over the intercom: “Tally-ho! I spy bandits.”’
‘You all seem very different in temperament, although you’re so close-knit now.’
‘We’ve been through a lot. Like being at school. You don’t pick your chums, they just arrive. Like poor old Ken Lyle. You stick, because you don’t question them.’
‘Ken Lyle? He was in 362, wasn’t he?’ She remembered the name from the photograph.
‘Killed in the battle. Remember him as if it were yesterday. What we went through.’
Was that the only reason that the magic circle was so hard to break into? It was the iron band born of common experience. Perhaps, yet she’d been to the occasional squadron reunion with Peter’s father when he was alive, and had no such impression. But she wasn’t looking into a murder then. Could murder be holding this group together? It was hard to believe a group of men of nearly ninety would be protecting a murderer in their midst, but it wasn’t impossible. Save, she thought, that the reason for the murder would surely have to be in their common interest and there was no hint of that.
‘How do you remember the day of Patrick’s death? It must have been terrible.’
He thought about this. ‘Clouded.’ He leaned back, eyes closed. ‘Trying hard, m’dear. Trying hard. Can’t remember the lunch – had so many since. I remember old Patrick being upset because those club members of his came.’
‘I heard about that. I met Janet Freeman.’
‘Oh-ho!’ His eyes gleamed. ‘He wasn’t upset about her. Far from it. Had a dirty weekend set up, in my view.’
‘You knew about his affair with her?’
‘Seen it all before. Talking of my own parade ground here. I recognized the signs. Crazy about her, he was.’
‘And she him?’
‘No doubt about it. The lady didn’t beat about the bush.’
‘But it wasn’t a serious affair between her and Patrick?’
‘Not so sure about that. I got the impression Patrick was serious this time. His kids were grown up and off his hands, and Jean – well, she must have taken some living with. Intense sort. Patrick liked a good time.’
‘Janet Freeman didn’t strike me as a good-time girl.’
‘She was in those days, believe me. A very flirty lady. Had a bit of a fling with her myself, as a matter of fact. She dropped me like a hot potato when Patrick turned his blue eyes on her.’
‘Mrs Fairfax thought Patrick’s row with Paul Stock that afternoon was in fact with Bill Dane and over his wife.’
He blushed. ‘Afraid that might have been me. Tried to cover up for Patrick even though he was dead. Didn’t want to upset Jean. She was used to Patrick’s fly by nights, but a serious affair was a different kettle of fish. So when she tackled me about what had happened that day I said the first thing that came into my head. Patrick was seen around with Alice quite a bit, so I told Jean it was over her. Rotten of me. Confessed to Alice. She and Bill hauled me over the coals and that was the end of it. All forgiven. Alice was a good sort. If she wasn’t married to Bill I’d have made a play for her myself. Don’t worry, m’dear. I’m past all that now.’
Georgia laughed aloud. ‘Good.’
‘About time, you think?’ His own laugh bellowed out. ‘With the old woman I’ve got I wouldn’t dare make a pass. She’s out with her active pensioners group climbing Box Hill this afternoon. You should see them, sticks to the fore, charging around. She’s active enough with her mouth too, I can tell you. Keeps me in my place. Tell you what, m’dear, you give me a hand and we’ll take a turn round the Grange Gardens. Only just round the corner and with a bit of help I can make it.’
Obediently she helped him out of his chair and into his coat, put the sticks in his hand, tucked her elbow under his arm, and set off with him at a slow pace across the road. This lower part of Lewes was quiet and residential, the older part of the town. It was here that Henry VIII had provided a house for Anne of Cleves, and the monks had once pursued their meditations in the now ruined priory. In the higher part of the town, the castle and battlefields spoke of a former, bloodier past, but here it was still possible to imagine monks walking, despite the close bypass and railway.
The gardens were indeed lovely, with bricked paths and water features, but the steps took time to negotiate and Georgia tactfully steered Harry towards the flat grassy part of the gardens. ‘Recreation ground.’ He turned and pointed behind them. ‘Monks played football there.’ Wheezy laugh. ‘My football days are over. This is as far as I can get. Now then.’ He paused to rest. ‘About poor old Patrick. He wasn’t one for money details, but he saw the broad picture. I remember him winking at me as I left the hotel that day. “I’ll leave it ten minutes or so till precious Paul gets going with Matt and Alice, then I’ll blow in with my answer to their prayers. Cash input from Vane, Blake and Standing.” He just couldn’t see that he was the source of the trouble and that cash wouldn’t help.’
‘But you don’t think Matt had anything to do with Patrick’s death?’ she asked bluntly.
He looked horrified. ‘Good grief, no. Matt was all talk. That’s why he let Patrick get away with it for so long. The idea of his picking up a gun and shooting anyone is ludicrous and even the police thought so. Must have done. They tested his hands, you know, for powder burns. Nothing. All clean. And before you say gloves, where would you find a pair of them on a May evening?’
‘It was a planned murder,’ Georgia pointed out.
‘Then,’ Harry said with simplicity, ‘it can’t have been Matt. He lost his rag at the meeting, not earlier. Half an hour or so isn’t long enough to plan that sort of thing.’
‘But suppose he had planned it, guessing that the meeting would achieve nothing, and just went through the motions of discussion.’
‘You’re on the wrong track, m’dear. Not Matt, not any of us could have done it. The police saw that.’
‘Are the sergeant pilots ruled out too?’ she asked without thinking, and felt her arm jerk.
‘What?’ Harry looked horrified. ‘It was an officers-only do.’
‘They might have been somewhere else in the hotel,’ she continued uncertainly, thrown by his reaction. ‘They would surely have known about the reunion, since you all went to the aviation club together.’
‘No reason to want to come, m’dear,’ he replied easily. He stopped at an old mulberry tree, now roped off to the public with a safety notice attached. ‘Look at that,’ he continued. ‘Would you believe it? Centuries old. Now
it’s a danger to the public, roped off. Next thing we know it’ll be chopped down like the tulip tree that used to be here.’
Georgia was shaken. Was this some kind of warning to her, or was she imagining it? ‘I felt like that in the dell where Patrick died,’ she persevered.
He looked his full age. No laughter in his eyes now. ‘Perhaps, my dear. Perhaps. Out of bounds, you know.’
With a man so elderly it was hard to guess at his thoughts, but the warmth had gone from the meeting. The magic ring had closed tight shut once more.
Chapter Ten
‘Would you prefer to go out?’ Georgia asked. Eddie Stubbs lived in a sheltered-housing complex in Dover, and after her experience with Harry he had been their obvious next choice. There was no point in tackling any of the four other pilots in the magic ring.
‘No offence, but I thought that was the idea.’ Eddie immediately perked up.
‘We could take a run up to the castle if you fancy,’ Peter chimed in, ‘and take a look at old King Arthur’s Hall.’
Georgia’s heart sank. Would King Arthur never go away? Fortunately Eddie had other plans.
‘How about the old Coastguards? That’s if you don’t mind a bit of a drive.’
Dorset, she wondered wildly. She suspected Eddie was quite capable of it.
Luckily it proved somewhat nearer – at St Margaret’s Bay. It was just as well that Peter had chosen not only to accompany her but to drive his own car, which meant that she could now climb in the back to leave room for Eddie in front. It was also just as well that Peter was more than usually equable since Eddie’s navigating didn’t suggest he had missed a career in the RAF in this respect.
‘That’s it!’ he shouted after the car had whizzed past the narrow turning for St Margaret’s at Cliffe, but Peter surmounted the problem and drove through the small village.
Georgia hadn’t been here since she was a child and had visited the beach at the foot of the cliffs with Peter and Elena. Eddie directed Peter to turn off before that, however, towards the open cliffs, where the dramatic former coastguards’ tower was operating as a small café and restaurant, overlooking the sea and the coastal path to Deal. It was packed to the gunnels on such a fine day, but at the sight of Peter’s wheelchair accompanied by Eddie’s small frail figure, room was hastily made for them outside, where they had one of the best light lunches she had had in ages. With the magnificent view of the bay and cliffs and butterflies to be seen everywhere in the gorse heathland, it was easy to feel that 1940 was only yesterday.
