Blood on the tongue bcadf-3

by Stephen Booth

  ‘Can you recommend a good chippie then?’ said Murfin as he passed.

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  ‘We’re jjoing to have to take your car away to have a look at it, sir,’ Cooper called after him.

  Kemp put a hand in his pocket, turned and threw a set of keys on to the concrete platform.

  ‘Give it a wash, then, while you’re at it,’ he said, and slammed the front door.

  Ben Cooper and Gavin Murfin sat in Cooper’s Toyota to wait for the vehicle recovery team to arrive. It was cold, and it was starting to get dark already. Cooper kept the engine running so that they could have the heater on, and wondered what he could do with his time while he waited. He looked at Murfin, hut as soon as he’d felt the warmth from the heater, Murfin had put his head hack on his scat and closed his eyes. His mouth hung open slightly. Not much hope of conversation, then.

  Cooper tried the radio. There was a sociological discussion programme on Radio Four, a phone-in on Radio Sheffield, and pop hits of the 1980s on Peak 107. He poked around among his cassettes and found nothing he hadn’t listened to already in the last tew days. Then he remembered the books he had bought From Lawrence Dalcy, which were still somewhere deep in his poacher’s pocket.

  He switched on the courtesy light and flicked through the contents pages of the two books. He quickly found the chapter about the crash of Lancaster SU-V, Sugar Uncle Victor. It was one of many aircraft that had fallen victim to primitive navigation equipment and treacherous weather conditions over the Peak District. Some of them were aircraft the Germans hadn’t been able to shoot down, but which the hills of the Dark Peak had claimed.

  Ironically, Mk III Avro Lancaster W5013 had been built locally, by Metropolitan Vickers at their factory in Bamford. So it had started life only a few miles from where it had finished its days. From a recent photograph of the wreckage, he could see there were still several of the larger pieces left part of the tail, a wing section, and engine casings minus their propellers.

  Like Frank Baine, the author of these books had done plenty of research, and the details of SU-V’s crew were comprehen

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  sivc. As Bainc had said, there had been seven men on board the Lancaster four British RAF men, two Poles and the Canadian pilot, Danny McTeague.

  Of the British crew, the bomb aimer and rear gunner, Sergeants Bill Mee and Dick Abbott, had been found dead

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  some distance from the aircraft. The text described them as ‘severely mutilated’, but Cooper rccogni/ed the euphemism. The phrase was still used today, in official statements to the press on the victims of serious road accidents or suicides on the railway line. It meant their bodies had been dismembered. The wireless operator, Sergeant I farry Gregory, and the mid-upper unner, Sergeant Alec Hamilton, had been trapped inside the wreckage and had died in the fire that consumed the central section of the fuselage. Burned beyond recognition, they had

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  been identified by the uniforms under their flying suits, and by the contents of their pockets, after their bodies had been taken to the RAF mortuary at Buxton.

  Cooper put the book down tor a moment. Fie wondered whether Alison Morrissey had considered the possibility that one of the bodies had been wrongly identified. Perhaps, after all, her grandfather had died in the crash. All this time, it might have been some other member of the crew they should have been looking for. And he wondered about Pilot Officer Zygmunt Fukas/, the flight engineer, who had survived and was now seventy-eight years old.

  Gavin Murfin stirred and grunted in his seat. His eyes opened.

  ‘Where are we?’ he said.

  ‘Underbank,’ said Cooper. ‘We’re waiting for the recovery crew.’

  ‘There’s a good Indian takeaway around here somewhere,’ said Murfin. Then he snorted, and his head fell back again.

  Weather conditions and primitive equipment Cooper supposed that was the standard explanation for many of these incidents. Otherwise, the crash of Sugar Uncle Victor seemed inexplicable — the aircraft was flying much too low, and it was off course. But it was hinted in the book that the reason it was off course was that the skipper had apparently ignored

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  the navigator’s instructions. So was it another example of a

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  pilot caught in the trap between high ground and low cloud, finding mountains suddenly in front of him when he thought he was approaching his home airfield in Nottinghamshire? Or had something else gone wrong?

  One of the eye witnesses quoted in the account of the fate of Sugar Uncle Victor was the former RAF mountain rescue man, Walter Rowland, who had also keen mentioned by Alison Morrissev. Like Zygmunt Lukasz, he had been unwilling to talk

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  to her. Unwilling, or unable? Rowland was described as being eighteen years old at the time of the crash. After all that time, memories faded. But sometimes there were memories which were too clear for anyone to want them reviving. ‘}^o sign vet?’ mumbled Murrin.

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  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘It’s no good, Ren. I’m having curry-flavoured dreams. I’m going to have to go and see if that Indian is open.’

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  ‘Fair enough. I’ll still be here when you get back.’ ‘Do you want anything?’

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  ‘Some naan bread.’

  ‘Is that all? You can’t live on that.’

  “I wasn’t intending to,’ said Cooper.

  Murfin slipped out of the car, and Cooper watched him stumble down the street, clinging precariously to the steel handrail to stay on his feet. If he made it back up with a set of foil trays and a bag of naan bread intact, it would be a miracle.

  Cooper looked at his mobile phone. He was trying to remember whether Frank Bainc had said where Alison Morrissev was staying, but he couldn’t recall. There weren’t all that manyhotels in Edendalc, and he could easily give Baine a call in the morning to find out. He might also ask the journalist for Walter Rowland’s address.

  I hen Cooper laughed to himself. He was thinking all these things as if he were intending to investigate the fifty-sevenyear-old mystery, which was ridiculous. The Chief had alreadysent the Canadian woman packing, and quite rightly. There was certainly no time to be spared on pointless sidelines, by

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  himself or anyone else. He had more than enough to do. So what use would it be for him to know where Morrissev was

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  staying? Why should he need to visit Walter Rowland? No reason at all.

  Thinking he had finished the chapter on Sugar Uncle Victor, Cooper turned the page. He found himself looking at photographs of the wreckage taken shortly alter the crash. Sections of broken fuselage lay in the snow, being examined by policemen and servicemen in long overcoats. I he letters SUV were clearly visible on the airframe in one shot. There was no sign of Irontonguc Hill in the background, but the photographer had provided a distant glimpse over the moors to a glitter of water on Blackbrook Reservoir, which established the location beyond doubt.

  Then, with the next series of photos, the story suddenly took on a human dimension. The first picture was a ‘team line-up’ of the Lancaster crew — seven young men dressed in Irving suits and flying boots, with their fur collars turned up and the wires from their headsets dangling round their shoulders. They were standing in front of the fuselage of an aircraft, which was probably Uncle Victor himself. The sun was low and falling directly on the men, making their eyes narrow and their faces pale, like miners who had just emerged from underground into the light. They were managing smiles for the camera, though they looked exhausted.

  Cooper thought the comparison to miners wasn’t a bad one, because working in dangerous conditions forged a bond between men that was hard to break. These young airmen had flown thousands of miles in cramped and difficult conditions night after night, heading into hostile tcrritorv, with no idea whether they

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ld make it back to base. And not one of them looked older than his early twenties.

  There was a picture of the ground crew and armourers getting the aircraft ready for its mission. This was definitely Uncle Victor, judging from the pawnbroker’s sign painted on the nose of the Lancaster ‘Uncle’ being the common euphemism in

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  those days for a pawnbroker. He noticed that the ground crew barely seemed to have a standard uniform — they wore leather

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  jerkins, sea-hoot socks, gumboots, battleclrcss, oilskins, tunics, scarves, mittens, gloves, balaclavas.

  On the lacing page was the most atmospheric picture of all. It had been taken inside the aircraft, and it was grainy and spattered with white specks where there had been dust on the negative. The curved interior structure of the aircraft could be seen, and the lettering on an Clsan chemical toilet, in the foreground, a voung airman was half-turned towards the camera. I lis sergeant’s stripes were clearly visible on his arm, and he wore a leather Hying helmet and the straps of a parachute harness over his uniform, so he must have been preparing for takeoff.

  But the airman was surely no more than a boy. There was no caption to say who he was, and it was difficult to identify him as one of the men on the lacing page. The photographs must have been taken at a different time, because this young man had a faint moustache, while the only airman in the group photograph with a moustache was identified as the pilot, Danny McTcague. This wasn’t McTcague. This young man had a prominent nose and a narrow face, and a small lock of dark hair that had escaped from under his flying helmet on to his forehead. Cooper decided he must be Sergeant Dick Abbott, the rear gunner. He had been

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  eighteen years old, and the crew had called him Lofty because he was only five foot six inches tall.

  Cooper stared at the photo for a long time, forgetting to read about the many other aircraft that had come to grief in the Dark Peak. He felt as if the young airman were somehow communicating with him across the distance of more than five

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  decades. It didn’t seem all that long ago that he too had been the

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  same age as this airman. Cooper could sense himself slipping into the young man’s place in the aircraft. He could feel the straps of the parachute over his shoulders and the rough uniform against his skin, hear the roaring of the four Merlin engines and feel the vibration of the primitive machine that would hurtle him into the air. He was eighteen years old, and he was frightened.

  Hen Cooper was hardly aware of the vehicle recovery crew negotiating their truck into Rceley Street with lights flashing and diesel engine throbbing. His attention was taken up by trying to

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  analyse his feelings about the photograph, so that he was hardly

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  aware, even, of Gavin Murfin tapping on the window, unable to open the door because of the leaking trays he was balancing. When Murfin was back in the car, it immediately beran to fill

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  with smells of curry and boiled rice. The steam from the travs logged the windows, so that Beeley Street and Eddie Kemp’s Isuzu gradually yanished in a fog.

  ‘Here’s your naan bread,’ said Murfin. ‘Dip in, if you want.’ But the naan bread sat in his lap unopened, the grease gradually soaking through the paper on to his coat.

  Cooper finally realized that it was the look in the young man’s eyes that was completely different from the group picture; it was a look which made him unrecognizable from the lineup of smiling heroes. It was the blank, empty stare of a man who had no idea whether he would be coming back to his home base that night. The young man’s stare spoke of resignation at the prospect of sudden death as a German night-fighter raked Uncle Victor with machine-gun fire, or the Lancaster’s engines tailed

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  and they were forced to ditch in the icv North Sea. According to the text, Lancasters were notoriously difficult to escape from when they were in the water.

  In fact, that haunted look and the grey, grainy quality of the photograph made the airman appear almost as though he wasn’t there at all. He might have been no more than a faded image superimposed on the interior of the aircraft, the result of an accidental double exposure on the him.

  To Ben Cooper, it seemed that the photographer had captured a moment of presentiment and foreboding, a glimpse into the darkness of the near future. Sergeant Dick Abbott, only eighteen years old, looked as if he were already a ghost.

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  IJack at West Street, Ben Cooper dug through the paper that had been collecting on his desk until he found the file produced by the Local Intelligence Officer for the meeting with Alison Morrissey. It didn’t have anything like the amount of detail about the crash and the Lancaster’s crew that was in the book from Lawrence’s shop. But the I.IO’s hie did have one advantage it had the names of the two boys who had reported seeing the missing airman walking down the Blackbrook Reservoir road that night.

  Cooper had remembered that point, because Morrissey had complained during the meeting that she was unable to track them clown since their names weren’t given in the reports. It hadn’t seemed wise to admit that he had the information in front of him; the Chief Superintendent would certainly not have approved of too apparent a willingness to assist. But it meant the LIO had done a good job collecting the information. Either that, or Alison Morrissey’s research was badly flawed.

  ‘Do you know Harrop, Gavin?’ he said.

  Murfin sniffed. ‘Godawful place. Back of the moon that is, Ben. That’s not where you’re thinking of moving to, is it?’

  ‘No. I don’t think I’ve ever been there.’

  ‘It’s up the top of the Snake Pass somewhere, on the way to Glossop.’

  ‘It must be over the other side of Irontonmje Hill.’

  ‘That’s it. I bet they were cut oil’ up there today all right. There’s no bus service in Harrop. No bus route, so no priority for the snowplough. Somebody will dig them out tomorrow, maybe.’

  I he names of the boys were Edward and George Malkin, aged twelve and eight, of Hollow Shaw Farm, Harrop. From what Gavin said, Harrop sounded the sort of village where families might stay in one place, generation after generation of them sometimes. Cooper found a telephone directory. Sure enough,

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  there was a G. Malkin still listed at. Hollow Shaw Farm. There seemed a good chance that this was the same George Malkin, then aged eight, now sixty-five.

  ‘Knocking off, Ben?’ said Muriin. ‘Fancy a pint?’

  ‘I’d love to. Gavin,’ said Cooper. ‘But I’ve pot things to do.

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  Places to look at.’

  ‘Ah, the pleasures of house-hunting. It kind of ruins your social life, like.’

  Cooper drove eastwards out of Edcndalc. He climbed the Snake Pass and descended again almost into Glossop before he turned north and skirted the outlying expanses of peat moor around Irontongue Hill. The buttress of rock on top of the hill was a familiar sight to him, as it was prominently visible on a good day from the AS7. The rock was certainly tongue-shaped when you looked at it from this direction, with ridges and crevices

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  furrowing its dark surface. It wasn’t a human tongue, though. There was something reptilian about its length and the suggestion of a curl at the tip. And it was colder and harder than iron, too — it was the dark rock that millstones had been made out of, the sort of rock that the weather barelv seemed to touch, even over centuries. The wind and rain had mere.lv smoothed its edges, where the tongue lay on the broken teeth of volcanic debris.

  Tonight, Irontongue was visible even in the dark. It uncoiled from the snowcovered slopes to poke at the sky, with dribbles of white lying in its cracks.

  Cooper found that Harrop was barely big enough to be called a village, yet the roads were clear enough of snow for the Toyota to have no problems. Above Harrop there was a scatter of farms and homesteads with those a
ustere Dark Peak names — Slack Flouse, Whiterakes, Red Mires, Mount Famine and Stubbins. They clung to the edges of the mountain like burrs on the fur of a sleeping dog.

  The lane up to Hollow Shaw Farm passed a single modern bungalow and an isolated row of stone cottages. Past the bungalow, the lane was no longer tarmacked. After the cottages, it ceased to have any surface at all. Cooper hadn’t seen any street

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  lights for the last few miles. He had to slow the Toyota to a crawl and swing the steering wheel from side to side to avoid the worst of the potholes, hut in the total darkness he couldn’t see some of the holes until he was almost in them. It was sudden death (or suspension systems up here. This was the sort of lane that delivery drivers and salesmen would avoid like the plague, the kind of track that people needed a good reason to live at the end of. As he climbed to Hollow Shaw, Cooper wondered what George Malkin’s reason might he.

  He parked in front of the old farmhouse and got out. A few yards away, a man was leaning on a wall. It was so quiet here that Cooper could hear rustling from the field on the other side of the wall, and the faint snorting of a flock of sheep. Somewhere in that direction must be Blackbrook Reservoir. He knew it wasn’t a large reservoir like those in the flooded valleys, where the vast stretches of Ladybower and Derwent attracted the tourists. Blackbrook was small and self-contained, just enough at one time to supply drinking water for the eastern fringes of Manchester.

  ‘Mr Malkin?’ said Cooper.

  ‘Aye. That’ll be me.’

  Cooper made his way across the garden to where the man stood. Malkin was wearing a pair of blue overalls and a black anorak, and a cap like a lumberjack’s, with woollen earflaps. Cooper thought at first that he was bundled up with sweaters round his waist, but when Malkin moved he saw that the man was actually pear-shaped, with wide hips like someone who hadn’t ever got enough exercise. Cooper introduced himself.