“Thank you, Mrs. Walker. That’s all for the moment. We’ll be getting in touch with you again later.”
Ignoring her completely he took his coat and hat from the cupboard and, with a meaningful glance at Bellinger, went out of the office.
As he passed Kennedy’s office he opened the door and put his head round it.
“I’m off now.”
“Yes, all right, sir.” Kennedy stood up respectfully, laying down the typewritten sheet he had been studying. “How did you get on with Mrs. Walker?”
Martin grunted and came into the room. “She switched the tears on and I just couldn’t take it. Not today anyway. I’ll have another go at her tomorrow, after I’ve talked to Eastwood. What’s that you’re reading?”
“It’s a list of the stuff Andy Mason had with him. They’ve just sent it through from Reading.”
Martin reached across the desk, picked up the list and ran his eye down it. “They’ve certainly gone to town.”
“Yes, I think they wanted to impress us.”
“I’ll be a bit late tomorrow morning.” Martin smiled as he handed the sheet back. “I’m taking Sue out to the cottage before . . .” He stopped, his eyes focussing on distance as they always did when an important thought struck him. He took the list from Kennedy again.
“What is it?” Kennedy asked, wondering what the Inspector had seen which he had missed.
“There’s something missing . . .” Martin tapped the list gently with his fingers.
“Missing? What do you mean?”
“Harry, listen!” Martin looked up, his expression as eager as a terrier’s. “I want you to put yourself in Andy Mason’s shoes for a moment. You’re in a tight corner — or you think you are — and you suddenly decide to make a dash for it.”
“Well?”
“What would be the first thing you’d think of — the first thing you’d want to take with you?”
“My wife.”
“Andy Mason hadn’t a wife!”
“I don’t know. I can’t imagine . . .”
“Think!”
“Well, I suppose I’d . . .” Kennedy scratched his head and frowned over the list. Then his face lit up as the penny dropped. “My passport!”
“Right! But it’s not mentioned. It wasn’t in his pockets, it wasn’t in his baggage, and it wasn’t in the car!”
“You’re right . . . That’s damn funny — I hardly think he’d forget his passport.”
“He didn’t!”
“What do you mean?” The Sergeant was still some way behind his superior.
“I don’t believe it was Andy Mason that was killed!”
“What?”
“You said yourself his face was so badly disfigured that he was hardly recognisable,” Martin pointed out, coming round the edge of the desk.
“Yes, but we saw him leave The Grapevine! Two of our chaps followed him.”
“And then lost him! Do you know what I think? I think he had a body in that car . . .”
Kennedy laughed. “You’ve got to be joking.”
“Yes, and that’s why he went beserk and drove like a madman!”
“You mean he faked the crash and set fire to the car himself?” “Yes. Don’t you see?”
“But, who?” Kennedy shook his head, wondering whether his own brains had gone soft or the Inspector had gone off his nut. “Whose body was it? If it wasn’t Andy Mason — who the hell was it?”
“I’ll give you one guess!” Martin said, grinning. “Just one guess, Harry, my boy!”
Kennedy bunched his fist and thumped the table. “Pike!”
The Inspector had already picked up the telephone and was starting to dial a number.
Andy Mason slackened speed and braked sharply. The sign at the end of the minor road on the right bore an arrow and the words Fleetway Flying Club. He swung the rented Vauxhall Cavalier across the front of an oncoming lorry and entered the lane. A glance at his watch told him that it was a quarter past ten.
Andy had stayed near the burning Ford Capri for long enough to be confident that the flames had made Pike’s body unrecognisable until a proper post mortem was held. That would take half a day at any rate, ample time for him to put his hastily devised escape plan into operation. He walked the six miles into Reading, resisting the temptation to thumb a lift. He did not want any driver to get a good enough look at him to be able to describe him to the police.
He turned into the first hotel he found open, told a story about a seized engine and borrowed an electric razor before sitting down to an early breakfast. He had to wait till nine before he could telephone the car-hire people and it was a further forty-five minutes before the car was delivered and all the documents filled out. The flying club was twenty miles away, but he covered the distance in half an hour, despite the morning rush-hour traffic round Reading.
The airfield had been a war-time United States airforce base. The Fleetway Flying Club had renovated some of the buildings to form a small office block and club rooms. The only new building was a low brick construction, whose upper storey was glassed on all sides. It hardly seemed imposing enough to merit the title Control Tower.
It was a brilliant sunny morning as Andy cruised slowly up the lane, turned in through the gate and followed the old taxiing track round to the club buildings. Half a dozen light aircraft were parked near the one hangar which was still in use. He could see a mechanic in white overalls working on the engine of a blue Piper. There were only two cars parked outside the buildings. The club’s activities were mostly confined to the weekends and a few summer evenings.
Bill Fenton, a small but broad man with a close beard, was in the office when Andy pushed the door open. He was wearing his most affable smile.
“Good morning, Bill. You’ve got everything fixed up for me?”
“Just about. The Piper suit you? I know you’ve done quite a few hours on it.”
“That’s fine. Is it ready to roll right away?”
“Will be before long. Fred’s checking out the fuel system. It’s been giving a bit of trouble lately. How much fuel are you going to need?”
“Better give me a full tank. I want to get in as many hours as I can. I haven’t been doing nearly enough flying lately. Look, I’ll go and get kitted up. Give Fred a shout to hurry it up.”
Andy went through to the locker room and made sure it was empty before he unlocked his own steel cupboard. From the top shelf he took the wad of traveller’s cheques which he’d been keeping there for some time now — just in case. He put them in his pocket, pulled on the set of light overalls and picked up the helmet with its built-in head-set and microphone. The walls were thin enough for him to hear the telephone ringing in the office and Bill Fenton’s monosyllabic replies. The conversation was a short one. Bill had put down the receiver and was back at his desk when Andy came in, swinging his flying helmet by the strap. The leads, which would plug into the sockets in the aircraft, trailed to the ground.
Andy sat down on one of the club seats and began to flick through a flying magazine. After five minutes he threw it down and walked over to Bill’s desk.
“Fred knows I’m here, I suppose?”
“Yes, I told him,” Bill answered without looking up.
Andy frowned at the top of Bill’s head. There was something different about Bill’s manner. He was reluctant to look Andy in the face any more. A nerve began to twitch in the side of Andy’s face.
“I think I’ll stroll out and hurry him up,” he said casually and turned to the door.
Bill’s chair went back so fast that it fell over.
“I wouldn’t do that, Andy. Anyway you’ve got to have clearance from the control tower before you can take off. We’ve just had a message from the RAF that they’re doing some low flying in this area.”
Bill had actually gone so far as to stand between him and the door.
Andy said, quietly: “They’ve never done that before. The RAF never practise low flying over these popula
ted areas.”
“Well — er. You know how it is. We have to play ball with them.”
Andy’s eyes went past Bill, through the window which looked across the airfield towards the approach road. Through the gaps in the hedge bordering the lane he had caught sight of a blue roof-light intermittently flashing.
“That call wasn’t from the RAF, was it, Bill?”
Bill Fenton thought he knew Andy Mason, but the face which looked at him now was very different from the usual friendly pose.
“No, Andy. It wasn’t. It was the police and my advice to you is wait here quite quietly till they come. I’m sorry, but you’re not going out through this door.”
“No?” said Andy. He put his hand through the slit in the overalls and withdrew the automatic from his pocket. Bill Fenton instantly interpreted the move and tried to rush him. Andy’s bullet hit him in the stomach. He clutched himself with both hands and rolled to the floor.
Andy quickly pocketed the automatic and went out through the door. As he emerged he heard it clearly, the sound of a police siren warning anyone in the lane that a patrol car was coming along it fast. Andy deliberately slowed his pace as he walked over to the Piper. Fred was wiping his hands on a piece of cotton waste.
“She ready, Fred?”
“Just about. All I have to do is start her up again and test the fuel flow. What was that bang?”
“Some car back-firing,” Andy said easily. “You needn’t test her. I can do that when I’m going through my checks.”
“You know that’s against regs, Mr. Mason,” the mechanic said with dogged righteousness. His head jerked round as once again the sound of a siren floated across the airfield. “Cor, what’s that? Sounded like a police siren. Blimey, there’s two of them!”
The police cars were now moving fast along the last stretch of the lane. In a matter of seconds they would arrive on the airfield proper. Andy reached into his pocket and again gripped the automatic. The mechanic turned in time to see his hand come out with the weapon in it. Fred had been in the RAF in Aden and had learned to think and react quickly. It was almost a reflex action to throw the heavy spanner he was holding in his hand. It struck Andy hard on the right shoulder. An agonising pain shot down his arm, causing him to drop the gun.
As he stooped to recover it, Fred leaped on him. The two men rolled on the ground, the mechanic wincing as the hard shape of the gun dug into his back. Andy’s eyes were crazy now and his strength astonished Fred, who concentrated all his efforts on staying as he was, masking the gun. But Andy had him by the wrist and was twisting the spanner out of his grasp. Fred shouted with pain, released his grip and let the spanner fall. Andy picked it up and hit Fred a vicious blow on the temple. His head jerked back and he lay limp.
Andy struggled to his feet. The two police cars had entered the airfield and were racing towards the office buildings. They had not sported him yet. The operator in the control tower had abandoned his post and was running towards the police cars, waving his arms. Someone else had come out of the club buildings.
Abandoning the helmet which had fallen on the ground Andy raced to the aircraft and climbed aboard. The engine was warm and started immediately. Ignoring the mandatory checklist Andy increased revs and began to taxi to the end of the take-off runway.
On the ground behind him the mechanic shook his head and opened his eyes. He rolled sideways clear of the gun. He picked it up and, holding it with both hands, fired a shot at the receding Piper. The metallic clang told him that he had found a mark. Petrol started pouring from the hole in the fuel tank.
Martin was in the passenger’s seat of the leading police car, and Kennedy was in the back with the driver’s colleague. They’d covered the forty miles from Guildfleet in less than three quarters of an hour, only to be held up in the last mile by a herd of cows.
The driver needed no instructions to drive towards the control tower operator, who was running across the grass, waving his arms. Martin lowered the window as the car skidded to a halt beside him.
“What’s happening?”
“I don’t know. It’s one of our members. He must have gone mad. He’s knocked out the mechanic. He can’t take off! I haven’t given him clearance yet.”
“He’ll take off,” Martin said, grimly. He stepped out of the car and signalled the second vehicle towards him. “See that aircraft on the runway? You’ve got to head him off before he gets airborne.”
The driver nodded and his wheels spun as he accelerated away. The Piper had just turned and was lining up for take off.
Kennedy dismounted and stood beside the Inspector.
“We just missed him. If it hadn’t been for those blasted cows we’d have got him.”
An ambulance, one of the special bodies mounted on the Citroen chassis, had emerged from behind the club buildings and was racing towards the prone form of the mechanic. The second police car, raising a cloud of dust, was travelling ever faster on a line that would converge with the Piper, which had now started its take-off run.
There was nothing Martin and Kennedy could do now except watch the race.
“What’s that spray coming out the back?” Kennedy pointed excitedly. “Can he be losing petrol?”
“Don’t know,” Martin replied tersely, his eyes switching from the car to the aircraft and back again.
At first it seemed that the police car would easily head the taxiing aircraft off, but as the Piper gathered speed the Volvo began to lose ground. The two machines were racing now on almost parallel courses. Realising that he was losing the race, the police driver did a crazy but courageous thing. He locked hard over and, with spinning wheels, headed in right on the path of the Piper. Andy Mason was now committed to take off. He could not have stopped even if he had wanted to, and he obviously could not alter course till he was airborne. The police car slid to a halt right in his path. For an instant the crash seemed inevitable.
Three hundred yards away Martin half closed his eyes and muttered: “My God!”
Then he saw the nose of the aircraft lift. It rose sharply, its landing wheels missing the roof of the car by inches.
“That was nearly a posthumous police medal,” he commented.
The officers in the distant car had now piled out and were staring in frustration at the receding aircraft as it gained height over the trees surrounding the airfield. The stream of liquid was still spewing from the holed petrol tank. The ambulance men had placed the mechanic on a stretcher and were loading it into the ambulance. The dozen or so people employed on the field had come out of their buildings and were staring at the sky, shading their eyes as they watched the fading silhouette of the Piper.
“We’d better alert all airfields in the vicinity,” Kennedy suggested. “He won’t get far with a leaking petrol tank.”
Martin put a hand on his arm to stop him. The buzz of the Piper had ceased. They could clearly hear a series of crackles as the pumps sucked on an empty tank. The little machine had lost height rapidly and was already below the line of the trees.
Ten seconds later the sound of a deep explosion reached their ears. It was another half minute before the smoke column rose into view. A black, oily cloud was spreading across the sky in almost leisurely fashion.
Kennedy looked at Martin.
“I don’t suppose there’s much left of him,” Martin said, “but we’d better go and pick up the pieces, Harry. I wonder if the Fleetway Flying Club runs to a helicopter?”
It was all over by lunchtime, bar the full report which would have to be written. By the time the fire-tender had got near enough to put out the fire the body of Andy Mason was in an even more terrible state than Pike’s.
Martin tried to banish the memory from his mind when he picked up Sue, but she noticed his silence as they drove out to the cottage.
At last she dared to ask him: “How did it go? Were you able to arrest him?”
“The case is finished, Sue. I’d rather not talk about it any more for the moment.”
“I’ve been thinking about your idea for redecorating the house and putting up new curtains. I’m all for it. But you’ve got to choose the colours. I’m no good at that sort of thing.”
Her fingers were at the back of his head, soothing and caressing. Disregarding the police driving code, he put a hand on her thigh.
“You know the first thing I’m going to do when we get to the cottage?”
“Carry me over the threshold?” she suggested, smiling.
“No. That comes later. First I’m going to take down that damned ‘For Sale’ notice.”
Bello:
hidden talent rediscovered!
Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe new life into previously published, classic books.
At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.
We publish in ebook and Print on Demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences.
About Bello:
www.panmacmillan.com/imprints/bello
About the author:
www.panmacmillan.com/author/francisdurbridge
By Francis Durbridge
Another Woman’s Shoes
My Wife Melissa
Paul Temple and the Harkdale Robbery
Paul Temple and the Kelby Affair
The Pig-Tail Murder
The Scarf
Dead to the World
Desperate People
A Man Called Harry Brent
A Bat Out of Hell
The Other Man
The Tyler Mystery
A Game Of Murder
Francis Durbridge
Francis Henry Durbridge was an English playwright and author born in Hull. In 1938, he created the character Paul Temple for the BBC radio serial Send for Paul Temple.
The Passenger Page 16
