by Ford,P. F.
“Err, oh,” said Smithers, disappointed etched all over his face. Then his face brightened. “Why don’t I take her on a tour?” he suggested. “It would be a pleasure.”
“Yes,” said Biddeford. “I’m sure it would. But we’re very pushed for time today, and it will be much quicker if she looks around while we talk.”
Flight was quick to understand that Biddeford was offering her an escape and didn’t need asking twice.
“You’re right, sir,” she said, looking at her watch. “It’ll be much quicker. I’ll get started right away.”
With that, she turned on her heel and skipped away down the stairs, flashing a quick smile over her shoulder at Biddeford as she went.
“I thought we’d covered all you wanted to know when we spoke on the phone,” Smithers said to Biddeford.
“It’s always good to come and see, don’t you think?” said Biddeford. “And there are one or two points I need to go over again.”
“Points? What points?”
“It’s about the flight plans,” said Biddeford. “And night flights.”
“I told you, old boy,” said Smithers. “No one’s allowed up in the air without first logging a flight plan, even if they’re just going up in the air for a five-minute joy ride. It’s all a matter of safety. The flight plan gives destinations and estimated arrival times – if anyone goes missing, we know when to start worrying and where we should start looking.
“As for night flights, I already told you we don’t do them here. No one, but no one, is allowed to take off from here within an hour of nightfall.”
He looked at Biddeford defiantly, as if he thought he was being impertinent by daring to question such an authority figure as himself. But Biddeford wasn’t going to be intimidated. He had a job to do.
“I understand it’s not allowed,” he said, patiently. “But what’s to stop someone filing a flight plan and then going somewhere else?”
“Preposterous!” spluttered Smithers. “I’m here all the time, every day. It just couldn’t happen. I don’t know what class of people you’re used to dealing with, young man, but they’re obviously the wrong sort. The people who keep their aircraft here are gentlemen, and a gentleman’s word is his bond.”
“In other words,” said Biddeford, “there’s nothing to stop it from happening. I suppose the same goes for night flying, does it? They’re all good boys and do as you say, right?”
“It’s forbidden-” began Smithers.
“Yes, yes,” said Biddeford. “It’s not allowed. You already said. But it is possible, isn’t it?”
“Aha!” said Smithers, triumphantly. “Now that’s where you’re wrong. No, it isn’t possible. We don’t have a licence to allow planes to take off and land after dark because we have no landing lights. We’re just not equipped for it, you see. That’s why we always close up at night. And our security is very good. The gates are double-locked. I see to it myself, every night. People can’t just come in here any time it suits, you know.”
“Double-locked, eh? Right,” said Biddeford, doubtfully.
From what he’d seen and heard, he thought it wouldn’t be too difficult to pull the wool over Captain Smithers’ eyes. He reckoned anyone could come and go as they pleased. He would check the gate on the way out, but he found it difficult to believe the security here was going to be up to much.
“I can assure you you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think there’s anything happening here that shouldn’t be,” said Smithers, sounding pompous again.
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right.” Biddeford didn’t think he was right at all. “Well, thank you for your time, Captain Smithers. You’ve been very helpful,” he said, even though the captain had been nothing of the sort. “I’ll just go and find my colleague and we’ll be on our way.”
He found Flight waiting for him just outside the pavilion entrance. They talked as they walked to their car.
“Thanks for getting me away from that dirty old pervert,” she said, smiling at him.
“I thought you were about ready to kick him in the balls,” explained Biddeford, with a broad grin. “That would have made it pretty difficult to get much sense out of him, so I thought it best to make sure your feet were nowhere near his testicles.”
“He was asking for it,” she said, laughing.
“Oh, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had,” said Biddeford. “But not this time. Maybe next time I’ll let you loose on him. Did you find anything interesting?”
“There was a guy tinkering with one of those old wrecks in the barn. He thinks Captain Smithers is a complete arse. Apparently I’m not the first woman he’s rubbed up the wrong way.”
“Now there’s a surprise,” said Biddeford.
“Although normally he likes to literally rub them up, if you see what I mean.”
“That would have been worth seeing.”
“I’d break his bloody arm,” said Flight. “And then kick his balls.”
Biddeford had no doubt she meant exactly what she said, and he winced at the idea.
“Anyway,” she continued. “That’s enough about the old sod’s dirty habits. It was the other stuff this guy told me that really interested me. It seems the old boy claims to be here every hour of the day, but according to my source, he frequently disappears for hours at a time.”
“Captain Smithers is full of wind and piss,” said Biddeford. “According to him, everyone who keeps an aircraft is as good as gold and wouldn’t dream of breaking the rules. And not only does he claim to be here every hour of the day, he also claims to lock up an hour before dark every night.”
“That must be on the nights he’s not so drunk he can’t stand up,” Flight said, shaking her head. “Apparently, the old goat likes a drink or 10. He lost his driving licence a few years ago. Now he often sleeps here at the airfield because he’s too pissed to drive home or lock up.”
They were in the car now, heading back across the field towards the gates.
“So, basically, anyone could come and go at any time of the day or night, and the chances are that Smithers either won’t be here, or he’ll be in a drunken stupor,” said Biddeford.
“That’s about the size of it,” Flight said, nodding as they neared the gates to the airfield.
“Pull up by those gates, can you, Phil?” asked Biddeford. “Let’s see how good the old duffer’s security really is.”
She pulled up just outside the gates and followed Biddeford as he walked over to the nearest gate. An ancient, rusting, padlock hung from a chain. On the opposite gate, they could see a similar padlock. Biddeford took the lock in his hand and studied it for a moment. He fiddled in his pocket and produced a pick. It took him all of 10 seconds to unlock the padlock and lock it again. He dropped it in disgust and it clanged against the gate.
“A bloody 10-year-old could open that with a hairpin,” he said, sighing. “Double locked my arse.”
“If it ever is locked,” added Flight.
“Yes. Quite.” Biddeford looked at the padlock and shook his head. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
They climbed back into the car.
“Where to, boss?” asked Flight.
Biddeford looked at his watch. It was 10.30am.
“Right,” he explained. “So far I’ve drawn a blank in my search for a light aircraft flying at night. I was beginning to wonder if I was wasting my time, but now we’ve been to Trapworth I’m beginning to think we might be on the right track. But if we could actually prove there was a plane flying over that night it would be a big help, don’t you think?”
“Yeah. I suppose it would,” Flight said.
“So how do you fancy helping me with some house to house? Just those houses closest to the Haunted Copse. I know it’s a long shot, but if you’ll help me for a couple of hours I’ll buy you lunch. Deal?”
“Sounds good to me.” Flight smiled at him.
“Let’s go then, Batman,” Biddeford said, grinning back.
&nb
sp; Chapter Seventeen
As PC Flight drove Biddeford away from the airfield, and in the general direction of the Haunted Copse, he explained his theory.
The Haunted Copse was in a pretty isolated spot and there were no houses in the immediate vicinity. The closest were gathered in a small cul-de-sac called Copse Close. They were probably a good way off by road, but Biddeford had studied the map and realised they were not much more than a quarter of a mile away as the crow flies. He figured sound travels in straight lines, just like the proverbial crow, so if a light aircraft had passed overhead on the night in question, as it must have if the girl had fallen from it, there was a possibility it could have been low enough to be heard from one of the houses in the close.
“Like I said before, it’s a long shot,” he said.
“It makes perfect sense,” said Flight. “The problem we might come up against, though, is it was at night. People tend to be shut away in front of their TVs at night. The sound of a TV set could easily drown out the sound of a small aircraft going over.”
“Yeah.” Biddeford sighed, gloomily. “That is going to be a problem.”
“But,” said Flight, cheerily, “we’ll only find out if we ask, won’t we?”
“It’s only 12 houses, so it shouldn’t take us long,” said Biddeford, immediately cheered, and encouraged, by his partner’s attitude.
“That’s six each,” Flight said. “An hour tops. Then you’re buying lunch, right?”
“That’s the deal.”
“I could get to enjoy being with you,” said Flight, smiling at Biddeford.
Sitting happily alongside her, Steve Biddeford thought he could very easily get to enjoy being with Phillipa Flight.
It had taken much less time than Flight had estimated. But that was because no one seemed to have heard anything. Just as Flight had said, their light aircraft had been competing with the TV for attention that night. There was just one house left.
Biddeford strode up the path and rang the doorbell. A small boy, aged about 10, opened the door, stepped through and pulled it partly shut behind him. He stood looking up at Biddeford.
“Hello,” said Biddeford. “Is your mum or dad in?”
“Who are you?” asked the boy.
“I’m from the police. Look, here’s my warrant card.”
He opened his wallet and held it so the boy could see it. His eyes widened as he studied the card.
“Dad!” yelled the boy, without taking his eyes from the warrant card. “It’s the police!”
Then, he addressed Biddeford, in a much quieter voice.
“Has he been speeding again?”
“Not to my knowledge, no,” replied Biddeford. “He’s not done anything wrong. I’m just making enquiries from house to house.”
“What about?” asked the boy.
“Never you mind,” said the boy’s father, pulling the door open. He took the boy gently by the shoulders and steered him back through the door.
“You go inside,” he said. “I’ll deal with this.”
He turned back to Biddeford.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said, smiling. “He likes to stick his nose into everything.”
“That’s okay.” Biddeford smiled back.
“What can I do for you?” asked the man.
“We’re making enquiries about last Monday night,” Biddeford began.
“The night before that poor girl got found at the Haunted Copse?”
“That’s right,” said Biddeford. “Did you hear, or see, anything unusual that night?”
“No, I’m sorry. Is there anything in particular?”
“We believe a light aircraft may have passed over late that night.”
“Well, if it did,” said the man. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear it.”
“I did,” said the small boy from behind his father.
“I’ve told you about making these things up before.” The boy’s father turned to his son.
“But I did, honest,” said the boy.
Biddeford felt a slight tingle. This could be it.
The man turned back to Biddeford.
“Sorry about this,” he said. “He’s got a vivid imagination. He’s always saying he’s heard light aircraft in the night, but we never hear them.”
“I’ll prove it,” said the boy. “It’ll be in my diary.”
He rushed off and Biddeford could hear him running upstairs. His father looked distinctly embarrassed.
“I’m really sorry,” he began. “Isn’t there a law against wasting police time?”
“It’s okay, really,” said Biddeford. “I’ve got plenty of time. What’s in his diary?”
“He records the movements of light aircraft he reckons he can hear going over at night. He sits up in his room listening for them when he’s supposed to be asleep. He reckons there must be something suspicious going on because they’re not allowed to fly at night. Like I said, he’s got a vivid imagination.”
PC Flight had arrived behind Biddeford and he introduced her to the boy’s father. They learnt that his name was Richard Spencer and his son was Thomas, but everyone called him Tommy.
“Tommy’s got something to show us,” Biddeford explained to Flight.
The sound of a small boy running downstairs, not unlike thunder, thought Biddeford, announced his imminent arrival. He duly arrived clutching a small diary.
“I was right,” he said excitedly. “One went over just after 11, and it was pretty low too. Look, I wrote it in my diary.”
He thrust the diary at Biddeford. It was open at the page for Monday last. In his neat rounded handwriting, he had noted: 23.10 – single engine, light aircraft (possible Lincoln Beaver). Flying low. Estimated height no more than 300 feet.
Biddeford showed the diary to Flight and looked at the boy.
“You know a lot about these aircraft for a small boy, don’t you?”
“It’s just a hobby at the moment.” The little boy looked proud. “One day I’m going to fly one, so if I learn about them now it’s got to help me later. Don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do think,” said Biddeford. “Your dad was telling me you keep a record of night flights.”
“That’s right,” said the boy. “They’re not supposed to fly from Trapworth at night, but they often do. Usually they’re almost gliding on low power. It makes them difficult to hear, but that one last Monday wasn’t gliding.”
“How do you know they’re coming from Trapworth?” asked Biddeford.
“We’re right under the flight path,” said the boy, sounding as though he thought everyone should know this fact.
“Oh, right. Of course,” said Biddeford, covering up for his ignorance.
He looked at the boy’s father.
“Will it be alright if we come in and talk to Tommy for a bit, Mr Spencer,” he asked. “You’ll need to be with us too, of course.”
“Are you sure he’s not wasting your time?” asked Spencer.
“I wouldn’t want to talk to him if I thought it was going to be a waste of time,” Biddeford assured him.
“You’d better come in then,” said Spencer, leading the way inside.
Chapter Eighteen
Biddeford thought he and PC Flight had had a very successful first day together. According to Tommy Spencer’s diary, not only did an aircraft (probably a Lincoln Beaver, from the engine note) pass over last Monday night, but there was also a regular flight on the first Monday of every month, and random flights at other times. All appeared to be heading into Trapworth airfield. He had no idea what all these flights were about, but they were obviously highly suspicious.
Then, over lunch, he’d learnt that Phillipa’s marriage was on the rocks. This had made him feel much more comfortable about the way he was beginning to feel about her. He couldn’t be guilty of breaking up her marriage if it was already breaking up, now, could he?
In fact, he’d felt so much better that he’d agreed to meet her for a drink later that night. He
told himself it was just two colleagues celebrating a successful day. He’d done it with Slater and Norman before now, so what was the difference? Well okay, so he didn’t fancy the pants off Slater and Norman, but it wouldn’t be a problem. They were mature adults. Nothing untoward was going to happen.
Biddeford was awakened from his thoughts about what wasn’t going to happen later by PC Flight slapping his arm.
“What?” he said, startled.
“Come on Steve, wake up,” she said. “The radio. They’re calling us. Are you going to answer it?”
“Oh. Yes. Of course,” he said reaching for the radio.
“Yoh!” he said into the radio.
“So you’ve finished your lunch have you, Oscar Tango One Four?”
“Err, yes. Sorry about that,” Biddeford mumbled, embarrassed.
“Yes. I’m sure you are. Now listen up. Everybody’s favourite wanker has been in action in town yet again, only this time he’s picked the wrong lady to wave at. She’s had a go back, and now he’s on the run. So be on the lookout for an old man in a Mickey Mouse mask, wearing a dark blue dressing gown, and white trainers with red soles. He should be easy enough to spot, but if there is more than one old guy out there who matches this description, you want to grab the one clutching his wedding tackle. He was last seen heading east along Enderby Road.”
“Oscar Tango One Four, got that. Out,” said Biddeford, as Flight flipped the switch that set the blue lights flashing and the siren blaring. She began to accelerate towards the town centre.
“Enderby Road’s the long one that runs out this way, isn’t it?” he said to her.
“I’m on it,” she said. “There’s plenty of places he could hide, but I’m feeling lucky today. Perhaps the old bugger will run right into our arms.”
A broad grin split Phillipa Flight’s face as she roared along the road.
They were approaching the junction that would take them into Enderby Road at high speed. Biddeford thought they should be slowing down about now, but if anything, they were accelerating. He looked across at Flight, but she was totally engrossed in her driving. At the last minute, she swung on the steering wheel, putting the car into a controlled slide across the junction and right into Enderby Road.
