Turn to Dust

by Amphlett, Rachel

  ‘But does he think he came back to the Kent area?’ said Kay.

  ‘That is his view, yes.’ Sharp reached out his computer mouse and clicked to open a search engine. ‘There are a few veterans’ associations in the area, so while the rest of the team are working their way through that list of airfields this weekend, I’d like you to make a start talking to these. Carefully, mind. Let’s see what you can find out over the next couple of days, and then we’ll discuss the next steps.’

  ‘Will do, guv.’

  ‘I’ll email you this list.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Kay rose from her chair, picked up her notebook and pen, and then frowned. ‘Guv, do you think our victim was killed as retribution for that rescue mission all those years ago? Perhaps one of the warlords survived the conflict and has decided he wants payback.’

  Sharp paused, his finger hovering over the “send” button on the screen.

  ‘I sincerely hope not, Hunter. That would be one hornets’ nest I could do without.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Ian Barnes glared at the radiator under the windowsill in the incident room, peered at the brown sodden mess within the crumpled pages of paper kitchen towel in his fist, and then lashed out with his foot.

  His shoe met the corrugated metal surface with a satisfying clang, but did nothing to fix the central heating system.

  ‘Does that work?’

  Carys wandered over, a bemused expression in her eyes.

  ‘No. Nor did bleeding the bloody valve.’ He held up the rust-coloured evidence. ‘They only fixed it a couple of years ago, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘I’m bringing in an extra sweatshirt or something tomorrow.’ She shivered. ‘This is ridiculous. I can’t feel my fingertips.’

  Barnes lobbed the paper towel into the waste bin. ‘No point reporting it. Nothing will get done, and then it’ll be summer anyway.’

  His phone began to ring as he sat. ‘What’ve you got, Hughes?’

  ‘There’s a bloke down here says he’s got some information about your investigation,’ the desk sergeant told him. ‘Apparently, Gavin and Laura spoke to his wife on Thursday while he was at work.’

  ‘Well, they’re out exploring airfields this weekend,’ said Barnes. ‘Do you want to show him into one of the interview rooms while I have a quick read through the wife’s statement?’

  ‘No problem. Number four is free, so he’ll be in there when you’re ready.’

  ‘Cheers for that.’

  Barnes replaced the receiver, and then logged into the HOLMES2 database, scrolling through the entries until he found Beverley Winton’s statement.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ said Carys.

  ‘Might have some more information from one of the residents who lives in a property that borders Dennis Maitland’s farm. Are you busy, or do you want to tag along?’

  Carys scowled. ‘I’m cross-referencing pilots’ licences.’

  ‘Come on, then. Sounds as if you could do with a break.’

  He led the way down the stairs, swiped his security card across the panel next to the door leading to the interview rooms, and held it open for her. After bringing her up to date with the meagre details from Beverley’s statement, he entered interview room four and introduced himself to Peter Winton.

  The man was dressed in a long-sleeved chambray work shirt with the familiar logo of a local tyre fitting company embroidered over the breast pocket. He wore his ash-coloured hair short and contemplated the two detectives with piercing blue eyes.

  ‘I hope I’m not wasting your time,’ he said, and scratched his right earlobe, ‘but Beverley told me I should come and see you, just in case.’

  ‘Not a problem, Mr Winton.’ Barnes unbuttoned his jacket as the man returned to his seat, and pulled out a chair opposite him as Carys settled to his right.

  ‘Please, call me Peter.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, I’ve had a read of your wife’s statement. You own the cottage next to Humphrey Godmanstone, and you rent out the two properties on the other side of yours, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes. They’re a couple of hundred years old. They were originally farmworkers’ cottages. They’re not listed, though, so we’ve been able to do what we want with the renovations.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Barnes, and smiled. ‘Now, what did you want to tell us in relation to our investigation?’

  ‘Right, well.’ Peter leaned closer and clasped his hands together. ‘The thing is, I don’t sleep very well at night. I suffer from insomnia, you see. I used to work as a continental truck driver, so all those years doing late shifts must have messed up my biorhythms or whatever they’re called.’

  He cleared his throat, then lowered his eyes. ‘I’ve been suffering from a bit of stress lately, too – not that I’d tell Beverley, because I wouldn’t want her to worry. It’s just that we overstretched ourselves buying these houses to do up a couple of years ago, and then I lost my job and it was a few months before I got taken on at the tyre place. Anyway – yes, I don’t sleep much.’

  ‘And I understand that you heard something on one such night last week?’ said Barnes, in an attempt to bring the man’s rambling thoughts back on track.

  ‘Exactly. Sunday night, in fact.’ Peter’s face became more animated, the tension lines that were etched under his eyes easing. ‘Beverley had gone up to bed, and I’d tried to sleep but by five past one, I was tossing and turning and, well, I didn’t want to wake her up. She works so hard. I came downstairs, and thought I’d make a cup of tea and sit in one of the armchairs to read. That’s the only good thing about this whole insomnia thing, I suppose – I’m getting through all the books I’ve bought over the years. Anyway, I heard a van or something drive past the cottage and turn in.’ He frowned. ‘We don’t get a lot of traffic passing over our way, not at that time of night, and I think that’s what made me stop what I was doing and take notice.’

  ‘Can you remember what time that was?’

  ‘Yes, because I looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was just after two-thirty by then.’

  ‘And what makes you think this might have something to do with our investigation?’ said Carys. ‘Why were you suspicious about this particular vehicle?’

  ‘It sounded like it was going down the side of Humphrey’s place. None of our neighbours own a van though, so I went upstairs and took a look through the curtains but I couldn’t see anything. I thought someone might’ve driven round to the back of the gardens where our sheds were. I think they must’ve driven down the track to the back of Maitland’s farm instead. Mind you, I couldn’t see any lights.’

  ‘Did you see or hear the van return?’

  Peter nodded. ‘About twenty minutes later I heard the engine, but they didn’t come back past the cottage – they continued along the lane. I mean, it might not be anything to do with your investigation – it could’ve been poachers. They’re a pain in the backside around our way, always cutting through wire fences to pull dead deer through, and things like that. But when I mentioned it to Beverley, she said I should tell you, just in case it helped.’

  Barnes finished writing in his notebook, and then removed his reading glasses and raised his head. ‘We’ll let you know if it does, Peter. Thank you.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gavin grinned at his colleague as she tied her long hair back into a ponytail and raised her eyes to the sky, her gaze full of wonder.

  ‘Fancy jumping?’ he said.

  ‘Not bloody likely, said Laura. ‘Crazy, all of them.’

  He turned his attention to the people tumbling from the aircraft several thousand metres above them. ‘I always thought I might be up for it, but not after seeing the photos of our victim. I think I’ll stick to surfing.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Laura. ‘You’ve only got sharks, jellyfish and rip tides to worry about there. What could possibly go wrong?’

  ‘Ever tried it?’

  ‘Hell, no. You might be an adrenalin junkie, but I’m
not.’

  ‘You go horse-riding in your spare time, don’t you?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, that’s just as bad – those things have a mind of their own.’

  He held his breath as he watched the freefalling figures tumble in the air, his throat dry. Although they seemed to float gracefully, he knew they were travelling at several metres per second.

  ‘I can’t imagine how terrified he must have been, knowing he was going to die,’ said Laura, her voice barely audible. ‘I mean, even if it was dark he’d have seen lights from houses, wouldn’t he? He’d have known when he was going to hit the ground.’

  She shivered, and Gavin watched as one by one, the skydivers’ parachutes opened.

  The bright rectangles of coloured nylon did nothing to lift his dark mood, and he clenched his fists.

  ‘Let’s go and find someone to talk to about the flying schedules here,’ he said.

  Laura traipsed alongside him, the hem of her suit trousers swishing against the long grass growing between the car park and the two-storey concrete building that stood beyond a chain link fence.

  A radar array spun on its axis on the flat roof, and Gavin jumped as a tannoy system fixed on the wall above a ground-floor window spat to life, announcing the time for the next jump scheduled to take place that afternoon.

  Inside the building, men and women’s changing rooms were signposted to the left of the entrance doors, while a warning notice stuck to the wall advised patrons that the airfield’s owners took no responsibility for personal items left in lockers.

  The remainder of the ground floor seemed devoid of anyone else, and Gavin turned his attention to the concrete stairs that led upwards.

  ‘This place feels like it’s been here since the Second World War,’ said Laura, her voice echoing off the bare walls as they climbed.

  ‘I heard the bunker look was all the rage in home decor this season.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  When they reached the top of the stairs, a set of heavy wooden doors blocked their progress and Gavin pressed a doorbell that had been retrofitted under a security keypad.

  ‘Hello?’

  The same voice from the tannoy crackled through a credit card-sized speaker above the doorbell.

  ‘Detective Constable Gavin Piper, and my colleague DC Hanway. We wondered if you could please answer some questions about an ongoing investigation.’

  ‘Hang on.’

  A buzzing noise reached him, and Gavin felt the door give under his touch as the lock disengaged.

  It opened inwards, and a man in his forties pulled it the rest of the way.

  ‘I need to see your ID.’

  Gavin and Laura held up their warrant cards.

  ‘Thanks. Come and sign in over here. You’ll need to complete the health and safety questionnaire, too. Do you want tea, or a glass of water?’

  ‘We’re fine, thanks,’ said Gavin. He ran his eyes over the lines of text beneath the airfield’s logo, agreed that he undertook every responsibility listed, and that he would follow staff instructions in the case of an emergency, and scrawled his signature where indicated before handing the pen to Laura.

  ‘Sorry, I’m Carl Brightwater,’ said the man and stuck out his hand. ‘My colleague over there running the control tower this afternoon is Len Walters.’

  An older man with white hair peered at them over central console, raised his hand, and then adjusted the headset he wore before turning back to his work.

  ‘Let me run through the weather forecast for our pilots, and then I’ll be with you,’ said Brightwater. ‘There’s a table and chairs over by the window if you want to take a seat while you wait.’

  Gavin sidled past a cheap office furniture assemblage strewn with documentation, and wandered over to where Brightwater had indicated.

  Four metal chairs – none of which looked comfortable – had been placed around an old plastic patio table, the round corners scratched and chipped. Beyond the table, floor-to-ceiling windows provided a view of the airfield where a mixture of gliders, microlights and propeller-powered aircraft were dotted around the edges or parked close to a single large hangar over in the corner near the car park.

  The whole place teemed with activity.

  As he watched, a light aircraft came in to land, the pilot correcting his position moments before the plane bounced onto the grass runway and taxied to a standstill at the end of a line of similar models.

  ‘That’s the flying school that runs out of here,’ said Brightwater. He sipped a glass of water as he moved to the window beside Laura. ‘It only has three aircraft, but they’ve been in business for nearly ten years and have a fantastic reputation.’

  He turned and gestured to the chairs. ‘I’m presuming you’re not here about flying lessons, though. What is it you wanted to talk to me about?’

  Waiting until Laura had settled, Gavin made sure she was ready and paying attention before he started his questioning. He knew how important these first few months were for anyone studying to become a fully-fledged detective, and given the support he’d received from Kay, Barnes, and Carys, he was determined to ensure his new colleague received the same level of help.

  After all, he would be relying on her investigative skills one day.

  ‘How long have you worked here, Mr Brightwater?’ he said.

  ‘Here in the control tower, about six years. I was one of Matt’s early pupils when I learned to fly here.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to where the flying instructor was now walking towards the control tower with his latest charge. ‘When I was made redundant in the City, I approached the owners of the airfield to see what openings were available. I had to let go of my dream to own my own plane one day, but I figured I could still do something here. I started eight months after walking out the door of the financial institution I worked for on Cheapside.’

  ‘How many pilots use this airfield on a regular basis?’

  ‘There are eight private owners, then there are two timeshare groups – they share the use of an aircraft to save on running costs, same as you would a holiday home – and then we have a dozen pilots who rent one of two aircraft we have available for hire. On top of that, there are six microlight owners that use the airfield and of course anyone visiting this part of Kent is welcome to use it too. They might park here for one or two nights while they hire a car to explore the area or catch up with friends.’

  ‘And you keep records of all of these?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Gavin took a moment to check his notes, pacing the interview so that Brightwater wouldn’t feel bombarded by questions, and determined to keep the man relaxed in order to glean as much information as possible.

  ‘I see you’ve got some skydivers here today – is that a regular occurrence?’

  ‘Yes. The owners of the airfield worked with the British Parachute Association to open it up to enthusiasts eighteen months ago. We’ve got two pilots – Matt Pendergast, the flying instructor being one of them, and Clive Asher, one of the two owners, is the other. You can see the aircraft over there – the one with the blue stripe down the length of the fuselage.’

  ‘How many of the pilots registered here are allowed to fly at night?’

  ‘Only Matt. He hasn’t logged any night flights for a while, but he keeps his licence up to date because he can be asked to teach the Night Rating course from time to time.’ He rose from his seat and beckoned Gavin and Laura to the windows as the Cessna began to taxi towards the runway. ‘Here you go, the next skydiving group are about to take off. Clive is flying this group up, and then they’ll do a tandem jump.’

  The aircraft sped along the runway, lifting into the air as it drew alongside a dilapidated shed at the far end of the airfield, before arcing gracefully away over the trees as it gained height.

  ‘What about night-time parachute jumps?’ said Gavin. ‘Do you offer those here?’

  Brightwater shook his head. ‘We haven’t got the staff cove
rage to do that, and to be honest I don’t think the owners want the additional risks that come with that – not to mention the insurance costs.’

  ‘What sort of things would an airfield need to be mindful of, if it did offer night-time jumps?’ said Laura.

  Gavin glanced at her and nodded. It was a good question, and he didn’t mind if she interrupted. At least she was confident enough to do so.

  ‘Well, the parachute area would need to be clearly marked out,’ said Brightwater, turning back to the room. He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘All and any obstructions would be illuminated so they could be seen from the air, and every jumper would have to carry at least one light so they could be tracked from the ground – and by others in the air with them. It’s a logistical nightmare, to be honest.’

  ‘Do you know of any local clubs or airfields who offer night jumps?’ said Gavin.

  ‘No, not at the present time. In fact, I don’t know of anyone who’s done that around here, not since I’ve been flying.’

  Laura closed her notebook as Gavin shook Brightwater’s hand.

  ‘Thank you for your time, we appreciate it.’

  He waited until they had left the building and were walking back to the car, and then turned to his colleague.

  ‘There were no discarded lights or anything like that found near our victim’s body, was there?’

  ‘Not that I recall from the reports Harriet and her team sent over, no.’

  ‘No parachute… and, no clothes, either.’ He pulled the car keys out of his pocket and aimed the fob at the door. ‘So, either he jumped during the daytime and nobody saw him fall, or he jumped at night with no lights.’

  ‘Maybe if it was a private jump, something secret for a laugh like a stag night or something, they might have used a friend’s airplane or something like that,’ said Laura. ‘If they had jumped before, they might have their own equipment. We’ll just have to find out if you can buy that sort of stuff online or locally around here.’