Permissible Limits (13 page)

Dave reached for the lead light, moving it along the engine bay, pooling light on the glistening valves either side of the exposed camshaft, and I thought again of Steve Liddell and his empty hangar, the
concrete
floor
blackened
where the Spitfire had gone up in flames. Harald was talking about boost pressures now and I left the two men to it, walking out into the sunshine and then looking back at our precious aircraft. The Harvard was in there too, a squat, heavy World War II trainer that I’d more or less mastered thanks to Adam, but the jewel in our crown was undoubtedly the Mustang.

Just the shape of the aircraft, the way it sat on its big, wide undercarriage and its neat little tail wheel, told you everything that you ever wanted to know. The big red spinner at the front, the long silver nose, the pert bubble canopy, the bulge of the underslung radiator, there wasn’t a line on the aircraft you’d ever dream of changing. It was like an animal. You could almost reach out and stroke it. You could almost feel how slippery, how fast it was.

I heard Harald laughing, something he didn’t do too often, then he was out in the sunshine again, joining me on the grass. Dave had made a little plaque for him, a replica of the original registration on the cockpit dash, and after he showed it to me he tucked it into the top pocket of the denim shirt he was wearing beneath the leather jacket. He stood beside me, watching a young student pilot making heavy weather of a touch-and-go. Then he jerked a thumb back towards our hangar.

‘
You know the offer’s still there,’ he said. ‘You only have to say the word.’

I nodded. Harald had never made any secret of his desire to buy the rest of the Mustang. He’d even named a price that would, in my present predicament, make life a great deal easier.

‘
Four hundred and ninety-five thousand dollars,’ I murmured. ‘It’s written on my heart.’

‘
I’d go higher,’ he said at once. ‘We could talk about five hundred and fifty.’

‘
Really?’ I looked at him, almost tempted, then he reached out and patted me on the shoulder, as calm and unhurried as ever.

‘
Think about it,’ he said. ‘There’s no rush.’

I returned his smile. He gave me a brief hug and then said goodbye. He’d phone me if there was any news from his boys in mid-Channel. In the mean time, I was to take care. He gave me a nod and a smile and walked away. I watched him circling the Yak, bending to inspect the tyres, then I returned to the hangar. Dave was about to break for lunch and we talked for a couple of minutes while he gloved his hands in Swarfega, getting rid of the oil and the grease. For the moment, I told him, we had to go easy on the maintenance budget. Not that there was a crisis. Not that there was any kind of financial problem. But Adam’s death had naturally turned things upside-down, and just now I was keen to get my bearings before taking the next step. Dave nodded and said it wouldn’t be a problem. He was older than Adam and myself, barely a year off his fiftieth birthday, but he’d always liked Adam and I know the accident had shaken him badly.

Outside, I could hear the burble of the Yak’s big radial as Harald ran through his engine checks. I watched him taxi to the end of the grass strip. His take-off run must have been less than three hundred yards. Then he was airborne, retracting the undercarriage and easing the Yak into a steady climbing turn, the little plane growing smaller and smaller until all I could hear was the faraway beat of the engine.

I turned away. Beside the hangar was the second-hand Portakabin Adam had bought as an office and an ops room. Over the years we’d been on the island, he’d made it his own, cluttering it with half a lifetime’s collection of maps, and snaps, and odd little mementos. Sooner or later I knew I had to go in there and start sorting things out, but I’d been putting off the moment ever since I’d first got the call from the police about the Cessna going down.

The door to the Portakabin was padlocked. I had one of Adam’s several keys. I unlocked the door and let myself in. Adam’s office was the smaller of the two rooms. He’d angled the prefab so one side faced south, and the sun was streaming in through the window. Like this, midday, the place felt warm and snug and cosy.

I sank onto the battered leather sofa Adam had treasured so much and looked round. Nothing, of course, had changed. The jigsaw of big airways maps that covered one wall. The framed colour shots from various airshows. Adam’s Fleet Air Arm squadron badge, mounted on a wooden shield. The exquisitely painted Tiger Moth he’d assembled from an Airfix kit, dangling on a length of cotton, inch-perfect over his desk.

I got up and circled the office, tidying a pile of aviation magazines, retrieving a parachute from a hook on the coatstand, moving Adam’s mountain bike so I could get at the stuff that cluttered his bookcase. Every job I started was freighted with memories and in the end I gave up, collapsing into the swivel chair behind his desk, wondering whether I really had the strength to go through his unopened mail. I decided against it, pulling open one of the drawers instead. There was a litter of bills and receipts inside, paperwork I knew I had to tackle, and I was still sorting them into separate piles when I found the photo.

It showed a girl on a beach. She had long black curly hair, and a full mouth, and she was wearing a wetsuit rolled down to her waist. The bikini top couldn’t have been briefer. She had a beautiful body,
deeply suntanned, and
the
expression
on her face - fond, eager, mischievous - told me more than I wanted to know. Behind her, in the water, windsurfers stitched back and forth across a pretty bay.

I turned the photo over. The little office felt suddenly as cold as a tomb.
For you, my darling,
went the big, loopy handwriting.
From all
of
me.

Chapter five

Amongst the calls waiting for me at Mapledurcombe were a couple of messages from the local police. The last time
I’d
had any contact with them was the afternoon they’d phoned with the news about Adam’s disappearance but I didn’t recognise the name on the ansaphone. A Detective Constable Perry wanted to have a word with me.

I sat at Adam’s desk, trying to resist the urge to take yet another look at the photo I’d brought back from his office at the airfield. Already, the girl on the beach had come to obsess me. In ways I still find difficult to describe, coming across this tatty little snap, with its adolescent message, was an even bigger shock than the news of Adam’s death. Everything I’d assumed, everything I’d loved, treasured, taken for granted, had turned - almost literally - to sand.

DC Perry drove over from Newport. He was a youngish detective with a shapeless black raincoat, bloodshot eyes and a heavy cold. We talked over tea in the kitchen. When I asked him why he’d come, he gave me a pretty vague answer about the circumstances surrounding Adam’s death. When I asked him what - exactly - those circumstances might be, he became even more evasive. Finally, after he’d wolfed the second scone, I managed to pin him down.

‘
Is it to do with his insurance policy?’

‘
Why do you say that, Mrs Bruce?’

‘
My accountant tells me there might be a problem.’

‘
What kind of problem?’

I tire easily when I’m upset. This particular afternoon, I was exhausted. I stopped circling the kitchen and sank into the chair across the table from Perry, looking him in the eye.

‘
My husband’s been dead three days,’ I told him. ‘It hasn’t been easy trying to cope. Why don’t you just tell me what you want?’

Perry had already offered his condolences, a formal, rather passionless expression of regret, but I’d put this down to the fact that he’d known neither of us. Now, it occurred to me that there might be rather more to this visit than met the eye.

‘
You’re right about the insurance policy,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to ask you a few questions.’

‘
Why?’

‘
Because of the nature of your husband’s death.’

‘
You mean the way he did it?’

Perry looked briefly startled.

‘
Did what?’ he asked quickly.

‘
Died.’ If I sounded aggressive, it was because I meant to. Funny how betrayal breeds contempt. All men. Every single one of them. Traitors.

Perry had produced a notebook. I watched his biro racing across the page. He looked up, the easiest questions first.

‘
I understand he’d had the policy a couple of years.’

‘
Is that what the insurance people said?’

‘
Yes.’

‘
Then I’m sure it’s true.’

‘
You’re telling me you didn’t know?’

‘
Not in any great detail, no.’

‘
But you knew how much was at stake? How much he was worth?’ ‘Worth?’ I offered him a bleak smile.

Biro poised, Perry waited for me to carry on but I just looked at him, staring him out. I’d had quite enough of playing men’s games. I wanted some answers of my own.

‘
What happens next?’ I asked at last. ‘My accountant tells me we need to find his body.’

‘
Your accountant’s right. At the moment, your husband’s down as a missing person. That’s partly why I’m here. If he’s missing, it’s our job to find him.’

‘
He’s dead,’ I said flatly
.

‘
How do you know?’

‘
The ATC people saw the plane go down on radar. They tape these things. There’s a record. Evidence.’

‘
They saw him drop off the screen,’ Perry said. ‘That’s not necessarily the same thing.’

‘
You’ve talked to them?’

‘
Of course.’

The expression on Perry’s face might have been a smile. I glared at him. He was right about the ATC coverage. Below a certain height, the curve on the earth’s surface creates a black hole, impervious to radar beams. Smugglers use it, though coverage gets better and better the closer you get to the coast.

Perry was looking at his notes.

‘
Your husband’s plane was carrying four hours’ worth of fuel. He’d beenup for…’ he shrugged, ‘… say forty minutes. That leaves over three hours. Three hours is three hundred miles. He could be anywhere. He could have landed in some field or other… couldn’t he?’

‘
Yes, he could. But why? Why would he want to do it? Cause all this fuss? All this hassle?’ I flapped my hand half-heartedly, a gesture that was meant to encompass pretty much everything that had happened since Thursday afternoon.

Perry was still looking at me. At length, he asked me whether Adam had been under any kind of stress.

‘
None,’ I said briskly. ‘That I know of.’

‘
He hadn’t been acting strangely? Nothing out of character?’

‘
Not at all. He had the lowest blood pressure of any man I’ve ever met. Nothing got to him. Ever.’

‘
No business problems?’

‘
Nothing we couldn’t handle.’

‘
You’re sure about that?’

‘
Positive.’

‘
And nothing…’ he paused,’… on the emotional side?’

It was a curious way of putting it, clumsy, old-fashioned, awkward, and looking at him I couldn’t get the girl’s face out of my mind. The lips. The half-smile. The way the wet bikini had clung to her breasts. What was I defending here? Why was I going through this daft charade?

‘
We were very happy,’ I said firmly. ‘The relationship was fine.’

‘
And nothing wrong with his health? Nothing you’d noticed? Only men don’t necessarily let on, you know, when things go wrong.’

‘
They don’t?’

For the second time, my directness made him blink. He reached for his pen again and scribbled a note. What had he written? What had I let slip?

He looked up and the expression on his face made me realise that he was altogether more perceptive than I’d thought.

‘
These things can be hurtful,’ he said quietly. ‘In my line of work you get to understand that. If there’s anything, anything at all…’ he gestured at the pad,’… you only have to say.’