The Final Flight

³¹ THURSDAY 7TH JULY

The alarm unleashed its urgent clanging. Rob’s eyes flickered open.

His first thought was surprise. He’d slept.

He turned over and faced the space where his wife should be. He rested a hand on the undisturbed pillow, before rolling out of bed.

He put on his uniform and packed a civilian change of clothes in a holdall.

It was just after 7AM.

He walked downstairs, picked up the telephone receiver, and, with nervous fingers, dialled the switchboard at West Porton.

“Commanding officer, Test Flight Unit, please.”

A short pause.

“Kilton.”

“Sir, it’s Rob May. I’m afraid I’ve been rather unwell in the night and I’m not fit for work or flying today.”

“You can come in, though?”

“No. I’m unwell.”

“This is very inconvenient, May. You have two trips today. Important ones. I’m about to reassure the government we’ll sign off tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Fine. I’ll take your place.”

Rob said goodbye but found himself speaking to a dead line. Kilton was gone.

TEN MINUTES LATER, Rob slipped out of the house and walked at a brisk pace into the village.

He didn’t look left or right, but just prayed his fellow TFU colleagues were too busy dressing or eating breakfast to glance out of the window.

As he entered the village, he spotted an old Hillman Minx outside the shop. JR was cramped into the front seat, his head tilted forward to avoid the low roof.

He gave Rob a wave.

As he approached the passenger door, a man in RAF uniform swept out of the newsagent, paper tucked under his arm. He nodded at Rob, smiling.

Rob forced a smile back and studied the man’s stripes; a squadron leader with a medal ribbon.

He climbed in next to JR.

“Do you recognise that officer?”

JR nodded.

“Deputy on Handling Squadron at Boscombe. Worry not.”

The car pulled out and Rob sunk lower in his seat.

He felt exposed, but short of hiding in the footwell, he had no choice but to remain on view to anyone who cared to look.

They entered West Porton through the main gate. Since the security clampdown, it was the only way on or off.

“We used to have our own airfield gate,” said JR. “It was on the other side and led directly to the unit. No-one bothered us. Halcyon days.”

“Sounds idyllic. And then TFU came along.”

“Indeed. Still, the mess is a lot livelier.”

They turned onto the approach road to the gate and joined a short queue. Rob found himself sliding down in his seat. He scanned ahead and recognised a couple of the cars. It looked like Red Brunson in the distance, but he didn’t recognise the white Rover immediately in front of them, although he did notice a pair of eyes in its rear-view mirror.

“I keep thinking I’m being watched.”

“You’re fine,” said JR. “It’s the morning. No-one’s alert.”

It was their turn. The officers ordered JR out of the car. Rob put his hand up to his cheek to mask his face from anyone who might drive by.

The guards also stopped the vehicle in front.

Out stepped Dave Berringer.

Rob leant all the way forward, as if tying his shoelaces. With heart thudding, he kept his head down.

JR got back in the driver’s seat.

“Everything all right? Do you think you’ve been seen?”

“Is the person in front still out of their car?” Rob asked.

“There’s no car in front of us.”

Rob unfolded himself. “OK. Let’s go.”

They turned immediately right after the gate and separated themselves from the main station and TFU traffic.

JR drove up to an airfield entrance beyond the officers’ mess and they made their way around the peri-track.

At the Maintenance Unit, JR led Rob to the flying clothing store: a series of cardboard boxes that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a jumble sale.

He picked through until he found coveralls that just about fit him. He also picked out a tatty leather flying helmet with earphones built in. It smelt musty; maybe it had seen action in the last war.

They headed to the aircraft as quickly as possible. Rob had no desire to line up and taxi anywhere near any TFU aircraft.

JR took command. Rob scanned the pilots’ notes.

In a small cloud of black smoke, the two engines fired up one after the other. After waiting for the temperatures to rise, JR made the radio calls and they taxied out.

“MR STAFFORD FOR YOU.”

Jean’s cheery voice grated with Kilton’s mood. He snatched the receiver.

“What?”

“Good morning to you, too, Mark.”

“I’m busy.”

“I need to know we’re on for tomorrow. The minister’s meeting the Board this afternoon and he’ll want reassurance.”

“I told you, we’re doing it,” Kilton hissed. “I’ve already assured Buttler. The government want this more than you do and they’re not in the mood for hearing bad news.”

“And the missing tapes?”

“Milford’s dead. We can assume that inconvenience died with him. Look, I haven’t got time for this. I’m going flying. Just be here tomorrow. We fly after the funeral.”

“Right, and Rob May? I know you had your concerns about him.”

Kilton paused.

“Don’t worry about May. He’ll do as he’s told.”

“Good. General Leivers is waiting for the word, and the UK is waiting for the money. Can I be assured there’ll be no more surprises?”

“Just be here tomorrow, Stafford. You’ll get your signature.”

He hung up and pushed open the adjoining door to Jean’s office. “No more calls. I have to go flying.”

In the planning room, he found Red. “I’ll take Rob’s place. He’s ill, apparently.”

“Well, we’re getting ready to go. Do you want to see the route?”

Kilton looked over the chart; it looked straightforward. Departure to the west, runs at two thousand and then one thousand.

“Can we get going? I’ve got a lot on.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Red looked around for Berringer and Smith. “We’re going!”

Berringer looked surprised to see Kilton standing next to him. He put his mug down and came over, along with Smith, a young navigator.

“Ready.”

Kilton worked in silence to pull on his coveralls, before he walked to the airfield door with Red. Together they waited for the others.

Impatient, he led Red out onto the apron. The marshallers towed a Victor out of the hangar to the right, while straight ahead was their Vulcan, hunched on its main gear, waiting.

A whine of props drifted over the wind and Kilton watched as an old Anson rumbled along the opposite taxiway.

“Bloody people. Make the place untidy.”

“The lineys?” said Red, watching the junior ranks busying themselves around the jets.

“The Graveyard. After Guiding Light, I’m going to expand our operations. We’ll need that space.”

Eventually, Berringer and Smith appeared next to them.

The crew walked to the aircraft.

Kilton hauled himself up the yellow ladder into the belly of the bomber, leaving Red to do the walkaround.

He settled into the co-pilot’s position on the right, happy to let Red do most of the work.

Outside, the Anson wound up to full chat and started its laborious roll down the runway. The captain looked like JR; he must have been older than the bloody aircraft he was ferrying to the knacker’s yard.

Kilton squinted.

Some youngster with him?

Unusual for that lot to be working with someone who didn’t have one foot in the grave.

Red appeared. He strapped in, and donned his US-made helmet.

“You look ridiculous,” Kilton said, appraising the mirrored visor.

Red laughed and pulled on his oxygen mask. Between them, they brought the Vulcan to life.

With the four engines at a roar, Brunson taxied to the westerly runway and accelerated into the sky.

They settled into the cruise, ploughing through the air for fifteen minutes.

As they began their descent, Red made some notes and Kilton noticed the Guiding Light panel light up; clearly, Berringer was getting ready.

“What’s wrong with him?” asked Red.

“Who?”

“Rob. You said he was ill. What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t bloody know. I didn’t ask him.”

“Who’s ill?” Berringer piped up over the intercom from his position in the rear crew bay.

“Rob May.”

There was a pause before Berringer spoke again. “He looked OK this morning.”

Kilton’s head turned. “What do you mean?”

“At the main gate. He looked fine. He was with that old bloke from the Maintenance Unit.”

“Turn the jet around,” Kilton barked into his oxygen mask.

“Sorry?” Red said, but Kilton didn’t wait any longer.

“I have control,” he said, and grabbed the column and throttles, throwing the jet into a steep bank.

“What’s going on?” Red asked.

Kilton levelled on an easterly heading and released the controls.

“Just fly us back, and tell ATC we’re a priority.”

EVEN IN THE LUMBERING ANSON, the trip to Abingdon was a short hop.

JR positioned them to the south-east to join the downwind leg for the southerly runway. Rob did little more than help with flaps and settings. As they lined up, he looked across the RAF airfield to the town, and just visible about ten miles beyond was Oxford.

JR’s experienced hands nudged the throttles as he fine-tuned their final descent; smooth as silk, the wheels caressed the runway.

“Nice landing,” Rob said.

“You have to treat these old girls with care,” JR replied, without taking his eyes off the white lines disappearing under the nose wheel as they rolled out.

Rob let JR make the radio calls and they headed toward the clusters of hangars and buildings.

“Where exactly did you drop Millie?”

JR pointed to an apron to the right of the largest hangar. “It’s used for visiting aircraft, and we have to sign in over there.” He nodded to a single-storey structure on the other side of the apron. “It’s 47 Squadron. Friendly bunch.”

After he’d shut down the two Cheetah engines, JR ran through the checklist.

“You can go, Rob. I’ll wander over to the squadron later for a cup of tea. Good luck.”

Rob entered the 47 Squadron building and approached what looked like an operations desk.

The place was busy, but each person who bustled past said a cheery good morning.

“I need to sign in a visiting aircraft, please.”

The desk sergeant smiled. “Welcome to RAF Abingdon,” he said, as he turned a visitors’ logbook around in front of him.

Rob opened it and made his way to the last entry.

He fished a pen out of his coveralls and recorded an entry for their flight. He wrote slowly, waiting for the right moment, as the sergeant turned away.

He quickly flicked the page back and scanned the list of entries. His eyes stopped as he read the name.

He brushed the entry with his finger.

The rest of the line read:

Rob tapped the desk for a moment. MT only stood for one thing as far as he knew.

He completed his own entry in the log, adding ‘X-Country Navex’ as a vague reason for his visit.

He pushed the book back toward the sergeant. “I wonder if you could point me toward MT?”

“Have you booked some transport, sir?”

“Actually, no. I was hoping they’d be able to help me?”

“I can ask.” The sergeant picked up the phone. “Where are you headed?”

“Just local.”

The sergeant furrowed his brow.

“Got an officer in need of car at 47 Squadron. Can you oblige? No, I’m not sure.” He cupped the receiver and looked at Rob. “Do you have a requisition?”

“Yes,” Rob lied.

The sergeant finished the call. “Someone will pick you up from here shortly.”

He pointed at an old sofa that lined the wall opposite the desk. Rob walked over, but before he sat down, he removed his flying coveralls and folded them into the holdall.

He crossed his legs and did his best to hide his nerves.

After a few minutes, a corporal appeared at the desk holding his cloth beret. The sergeant pointed at Rob and the man came over.

“You need a transport, sir?”

“Yes, please, Corporal.”

Rob stood up and walked out. A grey Austin 10 staff car sat next to the entrance. Rob winced; it was the sort of official vehicle normally reserved for senior officers.

As the corporal opened the door for him, he tried to summon his most casual tone.

“Actually, Corporal, I have a slight problem, in that I’ve only gone and lost the actual address I need to visit. I wonder if you could help?”

“I’ll try, sir. Do you know the name of the person? Or is it a company?”

“My colleague visited the place at the beginning of last week and I think the MT section provided the transport. Maybe you have a record?”

The corporal didn’t look best pleased. “We have records in the office, sir. Do you know exactly when this took place?” He spoke slowly, clearly reluctant to have to go back to his office and rifle through the cards.

“20th June, in the morning. Wing Commander Milford.”

“Right. Perhaps you could write that down?”

The driver sat behind the wheel and turned, handing Rob a notepad and pen. Rob wrote Millie’s name and the date, and they made the short journey to the MT office.

KILTON FIDGETED while Red brought the Vulcan onto a short final.

By the time the last engine had shut down, he was out of his seat and disembarked through the hatch, leaving the others scratching their heads.

Still in his coveralls and Mae West, carrying his helmet and oxygen mask, Kilton marched into the planning room and headed straight to his secretary’s office.

“Get me security, now.”

At his desk, he fell into his seat, crashing a fist onto the table.

The phone rang; he snatched at the handset. “Kilton.”

“Squadron Leader Hoskins for you.”

There was a click.

“Hoskins, Rob May called in sick this morning, but I’ve had a report he entered the station with a dinosaur from the Maintenance Unit. I don’t know what he’s up to, but there’s a good chance he’s trying to interfere with the project. I need him tracked down and arrested immediately.”

“OK. Are you sure? Shouldn’t we check his house first?”

“Check everywhere!”

Kilton hung up and stared at the phone for a moment.

He left the office and walked through the planning room out onto the apron.

Looking across the airfield, his eyes rested on the ramshackle nest of huts and hangars that made up the Graveyard.

“Damn this.”

AFTER A SHORT TRIP in the TFU Land Rover, Kilton marched into the MU crew room.

Two men—one slumped into an old sofa and one standing at a desk—stood up as he entered.

“Who’s in charge? Where’s JR?”

“He’s flying,” said a pilot by the sofa.

“Where? Who with?”

Furtive glances between the men.

“Tell me!”

“He’s taken an officer to a meeting, I think.”

“Which officer? What meeting? Come on, don’t you keep records?”

The man by the tea bar pointed at a sheet on the wall.

“It just says ‘transport’. Not sure of the destination. But he’ll be back at some point. I can have him visit TFU if you like, sir?”

Kilton walked up to the sheet and scrutinised it.

Anson – TX183 – Transport

“Who was the officer?” he barked.

“Not sure.”

Kilton turned and walked toward the man; he wore squadron leader stripes.

“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in? Now, I’ll ask again. Where have they gone?”

“I’m sorry, Wing Commander Kilton. I don’t know. As I say, I can send them over when they return.”

“You won’t need to.”

AS THE CAR pulled away from the MT compound and toward the exit from RAF Abingdon, Rob turned a small square of paper over in his hand.

The main gate was a lot more relaxed than West Porton’s. He wound down the window and sat up.

If Susie was watching, he needed her to see him.

They passed through the gate. A blue MG turned in, blocking his view. The corporal swung left onto the main road and sped up.

Rob shifted in his seat, craning his neck to look back at the entrance.

Susie was at the wheel of her Herald, parked about fifty yards away from the airfield entrance. She was reading a newspaper.

As they left her behind, he willed her to look up.

She didn’t.

They reached a roundabout, maybe half a mile from the gate. The Herald still hadn’t moved.

“Everything all right, sir?” said the corporal. Rob looked forward to see the man staring at him in the rear-view mirror.

“Fine, thank you.”

Rob kept his eyes fixed ahead. Why the hell hadn’t she spotted them leaving?

Thirty seconds after they navigated around a roundabout, the distinctive blue car flashed across the wing mirror.

He whipped his head around and saw Susie, with her black bob of hair returned, about fifty yards behind.

Before long, they were on the outskirts of the city.

Rob had never been to Oxford; he felt like they were driving onto the set of a film. Sandstone college buildings as far as he could see; spectacled men in corduroy jackets on bicycles, gliding around the car.

The car slowed to turn into a narrow road. Rob looked back and could just see Susie’s car two vehicles behind.

“Are we close?” Rob asked.

“It’s just down here, sir. Next left.”

“Actually, Corporal, I think I might walk the rest of the way, as it’s a nice day.”

The driver pulled over and looked back at him. “Are you sure, sir?”

“Yes, it will be good to get some fresh air.”

“What time should I collect you, sir?”

“I won’t need a lift back, thank you, Corporal.”

“Very good, sir.”

Rob climbed out and watched as the Austin drove off in a cloud of smoke.

He turned to see Susie walking toward him.

“Nice hair.”

“So, I assume you’ve spotted some breadcrumbs, Flight Lieutenant May?”

Rob pointed ahead. “Merton Street. It’s along here. The address Millie was taken to.”

RHODES COTTAGE WAS a terraced Tudor house with a gated drive to one side. The ancient walls were crumbling in places.

Rob and Susie stood at the front porch.

“Let’s see what’s behind the green door,” Susie said, as she knocked.

It was a quiet street; the odd student cycled past.

An elderly woman with a shopping bag ambled along the pavement toward them.

They leant in to the door, trying to detect any sounds of life from within.

Rob knocked again.

“Can I help you?”

The woman with the shopping bag stopped by the door.

“Ah,” said Rob. “Yes.”

She put the shopping down and produced a small bunch of keys.

Susie leant forward and held out her hand. “Hello, I’m Susie, and this is my colleague Robert. We were friends of Christopher Milford. I believe you may have met him?”

The woman gave them a puzzled look and shook her head.

“I don’t think so. You must have the wrong house.”

With that, she pushed her key into the door and picked up her shopping.

“I’m sorry,” said Susie. “Maybe he used a different name. Rob, why don’t you describe him to Mrs…?”

The woman shook her head again and pushed the door open.

Rob gabbled out a description of Millie. “Fifties, balding, bit of middle-age spread. Moustache…” He tailed off, before adding, “and the nicest person you will ever meet.”

The women hesitated as she crossed the threshold into the cottage. She turned and gave Rob a polite smile.

“I wish you luck in finding your friend.”

She closed the door.

Rob looked at Susie; she bent down and opened the letterbox.

“We won’t find him. He’s dead. And that’s why we’re here.”

She stood up again. After a moment, the door opened a crack.

An eye appeared in the gloom of the doorway.

“Maybe you had better come in then.”

INSIDE THE DARK KITCHEN, the woman unpacked her shopping. She paused and looked over her shoulder.

“How did he die?”

“In an aeroplane crash,” Rob said. “I survived, but I’m afraid the other three men didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. The professor liked him very much. I’m Mrs Lazenby.” She turned back to her unpacking. Rob watched as she piled up three jars of fish paste before opening a cupboard.

“Mrs Lazenby, can I ask you what your husband does?” said Rob.

The woman laughed. “Not much. He died in 1944.”

“Then who—”

“Professor Belkin lives here, and that’s who I suspect you need to speak to. I’m just the housekeeper.” She put away the last of the shopping as the clock in the hall struck the half hour. Rob looked at his watch; it was 10.30AM.

“But you’ll have awhile to wait, I’m afraid. He’s not here and won’t be back for another week.”

Rob’s heart sunk.

“We only have today, Mrs Lazenby. Perhaps you could tell us where he is?”

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

Susie smiled at her. “That would be lovely.”

With great deliberation, Mrs Lazenby took the kettle from the draining board and filled it with water over the sink. She placed it on the stove and then spent a long time fiddling with the gas and box of matches.

Rob looked across at Susie with impatience, but she put a finger to her lips.

“Mrs Lazenby, do you know why we are here?” Susie asked.

The housekeeper pulled a chair from under the table and sat down opposite them.

“Was it an accident?”

“I’m sorry?” Rob replied, even though he had heard her clearly.

She turned to face him. “The aeroplane crash. Was it an accident?”

Susie answered, “We don’t know. Why do you ask that?”

Mrs Lazenby looked vague for a moment, as if recalling a dim memory. “It’s not my place to discuss this. You really are best waiting for the professor.”

“I understand that, Mrs Lazenby,” said Susie, “but we are in a rather desperate position. As I think you realised, Mr Milford took a great risk in coming here and now that he’s gone, we are all he has left to ensure that risk wasn’t for nothing.”

The kettle whistled. Mrs Lazenby stood up.

Susie continued. “We think Professor Belkin is the only person who can help bring to a conclusion the work Mr Milford was doing and we need to speak to him today.”

Mrs Lazenby slowly poured the boiling water into a teapot which she then covered with a knitted cosy. Without turning around, she asked, “And who are you again?”

Rob watched her lift the teapot onto the table.

“I took a significant risk coming here today, Mrs Lazenby. If you telephone RAF West Porton to confirm my identity, I guarantee the next thing that will happen is that police officers will arrive at this house and arrest me. I have a career as a test pilot at risk. And a wife.” His voice cracked with the words. “I realise you only have my word on this, but please, Mrs Lazenby, I would give everything I have to ensure that Squadron Leader Milford’s discovery does not die with him. Please help me.”

Mrs Lazenby reached into a cupboard and retrieved three cups, followed by three saucers.

Finally, she returned from the refrigerator with a jug of milk.

“I see,” she said, and sat down. “I’m afraid you won’t want to hear what I’m about to say. The professor is a long way away. More than a day, I fear, with the ferry crossing times.”

“Is he in France?” Susie asked.

“No, not France, but he may as well be. The professor takes his summer holiday on Lundy, and he has done every year that I’ve known him.”

“Lundy?”

“An island off the north Devon coast,” Rob said. He looked at Mrs Lazenby. “I didn’t know anyone lived there.”

“I believe there are some holiday cottages. The professor has an arrangement with a gentleman. Mr MacPherson.”

Susie had visibly slumped.

But Rob was already thinking about their next move.

“We can get there today.”

Mrs Lazenby looked doubtful. “I can give you the address, but it takes the professor more than five hours to drive to the port, and then I understand there’s only two crossings a day. You’ll be lucky if you’re there before tomorrow lunchtime. So, unless you brought one of your fancy aeroplanes with you, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

Susie looked at Rob with an eyebrow raised.

He was smiling.

THEY STEPPED onto the street into bright sunshine. Rob turned back to Mrs Lazenby at the door.

“You’ve been extremely helpful. I can tell you guard the professor’s privacy closely, but I believe you’ve done the right thing.”

“Mrs Lazenby,” Susie said, “did the professor take any work related items with him on holiday?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. He goes to get away from all that. He tells me he doesn’t even read the newspaper.”

“That explains why he hasn’t contacted us.”

They walked back to Susie’s car. Rob studied the brief address.

They pulled over at the first phone box and Rob dialled the Ministry operator, asking to be put through to the operations desk at 47 Squadron.

They quickly found JR.

The old pilot laughed when he heard the plan.

“In for a penny, I guess. I’ll do some planning and see if we can’t beg some paraffin from the good people at RAF Abingdon.” He paused. “I’ll have to look at the strip carefully. Getting in is one thing, but we’ll need to get out again.”

“Thank you, JR.”

Susie steered them onto the main road again, and they headed back toward Abingdon.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Rob said.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. We need irrefutable evidence, remember. I was hoping we’d be poring over results from the sixty reels by now, preferably with the tapes themselves still intact.” She shrugged. “What are we going to find in Lundy?”

“The truth?”

Susie changed into top gear. “Unfortunately, the truth isn’t usually enough.”

“But we have to try.”

“I agree. But flying across southern England is a lot more than we bargained for. You’re certain you want to do this?”

Rob stared out of the window as the colleges gave way to countryside. “I have to,” he said quietly. “We’ve got hours left on the project before it’s too late. Millie worked with Belkin. I’ve got to talk to him, Susie. I’ve got to give it a chance. It’s the least I owe Millie.”

They drove on in silence for a few minutes.

As RAF Abingdon’s main gate came into view, Rob turned to Susie.

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

She smiled. “The chance of a flight? I’m not missing that! Plus, they ordered me not to go to Abingdon, but they didn’t say anything about Lundy.”

“WITH RESPECT, sir, I think that’s naive.” Kilton stood in front of Group Captain Periwinkle’s desk.

“Calm down, Mark. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”

Kilton shook his head in exasperation. “The evidence is clear. May lied about his illness. I’m certain he flew with the Maintenance Unit. In fact I think I saw him in an Anson.”

“You think? But you’re not sure?”

“I’m sure, sir.”

“Might Rob just be at the doctor’s? Didn’t the police say that the house was empty? Mary must have taken him off.”

“No, sir. He’s up to something, I’m sure of it.”

The phone in the outer office rang. A moment later, the call was put through to Periwinkle.

“Station Commander,” he answered. “I see. And that’s as much as you can tell us, is it?”

He said a polite thank you and hung up. “ATC say the only MU traffic this morning was indeed an Anson. There was no flight plan, but the aircraft departed to the north-east.”

“North-east?” Kilton looked around the office and pulled a southern England chart from a shelf, spreading it open on the conference table. With his finger, he drew a line running north-easterly from West Porton. It led to Cambridge.

He looked up at the station commander. “Get your corporal to call Cambridge Airport and ask them if they’ve had a visitor this morning. Anson TX183.” He wrote the serial number on a scrap of paper and handed it to Periwinkle. The station commander moved from behind his desk.

Kilton stood by the chart and listened as Periwinkle relayed the message in the outer office.

“Oh, and could we have a pot of tea, please?”

“Call Cambridge first!” Kilton shouted.

Periwinkle walked back into the office. He eyed Kilton as he dealt with some correspondence on his desk. Kilton stood in silence, gazing down at the chart. Why Cambridge?

After a few minutes, the corporal appeared at the door.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Nothing?” said Kilton. “Really?”

“No, sir. Cambridge confirms they’ve had no visitors at all this morning.”

“Bollocks!” Kilton stood up and hunched over the chart again. “North-east. Could just have been their initial heading.” His eyes moved either side of an imaginary line to Cambridge. RAE Bedford was a common destination for test crews; the place hosted a lot of aeronautical engineers.

The corporal stood next to him, also looking at the chart.

“RAE Bedford, corporal. That could be it. Call them, will you?”

“Yes, sir. Would you like me to make a list of the other airfields along the route? They could have gone beyond Cambridge, of course?”

“Quickly then,” Kilton snapped. He watched as the corporal scribbled at speed.

As he returned to the outer office, Kilton shouted after him. “Start with RAE Bedford.”

He paced the room.

“Cup of tea, Mark?” asked Periwinkle.

RED BRUNSON STOOD by one of the planning desks and drummed his fingers. He’d been watching the comings and goings since their abrupt return to West Porton, including the order of the police to Rob May’s house.

Jock MacLeish appeared beside him.

Red looked over his shoulder to ensure no-one was too close.

“First, they came for Brian, then they came for Millie.”

“And now they’ve come for Rob.” MacLeish finished the thought.

“Did he ever say anything to you?” Red asked.

Jock shook his head. “Nope. I wondered if he would, but he seemed happy with the project.”

Two West Porton security men in uniform marched into the planning room. They tapped on Jean’s office door. Red and MacLeish watched as she led them to the wooden lockers and handed over a set of keys.

It didn’t take them long to tip the contents of Rob’s locker into a bag.

MacLeish shook his head and went back to his planning, but Red loitered for a moment, before heading over to Jean.

He tapped on the glass window in the door.

Jean looked up and beamed, waving him in.

“Well, hello, Lieutenant Brunson.”

“Hi, Jean. I need to check a few items for the funeral. Do you have the contact list, please?”

“Of course,” she said brightly, then delved into a file, handing him a sheet with the names and telephone numbers.

“Thank you. I won’t be long.”

ROB WENT into the Abingdon guardroom at the main gate and filled out a visitor form for Susie, making up a name. One of the smaller illegalities of the day.

At the 47 Squadron operations desk, JR explained they would have a female VIP passenger, and Susie was duly treated like royalty with offers of cups of tea and biscuits.

JR filled out the departure details, and he sat on the sofa next to Rob as they ran through a copy of the Anson pilots’ notes.

They hadn’t been able to contact anyone at Lundy. Apparently, the island wasn’t connected to the mainland by wire. However, JR had found a description of the strip; it was one thousand four hundred feet long, which was tight.

The more they read in the notes, the better they felt their chances were. The handling instructions for take-off at eighty-five knots had a considerable margin of error, as the actual stall speed was closer to fifty knots.

During his test pilots’ course, Rob had placed various aircraft in all sorts of marginal situations. He felt this was acceptable.

JR agreed.

He shrugged. “Well, we’ll find out one way or another.”

Rob donned his flying coveralls and the three of them headed out to the waiting aircraft.

A FEW MINUTES AFTER JR, Rob and Susie had left, a phone rang on the 47 Squadron operations desk. The duty desk sergeant picked it up.

“47 Squadron Operations. Sergeant Wilkes… Thank you. Put him through.”

As he listened, he jotted down an aircraft serial number.

TX183

“I think so. Stand by, I’ll check.”

Wilkes could have done without this extra task on a busy morning. Cupping the receiver, he looked across to his corporal.

“Those VIPs? Were they in an Anson?”

“I think so.”

“Serial?” He waited as the corporal opened the visitor log and ran his finger down to the last entry.

“Tango X-Ray one-eight-three”

“What time did they leave?”

The corporal looked at the wall clock. “Ten minutes ago.”

The sergeant uncapped the phone. “You’ve just missed them, sorry.”

A new voice appeared at the other end of the line and the sergeant had to hold the receiver away from his ear.

“Yes, sir.” He dropped the phone and shouted at the corporal.

“Stop the Anson!”

ROB SWITCHED on the main magnetos in the aircraft and switched off the starting mags. He scanned the rest of the checklist while a member of the ground crew outside waved to confirm he had screwed down the priming pump and closed the priming cock.

He watched as JR opened the engine up to one thousand RPM.

“Pain, but we have to warm the engine for a minute or two.”

Rob monitored the engine temperature gauges. The white needle inched slowly around the dial.

Susie appeared between them.

“You’re best to keep seated,” Rob shouted above the engine noise, but she pointed out of the window.

An RAF police car was driving toward the air traffic tower. They watched it pull to a halt before a policeman jumped out and looked toward them.

“For us?” Rob said.

“I think so. Perhaps we should get going?”

JR didn’t need asking twice. He released the park brake and gave a wave to the ground crew, who showed him three chocks. He pushed the throttles and the aircraft crept forward.

Rob kept his eyes on the policeman. He was running toward them.

“Are you going to radio the tower?” JR asked.

“I think that would be futile now.”

“Agreed.”

JR swung the Anson onto the westerly taxiway and taxied as fast as he dared.

The radio burst into life. “Anson, Shorthand one-three, you are requested to shut down .”

Rob watched through the side window as the policeman, reacting to the plane’s movement, stopped and ran back to his car.

The radio shouted at them again. “Shorthand one-three you are ordered to stop taxi and shutdown immediately.’

“Shall we turn that off?” Rob said.

“Good idea.” JR turned the rotary dial.

The crossing point for the main runway was straight ahead, about halfway along its length.

“Plenty of space for this old girl,” JR said.

Rob selected a take-off flap setting and craned his head around. The police car swung onto the taxiway and disappeared behind them. It must have been doing fifty MPH; they were doing about twenty. The policeman would be level with them, or worse, in front of them, in moments.

The turn onto the main runway was still a hundred yards away.

But they were facing into wind.

“Just go,” Rob said.

JR looked at him. “What?”

“Use the taxiway. We’ve run out of time, JR. Let’s just go!”

JR pushed the throttles forward, and they both monitored the engines, which should have had more of a chance to warm up.

The airspeed indicator lumbered slowly up.

“Come on, come on…” Rob willed the aircraft to accelerate.

He looked around, pressing against the window, trying to glimpse the police car, only to see it had caught up with them and was now attempting to overtake, one set of wheels on the grass.

“Shit, he’s going to get in front of us!”

Forty-five knots, fifty knots.

The needle was agonisingly slow to respond.

The police car came level with the leading edge of the wing.

The driver seemed to find a burst of energy from the engine and it moved ahead, level with the nose.

Sixty-five knots.

JR eased the yoke back.

But the aircraft stayed planted.

The police car inched further ahead.

“If he gets clear, he’ll pull in front and we’re done for!” Rob shouted.

Susie stood up again, gripping the back of the two cockpit seats.

“COME ON!” she yelled over the din of the engines.

The Anson’s wings finally began to bite and the aircraft lifted slowly into the air, leaving the police car way behind.

JR kept the nose close to the horizon, allowing the airspeed to build, before nudging it up, teasing the vintage aircraft into a gentle, if reluctant, climb.

“Better keep your chart out and radio off,” said Rob. “We’re going to navigate old-school.”

JR continued the gentle bank. Rob scanned the scene below. Two more police cars caught up with the one that had been chasing them. A crowd of men in various uniforms stood around the base of the tower.

“This is it now. We’re committed.”

JR laughed. “You could say that.”

The Oxfordshire countryside slipped by. JR kept the battered silver Anson just below the clouds, with the nose pointing south-east.

Rob tapped the compass heading.

“Let’s throw them off the scent a little, leave the west until Reading when we’re well out of sight.”

“Good idea.”

Rob studied the chart.

“That’s Didcot ahead.” He pointed. “See the brown sprawl beyond? That’s Reading.”

“Got it,” JR confirmed.

Rob retrieved a pencil from his coveralls pocket and drew a rough line from Reading to a point between Bristol and Bath.

From there, they would follow the Severn Estuary and north Devon coast until they were visual with Lundy.

He showed the new lines to JR, who nodded in appreciation at their simplicity. He roughly measured the distance, checked their cruise speed, and noted the duration of each leg, just in time to start the stopwatch at Swindon.

After the navigation exercise, there was little else to do.

Rob sat back. With no distraction, lost in the rhythmic drone of the engine, the full enormity of what had happened started to sink in.

“You OK?” JR called over the intercom.

Rob pushed off his headset.

JR leaned across and tugged at his harness until it released.

He manoeuvred himself out of the P2 seat and staggered back. Susie caught him and helped him into the torn leather seat next to hers.

Susie’s breath next to his ear.

“It’s OK, it’s OK. Just breathe.”

He closed his eyes and folded himself forward. Her voice was soft and kind, and the breath on his ear was warm. He smelt her sweet scent.

Slowly, he took deeper breaths; the worst of the panic was passing.

Opening his eyes, still doubled over, he studied the dirty floor of the old aircraft.

The dust of a thousand troops transported around the world.

Some to their deaths. It could be worse.

Susie’s hand stroked his head; he sat up.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No need to apologise.”

“It feels like I’ve crossed the Rubicon.” He turned to her. “My old life, it’s gone, isn’t it?”

“We’re doing the right thing, Rob. Remember what Millie must have gone through, sitting in these very seats, terrified, lying to Kilton. And why? It must have been the most urgent thing in his life, and that’s why we’re here.”

Rob thought of Millie, alone in the back of the Anson, JR up front, helping but unaware of his real task.

“But what if we don’t get what we need? Like you said? I can’t go back now. I have nothing to go back to, except Kilton’s fury. He’ll have me arrested.”

“Let’s hope we’ll get what we need. And when we do, Mark Kilton will be the one under arrest.”

The aircraft banked and he looked up to see JR with the yoke in one hand and the chart in another.

“I have to help him.” Rob rose from his seat but turned back to Susie. “I’ve got no wife, no best friend and no career. I hope you’re right.”

Back in the cockpit, he apologised to JR, who dismissed his words with a wave and patted him on the back.

The Severn Estuary was directly ahead. Rob made sure JR was following his line on the chart to keep them clear of Bristol Lulsgate Airport.

THE SUN CAME and went as clouds drifted across the sky. Mary stared into the blue spaces between.

Standing in the Laverstocks’ front room, cup of tea in hand, in front of their large bay window, the wound of Rob’s betrayal still hurt.

But in the long night hours, with little sleep, she’d had her doubts.

And she had been surprised by another feeling creeping in.

Guilt.

“Why on earth should you feel guilty?” Janet Laverstock said, over breakfast.

Mary didn’t know the answer, but that didn’t stop the feeling nagging at her.

Three nights of quiet crying in a strange bed had taken their toll.

After breakfast, she decided she needed to take action.

She tried her best to put aside the emotion that clouded her thoughts and remember what exactly Rob had said.

Not much. But enough for her to believe she was missing something.

Something that involved Millie. Something that began a series of events which ultimately led her here, living with a snobby woman and her compliant husband.

The type of happy marriage she couldn’t begin to contemplate.

Janet had insisted that Rob be given no more chances. But she hadn’t really given him one chance.

She was losing him, even before Janet Laverstock had called with her shocking news. She knew that. But in the clear light, Mary found it hard to believe she’d lost him to a young lover.

His insistence, full of clichés about it not being what it seemed, played over in her mind.

But what to do? She didn’t want to simply arrive back at Trenchard Close.

She needed to embrace something that had been absent from their marriage for some time.

Truth.

And there was only one place she could start.

Only one person she could truly trust.

A noise came from the kitchen as Janet hung up the phone. She appeared, with her trademark bouffant of perfect hair.

“Good news,” she announced. “I’ve found her.”

JR TOOK them low over the island while he and Rob scrutinised the strip.

“It looks smooth enough, but then it would from up here,” Rob said.

They searched for clues to help them with wind speed and direction, eventually spotting a bonfire that showed a fairly stiff south-westerly.

JR descended on the dead side of a left hand circuit and set them up for a slow approach.

The Anson banked onto final. Rob gave JR full flaps. He slowed the aircraft down to sixty knots. With the stiff breeze that gave them a pleasingly slow ground speed, he felt confident that the short strip would accommodate them.

Rob watched as JR skilfully applied thrust with the nose attitude up, holding the aircraft just above the ground, and enabling him to drop on the first part of usable strip.

He glanced back at Susie, who gazed out of the window.

They landed with a thump and JR immediately pulled the throttles back to idle and lowered the nose. The ground was indeed rougher than it looked from above. They bounced in their seats before slowing enough to turn.

It didn’t look like they had much of an area to park, but JR carried on down the strip until they saw a small portion of cut grass off the westerly end.

After bringing the aircraft to a stop, pointing into wind, JR shut her down. Susie appeared behind them.

“We have a visitor.”

She was looking out at a man, maybe in his sixties, walking with a limp toward the aircraft.

Rob unstrapped and went to the door, opening it and lowering the folding stairs to allow Susie to leave first. He pulled off his flying coveralls before following her.

“This is Mr Bonner,” said Susie, raising her voice over the stiff breeze. “He knows where Professor Belkin’s cottage is.”

Rob leant back into the aircraft.

“We’re off. I hope we won’t be too long.”

“No problem,” said JR. “I’ll sit here and contemplate my next career.”

They walked from the grass strip, along a plateau that covered most of the island. Ahead of them lay what looked like a stone lighthouse, isolated and exposed to the prevailing wind.

“The old Light Cottage in the garden.” Bonner pointed at a small stone building. “The MacPhersons own it now. He’s staying there.”

Susie thanked him, but before they could walk off, the man asked them, “Who did you say you were again?”

“Oxford University business,” she replied. “Very urgent.”

Bonner didn’t look convinced.

“An urgent maths problem?”

“Yes!” said Susie brightly, and they set off.

THE COTTAGE WAS TINY. As they approached it, Rob looked for signs of an ageing maths professor, but it appeared empty.

They arrived at the small wooden door and glanced at each other before Susie gave it a few hefty thumps with her small fist.

No sound from within, but the wind carried a new voice to them. They whipped around.

“Are you looking for me?”

A grey-haired man, with woollen jumper and baggy red trousers, lowered himself down the grass bank with the aid of a walking stick. A pair of glasses hung from a chain around his neck, and he carried a pair of binoculars.

“Professor Belkin?” called Susie.

He didn’t immediately answer, but concentrated on the last few steps. Rob went forward to help him down.

He steadied himself on the flat ground that ran around the cottage.

“I am he. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Belkin said, and gave them a warm smile.

“I’m Robert May and this is my colleague Susie. Perhaps we could go inside?”

“Yes, if you like. I have little to offer, I’m afraid, but I could rustle up a cup of tea. Or maybe something stronger?”

He opened the door, which wasn’t locked.

“Arrive in that thing, did you?” Belkin said, motioning toward the airstrip.

“We did. I’m afraid it’s rather urgent.”

The professor took a seat by the door, next to a small cabinet. “Perhaps one of you would be kind enough to make the tea? The fresh air does rather take it out of me. But I enjoy feeling tired. It’s one of life’s pleasures when you get to my age.”

Susie got up and moved to an old range at the side of the room. She found a stainless steel kettle and a china teapot.

“Professor Belkin, we’ve taken a considerable risk to visit you today. In fact, believe it or not, the RAF is currently looking for that aeroplane we arrived in.”

“I see,” the old man said.

“Can I ask you if you have ever met Squadron Leader Christopher Milford?”

The professor considered the question for a moment. “Perhaps you should tell me why you’re here.”

Rob glanced at Susie; she gave a small nod.

“I’m very sorry to tell you that Millie died in an aircraft accident on the 24th June.”

The professor bowed his head. “Oh, dear me. That is terribly, terribly sad. I am so very sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you, Professor. He was a good friend. But I’m afraid I rather failed in my duty to him. We’re here to make amends.”

“Did the bastards kill him?” the professor asked with nonchalance, as if this was a perfectly reasonable question in the circumstances.

Rob again looked at Susie.

“We don’t know,” she answered. “Maybe.”

The professor nodded, appearing to accept this as a potential outcome for Millie.

“After Millie died,” Rob continued, “they found out what he had been up to. They’re currently trying to portray him as a traitor, but we know better. We know he was trying to prove a new guidance system was fatally flawed, and that the trial to see it into service was a sham. I believe you may have helped him?”

The professor didn’t answer. Susie left the tea-making and moved from the kitchen area, pulling a piece of paper from her pocket. She unfolded it and handed it to Belkin. He put his reading glasses on and held it up to catch the light from the window.

Susie sat down at the table.

Eventually, the professor relaxed his hand, let it drop to his lap and looked at them expectantly.

“So, what do you need to know?”

“What does it mean? What did you find out?”

He looked across to Susie. “I can see that Mr May is with the Royal Air Force, but may I ask about your role, miss?”

“Attenborough. Susie Attenborough. Can I assume it was you who passed a certain telephone number to Mr Milford?”

A flicker of recognition passed across his face. “Ah, yes. And can I assume you answered it?”

“Well, I don’t work on the switchboard, but it did eventually come to me, yes.”

He seemed satisfied and turned back to Rob, with Millie’s notes still in his hand.

“This appears to be a combination of notes taken from a telephone call I had with Mr Milford. Oh, must have been… well, the day before he died, I believe.” He looked at the paper again. “But also, some of his own subsequent conclusions.”

“Millie brought you tapes?” Rob asked.

“Yes. Mr Milford brought me a series of magnetic tapes. I facilitated the reading of the reels and provided him with a list of statistical anomalies. We also carried out some interpretation of the data based on its operational use. These are the results.”

Susie leant forward. “Statistical anomalies?”

“Yes. Sections of data that didn’t fit into the surrounding context.”

“I’m sorry, could you explain a bit more?” Rob asked.

“Well, let me put it in more practical terms. Now, as I understand it, the data was gathered by a new form of height-measuring device on board an aircraft? A laser beam?”

“Millie really did trust you.” Rob smiled at the thought of the two men together.

“In the end he had to, otherwise I would have found it difficult to complete the tasks he set. Anyway, you would expect the height readings to look consistent with an aeroplane travelling across the land, but let us say that within a time period of less than a second, the height reading showed a difference of one thousand feet. Well, your aircraft would be physically incapable of manoeuvring at such velocity, and therefore the data must be wrong.”

“So you proved that the system was faulty?”

Belkin considered this for a moment. “We have to be careful drawing such conclusions. Mr Milford thought it possible that small inaccuracies might happen very often, but they would not likely interfere with the flight, as true readings would flow through before the aircraft’s autopilot would have time to make any changes. What he wanted to know, therefore, is how often inaccuracies lasted long enough to affect the flying. We provided this answer. We also used those numbers to make projections using actual flying statistics.”

“And the conclusion?” Susie asked.

“You have it on this piece of paper. Here…” Belkin pointed at a figure on the sheet. Rob leant forward:

“That’s how often we saw some sort of deviation. But this figure is the more interesting one.”

“That’s how often the figures could be wrong long enough to affect a flight. One and a half tenths of one per cent.”

“That doesn’t sound very often,” Susie said.

“True. If you only flew, say a hundred times a year, it would statistically never occur. However, the Royal Air Force flies rather more than that. And as I understand it, we should also consider the flying carried out in the United States of America?”

“Yes,” Rob said. “We should. So how often are we talking?” He looked at the figures again. “I’m sorry, my maths isn’t quite up to it.”

“Quite often. Without a pencil and some graph paper I can’t tell you exactly, but maybe a hundred times every ten thousand hours flown.”

Susie leaned forward, hands on the table. “You’re telling us, this system would cause one hundred crashes in ten thousand hours?”

“No. Again, there is another layer below this. For the vast majority of those occurrences, the incoherent data would cause a small deviation, but not enough to be a major problem. Mr Milford was keenly interested in very specific circumstances. Low-level, high speed and banked or approaching rising ground, and for the deviation to instigate a downward deviation rather than cause the aircraft to rise.”

He picked up the paper. “This, I believe, is his conclusion.”

Rob crouched down next to Belkin and peered at the sheet. “I still don’t understand the figures.”

“This is a classic application of statistics. Mr Milford has started with the number of flights, here…” He pointed at the number 262. “And down here is an extrapolation from the data of the more serious anomalies. As I recall, it was a very low number and yet because of the sheer volume of flights every year, it appears that 3.5 flights annually would be critically endangered. I must say, from my recollection of our findings, this is about right.”

“Hence the 8.75 figure at the end. He’s averaged the crew size across the low-level fleet and come up with 2.5.”

“2.5 times 3.5?” Susie asked.

“8.75,” Rob confirmed. “The number of lives in danger annually if Guiding Light goes into service. Here it is, Susie. Here’s the evidence, in black-and-white.”

Susie turned to Belkin.

“Professor, where is the actual evidence? Do you still have the tapes and the data?”

“I’m afraid we destroyed them, on Squadron Leader Milford’s instructions. But there is something else rather important here. These conclusions are not reliable. There simply wasn’t enough data. Not nearly enough. The true figure, that number at the end, has much that is assumed and extrapolated from a very small sample size. I imagined this would be the beginning of an investigation, not the end.”

Rob didn’t reply; Susie rested a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry if that’s unwelcome news.”

They sat in silence for a while. Rob toyed with the sheet of statistics. He stared at the final figure.

“Shall we have that tea now?” Belkin said.

The three of them drank from old mugs that looked like they’d seen service in the war. Belkin told them he’d stayed on Lundy with his wife Winifred the year after they were married in 1931. She was hit by a bus and died, crossing the road in Edinburgh in 1942.

“I thought she was safe up there.”

“Where were you during the war?” Rob asked.

“I suppose I can tell you now. I worked at Bletchley Park. Have you heard of it?”

Rob shook his head.

“I have,” Susie said. “Ultra.”

“That’s right. Your friends across the river.”

“We had a couple of lessons on it during training,” said Susie. “It was amazing. They captured the German code machines and cracked them. For most of the war, we were one step ahead. They never did find out.”

“So this was child’s play in comparison,” said Rob.

“Yes, it was a tough assignment. Much pressure on our shoulders and frequent setbacks. Rationing the information was the biggest challenge. If we used too much of it, it would be obvious we’d cracked the Enigma machines and the precious supply would suddenly end.” He poured himself another cup of tea as he spoke. “I never did get used to the idea that we would let a ship sink and all those men die, just to keep our secret safe.”

“But it was the right thing to do,” Susie said.

“Yes, it was. It shortened the war considerably and saved many more lives in the long run.” Belkin stirred in another sugar.

“You think this is how Kilton sees Guiding Light?” Rob asked Susie.

“Undoubtedly. He’s done these figures. With more data, his numbers will be more accurate, no doubt. Maybe higher than 8.75 men a year, maybe lower. But either way, he clearly considers it a price worth paying for the advantage gained.”

“But Mr Milford did not think it a price worth paying,” Belkin said. “And neither do you, Mr May, do you?”

“No.”

They finished their tea quietly.

Just after 5PM Belkin saw them to the door. “I’m sorry I could not provide you with the firm evidence you require. But I think you must ask yourself this. If this is, as your superior must think, a price worth paying to win the Cold War or whatever, why has he felt the need to cover it up? Is that not something you can use to change the minds of those who need persuading? Surely there is enough you have uncovered to at least raise a question mark over the project?”

“Maybe,” Rob said, without conviction.

As they stepped out, Susie turned back to the professor.

“How did you know the number and code name, to contact us?”

“I’ve been at Oxford since 1945. I have my fair share of geniuses passing through my study. It’s always been in the interests of certain organisations to remain in touch.”

Susie smiled. “The Oxford recruiter. You’re a legend at Leconfield House.”

“I doubt that.”

MARY THOUGHT HERSELF A CONFIDENT DRIVER, but encouraging the Laverstocks’ Armstrong Siddeley Sapphire to stay in one place in the road was a challenge. The old car leant around corners and seemed to sway even on the straight.

On the passenger seat was an address near Southampton. Mary was glad of Janet’s officious nature, and she had done well in prising Georgina’s whereabouts out of the vicar.

The sun was still high in the afternoon sky as she reached the outskirts of the city. She turned toward the village of Totton.

It took her a frustrating ten minutes before she found the small close containing the Milfords’ rented bungalow. The old car overheated, and Mary left the vehicle to cool as she approached Charlie and Georgina’s temporary home.

She tapped on the door and waited, looking around at Millie’s car and the small, unkempt front garden.

There was movement inside; she heard a familiar voice call out.

“Charlie! Can you get that?”

He opened the door.

“Hello, Mrs May.”

“Hello, Charlie.” For a moment they just stared at each other. He looked uncertain.

“May I come in?”

Charlie appeared to relax. “Of course. Sorry.”

Georgina appeared behind Charlie. Composed, made up, wearing a red chiffon dress. Positively glowing.

“Mar! Darling!” She raced to the door, brushing past her son. The two women embraced and Mary clung tightly to her friend.

IN THE GARDEN, Georgina poured two glasses of sweet German white wine. Mary wasn’t a connoisseur, but it tasted cheap.

“How are you?” Mary asked.

“I can’t pretend it’s easy, Mar. I try to stay strong for Charlie, but once the bedroom door shuts, I’m a mess. I miss you all so desperately.”

“What did they say to you, Georgina? Why did they ask you to leave?”

“Oh, they considered our house a crime scene, or some such nonsense. I think Rob’s doing his best for us, but Millie obviously got himself in a muddle about something… I just can’t believe they’re taking it so seriously.”

“When you say Rob’s doing his best, you mean that box of papers?”

“I suppose so. He got them away, so the police never actually found anything, but they know something’s missing. What I don’t understand is why Mark can’t put a stop to it all.”

“Kilton?”

“Yes! He’s in charge, isn’t he?”

“Georgina, do you have any idea what’s actually going on?”

“I don’t have the foggiest, Mar. People keep asking me, but as always, the wives are the last to know anything.”

“What ‘people’, Georgina? Who keeps asking you?”

“Rob, of course. Yesterday—”

“You spoke to Rob?”

“Well, yes. He was here yesterday. Didn’t he tell you?”

“No. He didn’t. I’m sorry I had no idea he’d already spoken to you.”

“Well, I couldn’t tell him much, but he asked a lot about what Millie was up to, running up to the crash. I’m afraid I wasn’t much help.” She shrugged. “I said the same thing to Red.”

“Red was here, too?”

“Not here, but he telephoned a couple of hours ago, asking all the same questions.” She took another drink of wine. “I’m surprised Rob didn’t mention it to you, Mary!”

“Georgina, did Rob say anything about us?”

“You and me?”

“No, I mean about me and Rob?”

Georgina looked at her, puzzled. “No. What are you talking about?”

Mary shook her head and looked away. “I can’t believe he didn’t say anything.” She looked back at Georgina. “I left him on Monday.”

“What? Why?”

Mary hesitated for a moment, before deciding on her answer. “I was told he was having an affair…”

Georgina stared at her, open-mouthed for a moment. “Are you being serious?”

“I just don’t know, Georgina. Yes, I was told categorically. He was with a young woman. The Laverstocks saw them at a pub, kissing.”

“Janet Laverstock? That busybody… She must have been mistaken. What did he say?”

“He said it wasn’t what it looked like.”

“Well, there you go, then.”

Mary toyed with her wine glass and tried to recall precisely what Rob had said as she left, but the memory was clouded with rage.

“To be honest, I think it fitted my mood to believe it. He’s drifted off in the last few months, and I’ve been feeling cut out. So it made sense to me, I think, that he had someone else he was sharing his life with.”

“Yes, darling. It’s called the RAF. We have to share our men with the flying club. Now what exactly did he say about this supposed other woman? What was his explanation?”

Mary looked around the garden, noting the poor state of everything.

“I was so angry. I didn’t really let him get that far. Her name’s Susie, and she’s helping him. That’s all I can remember. Of course I dismissed it all. But now… I’m not so sure. Something’s going on, Georgina, and I think Rob’s rather desperate about it all, trying to fix whatever went wrong for Millie. Maybe he’s trying to fix it for you and Charlie?”

“That’s exactly what he said to us. Mar, you need to talk to Rob.”

“But there’s so much bloody secrecy all the time. No-one talks to anyone.”

Mary took a long drink of the wine.

“What did you say to Red Brunson? And why’s he involved?”

“I told him about the box.” Georgina spoke quietly. “I wasn’t going to. Rob asked us to never mention it. But there was something about his manner. He was whispering on the phone. I got the feeling he’s looking out for Rob.”

Mary bit her bottom lip.

“I think I need to go home.”

“Good. Mary, darling. You have no idea what it would do to me to see you two fall apart.”

JR WAS APPARENTLY asleep in the shade of the wing.

Rob and Susie climbed the bank onto the plateau. With the aircraft still a hundred yards away, Rob stopped.

“I’m frightened. How do we do this? They’ll be waiting for me.”

“You’ll have to face that music, I’m afraid. But remember, it will help you if it involves the police. Even this strange branch of the RAF police Kilton seems to have occupying West Porton will have a degree of independence from TFU. They are the people you need to convince. You know everything you need to know. Just hedge your bets about the evidence. It’s our weak point. Tell them the evidence is out there somewhere.”

It sounded easy, coming from Susie. He would reveal Guiding Light was fatally flawed and that Kilton was ignoring the evidence.

“Will you help me?”

“My job is to get my lot to intervene at a much higher level. We report to the Ministry or even Number Ten and tell them we believe the project has been compromised by Kilton, and that will tip the balance for us. As soon as they ask questions, Kilton will be in trouble. As long as I can persuade them to ask questions.”

“Will they?” Rob could see from her expression that she was unsure.

“Mark Kilton has played a good game here, Rob. From the moment he set up TFU, the odds were stacked heavily in his favour.”

Rob closed his eyes.

“Look, you’ve done brilliantly. How far have we come in just a few days? All we can do is give this last push. You do your bit, I do mine.”

JR was up, carrying out the pre-flight walkaround.

“I can’t fly back with you,” she announced.

“What?”

“If I get arrested at West Porton, things will get messy very quickly and the boys back in Mayfair won’t be happy, not least because they don’t know I’m here. And right now, I need them on my side.”

They walked toward the aircraft.

Susie looked around the island. “There’s a ferry somewhere, Mrs Lazenby said.”

“We can drop you,” Rob said. “But I’d be reluctant to divert to another RAF station. How about Eastleigh at Southampton? It’s a civil aerodrome.”

“Really? That would be amazing.” She gave Rob’s arm a little rub.

They climbed on board. JR joined them, and took the diversion to Eastleigh in his stride.

Rob planned the route.

A few minutes later, with Susie in the front row of tatty seats, Rob as co-pilot, JR as captain, they fired up the Anson’s two engines. Once they warmed up, JR taxied beyond the official end of the runway to give them a little extra in the roll.

“I walked it while you were gone. It looks firm and dry enough for us to steal a little extra.”

JR stood on the brakes and brought the engines up to take-off power. As he released them, he worked to keep the Anson in the centre of the grass strip. The breeze was a little across, but also, helpfully, it was mainly over the wings, giving them some extra airspeed.

The needle crept up slowly; at one point, the right wing dipped as a wheel hit a rut, but JR kept her steady, and with the flattened area of grass just about to come to an end, he eased the yoke back and the silver aircraft swept over the craggy cliffs of Lundy and banked toward the mainland.

Once they were established on the first leg, Rob considered unstrapping and talking to Susie. But was there anything left to say? She had made clear what his role was. She had her own task.

It was the end of their time together. It felt as if he’d known her for months, not days.

As they got closer to Southampton, JR called ATC and explained they had no flight plan or booking, but could they carry out a practice diversion with full stop.

The tower agreed.

On the ground, they were marshalled into an area close to the new passenger terminal. Susie disembarked and Rob stood in the doorway, ready to pull the steps back in.

“You’ll be fine on your own,” said Susie. She paused for a moment and took his hand. “I have great faith in you, Robert May. Millie would have been proud of what you’ve achieved in the last forty-eight hours. You’ve picked up his torch, Rob.”

“God, it’s his funeral tomorrow,” Rob said.

“A lot’s going to happen between now and then. Good luck, Flight Lieutenant May.”

“Thank you. I’ll be listening for the sound of the cavalry charge from MI5.”

She smiled at him. “I told you, it’s passé to use that name.”

Susie stepped off the aircraft. Rob watched her walk toward the terminal. Would he ever see this enigmatic and beautiful woman again?

He withdrew back into the aircraft, feeling vulnerable and alone.

Minutes later, they had the wide, long Eastleigh runway in front of them. Rob asked JR if he could fly, believing it might be the distraction he needed.

He advanced the throttles, and at seventy-five knots, he eased the old aircraft into the air.

West Porton was mere minutes away and soon after they reached five thousand feet, JR called them up.

“Shorthand one-three, you are cleared to land. Please taxi immediately to TFU apron.”

JR acknowledged and gave Rob a sympathetic look.

“JR, tell them you know nothing. I asked for the flights, telling you it was official TFU business, and you simply flew us where I requested.”

JR laughed. “They’ll never believe me, but I like your optimism.”

Rob could only admire JR and his laid-back approach to impending doom. He saw the same twinkle in his eyes that he’d seen so often with Millie.

Rob descended and joined downwind, trying to minimise the time between now and whatever would greet them on the ground. He just wanted it over with.

The Anson flew over the West Porton double perimeter fence; he glanced out of his window. A collection of police vehicles were parked on the apron, with men standing beside them.

He looked ahead and brought the aircraft down onto the runway, knowing that whatever happened, this would be his final flight as an RAF pilot.

I’m not even thirty years old.

He turned onto the taxiway and brought the aircraft parallel to TFU before turning in. The official reception would happen in clear view of the planning room.

JR helped him shut the aircraft down. They unstrapped and looked at each other.

“Let’s do this together,” JR said. They both left the cockpit. Rob opened the door and JR folded the stairs out.

Standing in front of them were four uniformed security force officers, one of whom Rob recognised as the man who interviewed him, Hoskins. He stepped forward.

“Flight Lieutenant Robert May, I am placing you under arrest on suspicion of disobeying direct orders, the unauthorised use of RAF equipment, and breaching the Official Secrets Act. Do you understand?”

He looked beyond the men in front of him and saw Kilton, lurking in the gloom of the doorway to TFU. Squinting, he could just about make out some faces staring from the planning room.

He looked back at the squadron leader who had announced his arrest.

“I have urgent information about a TFU project—”

“There’ll be time for that later.” Hoskins turned to one of the other uniformed men. “Sergeant, please take the flight lieutenant to the station.”

As the sergeant stepped forward, the senior officer turned to JR. “We’re arresting you on suspicion of aiding and abetting.”

JR shrugged.

They ushered Rob into the back of a car by himself and drove from the apron. He looked across at TFU to see Kilton return inside as the faces at the window withdrew.

SUSIE WALKED through the empty passenger terminal building at Southampton. She called her desk officer from a public telephone just inside the main doors.

“We have what I believe is grounds to intervene in the Milford case.”

“I see,” Roger replied. Two words that dripped with scepticism. “Just to be clear, you did not intervene as discussed?”

“May carried out the task of his own volition. As I said, he was going whether we liked it or not.”

“You better talk to them upstairs.” The line went quiet.

Susie pulled her notepad from her purse.

The line stayed quiet.

At her level, tasks involved staying unseen and making reports, yet here she was, running an entire operation.

And now what? What happens next?

“Miss Attenborough?”

“Yes.”

“I’m putting you through to Mr Collingwood.”

The department head. A man she’d been introduced to on her first day and had not seen since.

“Miss Attenborough. How was your day trip?”

“Hello, sir. I’m sorry I ended up doing a little more than we planned, but I really had no choice. Rob May was determined.”

“I see.”

“But we have made a significant discovery. We have the knowledge required to challenge the conventional wisdom that seems to surround Guiding Light.”

There was a pause. “Go on.”

“The system is flawed. It’s a small, often inconsequential error from the laser rangefinder to the autopilot. But with the number of flights planned both here and in the United States, it will claim aircrew lives.”

“Quite a bold statement. May I ask how you know this?”

“Before he died, Christopher Milford managed to smuggle a good number of tapes from West Porton to the maths department at Oxford University. That’s how they found and quantified the flaw.”

“And that’s where Professor Leonard Belkin comes in?”

“Yes, he allowed use of the mainframe computer. But he wasn’t aware of the details. He was able to extrapolate the numbers, though. He carried out important work, albeit unknowingly.”

“That’s as may be, but even before we present it, this theory has been thoroughly dismissed by those with access to the actual project recordings. TFU are content to continue with Guiding Light and that’s been backed at the highest level in government.”

“I know, but I believe a cover-up is in place, led by Mark Kilton. It possibly involves DF Blackton as well.”

“It sounds elaborate.”

“Sir, I’ve seen the results in black-and-white.” She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. “8.75 crew members a year would die. That’s just from a 0.014% rate of error from the laser beam.”

“Fine. So we ask West Porton to examine these tapes that Milford, as you say, smuggled away. I think that’s the best we can hope for. With the extra scrutiny they won’t be able to disguise the results.”

Susie sighed.

“We don’t have the tapes, sir.”

“Where are they?”

“Incinerated.”

“I see. So you have no evidence for these rather extreme allegations which have already been batted away by TFU?”

“You have to understand the position Milford was in, sir. Mark Kilton’s all powerful. Milford was scared of him. That’s why the evidence was destroyed. But even without the tapes, we know enough. We need to take action.”

“I’m not sure I see that, Miss Attenborough. Not without evidence. What action do you suppose we should take? Give me your precise recommendations.”

She took a deep breath.

“Kilton operates with an autonomy that does not fit with the armed forces hierarchy. I believe he has lines of authority to government which allow him to bypass the usual checks and balances. Ultimately, he’s used this to press into service a potentially dangerous aircraft system.”

“I understand the case you have made, Miss Attenborough, but I asked you for your recommended actions.”

“Guiding Light needs to be halted and independently investigated.”

“And who do you suggest does that?”

“I’m not sure. The existing trials units at Boscombe Down?”

Collingwood spoke calmly, with a sing-song, matter-of-fact voice. “That would undermine TFU and the point of its existence. It would also expose a Top Secret project to an intolerable number of witnesses, which would be in breach of the United Kingdom’s undertaking to the United States. And I don’t need to remind you that a great deal of investment is at stake.”

“Then we concentrate on Kilton—”

“Have him arrested?”

“Yes.”

“On what charge?”

Susie had a sinking feeling. She could imagine Roger laughing in the background.

“Falsifying aircraft trial results. And I believe that would just be the start. We should also look carefully at the crash that killed Milford.”

“An inquiry is already taking place into that. Its conclusion is likely to rule out Guiding Light as a culprit.”

“That’s a cover.”

He sighed. “You understand the problem I have, Miss Attenborough. Your word against an independent Board of Inquiry and a decorated senior officer in Mark Kilton. What we need is hard evidence. Irrefutable. Something the director would have no choice about. I’m afraid we are a long way from that point.”

“What about the statistics I gave you? Derived from actual flying data, straight from the aircraft.”

“I am trying to help, Miss Attenborough, but your evidence is the word of a septuagenarian who tells us the tapes and papers were burned. Remind me again why the only hard evidence was destroyed?”

“This was just the first sample. Milford intended to continue gathering data, but he was killed.”

There was a silence at the other end of the line and Susie realised she had just undermined her already weak case.

“Just a first sample, from which conclusions were extrapolated, and on that basis you would like Her Majesty’s government to halt a billion dollar export deal?”

She should have had this conversation a week ago.

“Miss Attenborough, you have worked hard and with diligence, but not for the first time in the career that lays ahead of you, I am sure, you have come up against the rather cruel realities of our service. We can act only when the evidence is overwhelmingly criminal, or there is evidence the national security is in immediate danger. I’m afraid, that contrary to your expectations, neither of those tests have been met. We have no direct evidence of cover-up, no reliable evidence of project mismanagement. In fact, the only evidence we actually have of wrongdoing are the actions of Flight Lieutenant May and Squadron Leader Milford, both of whom are already under investigation, one posthumously—”

“Of course they are, sir. Kilton has an iron grip on the unit. Milford and May risked everything.”

“I wonder, would May have risked all without your prompting?”

She saw an image of Rob stuck inside some dank police station, his career over.

“You see, Miss Attenborough, if we attempt to intervene on such feeble evidence, we open ourselves up to the type of criticism the Service very much wishes to avoid.”

He continued to speak with a gentle manner, but the message was clear.

You’ve screwed up, Susie.

“I think it’s time to come home. We’ll find something better suited to your particular talents.”

She shuddered as she imagined Roger asking her to make his tea.

“But what about Rob May? His wife left him, he’s at the mercy of Kilton—”

“And you believe it’s all your fault?”

“I believe it’s the result of us doing what needed to be done, sir. And I believe we have a duty toward him.”

“We do not, Miss Attenborough. You may feel that, but I would advise you to disengage your emotions. They let you down and cloud your judgement. The Service has a duty to the country, not an individual junior officer in the RAF. If it’s any consolation, we believe, due to the nature of the project, any kind of public hearing such as a court martial is out of the question. Of course that won’t spare May from the wrath of his superior. A man who can effectively end his career, no doubt.

“Try to see this as an opportunity for personal and professional growth, Miss Attenborough. Don’t get too close to your marks in the future. I’m sure we briefed you on that point in training. Now, we’ve come to the end of the line and that’s that. I expect to see you back here on Monday morning. You can take tomorrow off.”

Susie stood upright in the phone box and took a deep breath.

Rob had shown so much courage to take that Anson back to West Porton, knowing he would be arrested.

Now it was her turn to be brave.

“I’m sorry, sir, but this is not the end of the line. We would be derelict in our duty to allow this project to proceed and leave a good man hanging out to dry. You may find yourself content to write off lives, but I am not.”

“Miss Attenborough…”

She raised her voice. “Christopher Milford died for this cause. And I’m buggered if I’m going to abandon him. I’m sorry I didn’t work out to be the agent you wanted. Let’s face it, I’m the wrong sex for that. No, I won’t take tomorrow off. And no, I won’t be in the office on Monday. I have work to do.”

She slammed the phone down, her hand shaking.

She turned to the doors at the front of the terminal building and walked out into the warm evening light.

For a moment she stood and stared at the sinking sun. Thin clouds drifted across its surface.

Susie wondered what the hell she was going to do next.

STRIPPED OF HIS WATCH, belt and shoelaces, Rob sat by himself in a makeshift cell, with a camp bed and a blanket.

They had ignored him since his arrest.

The entire police station set-up appeared to be inside RAF West Porton, in an adapted office block on the far side of the camp.

It felt more like Soviet Russia than the United Kingdom.

Eventually they led him into a smaller room, with a single desk. Squadron Leader Hoskins arrived, clipboard in hand, and took a seat opposite.

Hoskins took Rob through a torturous recap of the entire day, making extensive notes. Rob hid nothing. They’d already made it clear they had identified Professor Belkin from the address given to them by Abingdon.

As the interview went on, the experience became more and more frustrating. The senior officer was only interested in where he went with the Anson, what time they had landed, what time they had taken off.

Every time he explained what they had discovered, the investigator went back to the logistics of the unauthorised flights.

Rob’s mood passed from impatient to desperate in a matter of minutes.

“Please. Sir. You must understand that a computer has extrapolated a terrible accident rate from the data.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Maybe I should talk directly to Wing Commander Kilton?”

The squadron leader raised an eyebrow.

“Impossible. You’re accusing him of either negligence, or something much worse.”

The room smelled of fresh paint.

Rob had a horrible thought: had this police station been prepared exclusively for him?

And the uniform Hoskins wore; it looked like a branch of the RAF police, but was subtly different.

Everything at West Porton was subtly different.

The reinforced fence didn’t just keep CND out; it kept everyone out.

“We’ll check your assertions against the official trial records,” Hoskins said. “If you can give me some specific occasions to look at?”

Rob huffed. “It’s not like that. I don’t have those specifics. But I do have the conclusions. We’d need to conduct a lot more safe height trials to prove the issue properly.”

“So, it’s not proven? It’s just… speculation?”

“No. No, it’s real.” Everything was slipping through his fingers. “You have to believe me, the computer calculated this. Millie gathered the data and the computer found the problem.”

“And where is this data now?”

Rob hesitated, remembering Susie’s advice not to dwell on the fate of the data.

“It’s been through the computer at Oxford. But we need more to identify the problem fully.”

The squadron leader’s pen hovered over his notepad. “So, do you have the evidence or not?”

“We don’t have that specific evidence anymore, no. Millie was gathering more. He thought he had more time.”

His voice caught on the words.

The squadron leader put down his pen and stopped making notes. “So, you have the conclusions to a study, but no evidence. You accuse a decorated commanding officer of conspiracy on the basis of a scrawl of notes written in fountain pen. You can’t even tell me where to look, because you say that only a computer can see the truth. You can understand the difficulty I’m having with this, Flight Lieutenant? The only actual crimes I have evidence for are those committed by you. And Mr Milford, of course. Now that you confirm to me he was secretly gathering data and taking it off West Porton.”

“Our plummet to the ground, on the 7th June, about 2.30PM, in a Vulcan, mid-Wales. Check the data.”

“We have a report from DF Blackton on all the data from the early trials. It shows no abnormalities.”

“What if they’re lying?”

“You have evidence for that? Then show me.”

“What about our crash? The system caused the ground strike. Last Friday. Check that data.”

“But Guiding Light had been disengaged some time before the impact.”

“No, no, you’re wrong. And what about the professor who looked into it all? I can give you his details.”

“We’re not authorised to discuss this project with outsiders. I can ask for permission, but that would have to come down the chain and have Wing Commander Kilton’s approval.”

Rob stared at him.

“If there’s nothing else?” Hoskins asked, shuffling up his notes.

Rob slumped forward, bowing his head, exhausted. “What will happen to me?” he asked, his voice weak.

Hoskins studied his notes for a moment. “They’ll make a decision whether to prosecute you for disobeying orders, the unauthorised use of government property and breaching the Official Secrets Act. Quite a collection of charges.”

“Will I go to prison?”

The man averted his eyes. “Probably.”

“And you’re happy with this? That I go to prison because I found out that a secret system is fatally flawed?”

He stood up, sighing as he did so. “I think we’ve been through this, Flight Lieutenant.”

As the man walked toward the door Rob sprang to his feet. The man looked briefly alarmed. “What about Millie’s funeral? I need to go.”

Hoskins half-turned, with what looked like an understanding expression. “These are serious charges.”

He left the room, and a moment later a corporal escorted Rob back to his cell. He lay down on the old camp bed and curled up.

He thought of Mary and began to cry.

SUSIE PAID THE TAXI DRIVER, stepped out onto the kerb and assessed the scruffy bungalow. It was a far cry from the neat married quarter patch at West Porton.

The death of Christopher Milford was real; here was his widow and fatherless son.

The crash, the secret guidance system, deciphering the equations, tracking down ancient professors… The whole thing had a surreal, disconnected quality to it. And yet, somewhere in the background, was an unimaginable human loss.

It was inside these walls: the suffering.

She knocked. Through the frosted glass, a diffuse red shape grew larger, and a woman in a striking chiffon dress opened the door and gave her a quizzical look.

“Mrs Milford? My name is Susie, I’m a friend of Rob May’s. I wonder if I could talk to you?”

A wry smile crept across the woman’s face as she appeared to assess her.

“So, you’re the floozy?”

Susie hadn’t expected the news to have travelled here.

“I’m guessing all is not what it seems,” said Georgina. “Which is what I told Mrs May this afternoon, and Red Brunson. And now here you are. I’ve never felt so popular. Perhaps you’d better come in.”

Over the next half an hour, Susie tiptoed her way through the truth, giving Georgina a hint of who she was and what had happened. Millie’s widow laughed a couple of times as Susie explained how he had been courageously taking on the establishment. But then her face turned very serious.

“Is this why he died?”

Susie thought carefully before answering. “Maybe.”

Georgina told Susie what she knew, which was not much for her to go on.

“At the door you mentioned another name?”

“Red Brunson?”

“That’s it. Tell me about him.”

“Tall, handsome, adorable.” She saw the look Susie was giving her. “Well, perhaps more pertinently, a colleague of Rob and Millie’s. I think he’s someone else having second thoughts.”

“What do you mean?”

Georgina thought for a moment. “They don’t talk very much, that lot. It’s not encouraged. If you’re on a secret project, you keep it to yourself. So it doesn’t surprise me that the chaps would have no idea what Millie was up to. But I can tell you, it’s caught Red’s attention.”

“Do you think he’s going to do something?”

Georgina shrugged. “I don’t know. But he’s sniffing about.”

They sat for a while. Susie turned the events of the day over in her mind.

Rob was behind bars. Belkin had told them as much as he could.

Chris Milford was dead.

That only leaves one person, whose name had suddenly entered the conversation.

She looked at Georgina. “How would I get back to Porton from here?”

Georgina smiled at her. “We have a lumbering old red car, if you’d like to borrow it.”

“Your husband’s? Are you sure?”

“Well, I suppose it’s mine now. And yes. I think I am sure. Mr Kilton has arranged official cars for us tomorrow, although now I come to think of it, I wonder if that’s so we don’t hang about afterwards and talk to the wrong people.”

“Possibly. You really wouldn’t mind? It would be tremendously helpful.”

“It’s a tank to drive, I’ll warn you now.”

At the front of the bungalow, they shook hands and said their goodbyes. Susie stepped out onto the road and with a scrap of paper and a scribbled address, she set off back to West Porton.

As she pulled out of Totton, she glanced around the car. The red leather seats were worn and tatty, and the engine complained at every use of the accelerator. And yet the car had warmth to it. She inhaled the smell of the interior; how much of it was the scent of Christopher Milford, a man she had never known. Yet somehow, they were now colleagues in the same fight.

AT 7PM MARY told the Laverstocks she needed to pick a few bits up from her married quarter, waving off the overbearing offers of help.

As she pulled into the drive, it was clear their quarter was dark and empty.

She looked down the road. The street lights were just coming on. Her eyes settled on a row of cars parked directly outside number 27.

The Brunsons.

She walked the hundred yards or so and approached the front door.

Men’s voices inside. She hesitated, but then took a deep breath and knocked.

Red answered quickly. He was in his USAF uniform, looking anxious. Beyond him into the kitchen, she could see Jock MacLeish and a gaggle of other officers, each man with a serious look on his face.

“Mary.” He said it as if he was expecting her. “Come in.” He glanced up and down the road as he ushered her over the threshold.

“Has there been a crash?” she asked as she stepped into the kitchen, crowded with Rob’s colleagues.

“Have you heard from him?” asked Jock MacLeish.

“From Rob? What’s happened, Jock?”

Red stepped forward. “Have a seat, Mary. Jock, get this woman a glass of scotch.”

Jock stood up and offered Mary his chair.

She looked around the grave faces. “What’s happened?”

“We assumed you knew.”

“Knew what? What’s going on, Jock?”

“The details are sketchy, but Rob has commandeered an Anson, flown it god knows where and back, and has been promptly arrested.”

Around her, the men ran through their theories.

Mary listened, bewildered. Something radical had changed. These men, usually so concealed and secretive, were talking freely in front of her and Sarah Brunson.

The room filled with smoke, and Sarah opened some windows.

It dawned on Mary that a secret war had been taking place around them.

First between Millie and Kilton, and then Rob and Kilton.

No-one had discussed it with anyone else.

The men had ignored the signs, but they reserved some blame for Rob. Why had he not enlisted their support? Why had he acted alone?

Her heart ached at the thought of her husband languishing alone in a cell.

She spoke up. “I think the time for keeping secrets is over.”

The voices in the room stopped. All eyes turned toward her.

“Rob found something at Millie’s. After he died. I don’t know the details, of course. But he was frightened. Secret details of a project. He protected Georgina by removing the evidence from the house, but I don’t think he knew what to do next. Then, matters were taken out of our hands, literally.”

“What do you mean?” Red asked.

“The box was stolen. By a young woman. She was in our house when we returned from the dinner party.”

“The night Rob got drunk?”

“He sobered up pretty quickly, I can tell you. He chased her over the fields. But lost her.”

“A young woman?” said Jock. “Are you sure?”

Mary nodded. “He said he recognised her. She was from the peace camp.” She suddenly put her hand to her forehead.

“Oh, bloody hell. Christ, I’ve been an idiot. That’s who it was! I’ve been so stupid not to see it.” She looked around the room. “Some silly woman from the village spotted Rob and a young woman in a pub and she convinced me he was having an affair. But it must have been her. They must have been working on something together. Rob told me it wasn’t what it looked like. A likely story I thought, but now… now I believe him.”

“So who is she?”

“All I know is she goes by the name Susie.”

Mary suddenly felt hot and faint.

“I need some air.”

Sarah rushed to her side, scooped her up, and led her out of the room.

She opened the front door, and Mary stepped into the garden.

“I’ll put some tea on,” Sarah said, and disappeared back into the house.

Mary walked to the small wooden fence, unsteady. Her eyes ran down the uniform row of married quarters. Even in the street light, the grass looked yellowed and thin after the heatwave.

Each lawn had the same dimensions and the same borders cut, with the only variation being the choice of flowers.

Was this outward impression of uniformity and order just an illusion?

Her eyes settled on a car a few doors down.

A red Rover she knew well.

A car she’d last seen outside the bungalow in Totton.

“What on earth?”

She looked up and down the street, searching for Georgina.

A figure stepped out of the shadows.

Mary clutched her chest.

“You scared the life out of me.”

The young woman looked directly at her.

“Mrs May?”

Mary stared back.

“Susie, I presume?”

SUSIE FOLLOWED Mary to the kitchen.

“Gentlemen, we have a visitor.”

Mary stepped aside.

Susie took her cue and walked into the small, smoke filled space. The men in uniform parted, their mouths open.

A woman at the sink let a tap overflow into her kettle, apparently unable to take her eyes off her.

“Well, well,” said a man in an American accent.

“You must be Red Brunson?” Susie said.

“And you, my dear, must be the mysterious Susie.”

She surveyed the room: a short, plump man with red cheeks; another who looked a couple of years older than Rob; another who was closer to Millie’s age; three more younger men, one with a classic handlebar moustache.

“Gentlemen, ladies. Mrs May tells me there is discontentment in the TFU ranks? Just so I know, can we all agree that we have a friend in need and a senior officer of dubious method, out of control?”

“I think that about sums it up,” Red said.

“Good. My name is Susie Attenborough. I work for a department of Her Majesty’s government. I can’t tell you any more, so you’ll have to take my word for it. If it helps engender your trust, you might like to know that I was due to meet your colleague Christopher Milford on Saturday 25th June. A meeting he requested to pass on certain information. Subsequently, I have been assisting Robert May to uncover what it was Milford found. Because of his diligence and commitment to his late friend, he is now under arrest, with little prospect of being believed. Unfortunately, we don’t have hard evidence, because Millie ensured it was destroyed to protect others. But we know the results. Under normal circumstances, that would be enough. But in Kilton we’re up against an operator who has been one step ahead throughout this process.

“As it stands, he’s won. Rob will be dealt with harshly. Any credibility will be stripped away. And to make matters worse, I’ve been told by my own superiors to back off.” She gave a grim smile. “I can’t say I’m keen on that idea. So I’ve decided to stay.”

“And do what?” one of the men asked.

“Well, that’s why I’m here.” She looked around, taking in her new partners. “I’m hoping we have the brains and ability in this room to come up with something.”

The men stayed silent for a moment.

“So, who’s with me?”