Skinner was still smiling as he made his way back to Adrian’s desk. ‘There you are,’ said the operative, holding out a two-page document. ‘David Barnes, his life and loves. Memorise it, then shred it, please. It can’t leave the building.’
‘I know. Thanks.’ He turned to McGuire. ‘Any more from Sammy?
‘Well, he says that Ray Wilding’s a happy boy: he’s just arrived back from the airport with Becky Stallings. He tells me she’s looking pretty pleased with herself too.’
‘Which flight did she catch?’
‘The first one. It’s taken them two and a half hours to get back to the office.’
‘I don’t want to know. Apart from that?’
‘He’s found an airfield. It’s just west of the A1 north of Newcastle; it’s a wartime RAF place that reverted to the farm from which it was requisitioned. It was kept in operational condition and the present owner runs it commercially. It’s called Walkdean.’
‘How far from Wooler?’
‘Forty-five minutes by car, Sammy says.’
‘Would the Beechcraft be able to land there?’
‘Easy.’
‘But how the hell would he get a car? They didn’t have time to get one there, and a hire vehicle would be traceable.’ Skinner scratched his chin. ‘You know, Mario,’ he murmured, ‘I reckon it’s time to let our friends in the north in on a bit of what’s happening.’
Seventy-seven
Deputy Chief Constable Les Cairns smiled as the Land Rover edged along the narrow road. He was a countryman at heart, and so he snapped up any excuse to escape from the city, and from his office in Ponteland.
He liked a bit of mystery too. Much earlier in his police career, he had been a detective constable in Special Branch, and he had enjoyed the cachet that the posting gave him among his professional peers. Since attaining command rank, he had been confined to the office; he was envious of people like Bob Skinner, mavericks who had the balls to write their own job descriptions once they had made it to the heights.
Actually, when he thought about it, there was only one Bob Skinner. Even in England he was legendary, although in some eyes notorious, for his ability to delegate and yet still manage to stay involved. Cairns had seen the man for himself a few days before, and he had to admit, he had an air about him, a compelling friendliness, yet with menace close to the surface.
His call had come entirely out of the blue, and it had been intriguing. His request was simple, investigate and report, to be carried out by someone with Special Branch clearance, with nothing on paper. The temptation had been too much to resist and, anyway, the place was not all that far from HQ. He had called up his favourite car and driver, harbouring a strong feeling that Skinner had guessed he would.
He gazed ahead until, around a slow right curve, he saw an old finger-pointing road sign that read ‘Walkdean’. ‘That’s us,’ he murmured.
His driver turned off the road and into a track that led through a copse and opened out into flat countryside. Around half a mile away, Cairns could see a line of grey wooden huts, two tall hangars and what appeared to be a parking area for cars and microlight aircraft. Beyond, rising above them all, there was a control tower, and to the right, on the other side of the landing strip, two squat round tanks, which he assumed contained aviation fuel. ‘Find the office,’ he instructed.
It was easy enough. As they drew closer he saw a sign fixed to the side of the first hut: ‘Walkdean Airfield. Leisure flying and general aviation. Enquire within.’ They pulled up at the door, and the deputy chief stepped out, buttoning the tweed jacket that he had picked up on the way out to disguise what was clearly a uniform shirt.
Two steps led up to a door marked ‘office’. He opened it and went inside.
‘Morning,’ a woman greeted him brightly. ‘Welcome to Walkdean. I’m Chloe Ritter, proprietor. How can I help you?’
‘Les Cairns,’ he said, shaking her hand and finding her grip as strong as his. ‘Northumbria Constabulary.’
‘What have we done?’
‘Nothing, I hope,’ he replied, the police-punter cliche conversation. ‘I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, that’s all.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Thanks. What sort of traffic do you get through here?
‘It varies; it’s mostly hobby flying, but we do get some commercial landings. There are a few swish resort hotels in the area and they use us when guests want to fly in, for golfing weekends or whatever. I keep hoping that a helicopter firm will decide to base itself here but, to be honest, I think we’re on the wrong side of Newcastle for that.’
‘Did you have anyone land last Saturday?’
She nodded. ‘The usual swarm of microlights, Mr Alexander in his Piper and, oh, yes, the Beechcraft.’
‘What was that?’ Cairns asked.
‘A Beechcraft Bonanza, twin-prop; a cracking little plane, although it’s bigger than it looks in terms of payload.’
‘Were you expecting it?’
‘No, it wasn’t booked in. He came on radio asking for landing clearance and my husband gave him the okay; he was in the control tower at the time.’
‘Family business?’
‘Yes. We own all the land around here, but the farming operation is all tenanted now. This is what we like doing.’
‘Did you see the pilot?’
‘Yes, I did. As soon as he had parked and offloaded his motorcycle he came across, paid his landing fee, and roared off. We’re a cash-only business,’ she added.
‘His motorcycle?’
‘Yes. I’ve seen that before. People fly in from other cities, land here and then bike it into Newcastle. Some even use pedal cycles.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘I’m afraid not. I never saw his face close up. He was wearing his crash helmet when he came in here, and when he came back, it was my turn to be up in the control tower, shepherding the microlights.’
‘Would your husband have seen him?’
‘I doubt it. The guy rode straight up to the plane, loaded the bike, up its little ramp, then climbed inside. He had to wait for take-off clearance, in the queue with the flying sewing-machines, but he got off all right.’
‘He didn’t refuel?’
‘Obviously he didn’t need to. Bonanzas have a range of around eight hundred miles with a low payload, as this chap had.’
‘Right,’ said Cairns. ‘That’ll be all, Mrs Ritter. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘My pleasure, but can you tell me what it’s all about? Has he crashed, or was he doing something illegal?’
He would have answered her question, but he knew no more than she did, and so instead he shook his head and fed her another cliche. ‘No, no, nothing like that; purely routine.’ He gave her a brief salute and stepped outside.
Seventy-eight
The security service safe house was in Millfields Road, a quiet thoroughfare well away from congestion zones, cars parked outside houses with the security of traffic-calming bumps, which prevented them being driven
