Tailby looked at the MDP officers. ‘And you, Sergeant Caudwcll?’
‘We’re in favour/
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‘Very well. I suppose you’ll need more resources, Paul?’
‘Whatever we can get, sir.’
‘We’ll call in the task force again. They’ve drawn a blank on the missing baby, so at least we can give them a hit of action.’
As the meeting hroke up, Fry saw Sergeant Caudwell approaching.
‘You win,’ she said, showing her dimples. ‘Rut, if 1 could make a suggestion, you might want to question what some of your officers have been getting involved in recentlv.’
v O C” v
Ben Cooper picked up Alison Morrissey from outside the Cavendish Hotel and drove her as far as Bamford, to the big puh at the crossroads. He didn’t want to he seen in Edcndale, not today.
Morrisscv had a hlue folder tucked under her arm. Not another file, surely? There had been enough of those, and some of the information had been misleading and wrong.
‘What have you got there?’ said Cooper.
‘It’s something Peter Lukasz sent to me. He savs his father wrote it.’
‘Ah. His account of the crash of Sugar Uncle Victor/
‘So you knew.’
v
‘I saw Zygmunt writing it. At least, that’s what Peter told me it was. I’m sure it will be very interesting if you can get it translated. But I don’t suppose it really matters now.’
‘Perhaps not, said Alison. ‘But Peter Lukasz has read it, and he thought there was one thing in it I ought to know straight
c* 6 o &
away. Everyone said my grandfather was to blame for the crash because he had ignored his navigator’s instructions. But according to Peter Lukasx, Zygmunt’s account is different. He says that Klemens Wach made a mistake. It was his fault that they were so far off course. But everybody trusted Klemens, including my grandfather.’
‘Have you heard a rumour that Danny McTcague was drunk when he crashed into Irontongue Hill?’
C*
Morrissey frowned. ‘The old man, Walter Rowland, put that rumour about, according to Frank. It was something Rowland had heard Zygmunt Lukasz say, something to do with celebrating
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the night before. Danny McTcaguc had keen celebrating the birth of his first child - my mother.’
‘There was certainly no reference at the inquest to the possibility that your grandfather might have been drunk. That might have been discretion, though, the withholding of allegations that might cause distress to relatives. Perhaps it would have been a different matter if McTeaguc had ever been found.’
‘Perhaps.’
Cooper wondered if Rowland had mentioned the rumour about McTcaguc to George Malkin’s father. He gazed past Morrisscy at the wall of the pub, where there was a print of Chatsworth House, not unlike the one that Marie Tcnncnt had kept under her bed. It was a favourite view for tourists. It appeared on all the postcards and in every guide book.
‘Alison, how did you come to meet Frank Bainc?’ he said.
‘Via the internet.’
‘Really?’
‘I found a bulletin board for aviation archaeology enthusiasts, and I put up an appeal for anyone with knowledge of aircraft wrecks in the Peak District. Prank saw the message and c-mailed me. He was a godsend. He had so much knowledge, and he was willing to research the details that I needed. At that time, I barely knew where the Peak District was, though my mother had mentioned it often enough. I’m doing all this for her you
O O ‘ v
know, as much as for me.’
‘Baine says he’s a journalist.’
‘Yes.’
‘I phoned around a few editors this morning. None of them had even heard of him.’
‘Perhaps he just writes a few articles for magazines here and there.’
‘Perhaps. And is that a living?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m sorry, I haven’t helped you,’ said Cooper. ‘We’re no nearer knowing who sent your grandfather’s medal. George Malkin had parted with everything except the money. Walter Rowland has nothing. If it somehow ended up in Lawrence
o f
Daley’s shop, he didn’t know about it - and from there, it could
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have gone anywhere. So, unless Zygmunt Lukas/ has anything to saw about it in his journal, I don’t know
