‘As you know, gentlemen, I asked for this meeting because I am attempting to clear the dishonour on the name of my grandfather, Daniel McTeague, who was an officer serving in the Royal Canadian Air Force. He was reported missing while on attachment to the RAF in January 1945.’
‘All of fifty-seven years ago,’ said Chief Superintendent Jepson. He was smiling amicably, but he was putting down his marker from the start.
‘I happen to know that your neighbours the Greater Manchester Police re-opened a case last year that was exactly fifty-seven years old,’ said Morrissey, looking him straight in the eye. ‘The length of time that has passed seems to me to be irrelevant, if there’s been a miscarriage of justice.’ Cooper sneaked a look at her over the files he was pretending to study. He hadn’t expected her to be so young. If he had bothered to think about it, he would have been able to work out her possible age range, of course, since he knew it was her grandfather that she was here to talk about. It was mentioned in the files that Pilot Officer McTeague had been twenty-three when he went missing. His daughter, Alison Morrisscy’s mother, had been born only days before he disappeared, which would make her fifty-seven now. She must have been one of those women who waited until her thirties before having children, because Morrissey could barely have been more than twenty-five or twenty-six. Cooper liked the way she had answered the Chief
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Superintendent. She had plenty of determination. And she knew her stuff, too.
‘There was never a court case,’ pointed out Jepson. ‘Justice was not involved.’
‘Natural justice,’ said Morrissey.
The Chief Superintendent sighed a little. ‘Go on.’
‘My grandfather was the pilot of a Lancaster bomber based at RAF Leadenhall in Nottinghamshire, part of 223 Squadron of Bomber Command. He had been Hvinp with the RAF tor two
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years, and he had an excellent service record. He was awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross alter bringing home a damaged Wellington from a successful raid on German U-boat bases near Rotterdam. He ordered his crew to bail out once they were over England and landed the aircraft single-handedly. And that was despite the fact that he had himself been wounded by shrapnel from enemy anti-aircraft tire. As soon as he recovered from his injuries, he retrained on Lancasters and was posted to RAF Feadenhall.’
‘Very interesting,’ said Jepson. ‘But can we move forward to January 1945?’
‘You need to know what sort of a man my grandfather was,’ said Morrissev.
Cooper watched her eyes harden with a momentary anger as she spoke. Her age might have taken him by surprise, but he certainly hadn’t expected her to be so attractive. She had that style and confidence that made a woman stand out from the crowd. He was enjoying her display of assurance and pride. He was surprised that Jepson hadn’t softened to her more In now he usually had a weakness for an attractive young woman himself. But the Chief must have hardened his heart, and once he did that, there was no way he would back down. This
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meeting could have only one possible outcome. Cooper was already beginning to feel sympathy for the Canadian woman. Jepson would let her go through her paces, but in the end, she was going to be disappointed.
‘This is a photograph of my grandfather,’ said Morrissey. She slid a picture across the table to the Chief Superintendent, then one to Ben Cooper. She had hardly looked at him so far, except
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for a quick glance of appraisal when they had been introduced. He had the impression that she was a woman who knew’ exactly what she aimed to achieve, and who was most likely to he able to help her. Now, she fixed her gaxc on Chief Superintendent Jepson again.
‘That photograph was taken when he was promoted to the rank of Pilot Officer on joining 223 Squadron,’ she said. ‘Because of his service, he was a year or two older than most of his crew. That’s why they called him “Granddad”.’
The photo was something that the LIU hadn’t been able to produce for the files. Yet surely it must have been readily available, if it was an official RAF shot. Morrissey had been better organized, or had better help. Cooper glanced at Frank Baine. He had heard of Bainc vaguely. He recollected having seen a television programme the journalist had featured in, which had been commemorating the sixtieth anniversary of the Battle of Britain. The only thing Cooper remembered clearly from the programme was the fact that some of the Lancaster bombers used by the RAF during the Second World War had been built at a factory in Bamford, only a few miles from Cdcndale. Of course, the factory was long since gone, as were all the Lancasters it had produced. A woman who appeared on the programme had spoken of working on the aircraft as a girl, and of being told by an officious foreman in a bowler hat that if she made any mistakes she would be responsible for allowing the Germans to win the war.
‘I want you to look at the photograph/ said Morrissey, ‘because you will be able to see how proud my grandfather was of his uniform.’
Pilot Officer McTcague was immaculate in his RAF uniform, with his peaked cap, brand new hoops on his sleeve, and a medal on a ribbon pinned to his breast pocket. He stood almost to attention, with his arms at his side. His tic was perfectly straight, and there were sharp creases in his trouser legs. The uniform would have been blue, of course, though the photo was black and white. Probably the original print had been sepia — this looked like a computer-enhanced copy. It had brought out the features of McTcague’s face a small, dark moustache, a proud smile,
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and a direct ga/.c at the camera from a pair of clear eyes. He was a good-looking man, who must have turned the heads of a few girls in uniform. And, yes, there was a definite resemblance in his eyes to the granddaughter who sat across the table from Cooper now.
‘He’s wearing his Distinguished Flying Cross, as you can see,’ said Morrisscy.
Jepson put his copy of the photograph down on his file. ‘January 1945,’ he said.
Morrissey nodded. ‘On 7th January 194-S, my grandfather was at the controls of Lancaster bomber SU-V,’ she said. ‘The crew called their aircraft Sugar Uncle Victor.’
It was Frank Raine who took up the story. This was his expertise, his specialist field of knowledge. Raine had shaved his head, a fashion that had ousted the comb-over as a means of hiding the beginnings of baldness. As soon as he began to talk.
