he snow was absorbed back into the earth somehow, that was all that mattered. There was a cleansing rhythm to nature that she tound comforting.
Grace turned back to the room. Her eye immediately tell on the Lukasx family photograph in the alcove near the door. Herself and Peter, Zvgmunt and Krystvna, with the grandchildren at
j O j’ . O
their knees. She had once, before they were married, tried to persuade Peter to change their surname. She thought it would be best for their future children. A good alternative would have been Lucas, she had said. It would only have been a change in spelling really; the pronunciation was almost the same. Peter had sail! no. I le had said it in a tone of voice she had not heard from him until then, a tone that made her hesitate, then decide not to argue. He had never given her a reason, and she had not asked, in the end.
She looked at the face of the old man, Zvgmunt, at the proud tilt of his head and the direct stare. Peter was becoming more and more-like his father with age. Sometimes, if she watched him carefullv, she saw a different look in her husband’s eves when the old man called him ‘Piotr’. It was a look that she had never been able to bring to his eves, even in their most intimate moments. No matter how many times she whispered his name, she could never bring the same look of pride. The meaning wasn’t there for him in ‘Peter’ in the way it was when lie heard his Polish name. For a moment, she wished she could do it by calling him ‘Piotr’ herself. But she knew it was loo late to change a habit now.
Grace went quickly to the window when she heard the sound of a car. A Ford had pulled up at her kerb beyond their hedge. She could see a man with fair hair in the driver’s seat. It wasn’t Andrew. A woman got out on the passenger side. She met
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Grace’s eves tor a moment. Then she turned awav and walked to a house two doors down, while the driver waved and drove oil. Grace let go of the breath she had been holding. It wasn’t her either. Not yet.
Frank Baine waited to be sure he still had their attention. Alison Morrissey had her gaze (ixed on Chief Superintendent Jepson.
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She seemed to he trying to will the Chief to listen, though Ben Cooper knew Jepson well enough to see that his brain had switched off already. Probably he had decided in advance the amount of time he was prepared to give. Cooper wondered how fast the clock was ticking down.
‘Former Pilot Officer Zygmunt Lukasz is the sole surviving crew member of Sugar Uncle Victor/ said Bainc. ‘Lukasz was one of the youngest of the crew, but even he is seventy-eight now. As it happens, he lives here, in Edcndalc.’
‘No doubt you’ll be visiting him,’ said Jepson, as if suggesting there was no time like the present.
‘We have been in contact with the Lukasz family,’ said Bainc. ‘It would be (air to say that they’re not keen to cooperate.’
‘Pity/ said Jepson.
‘On the day of the crash, the skipper had filed a visual flight record with flight control, as was normal practice/ said Bainc. ‘He’d been briefed on broken clouds at two thousand feet and poor visibility. But somehow he went off course and found himself over the Peak District. He discovered the fact too late, when he nosed the aircraft down through the overcast to establish his position. Directly in front of him was Irontonguc Hill. He never stood a chance of avoiding it.’
‘Five men died in the crash. There were two who survived.
‘Yes, the seventh was the pilot, my grandfather/ said Alison Morrisscy. ‘After the crash, he was never found.’
Cooper was ready for this. It was the whole point of the meeting, after all. The rest was just preamble. ‘He was listed as having deserted/ he said. ‘In the air accident enquiry, he was also blamed for the crash.’
Morrisscy turned on him suddenly. ‘He was the pilot. He was in command of the aircraft. Since there was no evidence given of enemy action or mechanical fault, he was bound to take the blame. He was branded guilty by default. And there’s absolutely no evidence that my grandfather deserted. Absolutely none.’
‘But he was seen leaving the area/ said Cooper.
‘No — he was not/
Chief Superintendent Jepson stirred slightly, his interest piqued by the suddenly raised voices. He studied the report
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that had keen prepared for him by the Local Intelligence Officer. ‘According to my information, two young hoys were spoken to, who said they had seen an airman walking down the Rlackbrook Reservoir road, from Irontongue Hill towards Glossop. That seems (airly conclusive.’
v
‘Their statement was crucial. I’d like to find them now to talk to them, hut the hoys aren’t named in the reports I have.’
‘That might he unfortunate from your point of view, Miss Morrissev, hut they were only children, after all. Twelve years old, and eight. Why should they lie ahout something like that?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Also, it appears that a man in uniform was reported to have been seen heading away from the area later that day. In fact, he was picked up by a lorry driver on the A6 near Chinley. That was a perfectly normal thing for a driver to do hack then.’
‘The man was never positively identified as Pilot Officer McTcague,’ said Morrissey.
‘We used to do it until quite recently, in fact. But not for a few wears.’
‘Do what?’
‘Give lifts to servicemen. They would stand at the roadside with their kithags and a sign saying where they were going, and motorists would stop for them. You could see what they were hy their haircuts, hecause all the other young men of their age had long hair then. I can rcmemhcr picking a few soldiers up myself on the M6 roundabout near Preston, in the days when I was serving with the Lancashire force. These days, though, you can’t trust anybody. You never know who might have got hold of an army uniform or a hit of equipment. Let them into
