chasing our backsides over that.’
‘I suppose not. But Leadenhall …’
Fry waved his protests aside. She wasn’t going to be put off her chance to go somewhere and do something at last.
‘We’re going to follow the footsteps of the Snowman,’ she said.
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18
1 he Leadcnhall Aircraft Museum opened on some days during the winter months, but it was obvious that hardly any visitors came. Diane Fry and Ben Cooper found the gates open and a few volunteers taking the opportunity of the lull to carry out restoration and maintenance work on their aircraft.
The main hangar was gloomy and cavernous. Inside, a Spitfire had been roped off and the armour plating round its nose had been dismantled. A man in blue overalls was doing something with a wrench deep inside the engine. The clink of metal against
1 O O
metal echoed in the hangar like a pebble rattling at the bottom of a deep well.
A twin-engined Vickers Wellington seemed to be the central exhibit. Cooper edged towards the information board under its nose. This wartime bomber had been recovered from a remote Norwegian fjord where it had crashed in 1941 after bein^ damaged by a German fighter. Its canvas fuselage had been torn away in large sections, exposing a metal grid-like structure underneath and ottering glimpses of the flight cabin and the navigator’s table. The aircraft’s upper surfaces were painted a camouflage green, but underneath it was black, where it would be seen only against the sky.
The Wellington had a powerful presence, even in this setting, and it reminded Cooper of something. He learned from the information board that Wellington bombers had been referred to affectionately by their crews as ‘Wimpcys’ after a fat, hamburger-eating character in the Popcye cartoons. But the impression it made on him was far from cartoon-like. There was nothing harmless and bumbling about this machine. The
o o
comparison he was trying to grasp was more animal-like.
After they had crossed the concrete floor, Cooper turned for another view of the Wellington. The Perspex panels of the cockpit were like a pair of dark eyes staring down the long nose and over the front gun turret towards the sky beyond the
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hangar walls. For Cooper, there was nothing cosy or nostalgic in the impression at all. The aircraft had a snout like a muz/led hunting dog.
‘How recent was the Snowman’s visit here, Diane?’ he said.
Fry paused by the sliding doors of the hangar, near a set of display hoards filled with newspaper reports of Second World War air battles, hightcr Command Spitfires destroy eight Messcrschmitts over English Channel.
‘Sunday 6th January.’
‘The day before he was killed, probably.’
‘Somebody might remember him it was only a week ago. And look at this place it isn’t exactly heaving with crowds, is it?’
‘No, you’re right. But, Diane…’
‘What?’
‘I’m supposed to be interviewing the staff at the Snake Inn this afternoon, trying to jog their memories about four-wheel drive vehicles. You could have brought Gavin here with you. They didn’t need Aim at the Kemps either.’
‘Yes, I could have brought Gavin.’
‘So why am I here?’
‘Perhaps 1 wanted to keep an eye on you.
Qutsidc, an elderly man in an ill-fitting dying suit with wing insignia was washing the fuselage of an Avro Shackleton. He had a stepladdcr, a bucket of water and a cloth, and he went about his job lovingly, with complete absorption and wonder, like a grandfather who had been asked to change the nappy of a brand new grandchild.
‘Perhaps we could ask him to do the windows at West Street,’ said Fry, ‘now that Fddie Kcmp has gone on strike. He looks as though he’d make a nice job of it.’
c? ^
‘I think it’s a labour of love,’ said Cooper. Frv snorted. ‘Cleaning?’
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‘It’s a question of wAaf he’s cleaning.’
‘It’s a plane, said Fry.
‘Yes, it is.’
She shook her head, exasperated. ‘Well, he’s obviously only
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the hired hand. Let’s find someone who knows what’s what around here.’
They asked at the shop, but the woman behind the counter said that she didn’t normally work on Sundays and directed them hack to the Shacklcton and the man with the stepladder.
‘Mr Illingworth?’ said Fry.
‘That’s me.’
They introduced themselves. ‘We’re enquiring about this man/ said Fry. ‘We believe he visited last weekend. Sunday 6th January.’
Illingworth looked at the photograph. ‘Is he dead, then?’
‘I’m afraid so, sir.’
