room.
o o
‘It’s ironic that it should come up now,’ said Lukasz. ‘It’s against the spirit of op/ateA.’ ‘Sorry?’ ‘Op/ate^ is our tradition of forgiveness and reconciliation. It’s
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symboli/ed by eating the oplatki waters. And this Sunday is the oplatek dinner for the Edendale Polish community, down at the exservicemen’s club, the Dom Kombatanta. It’s one of the high points of our calendar. It certainly means a lot to my father.’
Cooper had never heard of such a thing, and he couldn’t quite picture how to spell the word that Lukasx. was pronouncing, forgiveness and reconciliation? Well, there was certainly plentv of scope lor that.
‘Do you know somebody called George Malkin?’ asked Cooper.
l.ukas/ frowned. ‘Malkin? Should 1? What’s the connection? Was he in the-RAF?’
‘No. He’s a local man. He lives near the place where the Lancaster crashed.’
Tin sorry, it doesn’t mean anything.’
Cooper handed the photograph back reluctantly. ‘They were all brave men.’ lie said.
l.ukas/ laughed. “I hat’s what everybody says. Everybody who wasn’t involved, anvwav. But it isn’t what my father says. He savs that none of them was brave; he says it wasn’t about bravery at all. In his view, they did what they could because they were part of a crew, a team, and it was impossible to consider letting your comrades down. They were erv close, you know, and the circumstances brought them even closer. It’s impossible for us to understand now how close they were.’
‘Like a family, in fact. It’s always worse when things go wrong
j j O O O
within a family. It feels like a betrayal.’
‘Yes. But these davs, even families aren’t as close as that. Ask my son.’
‘Your son?’
‘Andrew. He lives in London now, but he’s been visiting us recently.’
‘Is he still here?’
‘No. lie was only visiting.’
‘When did you see him off?’
Lukas/ seemed to hesitate about answering. ‘He hasn’t been here since Sunday,’ he said.
‘Was he going straight back to London?’ said Cooper. ‘Was
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he travelling by train or did he have a car? It might have been difficult in the snow.’
It was Grace Lukasz who answered. She had approached quietly behind her husband’s back to listen to the conversation, as if drawn by the merest mention of her son’s name.
‘He arrived in a taxi. And we didn’t see him off,’ she said.
‘Oh? Why?’
‘I was on duty at the hospital on Sunday night,’ said Lukas/,. ‘As 1 told you, I work in the A&E department. By the time I arrived home, Andrew was gone.’
‘Was there a family row of some kind?’ asked Cooper. The Lukaszes both looked embarrassed at the question. ‘It happens in every family, 1 know.’
‘Andrew went off without saying goodbye at all,’ said Grace Lukasz.
Cooper looked at the heaps of snow piled up outside on Woodland Crescent. The snow was becoming stained with car
o
exhaust fumes and soot from central-heating flues. It didn’t say much for the air quality in the Crescent.
‘Mrs Lukasz, do you mean that your son just disappeared?’
‘Well, in a way.’
‘Did he have any luggage with him?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Have you reported him missing?’
‘He isn’t missing/ said Peter Lukasz. ‘He left a little suddenly, that’s all. I presume somebody came for him. A taxi, whatever.’
‘He promised he would phone me,’ said Grace. ‘I’ve called his home in London several times, but there’s only an answering machine. He said his wife is away in America, and we don’t have his mobile number.’
‘He probably has some urgent business to deal with,’ said Peter. ‘Andrew is regional sales manager for a medical supplies company.’
Cooper began to get exasperated. People could sometimes be so slow to accept that tragedy could intrude directly into their own comfortable lives.
‘Could you describe your son, please? How old is he? How tall? Is he dark or fair? What was he wearing?’
21S
‘Well, Andrew is dark, like me/ said Peter Lukasx. ‘He’s thirty-two. I don’t know what he was wearing. What’s this all about?’
