‘Thank you,’ Morton answered, heading over to the book, Men of the Battle of Britain: a biographical directory of The Few.
With Juliette looking over his shoulder, Morton flicked through the dense book until he found William Smith’s biographical entry. ‘There. Perfect—there’s even a photo of him.’
‘Well, that was easy enough—you certainly picked an easy case to get back into. Could this Barbara person not have managed this by herself?’
Morton smiled. It was a fair point. In just over an hour he had discovered a short account of Barbara’s father’s military life and a photograph. ‘It’s not quite over yet and, as you well know, it can get more complicated than this.’
Juliette murmured her agreement; saving him from an irate pensioner was only the latest in a string of scrapes into which he had managed to get himself.
‘Do you think you’re ready now to get back on with it, full-time?’ she asked.
Morton thought for a moment. He loved his job, but the recent failures had played on his mind. He wasn’t on the top of his game anymore. ‘Let’s just see how this one goes.’
He placed his finger on the biography and began to quietly read. ‘Pilot Officer Smith was born in 1921 and educated at Brentwood School. He joined the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve in April 1939. Called up on September 1st, he completed his training and joined 32 Squadron. The squadron flew patrols over northern France in May 1940, then were based at Biggin Hill, taking part in the Battle of Britain. Around lunchtime on 15th August 1940, 32 Squadron were ordered to Hawkinge. At 14.30 hours the squadron was ordered off to carry out an offensive patrol. During the patrol, the Hurricanes engaged with a group of Messerschmitt 109s heading towards Essex. Smith’s aircraft became separated from the group and he crashed into marshland outside Lympne in Kent. He was nineteen years old.’
‘God—how awful,’ Juliette muttered.
Morton studied the small headshot picture beside the biography. This man was Barbara’s father. He looked so terribly young—far too young to have had a child—never mind having flown an aircraft and having taken part in war. Morton pulled out his mobile and took a photograph of the entry. The next step was to see if any further records existed here on William Smith. He turned back to the reception desk but the lady with whom he had just spoken was now occupied with the arrival of a group of pensioners.
‘Let’s go upstairs and get a coffee,’ Morton suggested, taking Juliette by the hand and leading her up the spiral staircase to the café. ‘You get a seat and I’ll bring them over.’
Morton ordered the drinks, watching Juliette as he waited. She slipped on her sunglasses, removed her cardigan and took a seat outside on the circular terrace that overlooked the grounds. He smiled, knowing that he was very lucky to have her as his fiancée.
He carried the drinks out and stood with his back to the sun.
‘Thanks,’ Juliette said. ‘So, is that it? All done? Case closed?’
Morton laughed. ‘I’m just going to go and see if I can have a quick chat with one of their experts—see if there’s anything else I can glean on William Smith—then we can head home and watch a film or something.’
Juliette looked over at him and lowered her sunglasses. ‘On a work day, Mr Farrier?’
‘Well, if the rest of the case progresses this well, I should be able to wrap it up pretty quickly.’
‘Well, that’s certainly got my vote,’ Juliette replied, sitting back and closing her eyes.
‘See you in a minute,’ he said, picking up his notepad and heading downstairs to the reception desk, which was now visitor-free. ‘Hi,’ Morton began. ‘Would I be able to speak with one of your volunteers about one of the Battle of Britain pilots?’
The lady behind the desk smiled. ‘I’ll just see who’s around.’ She picked up the phone and dialled a number. ‘Freddie, are you free to pop down and help a visitor with a query? Great—thank you.’ She set the phone down and looked at Morton with a smile. ‘He’ll be right down.’
An elderly gentleman wearing smart cream trousers, a navy blazer and a jazzy bow-tie carefully descended the staircase and headed towards Morton. He was clean-shaven with white, combed-back hair and clearly took his role seriously. He shook Morton’s hand with vigour and smiled. ‘Freddie Calderwood,’ he announced. ‘Ex-RAF, military buff and, so they tell me, an expert on the Battle of Britain.’
‘Nice to meet you. My name’s Morton and I’m interested in one of the Battle of Britain aircrew—William Smith.’
Freddie squinted heavenwards for inspiration, lightly nipping his front teeth together as he thought. ‘Ah—Hurricane pilot, killed 15th August 1940? That the fellow?’
‘Yes, that’s him. Could you tell me a bit more about what happened the day he died?’ Morton asked.
Freddie took a deep breath, jangling some coins in his pocket. ‘Well, it was the biggest day of the Adler Tag offensive and-’
‘Sorry—Adler Tag offensive?’ Morton queried.
‘Eagle Day—a codename given by the Luftwaffe for the complete destruction of the RAF. Every bomber, fighter and dive-bomber that Göring could get his hands on was used to attack Britain. Over a hundred and sixty aircraft pounded the aerodromes at RAF Lympne and RAF Hawkinge. A slightly lesser number—around one hundred and thirty Spitfires and Hurricanes—were sent up to intercept them, and one of those squadrons was number 32, for whom your chap, William Smith flew. About two-thirty in the afternoon they were sent up to chase off a flock of Messerschmitts. A number of aerial battles took place over the coast with aircraft being lost on both sides, one of which was William Smith’s Hurricane.’ Freddie shrugged. ‘He crashed into marshland and died.’
Morton was slightly taken aback at the finality
