‘That happened all the time,’ Freddie answered. ‘You imagine twelve Hurricanes chasing and shooting at a bunch of evasive Messerschmitts, who in turn are trying to shoot you back—they’re not going to be able to stick together. It was quite normal for planes in the same squadron to land at totally different airfields after a protracted cat and mouse chase.’
Morton made some hasty notes on his pad, then continued. ‘You said that RAF Lympne was targeted that day—was that close to where William’s plane came down?’
‘Yes, not far at all.’
‘So do you think he was trying to land there, then?’ Morton asked.
Freddie shook his head and took a moment to speak. There was clearly something he didn’t want to say. ‘He seemed not to have made any attempt to land there.’
‘Maybe the airfield was too damaged?’ Morton ventured.
Freddie’s wispy eyebrows danced at the idea. ‘The aerodrome had taken a hefty old thumping—not one of their buildings was left standing by the end of the day, but it was still being used as an emergency landing site; he could have landed there if he’d had to.’
‘Oh, right,’ Morton said, confounded. ‘Why didn’t he, then?’
Freddie appeared slightly uncomfortable. ‘I really couldn’t say. But what you must understand are the gruelling circumstances under which these poor men flew. We’re talking about men who were eighteen, nineteen years old and some who had had as little as ten hours’ flying experience before being sent up into the skies to just not fly a plane, but to kill and try not to be killed. Inexperience, misjudgement, luck, destiny, distraction, aircraft failure, tiredness—all contributed to whether these boys lived or died.’
Morton nodded at the sobering facts. Yet, he still felt that Freddie was somehow evading an aspect of the question.
‘The other point to remember here,’ Freddie continued, ‘is that there was no ejector seat. To bail out of a Hurricane was no easy feat. He would have to undo his radio and oxygen leads, unbuckle his harness, open the canopy, invert the plane to fall out upside down, then hope and pray that he wouldn’t be struck by his own aircraft on the way down. Then, he had to hope the parachute would open.’
‘Tricky,’ Morton mused.
‘Very.’
‘Where might I find more information on William and his crash?’
Freddie took a breath and seemed to be thinking. ‘I’m sure the crash site was excavated back in the seventies and various bits and pieces were hauled out and are now on display at the Kent Battle of Britain Museum in Hawkinge.’
‘Great—thank you, I’ll certainly be paying them a visit.’
‘Anything else I can help you with?’ Freddie asked.
‘No, that’s it, thanks very much—you’ve been very helpful.’
Morton shook Freddie’s hand and slowly wound his way back up to Juliette, slightly troubled by what he had just learned; there was clearly something that Freddie had been reluctant to say.
Tamara Forsdyke winced and recoiled from the temperature of her tea and pulled it from her mouth hastily, spilling some of it down her suit. ‘Great,’ she cursed, turning with a scowl to the oblivious waitress who had served her. She huffed as she patted her jacket with a napkin. She was a businesswoman and took great care over her appearance, even on a day like today when she was supposed to be working from home. Her short hair was grey, her natural colour supplemented with shades of white and silver. She had her eyebrows deliberately thinned into an arch that gave the impression that she was always incredulous.
She stopped trying to remove the travelling stain from her skirt: it was ruined and would have to be discarded. Instead, she turned to face the couple out on the sunny terrace. They were whispering and laughing. Then they went through the motions of leaving: he tipped up his cup to quaff the dregs, she pulled on her cardigan and slung her handbag over her shoulder. They stood, said something else to each other, then began to head towards her.
Tamara turned her head as they passed. Then, from the corner of her eye, she watched as they descended the spiral staircase.
She followed them out of the front door and across the car park.
They crossed the main road and were heading into one of the residential side streets. Tamara followed at a distance, wondering where they were going. Could they be residents of Capel? Her question was answered as they stopped beside a red Mini.
Continuing to the street corner, Tamara stopped with her back to the car. Moments later, she heard it rumble into life and slowly drive away. She memorised the number plate, then pulled out her mobile phone and dialled.
‘Rachel. Are you at work?’ Tamara demanded.
‘Yes, just about to start my shift.’
‘Good. I need you to run a number plate check.’
Silence at the other end.
‘Rachel?’
‘I could get into huge trouble—I’ve known colleagues sacked just for helping a friend find out who bumped their car in a car park.’
‘It’s more serious than that, as I’m sure you’re aware.’
Another silence. ‘I have to log a reason when I access the vehicle index—what am I supposed to say?’
Tamara laughed. ‘Come on, you’re a police officer—think of something.’
‘Give me the number plate and I’ll see what I can do.’
Tamara relayed the details, then hung up.
Forty minutes later, back at her home office, Tamara received a text message. The registered owner is Morton Farrier. Address is The House with Two Front Doors, Mermaid Street, Rye, East Sussex. Insured to drive is him and Juliette Meade.
Tamara stared out of her window overlooking the sea, deep in thought at what to do about Morton Farrier.
Chapter Six
15th July 1940,
