Morton finished reading and looked back at the engine, his thoughts briefly returning to what Freddie had told him at the Memorial to the Few—or rather, what he hadn’t told him. Smith hadn’t blacked out behind the controls. He hadn’t attempted to correct the fatal trajectory of the plane. He hadn’t tried to bail out. The account left little doubt in Morton’s mind that, for whatever reason, William Smith had crashed his Hurricane deliberately.
He took out his notepad and began to laboriously copy down the text.
Once he had finished, Morton continued through the museum, scanning and skim-reading the text for any further mentions of William Smith. When he had completed his tour of the museum, he returned to the entrance, took his mobile back from the delightful man behind the counter, then left. He was ready to go home and switch off.
Then, as he pulled his car out of the museum, he spotted what was on the other side of the road: the cemetery. He crawled in first gear across the street, parked in the cemetery car park and began to trudge through the rows and rows of graves. He was searching for the distinctive tell-tale white war graves. He found them on the other side of the cemetery. There were around thirty of them, formed in a neat but pitiful triangle. He walked slowly along one line of graves, stepping back from his job for a moment and taking a purposeful account of the loss of life. German and English men—boys, practically—buried alongside one another under the soil of war, their names forgotten, or, like the grave now in front of him, never having been known. Ein Deutscher Soldat.
Morton came to the end of the row, then began to pace the next. Three graves in, he found William Smith. It was a simple white oblong grave and under the emblem of the thirty-second squadron was the inscription: Pilot Officer W. Smith. Royal Air Force. 15th August 1940. Aged 19. Until the day breaks and the shadows flee away.
Morton placed a hand on the top of the grave, tracing its hard edge with his fingers. ‘Hi, William. I don’t know if you know this, but you’ve got a daughter,’ he said quietly. ‘She wants to know all about you.’ As he took a photo of the grave, he remembered what Barbara had said about her mother dying just a few years too late for their possible reunion. Somewhere inside, his indecision about opening the letters from his biological father lifted like a fog, leaving him with certain clarity about what he needed to do next in his own quest.
With a sudden surge of energy, Morton strode back to the car park.
Chapter Nine
‘We could have a problem,’ Tamara said quietly.
‘Oh?’
She shot a look across the table. Shaohao Chen’s tone and his furrowed brow conveyed much more than the single sound that he had just uttered. She glanced around herself then leant in closer and lowered her voice, although there was really no need. They were eating lunch in the Chatberry-Long Private Members’ Club, a location deliberately chosen for its privacy and discretion. They were sitting at one of several round tables, subtly positioned around the long hall—a high-ceilinged room with ornate furnishings and tall windows overlooking the Thames. ‘Someone’s snooping around.’
Shaohao stared at her, saying nothing. He was fifty-five, short and with entirely white hair.
Tamara continued, ‘Someone’s looking into the past—a genealogist,’ she warned. ‘Morton Farrier—ever heard of him?’
Shaohao shook his head and laughed. He had a laugh that was rasping and grating, and it drew attention from two gentlemen who were sitting at a table a tactful distance away. ‘The past?’ he finally said.
‘The 1940s,’ Tamara responded.
Another laugh, then: ‘Just destroy the contents of The Spyglass File. Then there’s nothing to worry about. No evidence. You worry too much, Tamara.’
Tamara didn’t share his optimism. Destroying The Spyglass File—more than thirty years’ worth of files, folders, paperwork and documents—was easy enough, but what about what Morton could dig up from public records? ‘What about information he’s already found? Can you access his computer to find out what he knows?’
Shaohao nodded. ‘Leave it with me. Now, tell me everything you know about this man.’
And so, she did. They discussed the problem in detail and then, over an hour later, had conceived a plan.
It was his fourth coffee of the morning and it was only just gone ten. Morton clasped the cup between both hands as he stood in front of the only wall in his study not to be monopolised by bookshelves. It was on this wall that Morton would usually attach all the puzzle pieces
