‘Is there anything else you can remember about Elsie during the war? Was she happy? Did she have friends? Hobbies?’
Kath laughed. ‘No time for hobbies. I think she was happy enough from what I can recall. I think she enjoyed her job. She worked hard for them—long hours. As for her friends—they were the other WAAF girls, who we didn’t get to see.’ Kath thought for a moment, then added, ‘She just flitted in and out of our lives like a lot of people at that time.’
Kath’s knowledge of her own sister-in-law seemed oddly vague to Morton, as if she had been nothing more than a passing acquaintance.
‘Anything else you can remember of Elsie’s war?’
A long silence was ended with Kath saying ‘No, nothing else. Her war was no different to anyone else’s.’
Morton looked at his notepad and finished his wine. But for Elsie working in West Kingsdown, he had learnt nothing new by coming here. That wasn’t especially unusual—it was common for people to struggle to recall events so far away in the past. But Elsie wasn’t just some WAAF girl who had drifted in and out of their lives—she was Kath’s sister-in-law. He felt certain that there was something amiss. Something that they weren’t telling him. Time was running out.
‘Well—thank you very much for your time,’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘It was lovely to meet you both’—he turned to face Kath—‘if you should remember anything else, give me a call.’
Kath nodded but said nothing.
‘Could I just use your toilet before the drive back home?’ Morton asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ Tamara said. ‘It’s a little way back to Rye. The bathroom’s upstairs, first right.’
Morton thanked her and headed from the room, pretending not to have seen the split-second hesitation that had occurred when Tamara had revealed that she knew where Morton lived. He had never given her that information. But he already knew that she was on to him. The very second that she had opened the front door to him, he had known that he’d been invited here under false pretences. He had recognised her immediately. She had followed them—not very discreetly—from the National Memorial to the Few. At the time, he had thought nothing of it. Then, when he had looked back over the photographs that he had taken outside Cliff House, he had zoomed in and seen Tamara eyeing him darkly from an upstairs window.
Morton took the stairs two at a time, then paused at the top to ensure that he was alone. He could hear garbled conversation continuing between the two women downstairs. The corridor fed six closed doors. He pushed open the first door on the right—just as he had been told, it was the bathroom. The door opposite was a simply-furnished bedroom—a guestroom by the looks of it. The next two were further bedrooms, one he judged from the décor and photographs on the walls to be Kath’s. Directly opposite was a small shower room. There were two doors remaining. The room second to last was the one that he had hoped to find: an office. He stepped inside and gently pushed the door shut behind him and switched on the light. Unlike the rest of the house, it was a dimly lit room. The walls—much like his own office at home—were almost entirely covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He ignored the rows of books and headed over to a shelf containing box files. As he moved across the room, he passed a large desk and suddenly stopped. Something had caught his attention. It was a fawn-coloured wallet. Old. With a type-written label that read The Spyglass File. 1912.
Morton picked up the folder and opened it. Empty. Beside it was another file, identical, but for the label. The Spyglass File. 1940. That too was empty. The next was 1941—the year of Barbara’s birth. Empty. The files continued, one per year, right up until 1975.
He began to pluck randomly at the long run of folders, to try and get an understanding of what they might have once contained. The Spyglass File. 1944. Empty. 1946. Empty. 1949. Empty.
All of them appeared to have been emptied.
Time was running out.
He decided to abandon his search, and turned instead to the open laptop, praying that it was not password-protected. He wiggled the mouse and it opened on a webpage with flight details from Heathrow to Beijing. Minimising the page, he ran a search under the word Spyglass. One result—an email. Morton clicked to view it. It was to Tamara Forsdyke, from somebody by the name of Shaohao Chen. The message was simple and short. Computer wiped. Destroy The Spyglass File.
Morton took a photo of the email on his mobile, then closed the search page and returned the screen to how he had found it. Then he hurried back downstairs.
‘We were going to send out a search party for you,’ Kath exclaimed.
‘Mum!’ Tamara chastised.
Morton smiled. ‘Sorry,’ he said, rubbing his stomach. ‘I felt a little queasy and thought I might be sick.’
Tamara looked concerned. ‘Oh dear—can I get you anything?’
‘No, but I will head home now. Thank you again for your help.’
‘You’re welcome,’ Tamara said, ushering him towards the front door. ‘Good luck with your searches. Bye.’
‘Bye,’ he said, stepping out into the pitch darkness.
He climbed into his car, pondering what he had just discovered. He started the engine, looked in his rear-view mirror and saw the man sit up behind him in the back seat.
Chapter Fourteen
14th November 1940, West Kingsdown, Kent
Violet Christmas swung around from the gramophone and held a theatrical pose in the centre of the sitting room. Wearing only her bra and knickers, she straightened her right arm, extending it towards the floor and looked moodily along its length.
