Morton zoomed further into the background, focussing on the edge of a stark white building that he recognized immediately as being Cliff House. He thought for a moment as his mind pondered on Daniel’s residence there. He toyed with the idea of phoning Kath Forsdyke and asking what she remembered of Daniel, but thought better of it.
The second photograph bore the caption: ‘Ivy and Me, October ’39.’ In the picture—another close-up—Daniel had his arm wrapped around a pretty young thing, both smiling at something or somebody off-camera. Cliff House unmistakably loomed large behind them, appearing practically unchanged today. Standing close to the house was a figure. Morton tightened the zoom. It was a young woman who bore a resemblance to Kath Forsdyke, but he couldn’t be certain.
He had to phone her—he had no choice.
‘Hello?’ a voice snapped. Thankfully, it was Kath’s.
‘Hello, it’s Morton Farrier here,’ he chirped.
‘Who?’
‘Morton Farrier—the forensic genealogist. I came to see you the other day.’
‘Oh. What do you want?’
‘I was just wondering what you could remember about a chap who stayed at your house at the very beginning of the war. His name was Daniel Winter.’
‘Never heard of him,’ she responded flatly.
‘Oh…’ Morton stammered, not quite expecting that reply. ‘But I know that he lived at Cliff House at the same time as you. I found him on the 1939—’
‘—Never heard of him,’ she interrupted, promptly ending the call.
‘That went well,’ Morton said to himself, as he clicked onto the next picture. This one was of a group of five pilots—in full uniform and life jackets—sitting on a grassy expanse in front of a Hurricane. The description on the reverse read: ‘Boys from 32 Squadron between sorties, Hawkinge, August 1940. Smith, Perry, Woody, Wheeler & Jones.’
Morton matched the photograph of William to that which he had taken from his biography, meaning that it had to have been taken prior to 15th August.
In the next photo was Daniel with his arm hanging from the shoulder of a pretty young girl in a WAAF uniform. The reverse of the image said ‘Susie and Me.’ The background was an empty field with no markings or buildings to help distinguish the location. He looked at the couple and wondered at how differently their lives might have turned out had the country not been embroiled in total war. His eyes glazed and his thoughts tangled, as he considered his own upcoming marriage and how fortunate he was to be living in a time of relative peace.
The final picture was different to the rest; the angle of the horizon was severely slanted and the look of surprise on Daniel’s face told Morton that the photo was not staged, but was rather an unplanned snapshot. The description on the rear read: ‘Jones playing with my camera again! 15th August ’40.’
The crucial date.
Morton enlarged the picture full screen and began an in-depth analysis of the background. He measured the length and angles of the shadows and cross-referred them with solar patterns available freely online. The conclusion, taking less than thirty minutes, was that the photograph had been taken at precisely 4.33pm. After 32 Squadron had been sent up from Hawkinge and, therefore, after William Smith’s death. Were there any further clues to be found hidden in the image?
Zooming in close, Morton slowly moved the cursor around the screen. Buildings were smouldering in the background. Soldiers were attempting to fill the huge divots in the aerodrome runways caused by enemy bombs. Beside one of the administration buildings were two figures with their backs to the camera, heading in the direction of the aerodrome gates. Morton pulled in to the image as tightly as he could before they became blurred. One was a pilot, the other a member of the WAAF. He had his arm around her waist. Could it be Elsie? The woman had light-coloured hair and was about the right size and frame, but really, it was impossible to tell if it were her. The pilot’s identity, too, was impossible to work out.
Morton took a screenshot of the couple, printed it out and added it to the Finch Case file.
The weather had failed to improve as the day and Morton’s research had worn on. He warmed himself with several large cups of coffee, as he waded through his investigation. By late afternoon he had a generous wodge of paper on the goings-on at RAF West Kingsdown Wireless Intercept Station during the war. What he had found was largely about the buildings and procedures there, but very little on the personnel. Then Morton had downloaded Lawrence Finch’s will. Just as Elsie had said, everything had been passed to his sister, Kath. Nothing for his wife, Elsie. Nothing for their two children, Paul and Rose; it was the consequence of the ugly chasm that had sheered its way through generations of the Finch family.
He was staring at the rain streaking down the window, deep in thought about what life must have been like in the Finch household prior to Lawrence’s death, when Morton heard the sound of the front door closing.
‘Morton! Here, boy! Look what I’ve got for you!’ Juliette called. She was summoning him like a dog. Obediently, he descended the stairs and found her in the kitchen.
‘Christ, why are you in your pyjamas already?’ Juliette asked, checking her watch. ‘It’s only half past six.’
Morton shrugged. He didn’t like to admit that he hadn’t actually managed to peel himself out of them all day. ‘Did you find anything on Shaohao Chen?’
‘Yes. Make me a coffee and I’ll tell you all about it,’ she said, sliding into one of the kitchen chairs.
He sighed dramatically. She always liked
