One week later, the announcement will be made in their Chancellor’s Defence Review speech in Westminster, and that thing outside the window, and the other one at Pembridge will all go for scrap, along with the airframes in Hangar One. Looks like the assembly jigs and blueprints will also go. That seems to be the deal.’
Maitland joined Brannigan to share the same vision through the window, and not taking his eyes off the aircraft, sniggered.
‘She’s gonna look great with rocket holes in the side of her when she’s taken to the missile range.’
Kevin Nunn was anxious to find the Rapier’s Chief Designer as he burst into the mess room.
‘Where’s HB, I need to see him urgently!’
A burly aircraftsman moving a table stopped and looked at the flustered RAF engineer. ‘He was with the driver a while ago Sarge, he hasn’t come back in here yet.’
‘If he comes back, ask him to come over to the flight workshop pronto.’ Before the airman could answer, Nunn had disappeared back through the door.
Barnett sat opposite the base commander. He had known Squadron Leader Mike Geering for twenty years and they chatted idly about old times, then put their conversation to a more current topic. ‘Looks as though the inquiry will be Tuesday next week, I need to get back to Brinton’s, to collate some statements,’ said the Yorkshireman.
Geering sighed. ‘Damn bad show, Howard. I really was looking forward to all the razzmatazz we were going to have here this week. I have cancelled the Canadians and the Aussies and will talk to the Krauts later on.’
Barnett rose from the chair. ‘Well, that’s it then. Thanks Mike. It was nice to see you again. Shame that it had to be under these tragic circumstances.’ Barnett shook the base commander’s hand.
‘Anytime, HB. Always a pleasure. Ted’s waiting with the car so have a safe trip back to Cumbria, my friend.’
Barnett exited the office and walked the length of the corridor to the double doors at the end of the block, put on his coat, then walked over the square to the guardroom. As he approached an MP came running towards him.
‘Excuse me, Sir? Could you follow me over to the workshops hangar? Sergeant Nunn has asked that you see him.’
Barnett tailed the tall, immaculately dressed RAF policeman and climbed into the passenger seat of the blue/grey soft top Land Rover, and the vehicle headed for the hangars.
‘I will wait here for you sir,’ the MP assured him. HB walked into the hangar and seeing him, Kevin Nunn acknowledged him from the office and stood up from his desk.
‘Sir. Thank god I haven’t missed you,’ Barnett noticed that Nunn sounded rather excited. ‘What’s all this then, Kevin?’
‘Sir, I need to show you something I’ve found. It’s to do with the tyre of the Queen Mary.’
Nunn leant over and picked up the torn rubber mass from the desk. ‘I dropped my pen under my desk and bent down to get it, then suddenly had almost pressed my nose into the tyre. I could be mistaken sir, but I’m bloody certain that this tyre smells of cordite.
Nunn handed Barnett the remains of the tyre and he pulled it up to his nose. ‘My god, I think you’re right, Kevin lad.’
Nunn continued. ‘I was an armourer loading HV rockets onto our fighter-bombers during the Suez Crisis. I know that smell right enough.’
Barnett put down the tyre and looked at the floor. ‘If this is indeed cordite on the tyre, then the lorry turning over wasn’t an accident.’
He patted Nunn on the shoulder. ‘Good work, Kevin. I think we best keep this between you and me for now.’
Barnett walked out of the hangar and climbed into the Brinton Daimler. As the car moved towards the main gate, he shook his head. Suddenly, he could feel a welt of anger rising within him.
The next morning, after an early swim followed by a smoked salmon breakfast, Swan stood next to Higgins’s Bentley admiring the glossy walnut interior. The big man half sat in the vehicle, with one foot on the shingle, and handed the SID man a small brown envelope.
‘Here you go Alex, two passes to Brinton’s Hangar One, and main building complex. And, as promised, I have also given you a comprehensive list of the technical stuff that you and Arthur will find useful when you perform your little masquerade as avionics inspectors. I must say right now, I feel like a damn Ivan spy handing over secret documents in a car park. If we got caught doing this, I would most probably be shot tomorrow morning.’
Swan quickly placed the envelope into his jacket.
‘Come to think of it, all the Soviets need to do is place spies here for one weekend, and they would soon have all the military secrets they need for the next couple of years,’ Higgins added.
Swan tapped his jacket. ‘I very much appreciate this Sir Alistair, I certainly owe you for it.’
Higgins placed his other leg into the Bentley and shut the door, then wound down the side window. ‘Not at all, my boy. I owe you, more than anything. Don’t forget, if you hadn’t caught that damn Finnish floozy when you did, I would probably have been facing a national disgrace, a court martial and most probably a divorce case to boot. Thanks to you all I lost was my post in the Overseas Department Office, and those free trips abroad. Cheerio my boy, and good luck with your investigation up at Brinton’s.’
Swan watched as the Bentley drive across the gravel and out to the main drive road then moving over to his car, then loading his bag and shotgun into the boot, his thoughts were with the accident of the second Rapier prototype. He sat in the seat and listened to the purr of the engine, thinking about the FB-X, and this sudden emergence of the company that had produced it.
At the entrance to The Furrows, with these notions running at a pace inside his head, he swung the nippy sports car left onto the A25.
Later, as he drove along Westminster Bridge, instead of turning left at the end into Victoria Street and on to his flat in Bayswater, he decided to go around Parliament Square, and left into Whitehall.
The following morning Arthur Gable walked up the stairs to the office. Noticing the overnight bag and shotgun case at the foot of the stairs, he moved them so that they were safely tucked away at the side of the stairwell. He entered the office to see Swan sitting the wrong way round on a wooden chair, staring at a blackboard. Several empty coffee cups lay out on Swan’s desk.
Gable looked at the board littered with written labels with arrows between them. He also noticed the scattering of red and green chalked dots.
‘Looks like you have had a busy night, sir.’
An unshaven Swan looked up and smiled. ‘Morning Arthur, Yes, I learned a few things over the weekend that just couldn’t wait until today to sort out.’
‘Did you hear about the accident? It’s all over the paper?’
Gable took a rolled up Daily Telegraph out from his raincoat and handed it to Swan.
‘Yes, I was with Hammer Higgins when he got the news from the ministry. I left The Furrows about eleven and got here for twelve thirty. Luckily, Luigi’s was open, so he fixed me up a nice lunch and I took myself back to him in the evening.’
Gable watched his colleague get up from the chair and scan the newspaper.
‘So, you been here since yesterday then?’
‘Yes Arthur, I have.’
Gable raised a brow. ‘I feel sorry for Brinton, they’re not having much luck at the moment, are they?’
‘I don’t think luck comes anyway into it Arthur,’ Swan sat back down. ‘These are all the events that have occurred since we’ve taken this case.’ He took a pen from his tweed sports jacket draped over the chair, then got up and used it as a pointer stick. ‘Here we have McGregor’s fatal accident. This is shortly after the Americans arrived to work on this reconnaissance drone. Then, we have the announcement of the FB-X being deployed here. This aircraft was built by a new company called GK Systems Incorporated, allegedly fully funded and controlled by the US Government. And now the latest saga, the accident with the second prototype at the weekend.’