Almost twenty-one years later, this late January evening was one of those severe wintery times. He rose from his chair, grimacing as the sharp pain shot through him. Straightening himself, he grabbed his torch and clipboard ready for his first site check. The bi-hourly routine would take him to the offices of the main building, then across the apron to the hangars.
He descended the stairs and walked along the main corridor unlocking each office door with his master key and making a quick sweep of light with his torch. He then entered into the main hall used for corporate events such as the lectures and press conferences that introduced each new prototype. Once through the doors on the other side, he walked into the workforce canteen.
At the kitchen area, Hollingsworth entered a side room, switched on the light and placing his torch and clipboard onto the beige Formica work surface, picked up a kettle to fill it.
After a few minutes, he took his cup and saucer with the teaspoon half submerged and sat down at the table, reaching across and grabbing a half folded newspaper. An attempted crossword puzzle faced upwards, with various scribbled words around the edges of the grid. He opened the newspaper up in front of him, simultaneously stirring his tea, and settled into a report about the latest impending defence cuts. Ten minutes later, he rose from his chair, washed out his cup and placed it on the draining rack, then picked up his torch and on his clipboard, he ticked off the areas that he had checked including the kitchen.
Hollingsworth exited the canteen and made his way along the corridor, checking each side room. At the end of the long corridor, he had arrived to another hall. This was smaller than the canteen and was used as a meeting room, the tell-tale signs being the long oak table in the centre, surrounded by twelve matching high backed chairs. Closing the door, he ticked off all areas of the main building as being secure with nothing to report. His next port of call would now lead him outside to the hangars and the workshops.
Exiting through a side door, he faced the first of the three large hangars. Known more familiarly as The Magic Box, Hangar 1 was where it all happened. Where all of Brinton’s winged creations were brought to life. From the drawing boards in the Chief Engineer’s office perched on the overhanging mezzanine, to the assembly floor with the strategically placed support jigs. These particular jigs had been recently constructed to a significant specification, because on them, was the Brinton’s latest design.
To meet Air Ministry requirement OR559 for a high speed low level attack and reconnaissance aircraft, Brinton Aviation had been awarded the contract to build this machine. However, following political constraints regarding budgeting, the recently elected government had decided to amalgamate Brinton with two other aircraft manufacturers to jointly produce the project.
The directors at Brinton had campaigned against this, as it would mean a reduction in their own workforce, but despite taking this to the cabinet table of the newly elected British Government, it had been concluded that the amalgamation decision was set in stone. With what seemed a threat, the Ministry of Supply had bestowed Brinton with a somewhat threatening ultimatum: ‘amalgamate, or cease to be.’ A consolation from this was that the Cumbrian based plant would be the chosen location for the final assembly of the project. They would build the fuselage, engines and wings; the avionics would be produced by the other companies respectively.
The design was based around the BR- 101, a concept which had already been on the Brinton Aviation drawing board as their proposal to meet the requirement. Design teams from the other manufacturers had worked with the team at Brinton, and the assembly workforce had been hand-picked from all three companies. The maiden flight of the first prototype aircraft had taken place last November and was now on Flight 10 at RAF Pembridge.
Being a bit of an aviation buff himself, Hollingsworth had badgered Chief Engineer Howard Barnett for one of the specially commissioned promotional desktop scale models of the aircraft, which to Mrs Kay Hollingsworth’s annoyance was currently perched in the centre of their mantelpiece at home. For fear of damaging it during her cleaning sprees, she always by-passed it when attacking the area with the feather duster
Hollingsworth limped his way through the side door of the darkened hangar and shone his torch around the vast interior. He could walk over to the back to switch on the main lights, but as his leg was beginning to play up tonight, had decided to do a quick routine walk along the paths of yellow safety lines that snaked around the airframe assembly jigs.
He moved his light onto the workbenches, where neatly placed tools stood on the racks behind them. One of the other duties of night security officers, was to conduct a fire picket, ensuring equipment, such as oxyacetylene torches and gas bottles had been completely shut off.
Satisfied, he slowly walked over to the middle of the hangar where his beam fell onto the second BR- 101 prototype. She was almost fully completed, all set for her Roll Out- Day at the end of the month. Following this, there would be rigorous tests for her two engines before her first test flight. Directly behind her sat three partly assembled airframes. These were the third, fourth and fifth prototypes.
Hollingsworth moved around P-2 as it was known amongst the workforce, admiring the sleek and slender shape of the fuselage. His torch beam reflected like the sun off her polished metallic finish. Suddenly he slipped, momentarily losing his footing. The impact from this shot up his leg, aggravating his old war injury enough to silently curse the technicians who had failed to cover over this particular oil leak with sand before finishing their shift for the day. He vowed to write a report of the incident, and if needed, would present his shoe as evidence of this negligence.
Outraged, he lifted his foot and placed his fingers on the liquid as it dripped from the heel. Shining the torch to view the oil on his fingertips, he noticed that it had an opaque, deep reddish hue to it. Thoughts of his dead colleague and the US airman on that fateful night in the war returned to him. His eyes then followed his torch beam to the floor, and he gasped in horror. It was not lubrication oil; the security guard had stepped into a pool of blood.
Hollingsworth moved the light across the bloody mass, illuminating the lifeless body. Recognising who it was, he almost lost his grip on his torch. Crouching down, he reached for the man’s outstretched arm that rested half on a clipboard, and lifted the sleeve of the work coat to feel his wrist. There was no pulse. He limped painfully to the back of the hangar and reached out for the light switches, and as the straws of light across the roof flickered into life, picked up the receiver of the green telephone on the wall and waited for the operator to come on line. Then, on hearing her requesting voice, he instantly responded to her. ‘I need an ambulance!’
Chapter 2
In Whitehall, a double-decked Routemaster stopped at the rain swept metallic shelter, and at the back of the bus, the conductor bellowed Horse Guards Parade.
The passengers alighted, quickly buttoning up their coats and putting up their umbrellas to confront the early April shower; the rain was getting heavier, splashing on the already saturated pavement.
Kate Townsley crossed the road at the Cenotaph and, stopping to reach into the pocket of her soaked white plastic trench coat, pulled out a piece of blue notepaper. Raindrops hit the black script causing the ink to smudge as she read the address: