Alan Carter was a young, fresh Cambridge graduate. He took the piece of paper and acknowledged his controller. ‘Right you are sir, I will get onto it straight away.’
Stratton then turned to a more senior member of the team. ‘Dennis, I would like you to set up a meeting with the Americans, but keep it low key. Just say to them that we need a progress review of the Python Hawk, and I will be chairing this meeting. Liaise with reception to book us a room, and order fresh coffee if you can. Americans like coffee.’ Stratton’s deputy, Dennis Martin, nodded his approval.
Stratton then turned to another one of his officers. ‘Victor, you and I will go and speak to Henry Brinton and try and make some sense of this mess.’
At Carlisle Police Station, Detective Inspector George Lake sat at his desk reading a report. A member of the Cumbrian Force man and boy, he had caught many undesirable characters in his time. He enjoyed his job, although the long hours spent on cases sometimes prevented him from spending vital time with his wife and five children. His twin sons had joined him into the force, and were currently doing their training at Hendon Police College. His other son had just left school to take up an apprenticeship with a local clockmaker, and his daughters were both still at school. One was hoping to become a primary school teacher, whereas the younger one was still at the age when only pop stars and netball filled her head.
This was a quiet time for the Constabulary. Since the verdict of the McGregor enquiry, Lake had not been given a lot to do. The phone rang, and a young constable answered it, then approached Lake. ‘Excuse me sir, but there is a Dr Westerham from Carlisle City General on the phone wishing to speak with a senior investigations officer.’
Lake rose from his chair. ‘I’ll take it, Simon. Thank you.’
He strode over to the duty desk and picked up the receiver. ‘Good afternoon, Detective Inspector George Lake speaking. How can I help you, Doctor?’
Lake listened as the doctor informed him of his observations of Brinton’s Chief Designer. ‘I will be over in about an hour. Thank you for your call.’ Lake put down the receiver and rubbed his hands in glee; everyone in the office knew that this meant that their chief was about to set upon another case.
He shouted across the room. ‘I need a uniformed driver to take me to the City General.’
The young constable approached willingly. ‘I’ll do it, sir.’
Just over an hour later, Heidi Barnett stared out of the hospital room window. David had fallen asleep in the big, buff coloured leather armchair at the front of the bed. She then watched through the panes of glass as an ambulance moved out from the hospital grounds and turned right into the main road. Her thoughts were of her husband being introduced to her by her late father, and of her wedding, and then, having had just observed the ambulance, the image of that ambulance driver at RAF Pembridge, shaking his head following the plane crash.
Her eyes then moved to a pristine black Daimler saloon car entering into the car park. She watched it as it moved around into a parking space in front of the west wing of the hospital.
Now curious, she waited for the occupants to get out, noticing a man in a dark suit emerge from the passenger side, and a police officer from the driver’s door. She had been right. It had been a police car. Then she heard a voice from behind her.
‘I can do with a cup of tea pet, any chance?’
Heidi thought her mind had said those words as she had heard the request countless times, but on hearing movement from the top end of the bed, she turned to see her husband begin to move his head, and leapt with a mixture of relief and joy. ‘Howard! Oh Howard, meinen liebschen.’ She turned to her son still asleep in the large chair. ‘David wake up, your father is awake.’ She kissed her husband on the forehead and David opened his eyes and rose quickly from the chair, gliding towards his father.
‘Oh father, I’m so happy to see you.’
Tears of joy began to well in Barnett’s eyes. ‘David, my boy. My dear boy.’
Along the corridor, Dr Westerham shook the hand of the big Detective Inspector and showed him to a chair in his office. PC Simon Moon removed his helmet and sat on another chair inside the doorway. ’Thank you for coming so soon, Inspector.’
Lake smiled. ‘That’s quite all right, it gets me away from the current boredom of the station. Not much on at the moment, is there constable?’
Moon sighed. ‘Not really, sir.’
Lake shuffled in his chair. ‘So Doctor, you think that Mr Barnett has been involved in some incident?’
Westerham nodded, ‘Well Inspector, it really comes from the examinations I have carried out. There is a large welt mark on his neck, which looks as though he was grabbed from behind, and two fingers on his left hand are badly bruised.’
Lake raised an eyebrow. ‘I see. So how is Mr Barnett now?’
‘Well, I haven’t done my next set of rounds yet, so as far I know, he is still in a heavily sedated state.’
‘Where is he now?’ Lake enquired.
‘He’s in a private room in ICU. His family are with him. His wife and young son.’
Lake turned to the Constable. ‘Perhaps, if we could have a chat with them, they may know of anybody that Mr Barnett would likely to have had a run-in with.’
Lake arose from the chair and shook the Doctor’s hand. ‘Thank you for your time, Doctor.’ He waited for PC Moon to open the office door, then followed the constable out as the phone on the Doctor’s desk began to ring.
Lake and Moon were walking towards the staircase, when Westerham shouted from the doorway of his office. ‘Inspector!’
Lake turned around and allowed the Doctor to lock his office and catch up with him. ‘Just heard some terrific news. Mr Barnett has come round. Looks as though he’s going to be okay. If you follow me gentlemen, we can see him together.’
The head of MI5’s A Section sat with his team in a room of the main offices of Brinton Aviation. This had been specially set up for the investigation and a good supply of coffee and an assortment of biscuits had been maintained as the investigation team went through the personnel files of Brinton employees. No one had been left out, and each team member was given a specific section to check. The white painted brick walled room was quiet; all that could be heard was the sound of shuffled papers as each file was carefully scrutinised from cover to cover.
Carter glanced across at his controller, who had his eyes scanning the file contents of Chief Test Pilot Eddie Kershaw. ‘Sir, sorry to interrupt, but I think you should look at this.’
Stratton looked up from the file. ‘This is the file of that technician you wanted me to look at: Leonev Kostowyz. I’ve just looked at his background history, and it states here that before the war his father was a propulsion engineer with the company PZL in Poland, and then when the Nazis invaded, was rounded up and taken to work at Peenemunde. He was killed in a Lancaster raid on the complex in September 1944. I have been making some enquiries into the engineers at Peenemunde, and asked Maurice Hanwell back at HQ to do some digging for me. It seems that the intelligence reports from the records of the Armia Krajowa, the old Polish resistance, that were given to us last year by the Yanks, have mentioned some Polish workers being found by the Soviets and taken when they liberated the rocket complex. They name one of them as an Alexander Kostowyz.’