Eyes Turned Skywards E-Book

Ken Lussey

• Herausgeber: Fledgling Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

This novel reflects on the rumours and theories surrounding a number of real-life events, including the death of the Duke of Kent and the aircraft crashes of Short Sunderland W4032 and Avro Anson DJ106. Wing Commander Robert Sutherland has left his days as a pre-war detective far behind him. Or so he thinks. On 25 August 1942 the Duke of Kent, brother of King George VI, is killed in northern Scotland in an unexplained air crash; a second crash soon after suggests a shared, possibly sinister, cause. Bob Sutherland is tasked with visiting the aircraft's base in Oban and the first crash site in Caithness to gather clues as to who might have had reason to sabotage one, or both, of the aircraft. Set against the background of a country that is far from united behind Winston Churchill, and the ever-present threat from the enemy, we follow Bob as he unravels layers of deceit and intrigue far beyond anything he expects.

Leseprobe

For Maureen

Prologue

‘For once you have tasted flight you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will always long to return.’

Attributed to Leonardo da Vinci

There was something forbidding about this place. The old keep and the surviving walls were covered in dense ivy. At this time of the evening, even a summer’s evening, there was the sense of a weight of history here that was enough to send shivers down the spine.

Fight Sergeant Peter Jacobs checked his watch again. Gregory hadn’t seemed the sort of man who would be late. But late he was, by 45 minutes. They should have been gone from the castle at least half an hour ago, Gregory in possession of Jacobs’ verbal update, and Jacobs in possession of a forged travel warrant to Glasgow and then to London.

Jacobs flicked the still burning butt of his cigarette over the edge of the long drop. It fell towards the undergrowth at the foot of the cliff, though he lost sight of it well before it came to rest. He cursed the need to be up here. As far as he was concerned, it would have been much safer to meet in plain sight in the town, perhaps a brief encounter on the esplanade or in the railway station. But no, Gregory was the boss and Gregory had said they should meet in the same godforsaken spot as they had on Monday evening, almost exactly three days earlier. Jacob felt he stuck out like a sore thumb here. For that matter, he thought that anyone at all would have stuck out like a sore thumb here.

The location had its compensations. As the sun sank towards the western horizon, it painted that whole side of the sky in a complex pattern of reds and oranges. From here the view was dominated by the Isle of Mull in the distance, with the sun still glinting off the side of Ben More, the island’s highest point.

Closer at hand was the much smaller island of Kerrera, somewhere he had come to know only too well over the past two weeks. In the shelter of the island, to the left as he looked, were a series of large shapes, now in deepening shadow, each tethered to a buoy. Jacobs knew that even when moored and apparently at peace, each flying boat had to be manned, in case the weather changed overnight. It wasn’t a job the men relished. Oban might not have the world’s most exciting nightlife, even without the blackout, but a night in a bobbing aeroplane was much less attractive than a night tucked up in your own bed, or someone else’s.

The sight of the last of the sun’s disk dropping below the horizon reminded Jacobs he still had to descend the steep and narrow path to the road below and then walk back into Oban before it got totally dark. Finding his way in the blackout was not an attractive prospect. He looked at his watch again and tutted. An hour was later than anyone in this game should ever be, unless something had gone badly wrong.

With a last look at the glorious array of coloured clouds in the west, Jacobs made his way across the overgrown courtyard to the narrow gateway. This provided the only way into and out of the ruined castle. Jacobs had to duck a little to protect his head as he passed through, and, as he had when entering, he removed his side cap. The last thing he needed was to have to explain how he’d got moss or pigeon droppings on his only uniform cap.

As it turned out, the last thing Jacobs really needed was the pineapple-sized piece of rock that was brought down hard on the back of his skull as he emerged, head still bowed, from the gateway. He never heard the person who wielded the stone, and certainly never saw them. More surprisingly, despite his musings about the possible reasons for Gregory’s failure to make the meeting, he had no premonition of danger, still less any inkling that his world was about to come to a sudden end. And he certainly never felt the hands that then searched his pockets and under his clothing.

Nothing of interest was found and nothing was taken. There was, after all, no reason to give anyone cause to think that this was anything more than an unfortunate accident. Everyone knew that Dunollie Castle was old and overgrown and that its stonework was highly unstable. Accidents happened, even in wartime, or perhaps especially in wartime.

The man who had killed Jacobs stood up and looked around to see if he had been observed before making his way cautiously back down to the road. Ferdi hadn’t really believed that Jacobs would still show up for the planned meeting, thinking instead that he’d have bolted for cover after what had happened to Gregory. But then perhaps Jacobs hadn’t heard? Ferdi still didn’t know what the two had intended to do, but at least his information about the meeting had proved accurate, and Jacobs’ death tidied up an important loose end. Now he just needed to deal with Captain Gubkin.

The dark-haired man stood on the platform that topped the concrete wall separating the waters of the loch from the fish ladder. He disliked this place. You could see hills in the distance to the west and the south, but the immediate landscape, for miles around, seemed dismal and uninteresting. A wet, peaty desert that did nothing to counter the deep sense of lost hope and failure that he now felt.

A chill north wind blew along the loch. There was nothing between where he stood and the Arctic to get in its way. He knew that this was what the British called a ‘lazy wind’. Too idle to go around you, so it just went straight through you. The man pulled his long overcoat around himself, shivered, and wished he was somewhere else. Almost anywhere else. It might have been August, but it felt like November.

As he stood and watched the loch’s waters flowing over the weir and into what he knew was the River Thurso, the man became aware that a green staff car was bumping along the narrow track that led from the road to the stone cottage standing on the shore of the loch.

He slowly crossed the walkway over the fish ladder to the cottage, and paused briefly to collect his thoughts as he passed one of the nameless guards who had been left with him. The young man wore a camouflage smock and the maroon beret of the Parachute Regiment. He carried his rifle with the easy authority of someone able and prepared to use it.

The car had stopped on the far side of the cottage. A man in a British army officer’s uniform, complete with Home Guard shoulder flashes, emerged from the rear of the car. The driver remained where he was, as did the Parachute Regiment officer in the front passenger seat.

‘Any news, major?’ asked the dark-haired man.

‘I’m sorry, sir, it’s not looking good. I’ve been able to reach my people in London from the radio in the lodge. They have confirmed that our friends left on time, but can tell me nothing more. That means they should have been here nearly an hour ago.’

The two men turned to look south, at a point to the left of the most prominent hills that defined the horizon. The black pall of smoke they had first seen rising between patchy clouds an hour previously had faded to a lighter, greyer tone, but was still visible.

‘I don’t think they are coming, do you, major?’

‘I’m afraid it doesn’t look that way, sir.’

‘So what do we do now?’

‘I don’t know, sir. For the moment we are advised to return to the lodge, and stay there until the situation is clearer.’

‘By “advised” do you mean “instructed”, major?’

‘Yes, sir, I suppose I do.’

They walked over to the vehicle. The dark-haired man took a last look around before climbing into the car, whose rear door was now being held open for him by the driver.

Chapter One

Children who fall off their bicycles are always told to get straight back on before the fear takes hold. That thought crossed Bob Sutherland’s mind from time to time when he strapped himself into his Hawker Hurricane single-seat fighter. His trip up the coast had been a joy. Despite the forecast of rain in the west, he had encountered beautiful weather with just the odd cloud, and visibility that seemed to stretch forever. It was a morning that offered absolutely ideal conditions for a flight through magnificent scenery.

Bob’s first thought had been to plot a route that took in Glasgow and then Renfrew Airport. It had been three years since he’d spent any real time in the area and it would be interesting to see how it had changed.

It didn’t take long to realise that might not be a great idea. One of the ways that Clydeside had changed since 1939 had been through the attentions of the Luftwaffe, especially in March of the previous year. He could live without the memories and regrets that seeing the destruction would bring back. And while a lone Hurricane in broad daylight might not be easy to mistake for a formation of German bombers at night, betting your life that every single anti-aircraft gunner could tell the difference was an unnecessary risk.

It was often said that while fighter pilots might, if they were able and lucky, grow old, they never grow up. Bob had turned thirty earlier in the year and the relative youth of many of those around him sometimes made him feel older than his years, but this morning he once again felt the pure youthful excitement of flight. The Sound of Kerrera gave him a perfect approach to Oban Bay from the south and he headed along it at very low level, with the throttle pushed well forward.

Common sense returned just in time and Bob eased back on the throttle and pulled up to a more prudent height, moments before the town of Oban burst into view on his right. He flew over a flying boat progressing across a bay that was crowded with naval and other vessels, before seeing the line of the road climbing the hill on the north side of the town, a road he knew would lead him where he wanted to go.

Bob had been told to look out for Connel Bridge, and he soon picked up its metal struts glowing in the sunlight. RAF Connel was immediately to the north west of the bridge. Deciding he’d save flying under the bridge until he really wanted to end his career, Bob did a slow pass along the line of the runway to check for grazing sheep or parked tractors, before flying a circuit over the sea to the west and coming in to land.

The only aircraft on view were an Avro Anson and a Tiger Moth parked on the grass, and a line of four Fairey Fulmar aircraft of the Fleet Air Arm. To say that RAF Connel was quiet that morning was an understatement. His arrival brought a few men in overalls out of the second hangar, while nearby was an RAF staff car with what looked like its WAAF driver standing beside it. Bob taxied over to the concrete hardstanding nearby and shut down his engine. Someone was on the ball, because scarcely had he opened the canopy than an airman was signalling that the wheels were chocked.

Bob jumped off the back of the wing, carrying his small canvas overnight bag with him. The only problem with travelling by Hurricane was the lack of luggage space. ‘Who’s in charge?’

‘That would be Flight Sergeant Orr, sir,’ said the airman, coming to attention and saluting as Bob removed his leather flying jacket to reveal the wing commander’s insignia on the uniform jacket he wore underneath.

It seemed that Flight Sergeant Orr had been warned to expect a senior officer arriving by air mail and he was soon on hand, offering assurances that Bob’s aircraft would be looked after in his absence.

Bob was reasonably content with what he heard. ‘Do you have any experience of Hurricanes here?’

‘Yes, sir, we’re used as a forward operating base for attack training.’

‘There’s one thing to bear in mind. The old girl here might be from a training unit, but tell your men to be a little careful. She’s fully armed. And flight sergeant, I know it’s summer, but would it be possible to find some space for her in one of your hangars? With the sea so close, I’d prefer to avoid the need to have my chaps clean off a crust of salt when I get her back.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

‘Can you satisfy my curiosity, flight sergeant? Are the Fairey Fulmars over there based here?’ He gestured towards the line of aircraft in front of the other hangar.

‘No sir, they’re here for servicing. They normally live at the naval air station at Machrihanish, over by Campbeltown.’

The car stopped at a red traffic light at the north end of Connel Bridge. Bob leaned forward so the driver could hear him more easily. ‘Why are there railway lines beside the road?’

The driver, bearing the insignia of a Women’s Auxiliary Air Force leading aircraftwoman on her arm, half-turned in her seat so she could see the passenger in the rear of the car. ‘The bridge was built for the railway at the beginning of the century, sir. This place used to be called Connel Ferry, because a ferry was the only way to cross the mouth of Loch Etive and avoid a huge diversion inland. Then someone finally worked out that they could use the bridge for road vehicles as well as trains. I don’t think there were ever many trains using it, even before the war. Have you been posted to Oban, sir?’

‘No, I’m just spending a day or two here.’

The trip into Oban was a short one, and Bob knew that when he arrived his work would begin.

Or perhaps it had really begun two days earlier, on Monday evening. Bob had been dining with some of his instructors and students in the officers’ mess at RAF Annan when word had reached him that he was wanted on the telephone.

‘Hello, Sutherland here.’

‘Hello, sir, this is the office of the head of Flying Training Command. Air Marshal Sir Andrew Nicholson would like a word with you.’

Bob counted upwards. Nicholson was his boss’s boss twice removed, and Bob knew that he had been in post for only a couple of weeks. A new broom. Bob couldn’t immediately think of a good reason why an air marshal might want to speak to a wing commander, especially at this time of day, and that made him nervous as he listened to a series of clicks on the line.

Then, ‘Hello, is that Sutherland? Nicholson here.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘How are things at 55 Operational Training Unit, Sutherland?’

‘Very good, sir. You’ll have seen my reports.’

A pause. Here it comes, thought Bob. This is where he tells me he no longer wants a second-hand, slightly broken fighter pilot running one of his training units.

‘Sutherland, would you be able to attend a meeting in London, tomorrow?’

‘Of course, sir.’ The sinking feeling in the pit of Bob’s stomach got worse.

‘I understand you are flying again?’

‘Er... Yes, sir.’ Bob knew that this was the bit where the new boss tore a strip off his underling for defying medical advice, and started to line up the arguments in his defence.

‘Good,’ said Nicholson. That was not what Bob had expected to hear. ‘Get yourself down to RAF Northolt by 10 a.m. tomorrow. A driver will pick you up and take you into London. There is a gentleman there who would very much like to meet you. His name is Air Chief Marshal Sir Philip Washington-Smith and he is the commander-in-chief of RAF Coastal Command.’

‘Could I ask what this is about, sir?’

‘You can certainly ask, Sutherland, but I have no idea. I have simply been asked to ensure you meet Sir Philip, and for what it’s worth, this instruction has come down from the very highest level. You are to consider yourself on loan for an indefinite period from Flying Training Command to Coastal Command. Do you have a good deputy you can leave in charge during your absence?’

‘Yes sir, Squadron Leader John Tickell.’

There was a pause; Bob could imagine Nicholson making a note of the name. ‘Thank you, wing commander, and good luck.’

Bob carefully replaced the handset and sat back in the chair in the mess manager’s office. What the hell was that all about? Oh well, he thought, better go and find John and let him have the good news.

London in September 1942 seemed to Bob to be a slightly less appalling place than the London he could remember from the dark days of the Blitz. There were still uniforms everywhere, but far fewer civilians were carrying gas mask cases. And while it was difficult to judge the atmosphere from the comfort of his official car, it seemed to Bob that the capital was much more relaxed than it had been when death could, and often did, rain from the sky on a nightly basis.

The car dropped Sutherland in Whitehall. ‘You want the doorway over there, sir,’ said the driver, pointing at a fairly unassuming entrance on the west side of the street.

Bob complied, passing a brass plaque telling him he was entering the Cabinet Office as he did so.

‘Wing Commander Sutherland? Do you have your identification, please?’

Once Bob had shown his RAF identity card to the WAAF flight officer who was waiting for him, he followed her into the interior of the building.

‘This way, sir.’ The flight officer led the way into a room occupied by perhaps half a dozen men and women, none in uniform. She then knocked on a door on one side, before entering. ‘Wing Commander Sutherland is here, sir.’

Bob found himself in a large wood-panelled office. Windows lined one wall, but each pane carried the now familiar motif of crossed sticky tape, intended to minimise blast damage from bombs.

‘Welcome to my humble abode, Wing Commander Sutherland. Please, let’s not stand on ceremony. Sit down over there. Actually, you should know that it’s not my abode at all. It’s the cabinet secretary’s office, but I’ve been loaned it for the next hour.’ Air Chief Marshal Sir Philip Washington-Smith waved towards two high-backed leather chairs placed by the unlit fire at one end of the room.

Bob waited until Sir Philip had sat down before doing so himself.

‘Did you have a good trip down from Scotland?’

‘Yes sir, thank you.’

‘Do you want some tea?’

‘No thank you, sir,’ said Bob.

Sir Philip paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘I suppose you are wondering why you are here?’

‘I’ve wondered about little else since I got Air Marshal Nicholson’s call last night, sir.’

‘I’ll get straight to the point, then. We have a problem, Sutherland, and it’s a problem I hope you can help resolve. I am sure you are aware that a fortnight ago today, Prince George, the Duke of Kent, was amongst those killed when one of my Sunderlands, an aircraft of 228 Squadron based at Oban, crashed in northern Scotland.’

‘Yes, sir. I read about it in the papers. He was en route to Iceland, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, he was. You may know that he served as an air commodore in the welfare section of the office of the Inspector-General of the RAF. His role was to visit RAF stations and meet the people on the ground. He did a lot for morale.’

‘Why Iceland, sir?’

‘He was due to visit RAF Reykjavik. We’ve had a base there since we took over in the spring of 1940. It’s seen as a bit of a backwater, and it was thought a visit by the duke would be a good thing.’

‘Yes sir, I passed through last year and can see that would make sense.’

Sir Philip was silent for a moment, then placed his fingertips together and looked at Bob. ‘You are probably not aware of this, wing commander, but on Saturday another of 228 Squadron’s Sunderlands crashed. It was on routine patrol when it appears to have run out of fuel. It tried to alight on the sea near an island, but hit a rock and sank. Most of the crew were lost. Also lost was a journalist who is thought to have been on the trip because he was looking for background on a story about the death of the Duke of Kent.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir. You believe that the two crashes may be linked?’

‘Possibly. But there’s more. On the Friday before the Duke of Kent’s crash, a flight sergeant called Jacobs, who was newly posted onto 228 Squadron’s engineering flight, was found dead at an old castle at the north end of Oban Bay.’

Bob looked at Sir Philip. ‘I’m guessing that you’ve not quite finished, sir?’

‘Correct, wing commander. Early yesterday morning a man was found in a dazed and confused condition in a residential street in south east London. From what we have been able to piece together, he had been held in the coal cellar of a house by captors who then abandoned him. He found a way of forcing the cellar door and escaped.’

‘What’s the connection, sir?’

‘The man turned out to be Flight Sergeant Jacobs, and it appears he was abducted while passing through London on his way to Oban, over a month ago, on the third of August.’

‘So we have two crashed Sunderland flying boats, one causing the death of the king’s younger brother and the other the death of a journalist who might have been looking into the first crash? And then we add into the mix someone who had access to the squadron’s aircraft who turns up dead, and wasn’t who he should have been in the first place?’

‘That’s about the size of it.’

‘Why am I here, sir? Surely there are any number of agencies who would be able and more than willing to look into this?’

Sir Philip stood up from his seat and walked slowly over to one of the windows. ‘Would you care to join me, wing commander?’

Bob, who had risen as the air chief marshal had stood, went over to the window.

‘Down there, wing commander, is the garden of 10 Downing Street, and beyond it is Horse Guards Parade. Within a fairly short distance from here, you can find the headquarters of the many and various sections of the Directorate of Military Intelligence, not all of whom are working together as well as they should. We also have our own RAF Special Investigation Branch. But for a number of reasons we want to bring in someone who is unconnected with any of the established agencies, yet who has the necessary skills and background.’

‘And you think that’s me, sir?’

‘You have a number of things going for you. You are a bona fide war hero with a very clearly established record, and you are an officer whose background and loyalty are above question. And until 602 Squadron was mobilised you were a detective with the City of Glasgow Police.’

Bob looked at Sir Philip. ‘I was only a detective sergeant, sir, and I was only promoted to that rank in May 1938.’

‘I know, Sutherland, but I think you are the right man for the job.’

Bob hadn’t heard the office door open and turned quickly as a familiar voice spoke from behind them. ‘And so do I, wing commander. But please take care, and remember that not everyone you encounter will necessarily define loyalty in the same way as you do.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Bob was unclear what the prime minister meant, but was not going to reveal his ignorance.

Churchill closed the door behind him and came over to stand with the two officers. ‘Wing commander, I need to be frank with you. There are things about the death of the Duke of Kent that raise serious questions about the role of some of the state’s more secret servants and their commitment to the cause shared by the three of us here. It certainly seems to me that there are men in positions of power in this country who do not share my view that this is a war that must be won at all costs. But for the moment there is little I can do about them for political reasons. Please bear that in mind. Now good day to you. And good luck.’

‘I’m sorry that was sprung on you, Sutherland,’ said Sir Philip, after the prime minister had left. ‘That’s the reason our meeting took place here. There’s a connecting door to Number 10, just along the corridor. Winston wanted to meet you himself and leave you in no doubt about the importance of what you are being asked to do.’

Bob hated the smell of hospitals. He had been a frequent visitor to them while serving with the City of Glasgow Police, but had never really let them get under his skin. That had all changed since. As he walked into the main entrance of Queen Alexandra’s Military Hospital on London’s Millbank, the smell transported him instantly back to a period of his life he’d really rather have left unremembered.

He walked over to the reception desk. ‘Hello. I’m here to see Flight Sergeant Jacobs. I understand he was brought in yesterday.’

A nurse led Bob along corridors and up a set of stairs. ‘He is in a private room at the end, on the right.’

As Bob approached, the two RAF policemen sitting on chairs outside the room stood up and saluted. Bob returned the salute. ‘Do you know if he is awake?’

‘I believe so, sir. May I see your identification, please?’

The room was much as Bob had expected. A hospital bed, two basic chairs and a window that gave a glimpse of the outside world.

‘Flight Sergeant Jacobs?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The figure in the bed looked tired and emaciated.

‘You are looking very well for someone who was found dead in Oban a couple of weeks ago. Have you been able to let your family know you are alive?’

Jacobs replied in a soft West Country accent. ‘My parents are travelling from Cornwall to see me tomorrow. My wife, well, she left me last year and I’m not sure where she is.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Could you tell me how you came to end up wandering a London street?’

‘Yes, sir. I was posted from 72 Squadron, flying Spitfires out of Biggin Hill, to RAF Oban to work on the Sunderlands there.’

‘Was that your idea?’

‘No, sir, I was pretty happy on 72 Squadron, even though we moved around a fair bit. I just got a posting notice with orders to report to Oban and a travel warrant. I didn’t even know where Oban was at first.’

‘What’s your trade, flight sergeant?’ asked Bob.

‘Engines and fuel systems, sir.’

‘How were you abducted?’

Jacob blushed. ‘Ah, well, I ran into a very nice young lady who said her name was Mary, in a pub on Euston Road, while I was having a drink before catching my train to Glasgow. She said she knew me and that I’d brought her a drink in a pub in Biggin Hill. I though she must be mistaking me for someone else, but with an hour to kill, the company was welcome, especially as she wanted to buy me the drink back. The next thing I remember was waking up in a cellar. Someone had taken my uniform and papers, leaving me with some dirty clothes that looked like they’d come from a rubbish heap. And which had lice.’

‘Did you meet or see anyone while you were there?’

‘The only person I saw was an old man with a thick grey beard and glasses who brought me food and water, and removed the waste bucket from time to time. Then he stopped coming and I was afraid I’d been left to die of thirst. There was a shovel half-hidden under a pile of coal in the cellar, and after I’d seen and heard no-one for maybe two days, I used it to break open the door leading from the cellar to the rest of the house. Outside, in the street, I was able to find a policeman. Then I was brought here.’

‘What can you remember about the young lady in the Euston pub?’

‘She was blonde, in her late twenties and very attractive. And she sounded like she came from Norfolk. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you, sir.’

It was rather more than three hundred miles in a straight line from RAF Northolt to his home base at RAF Annan. The weather man at Northolt had talked about a front with rain coming in from the west when Bob had visited him after a late lunch in the officers’ mess. He knew that sunset at Annan wasn’t going to be until a little before 8 p.m., and it wouldn’t be completely dark until nearly half an hour later. He decided to avoid the weather as far as possible by following the main line railway up to Newcastle, then cutting directly across the country to Carlisle, again following the railway line. From there it was only a short distance to Annan.

When Bob had learned to fly, the better part of a decade earlier, it was the norm to navigate across country by following linear features on the ground. There were more sophisticated ways of doing things these days, but Bob made sure he kept to the right-hand side of the line of the railway as he headed north. That way, if he met another lazy navigator following the same line but heading south, the two would pass one another by with a safe distance between them.

The more Bob reflected on what he had been told by Air Chief Marshal Washington-Smith, the more he realised how little he knew. And seeing Flight Sergeant Jacobs had not done much to lessen the depth of his ignorance. But if Sir Philip had already known all the answers, he’d not have asked Bob to set off in search of them, he concluded.

Before Bob had been led out of the cabinet secretary’s office and back to his car, he had talked to Sir Philip about possible lines of enquiry that he should pursue, and agreed to those that seemed the most promising. It was going to be a busy few days, he thought, as he overtook a train heading towards Edinburgh, a few miles north of Doncaster.

Chapter Two

‘Do you mind me asking your name?’

They were descending the hill into Oban. The driver caught his eye for a moment in the rearview mirror. ‘Not at all, sir. It’s Susan. Susan MacLean.’

‘That’s a local clan name, isn’t it? Are you from around here?’

‘Do I sound like I’m from around here? Sorry sir. No, the name is just a coincidence. I’m from London and this all seems a very long way from home.’ She smiled in the mirror.

Bob had spent most of his first two decades living not so very far from here, but he had never been to Oban before. They drove along a shopping street whose pavements were full of men and women in uniform, before emerging at the head of the bay he had flown over earlier. ‘It seems a very busy place.’

‘It is, and the rivalry between the RAF and the Royal Navy adds a certain edge to the experience at times.’

‘I can imagine. Where are we going, exactly?’

‘Round to the far side of the bay, sir. Dungallan House is the RAF Oban headquarters building. Group Captain Erickson will be waiting to meet you there.’

Dungallan House turned out to be a fine building set high above the road running along the shore at the south end of Oban. It was accessed up a drive that climbed steeply to a gravel turning circle at one end of the building.

Group Captain Erickson greeted Bob with a smile and a shake of the hand after they had exchanged the more formal salutes. He then led Bob to his office in a ground floor room that had a large window offering superb views out over Oban Bay. Bob noticed that though the window was crossed with protective sticky tape, there was a sense that the person doing the job hadn’t really believed there was any real threat of a bomb landing nearby. There were paintings of flying boats, a Sunderland and a Catalina, flanking one of Oban itself on the far wall of the office, above the fireplace.

Group Captain Erickson was a tall, dark-haired man in his late forties who looked as if he kept himself fit. After tea and biscuits had been set out on a table near the window, he turned to Bob. ‘The commander-in-chief’s office was in touch yesterday afternoon. I am to offer you every assistance while you are in Oban.’

‘How do you feel about my being here, sir?’

Erickson sat down in one of the armchairs by the table. ‘Please, take a seat, wing commander. How do I feel about Sir Philip parachuting someone in to establish what’s been going on? Truthfully? I’m extremely relieved. I’m trying to run a busy operation here, and as the officer commanding 228 Squadron was on board the Duke of Kent’s aircraft I am also short of a squadron commander. Meanwhile, I’ve got the Canadians of 423 Squadron working up to operational capability, and the maintenance and ferry units up at Ganavan to worry about. Anything you can do to clear things up and resolve the whispers now circulating that 228 is a jinxed squadron can only help. We can’t have our young men risking their lives out over the Atlantic and wondering if the odds are stacked against them even before they set off. Especially now they are two crews and two out of ten aircraft short.’

‘How badly has morale been hit, sir?’ asked Bob.

‘The young always bounce back, so morale will recover, but there are a lot of glum faces around the place at the moment. The funerals of four of the crew of the Duke of Kent’s aircraft took place in Oban last week. We arranged full military honours including pipers and an honour guard. I had hoped that might allow us all to draw a line under what had happened and let people look forwards again. But now it would appear that we are going to be doing the same thing all over again for the crew of the second aircraft.’

‘Only four funerals, sir? I thought that ten of your aircrew were killed in the crash, in addition to the Duke of Kent and his staff.’

‘Yes they were, wing commander, if you include the squadron commander. But the families had a say in the arrangements and the others have been buried elsewhere. The crew came from all over the country and beyond. The navigator was loaned to 228 Squadron for the flight by 423 Squadron. He was a Canadian.’

‘Was there any particular reason for that, sir?’ asked Bob.

‘We wanted the best crew for the flight and he was very good. It also seemed likely to be good for morale to allow the Canadians to play a part in the trip. I am afraid that has backfired.’

‘Sir, subject to your views, there are a number of things I would like to do while I’m in Oban. Most importantly, I understand that the co-pilot of the aircraft that crashed on Saturday, Flying Officer Martin, was well enough to return to duty and is in Oban?’

The group captain said, ‘That’s correct. The second survivor, Flight Sergeant Williams, was sent home to England on leave to recover, but Flying Officer Martin is here. In this building, as it happens. I rather thought you might want to speak to him. What else can we do for you?’

‘I assume that 228 Squadron has an engineering flight?’

‘Yes it does. They are based over on the island of Kerrera. We’ve got a large slipway there where the aircraft can be pulled out of the bay on their beaching wheels.’

‘I’d be grateful for the opportunity to talk to anyone who might have got to know Flight Sergeant Jacobs, or the man who was impersonating Flight Sergeant Jacobs, during his short time here.’ Bob saw the look of surprise on the station commander’s face. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I thought you had been told. Flight Sergeant Jacobs has been found alive, in London. Whoever was killed here, it wasn’t him.’

‘I see. Yes, I can set that up for you, as soon as you’ve had a chance to talk to Martin.’

‘You had a pretty unpleasant experience on Saturday, Flying Officer Martin, how are you feeling?’

‘I think the phrase is “as well as can be expected”, sir.’ The young flying officer, who Bob knew was 22 but looked as if he should still be in school, reached across to take the cup of tea that Bob had poured for him. ‘The worst thing is lying awake at night, wondering if there was anything I could have done better. Anything that would have made a difference. I lost some of my closest friends amongst the nine who died, and in the mess bar last night I found myself feeling guilty that I had survived when they didn’t. No-one has said anything, of course. I’ve had nothing but support from the squadron.’

‘That’s a common reaction. It can be very hard.’

Martin began to say something, then stopped. Bob saw the flying officer’s gaze rest briefly on his medal ribbons. ‘I’m assuming that’s the voice of experience speaking, sir? You aren’t given those without losing a few friends on the way.’

‘More than a few, I’m afraid, Martin. But we are here to talk about you, and what happened on Saturday. I know you’ve had to go through this before, but could you tell me about the flight?’

‘It was just a routine patrol, sir. We took off from Oban Bay at 7 a.m. and headed out to our designated patrol area, some distance south west of Barra.’

‘Were you looking for anything in particular?’

‘Whatever we could find, sir. Friendly or enemy surface ships, any trace of U-boat activity, and failing all that, simply bringing back an accurate report of the weather we encountered out there.’

‘Did you find anything?’

‘Nothing at all, sir. We had to cut the patrol short at about 9.50 a.m. because of misfiring on the port outer engine. As we headed back this became worse, and spread to the other engines. She was acting exactly as if she had run out of fuel.’

‘Had she run out of fuel?’

‘Well, no, sir. The flight engineer reported that the six largest tanks were still showing as full at that point, meaning we had only used about a fifth of the fuel on board.’

‘Fuel gauges can be wrong. Four-fifths full seems a lot after you’d flown for nearly three hours.’

‘We have Sunderlands in the air for up to fourteen hours on a regular basis, sir. Refuelling a Sunderland is a fairly involved process that takes a lot of effort and a special tender that is floated out to the aircraft. It’s always supervised by a member of the aircraft crew. So the correct quantities can be signed for, the amount shown as being loaded by the tender is always cross-checked against the aircraft’s instruments, and against the gauge on the refuelling rig, which is powered by an auxiliary engine in the leading edge of the starboard wing. When we ran into problems the captain asked the crew member who’d been present for the refuelling to confirm that the tanks had all been full. He was certain that they had been.’

‘So could the fuel have been contaminated, perhaps in some of the fuel tanks but not in others?’

‘I don’t know, sir. But something happened to stop the engines.’

The room wasn’t unduly warm, but the young flying officer was visibly sweating, and Bob could see that talking about the flight was an unpleasant experience. He pressed on anyway. ‘So what happened when the engines wouldn’t keep the aircraft in the air any longer?’

‘Pretty much what you’d expect, sir. We had almost made it back to the island of Tiree. There’s a new RAF base opened there, and the idea was to alight near the first beach we came to and run the aircraft aground on the sand. Or failing that, simply to come ashore in the dinghies. It would have worked as well, but we hit a submerged rock as we alighted and that was that. I made it into a dinghy. Others weren’t so lucky. It seemed a very long time before I was found by the Tobermory lifeboat.’

‘One of those killed was a war correspondent from the Daily Mail, Peter MacArthur. Did you get much sense of why he was on board your flight?’

‘If you ask that question in the pubs in Oban, sir, you’ll be told that he was researching a story about the death of the Duke of Kent, not to mention the other men who died, when W4026 crashed in Caithness.’

‘But I assume you met him and talked to him. What was your impression?’

‘I don’t know, sir. He seemed genuinely interested in the sorts of things we did on patrol and was asking for impressions of the way the job out there had changed, and how it might change again when the airfield on Tiree becomes fully operational. Yes, he asked how we felt about the loss of W4026, but I didn’t get the sense that was his main interest. But maybe that’s what he wanted us to think. I’m sorry, sir, I just don’t know.’

The small launch they had boarded from a jetty below Dungallan House had to weave between naval vessels and fishing boats as it made its way across the bay. Then, as it neared the island of Kerrera, it passed through a group of moored Sunderlands. It was the first time Bob had seen the aircraft up close, and he was amazed by their sheer size.

Their destination was the pier in what Bob had been told was Ardantrive Bay, on the Oban side of the island. He could see a broad concrete slipway leading down into the water of the bay. Beyond it was a jumble of buildings of various sizes, including a large open-fronted structure that could have been a boatshed. Off to the right were a series of wooden huts, raised a little above the ground on supports. In the background Bob caught a glimpse of a line of fuel tanks. The only building that looked like it truly belonged there was a substantial two-storey stone house, a couple of hundred yards around the bay to the south of the slipway.

Erickson said, ‘This must have been an idyllic place before we arrived on the scene.’

Bob was grateful he’d kept his flying jacket with him. The wind on the way over had been decidedly chilly. He noted that Group Captain Erickson was similarly attired.

Bob pointed back across the bay at the large circular structure on the top of the hill that rose behind Oban. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask, sir, what is that thing? For a split second this morning I wondered if I’d headed in the wrong direction entirely and was flying past the Colosseum in Rome.’

‘That’s McCaig’s Tower. Think of it as Oban’s crowning glory, if you’ll forgive the pun. It was built at the end of the last century by the banker it’s named after. Most people think of it as a folly, but it does add something to the character of the town. It also offers superb views over Oban and the islands to the west. These days it has other functions, too. I have told all the aircrews that the next man to put “courting in McCaig’s Tower” in the location column of the on-call book in Dungallan House will be placed on a charge.’

Bob smiled. ‘Aircrew will be aircrew, whatever they fly, I suppose, sir.’

The group captain gestured towards the stone house. ‘I’ve arranged for you to meet Warrant Officer Edwards and Flight Sergeant Smith. Jacobs, or his imposter, was reporting to Edwards and was meant to be replacing Smith, who was helping bring him up to speed on the Sunderland. They should be waiting for you in the office of the senior engineering officer, in the house over there. It’s called Mount Pleasant, which you can take as a sign of what this island used to be like. While you are doing that I’ll take the opportunity to talk to a few of the chaps and take a look at how things are going over here.’

The two men parted and Bob headed in the direction of the stone house.

‘At ease, gentlemen.’ The warrant officer and flight sergeant had stood to attention when Bob entered the room. ‘Let’s sit down. Group Captain Erickson may have told you that I’m here to try to find out more about Flight Sergeant Jacobs. What can you tell me about him?’

The two men looked at one another. Edwards led off. ‘Not a lot, sir. He reported to me on arrival in Oban on...’ Edwards consulted a notebook, ‘Wednesday the fifth of August. We got him a room in the sergeants’ accommodation, and he started on the job the next day.’

‘How did he settle in?’

‘Not badly. He obviously knew his way around aircraft engines, but it’s a big step up from Spitfires to Sunderlands. Four times as many engines, and a different order of complexity when it comes to the systems. Not to mention the access problems when the plane you are working on is afloat.’

‘Do you do the servicing afloat?’

‘Minor work is carried out in the bay. For anything significant we bring them ashore on beaching wheels.’

‘Was Jacobs an enthusiastic member of the team, Mr Edwards?’

‘No, he wasn’t a team player at all, sir.’ Edwards looked at Smith. ‘What did you make of him, Peter?’

The flight sergeant said, ‘He was a bit odd, really, now I think back on it. It didn’t help that he was Dutch. His English was excellent, but he obviously felt like an outsider. We did what we could to make him feel at home, but he was only here for a couple of weeks.’

‘Did you see much of him, flight sergeant?’ asked Bob.

‘Probably more than anyone else did, sir,’ said Flight Sergeant Smith. ‘I actually spent most of the day he was killed with him. I’d arranged to take him by launch to RAF Ganavan. A Sunderland was undergoing a major engine overhaul up there and it seemed a good opportunity for him to see something he’d not see here during routine maintenance. We got up there quite early in the morning and put in a fairly long shift. It must have been mid-evening when he asked if we could call it a day. I got a lift on a launch back to Oban, but he said he’d like to walk, to enjoy the evening air. It seems he called in at Dunollie Castle on the way back and, well, we know what happened then.’

‘Were you expecting Jacobs to be Dutch, Mr Edwards?’ asked Bob.

‘No, it was a bit of a surprise, but it fitted with his name. Anyway, we’re all on the same side, aren’t we?’ Bob thought back to the distinctly Cornish Peter Jacobs he had met the previous day. Presumably his stand-in had posed as a Dutchman to explain an accent he couldn’t hide.

‘Can we talk a little about the aircraft in which the Duke of Kent died, please, W4026? Do you know if Jacobs had the opportunity to work on it at all?’

The warrant officer had clearly thought about where the questioning might be going and had a pile of servicing logs with him. He placed a hand on the pile. ‘We’ve both been through this lot in the past half hour, sir, and as far as we can tell, Jacobs never worked on W4026.’

Bob sat back in his chair. ‘Gentlemen, I’d be grateful if you could keep this to yourselves for the moment, but the man you knew as Jacobs was an imposter. The real Flight Sergeant Jacobs is in hospital in London and will probably be joining you within a week or so. Someone went to a lot of effort to make the switch and it’s important to try to establish if the loss of the Duke of Kent’s aircraft had anything to do with the imposter’s presence here.’

The flight sergeant said, ‘There’s no way that the imposter could have sabotaged W4026, sir.’

‘You sound very sure about that.’

‘I am, sir.’ The flight sergeant turned to his colleague for support. ‘Do we have a calendar here?’ He walked over to a planner hanging on the office wall. ‘Think about it. Jacobs’ body was found on the Friday morning before the crash of the Duke of Kent’s aircraft. That would make it the 21st of August, and they said he had been killed the previous night.’

Edwards joined in. ‘I think I see where you are going with this, Peter. You see, sir, W4026 wasn’t the aircraft we had intended to use for the Duke of Kent’s flight. We’d specially serviced another aircraft, but it was damaged when it was moved off the ramp out there and back into the bay. Nothing serious, but enough to mean we needed to replace the float beneath the port wing.’

Flight Sergeant Smith tapped the planner on the wall. ‘And that happened at lunchtime on the Friday before the crash. The Duke of Kent’s aircraft was due to leave here for Invergordon, two days later, on the Sunday. Wing Commander Jones, the squadron commander, decided to use another aircraft instead. So we worked through the rest of Friday and over Saturday to make sure W4026 was ready for the flight and fit for royalty, literally.’

Bob found himself leaning forward in his chair. ‘So you are saying that the final decision about which aircraft would be used by the Duke of Kent wasn’t taken until after the imposter was dead?’

‘That’s right, sir,’ said Edwards.

Bob sat back, drumming his fingers on the desk as he thought. ‘Is the original aircraft you intended to use out there now, Mr Edwards?’

‘No sir. You see, that’s the really odd thing. It took us a while to source a replacement float. W4032, the original aircraft intended for the Duke’s flight, only returned to service last Wednesday. Its first operational flight was on Saturday. W4032 was the aircraft that was lost off Tiree.’

This statement hung in the air during the silence that followed. It was obvious to Bob that the other two men in the room were going through the same thought process as he was. ‘So while the imposter couldn’t have sabotaged the aircraft that the Duke died in, he could have sabotaged the aircraft that everyone thought the Duke was going to fly in?’

The two men spoke as one. ‘Yes, sir.’

The flight sergeant again jabbed at the planner on the wall. ‘It fits, sir. They picked the aircraft to be used on the Duke’s flight at the beginning of the previous week, which would make it Monday 17th of August. She was hauled out onto the slipway the same day and spent the rest of the week there, only returning to the water on the Friday lunchtime.’

‘Who could have accessed the aircraft during that time?’

‘Well they’d have needed security clearance for the island, sir. But there are nearly a hundred engineering staff on the squadron, plus an increasing number of Canadians from 423 Squadron, and it’s not possible to keep track of all the comings and goings. The imposter standing in for Flight Sergeant Jacobs would certainly have had access to the aircraft while it was on the slipway.’

‘Alright, gentlemen, and this is the critical question, how would you make a Sunderland run out of fuel when its tanks were still four-fifths full?’

It was Edwards who spoke. ‘From what Flying Officer Martin reported afterwards, sir, the problem arose when the flight engineer switched from one set of fuel tanks to another. There are ten fuel tanks in total in a Sunderland, five in each wing. The procedure is to use the fuel in two small tanks that are located behind the rear spar of each wing first. When those are empty, the flight engineer opens the fuel cocks on the remaining three tanks in each wing, and then closes those controlling the fuel flow from the now empty tanks.’