The Spyglass File (The Forensic Genealogist Book 4)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘Oh, right,’ Morton had replied. ‘And do you still think that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Susan had answered. ‘Maybe. Something happened the day that William Smith died, I know that much—something to do with Elsie.’

  ‘Did you ever ask her?’ Morton had asked.

  Susan had shaken her head. ‘The baby was adopted. Daniel was dead. Elsie was back doing her thing with the WAAF—what would have been the point?’

  And so, the Finch Case had just taken a step backwards, with the father of Elsie’s baby now lost to the past. Morton needed to find out as much as he could about the day William Smith died.

  Google told Morton that RAF combat reports for the Second World War were held at The National Archives. He was relieved to see that the entire collection of the Air Ministry reports had been digitised and were available online for a small fee. In the search box, Morton entered Daniel Winter’s name and the date of William Smith’s death, 15th August 1940. Two minutes later, in exchange for three pounds forty-five pence, Morton had the combat report ‘Form F,’ marked as secret, onscreen in front of him. He zoomed into the handwritten account and began to read. I was No.2 in Red Section when the Squadron was ordered to patrol Hawkinge around 14:30hrs. The enemy was sighted heading east towards Essex. There were about twenty machines—Messerschmitt 109s, around 9000ft. Red 1 took the centre of the enemy formation and I quarter-attacked the rear of a machine and fired a burst at 300 yards closing to 100 yards. Pieces broke away and black smoke issued from the enemy aircraft. Flames came from the engine but the pilot did not bail out and I watched the enemy aircraft descend vertically towards the sea. I watched as Green 1 took a direct hit from an enemy aircraft climbing out from the sun. Green 1 did not bail out and crashed with his machine. Green 2 did not engage with enemy aircraft, banked hard left and was not seen again during combat—he was later reported missing. Remainder of enemy aircraft headed back across the channel and I returned to base. The entry ended with Daniel Winter’s signature.

  Morton printed the account, read it several times then added it to his Finch Case file. Clearly, William Smith’s codename had been Green 2 and, for some reason, he had left the rest of the squadron in battle, not engaging with the enemy. How this explained that he could not be the baby’s father, though, was very unclear. Morton accessed an online conception calculator that had helped in previous cases, including his own. He looked at the date suggested—a five-day window between 12th and 17th August 1940, with William’s death right at the centre. Unsubstantiated ideas were forming in Morton’s mind. Could Daniel have been the baby’s father and William, unable to cope with idea, killed himself? It seemed pretty flimsy.

  Next, Morton located the references for Agnes Finch’s death. It had occurred in the September quarter of 1943. He placed an order for the certificate, then turned his attention to Susan’s pictures.

  There were five black and white photographs, plus the reverse of each image. The caption on the back of the first picture read ‘Me! October ‘39.’ It was of a young, handsome, blond man in full RAF uniform. Daniel Winter. A man of growing importance to the Finch Case. It was a close-up, taken in what appeared to be a back garden.

  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 to keep him guessing. He made them both a coffee and sat down opposite her.

  She took a sip of the drink and stared at him, not speaking.

  ‘You’re not funny. Just tell me.’

  Juliette laughed. ‘Right. Shaohao Chen. He did come up on the Police National Computer,’ she began. ‘He’s a Chinese national, but gave a UK address. In 2012 he was arrested and charged with Actual Bodily Harm.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me too much,’ Morton muttered.

  ‘It was against a guy called Liu Chai—a journalist.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Morton said. He wasn’t sure why the man’s occupation intrigued him, but it did. ‘And what happened?’

  ‘Shaohao was given a fine,’ Juliette answered.

  ‘And not deported?’

  Juliette shook her head. ‘No, it would need to be a more serious offence to include a deportation order. We seem to let all the Eastern European shoplifters stay, so what’s another foreigner causing ABH?’

  Morton laughed. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Only his description. He was five seven, of Asian origin, white hair and brown eyes. Last known address was 62 Hanover Square in London. And that’s that.’

  Morton leant over and kissed her. ‘Thank you.’

  Juliette sighed. ‘You can take me out to dinner now for that little misconduct that could get me into serious trouble.’

  ‘Now?’ Morton asked.

  ‘Now.’

  ‘Can I go in my pyjamas?’

  ‘Yes, you go in your pyjamas and I’ll go in my uniform,’ Juliette answered. ‘That way people will think I’m carting you off to the asylum.’

  Tamara Forsdyke was sitting in her office at Cliff House, sorting through a pile of paperwork pertaining to her latest case. Her neck and back ached like she’d spent the day carrying a heavy backpack on her shoulders. She removed her glasses and rolled her head around her neck. It was time for a break, she reasoned, closing the folder. She stood and made for the door. The ringing of her mobile phone from the desk made her stop, turn around and pick it up.

  ‘Hello?’ she answered brusquely.

  ‘It’s Rachel,’ a hushed voice said.

  ‘Go on,’ Tamara encouraged. Rachel phoning her could mean only one thing: trouble.

  ‘You remember that I said a Juliette Meade was insured to drive the car that you asked me to look up?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s police. And this afternoon she accessed PNC. She found Shaohao’s conviction.’

  Tamara paused, her mind beginning to race. ‘Okay. Thank you.’

  She ended the call, then dialled Shaohao’s direct number. He answered with a deliberate sigh. Tamara briefly explained what had happened.

  ‘I think I need to pay him another visit,’ Shaohao muttered.

  Chapter Eighteen

  10th May 1941, Capel-le-Ferne, Kent

  ‘God!’ Elsie cried, shoving her old postman’s bicycle to the ground. Why she had even brought it when she clearly could no longer fit on it, was a mystery. Stupidity, that was why. She was standing at the top of the drive to Cliff House and was struggling. Struggling to push the bicycle with two heavy cases. Struggling with the oppressive heat. Struggling with finding any wisdom in returning here. Maybe she had delayed her arrival too long; she was due to give birth next week but she simply couldn’t bear the idea of arriving here any earlier. Agnes had wanted her here six weeks before her due date, but that idea had been unthinkable.

  Hot and prickly, Elsie grappled with her breath. She felt the same sinking feeling that she had felt every time that she had come to Cliff House. She was certain that, if she lived here for the remainder of her life, she would always feel that same unpleasant turning and grating in her stomach each time she returned. But, like it or not, this was where she was going to be living for the next few weeks. It had all been arranged shortly after last Christmas. Elsie had visited the house and Agnes had set out her plan: Elsie would have the baby there and Kath would formally adopt it, having lost her own. If Elsie agreed, then nobody—including Laurie—would ever learn the truth.

  And here she was, ready to begin her confinement.

  Defying the reluctance groaning from within, Elsie stooped awkwardly to pick up the tatty old bicycle. She took a deep breath and continued towards the house, hoping that her display had not been noticed from anyone inside. She wanted to feel calm and confidently in control. She reached the door, rang the bell and began to unstrap her cases.

  Agnes appeared in a flowery dress and something resembling a smile. ‘Here, let me take those,’ she offered, reaching out for Elsie’s suitcases.

  Elsie was slightly taken aback but handed them over regardless. She was so monstrously huge that any offers of assistance were gratefully received, even those from her ghastly mother-in-law.

  ‘You’re positively glowing,’ Agnes commented.

  ‘That’s one way of describing me, I suppose,’ Elsie replied, following Agnes inside. ‘I think hot elephant on its last legs might be more appropriate, though.’

  Agnes laughed, taking Elsie by surprise. ‘You’re back in your old room. We had to make some adjustments, move some people around, but I think you’ll find it how you left it.’

  Elsie was about to ask to which people Agnes was referring, but she stopped herself upon entering the hallway and glancing into the sitting room; her question answered itself.

  ‘Other fallen women,’ Agnes whispered, seeing Elsie’s shock at the other three obviously pregnant girls sitting and laughing in the room.

  The girls looked up warily, half-smiled then continued their conversation. Elsie noted the looks on their faces—she wasn’t just another fallen woman—she was worse; she was a married fallen woman—the worst kind. She smiled politely and continued to the stairs, heading up to her old bedroom.

  ‘Here we are,’ Agnes said brightly. ‘All ready for you. I’ll leave you to settle in again. Come down when you’re ready.’

  Elsie thanked her, still uneasy about how to take her mother-in-law’s apparent complete shift in personality. Elsie closed the door and looked around the airless room. It was exactly as she had left it.

  Elsie was struck then by the awful irony of having a baby just yards from Laurie’s old bedroom. A baby that he had so desperately wished to have. Her thoughts meandered back to the day that he had left for war. Acute stomach cramps that morning had seen the headmistress send Elsie home early. She had hurried back to Bramley Cottage, where she had found Laurie descending the stairs, buttoning up his khaki tunic. Behind him had been a semi-clad tart from the village. Elsie couldn’t now recall what—if anything—had been his defence. The searing pain in her stomach had intensified and she had run to the outside toilet where she had watched it come tumbling out. Then his face had appeared at the door. Conversation had been pointless. She had cried and cried until he had finally gone—left for war—leaving Elsie to mourn all that she had lost. Her body had told her reliably each and every month for as long as she could remember when it had been ripe for producing a baby; she had vowed never to give that gift to Laurie ever again.

  The stifling, scratchy heat from her maternity dress—hand-made from an old army blanket—recalled her from her reveries. She stripped down
to her underwear, pledging to burn the dress the moment that the baby was born. She moved to the window and yanked it open. She saw her confinement here as a sentence to be served—an enlarged version of the gaol-like utility cot to which the baby would soon be confined. She already ached to get back to her work in the WAAF. Last month had seen the heaviest bombing in England of the war so far, with only three nights without raids. Ports had become the latest targets favoured by the Luftwaffe. She was needed now more than ever before in the operations room.

  Elsie’s attention turned to a squadron of Spitfires taking off from the aerodrome in the distance. She thought of her brief time working up at Maypole Cottage. It now seemed a lifetime ago, when she had been a dimmer, paler version of herself.

  Hoisting one of the suitcases onto the bed, she began to unpack her clothes; an echo of the naïve girl hanging her pristine uniform into the wardrobe. This time, there was little of pride to be found inside her case, just bastardised items of clothing made from old garments and pieces of scavenged material.

  She took her time unpacking, then reluctantly climbed back into her horrible dress and opened her bedroom door. There was muted laughter coming from downstairs and Elsie couldn’t help but think that it was directed towards her when she entered the sitting-room and the three girls fell silent. Then she noticed Kath, sitting quietly in the corner of the room, knitting. She leapt up and greeted Elsie with a hug. ‘Lovely to have you back, Elsie. I’m just making the baby some mittens from an old jumper of mine. Have you met the other girls?’

  ‘Hello,’ one of them said. She could barely have been seventeen years old. She was pretty with ringlets of auburn hair. ‘I’m Freda.’ She smiled and introduced the other two girls. ‘This is Phyllis’—she pointed to a slender girl with a large protruding belly and neatly styled ginger hair—‘and this is Ivy.’ Ivy waved. She too, was very young. Well made up, blonde hair and a pretty dress.