“Did you meet him?”
“Yes.”
“What was he like?”
“Nice. Polite.”
“Anything strange or suspicious?”
“No.”
“How did the parents die?” Belsey asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did he say why he was selling the house?”
“He didn’t need all that space for himself.”
“He was single?”
“I think so.”
Maryport had its own police station. The Sergeant was helpful; he’d known the Eastons.
“Ian was the grocer here. Had been for thirty years. Died three, four years ago.”
“How did he die?”
“Heart attack. He was on a walking holiday in Spain.”
“And his wife?”
“Cancer, I believe. A year earlier. Hit him hard.”
“Did you know the boy? Michael.”
“Not well. Only to see. Worked in the Waverley Hotel for a few years, I believe.”
“Was he ever in trouble with the law?”
“No, he was a quiet kid.”
He had left quietly too. The Sergeant had no idea where Easton had gone. He didn’t know anyone who would have kept in contact.
Belsey thanked him and said he might be in touch again. He studied the reunion advert, its dates, then the face to the right of centre. The dates would fit a father, but Ian Easton had been supplying Maryport with its fruit and veg until a few years ago. Everybody in the photo had died on the same day in November 1983. Belsey felt another potential solution slip beyond his grasp.
He called the General Register Office, got put through to Birth Records and asked what they had for Michael Easton, born 6 July 1975.
It took them five minutes to check their files and plunge him deeper into confusion.
“We don’t have a Michael Easton born that day.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
He had them search adjacent days in case there was some discrepancy logging it. But there was no Michael Easton. Undead. Unborn. Belsey thanked them for trying. When they had hung up he shut his eyes. He watched the patterns formed by his eyelids and thought of the deep shelter darkness and after a moment realised he was still holding the phone to his ear.
He put it down. Michael Easton didn’t enter this world. Not as Michael Easton, anyway. Maybe he arose from the tunnels, the soul of a dead soldier reborn, sending victims back like some kind of payment plan. There was another explanation, however, slowly emerging from between the clouds. Belsey looked at the magazine again. The man in the photograph was his biological father. Easton had been adopted.
He opened the phone’s browser, typed in 2nd Signal Brigade then the date Hillier had given him for their deaths: 9 November 1983.
Two hits.
The first was Powell’s advert preserved on the Military Heritage website. The issue had been digitised, an appeal suspended in cyberspace with its message pitched to the hearing of those who would understand. Only when Belsey clicked on it, the page was unavailable.
The second result came courtesy of the Bedfordshire and Hertfordshire Advertiser: Victory in Campaign for Memorial. Relatives Granted Ebsey Cemetery Site. This web page was also currently unavailable. Belsey tried other pages from the newspaper and they worked fine.
He read the headline again then looked up Ebsey Cemetery. It was located outside a town called Shefford, an hour’s drive north of London. He retrieved a torn road atlas from beneath the passenger seat and tried to think of anywhere better to go.
42
BELSEY WONDERED WHAT HE WAS GOING TO DO IN A cemetery. Interrogate the gravestones. While someone with an ambiguous relationship to existence fed him to the secret services. While they took his life apart, sitting on enough ammo and explosives to undo a few more while they were at it. Head to the graveyard, beat the rush. It was 7:05 p.m. Belsey kept the radio tuned to the news. No reporting about Kirsty Craik yet. Plenty on Jemma. “Police insist that, as things stand, this is a kidnap investigation and they have every reason to believe the victim is alive. They have what they describe as a ‘significant lead’ and expect to be able to give more information later this evening.” No suspect name released. Was that meant to be some kind of message directed at him? That there was still time to turn himself over to the forces of silence?
No mention of tunnels.
Belsey followed the cars driving away from the city, gliding through a sudden shower back to commuter-belt homes. He was the only one who turned off at the cemetery. The graves arrived before Shefford itself. They sat amid flat fields, beside an industrial works. He parked at the front gates. The rain stopped and the sun appeared, low in the sky. He climbed out.
The gates were open, the cemetery empty and disarmingly lush in the wet light. Rainwater dripped from branches, splashing in sawn-off bottles filled with dead stems. Headstones spread out from a new-looking crematorium in the centre. An older section of cemetery lay to its right, with softened crosses and stone seraphim. To the left were neater rows.
Belsey walked along the sleek modern avenues. Where would you place a memorial? He found an ivory-white Commonwealth War Graves Cross of Sacrifice in the far corner. Beyond it was a newer monument formed of two blocks of black granite. Each had rows of names leafed in gold. At the base was a plaque.
In Memory of the Thirty-Seven Individuals who Lost
Their Lives in the Air Accident of
9 November 1983.
They Gave Their Lives in the Service of Their Nation
Belsey looked down the engraved columns of surnames. Eady and Ellison, no Easton. He read the dedication again. It struck him as oblique, even by the standards of memorial plaques. Which of their nation’s many needs demanded their lives? Two steps led up to the memorial. A bouquet of white tulips lay on gravel at the top, petals starting to curl.
Belsey studied the flowers. They had been there more than forty-eight hours, less than five days. He turned the bouquet over and found a handwritten note in a plastic pocket. Would whoever is leaving these flowers please contact me? It gave a mobile number. It didn’t give a name. Belsey put the number into his new phone.
He dialled it halfway back to the gate.
“Hello?” a man answered.
“Hi,” Belsey said. His voice seemed loud. For some reason he wished he hadn’t called from inside the graveyard. “This is Detective Constable Nick Belsey. Who’s this?”
“Malcolm—Malcolm Walsh.”
“I’m at the memorial in Ebsey Cemetery. I saw this number with the flowers. I wanted to speak to someone about the accident.”
“Why? Do you know something?”
“Maybe.”
“Come to my place,” Malcolm said, quickly. He gave an address.
“I can be there in five. It’s not far from the cemetery.”
BELSEY FOLLOWED THE NAVIGATION program on his new phone, past a cinema and bowling complex preparing to offer Shefford its entertainment for the night. The address he’d been given was part of a 1930s housing development, identical semi-detached homes arranged around a recreational ground. The houses gathered beside the thin grass, backs to the world. A few tried to fly a Union Jack in the breeze. He counted three cars with a Support our Troops sticker in the window.
A black van in Malcolm’s driveway advertised MW Roofing and Loft Conversion. A man in his fifties answered the door wearing a polo shirt displaying the same roofing company logo as the van. He was someone who had been well built and was now just large, with plaster in his hair and up his arms. He shook Belsey’s hand and pulled him into the house.
“Come in. I’m Malcolm Walsh. I just got back.”
Malcolm shut the door. Belsey wiped his feet. The inside of the house was catalogue clean. It smelt of oven chips. A strip of clear plastic led along the corridor to the front room.
“Take a seat in there. I’ll be with you in a minute,” Malcolm said.<
br />
Belsey sat on a pink sofa. Family photographs seemed to have reproduced themselves in the warm atmosphere, many in heart-shaped frames. He thought of Easton’s flat and its naive attempt at decoration. An attractive, thin-faced woman in her forties glanced in at him then disappeared. Belsey heard children’s voices, then an instruction to stay in their rooms.
Malcolm returned and drew the curtains. Belsey felt unprepared for whatever ritual was about to unfold.
“You said you knew something,” Malcolm said, taking an armchair, leaning forward.
“I said I wanted to talk to you.”
“What is this about?”
“There’s a possibility someone I’m investigating has connections with the brigade.”
“What kind of connections?”
“I don’t know. I need you to tell me what you know about the accident.”
“John’s on his way. He helps run the campaign. He lost his brother.”
“You lost your—?”
“Sister.”
“What exactly happened?”
“It was a Hercules plane, a C-130. It exploded over Montenegro.”
“Ninth of November 1983.”
“Yes.”
“What caused the explosion?”
“That’s what we’ve been trying to find out for thirty years.”
He kneaded his hands. There was a lot of nervous energy underneath the stocky exterior.
“Why did you want the person leaving flowers to call you?” Belsey asked.
“To see who they were. We spoke to everyone, all the relatives, and no one knew who was leaving those flowers. So obviously I wondered who they were and if they knew something.”
“Where were they going?” Belsey asked. “What were they doing on that flight?”
“It’s not clear. Officially it was for training. But training for what, we don’t know. They were being flown to Cyprus. First story we were given was that it was an R&R break.”
“Where in Cyprus?”
“Akrotiri. There’s a British army base there.”
“So why’s there been so much secrecy surrounding it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you come across this?” Belsey took the copy of Military Heritage from his jacket and passed it over. Malcolm’s eyes moved slowly between picture and text then back again. His mouth opened.
“That’s the photograph my sister sent. What kind of . . .”
“The number connects to a writer named Duncan Powell. Did you know him?”
“I’m the reason he has the photograph. I gave it to him to copy. He was here, writing about the crash for a book. What’s he done this for?”
It seemed Malcolm was unaware of Powell’s recent road accident. Belsey decided to keep the news to himself. The house had enough unexplained death in it for the moment.
“Maybe he wanted people who knew about it to get in touch,” Belsey said. “But he felt he had to be subtle. Maybe it was an advert intended for those who saw what was wrong with it. The date of the reunion is the anniversary of the accident.”
“Maybe.” Malcolm sounded unconvinced.
“When did Duncan Powell visit?”
Malcolm checked the date on the magazine. “Just before this. About a month before this. January.”
“What exactly did he say he was writing about?”
“The unanswered questions: the flight, the explosion.”
“Did he say anything else? About why he wanted to write about it now?”
“No. We told him he was wasting his time if he thought he could publish anything. It’s all covered by military confidentiality. The incident’s got a Defence Advisory Notice on it. It can’t be written about.”
“Why?”
Malcolm raised his hands in something more exasperated than a shrug. Belsey pressed on.
“This picture in the magazine—you say your sister sent it.”
“Yes, my sister sent it just a few days before she died. She’s the one behind the bar.”
“Know any of the men?”
“We’ve identified most. I couldn’t give you the names off the top of my head.”
“Know this one?” Belsey leaned across and pointed to Easton’s doppelganger.
“No. Why?”
“I’m interested in him.”
“Who is he?”
“I’m not sure. I need to find out. Does the name Michael Easton mean anything?”
“No.”
“Where are they in this photo?” Belsey asked.
“A pub somewhere, just before the accident. I don’t know where.”
“There was an exercise in 1983: Able Archer, a cold-war simulation of nuclear attack,” Belsey said.
“It coincided, yes.” Malcolm nodded. “There’s no evidence of any connection. We’ve certainly speculated that they may have been involved in it. I’m not sure it has any bearing on the accident. The exercise wasn’t mentioned in the inquiry.”
“What did the inquiry say?”
“Nothing. For five hundred pages. Want to see?”
Malcolm left the room. He fetched a ring binder from the bright, white kitchen next door and for a surreal moment Belsey felt this was part of the sterile conformity; that every respectable family should have one. “This is the lot,” he said. The doorbell rang and Malcolm went to answer it. Belsey opened the binder.
It contained a copy of the inquiry and a lot more. The collection began with copies of each MOD condolence letter, identically worded, only the name changing. Then the official report, starting with the facts: the flight took off from RAF Lyneham at 07:15, 9 November 1983. At approximately 09:05 it exploded close to the coast of Montenegro. Belsey leafed through the main body of the report: “inconclusive,” “technical malfunction,” “recommendations to be made.” They’d got a very senior military official to lead the inquiry. He was called Sir Douglas Argyle. That was convenient, Belsey thought. He had a feeling Argyle might have known exactly how to steer it.
He heard the conversation at the front door.
“He’s a police officer.”
“What does he want?”
“Give him a chance.”
“Has he said what he wants?”
The new arrival had a gruff voice, with traces of a Yorkshire accent that enhanced his disdain. When he came into the living room Belsey saw he was at least ten years older than Malcolm. He wore a jumper over what looked like a pyjama top. He scrutinised Belsey, didn’t offer his hand, lowered himself onto the edge of the other sofa.
“This is John,” Malcolm said. He showed John the advert in Military Heritage.
“Who did this?” John demanded.
“That writer.”
He scoured the page. “Look at the date of the reunion.”
“We were just saying.”
“Is it meant to be bloody funny?”
“Who were they, on the flight?” Belsey asked.
“Mostly men from 81 Signal Squadron,” Malcolm answered. “2nd Signal Brigade. All ranks.” He showed him in the binder. “Private, signaller, lance corporal, warrant officer class 2. All kinds of communications officers, radio operators, logistics; there was also a medic, a cook, a chaplain. Not from the same brigade.”
“And the women?”
“Three from the Women’s Royal Army Corps. One female medic.”
“I don’t know much about the military,” Belsey said. “But that’s a strange assortment.”
“Yes.” Belsey waited but the two men didn’t seem to have anything to add to this. Belsey pointed to the job titles within the brigade.
“What do these mean?” Malcolm took the file and glanced over them.
“Systems operator—that’s radio and trunk communications. Systems engineer deals with computer networks, an installation technician will look after the fibre optics and telephone systems.”
“Did they ever do any work in telephone exchanges?”
“Telephone exchanges? What do you mean? The
y were military. This is military communications.”
The binder contained a photograph of the memorial being unveiled, then another list of the thirty-seven names.
“Can I take a picture of this?”
“Be my guest.”
Belsey took a photograph of the names using his Samsung. He turned back to the page of Military Heritage and counted the faces in the pub. Thirty-two men and women. Allowing for someone taking the picture, still four short.
“This isn’t everyone who died.”
“No. The children aren’t in the picture.”
Belsey took a second to process this. The other men noticed, their anger finally vindicated.
“You didn’t know?”
“No. Go on, tell me about the children.”
“There were two military families on the flight. The woman medic, Helen Kendall, was married to one of the systems engineers. Eleanor Forrester from the Women’s Corps was married to a corporal in the brigade. They had four children between them, six years up to thirteen.”
Belsey felt himself inching towards some theory that might almost obey the laws of time and space.
“Could one of them have survived? One of the children?”
“Survived?” Malcolm picked up the binder and flicked through to the colour shots. Deep blue sea. It took Belsey a moment to realise it was sprinkled with debris. There were twenty-five of these photographs, almost identical: vividly blue stretches of the Adriatic strewn with fragments of dull grey metal. In most of them a rocky coastline could be seen on the horizon. A few shards of aluminium glinted in the sun. The wreckage was augmented by hundreds of birds, white and grey, resting on floating fuselage and wing panels.
“That’s all we were given. Hard enough just getting those pictures out of them.”
Belsey took another photo.
“Where exactly is it?”
“The explosion was roughly twenty miles from the Balkan shore. Think anyone survived?”
“What were the children doing there?”
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