Bomber Boys - a Ghost Story

by Simon Leighton-Porter

  He threw his head back and laughed, then lifted up the tape for me to duck underneath. ‘Ask a silly question. Anyway, come and have a look. It’s all bloody odd.’

  ‘So what did they do?’ I thought it best to play the innocent.

  ‘Only put about a hundred or so rounds of .303 through that caravan. According to the Scene of Crime boys, some were incendiary bullets.’ He jerked a thumb at where two firemen were still playing a hose on the charred remains. ‘Lucky there was no one inside.’

  ‘And you reckon it was other gypsies?’

  ‘Can’t think of anyone else, can you?’ Grimes said. ‘Unless it was the old codgers from the Leckonby Action Group.’

  I told him about The Lags meeting in the pub, omitting the episode of the eccentric stranger. I said, ‘I can just about imagine them trying to frighten people off with ghost stories and shining torches on the airfield at night. But loosing off hundreds of rounds of rifle ammunition? Not a chance.’

  I tried to catch his eye, but sheepishly, he looked away as he replied. ‘Not rifles, Bill. Whoever did this used automatic weapons. At least two, possibly more.’

  ‘And where would a bunch of gypsies get hold of hardware like that?’ I asked. ‘Shotguns or maybe pistols. But machine guns? You’re pulling my leg.’

  He steered me by the arm out of earshot of his colleagues. ‘Look, Bill, I need to have a word with you in private. We’ve known each other a long time and I’ve given you some good stories.’

  Here it comes, I thought. As Grimes continued, my suspicions that he was after a favour were confirmed. ‘Bill, there’s been some bloody funny stuff going on here for quite some time. You don’t know the half of it.’

  ‘Try me,’ I said.

  ‘The gyppo we found dead in the street last week.’

  ‘The one who fell off the statue, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah, him. Well, we’ve had the pathologist’s report. Cause of death was a broken neck.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And the injury wasn’t consistent with a fall. And it wasn’t consistent with the disc cutter kicking either. It’s got an anti-kick clutch which was in perfect working order.’

  ‘So his mate was right and the statue did it after all? Don’t tell me. You’ve taken him in for questioning but he isn’t talking.’ Trying to hide my fears about the incident and a conclusion my mind would not accept, I forced a laugh at my own joke. From the wounded look on Grimes’ big, amiable face, bleached white under the arc lights, I wished I hadn’t.

  ‘Please don’t, Bill. I’ve had all that and worse from my Superintendent. He’s got the chairman of the local council and that fucking idiot of a Police Commissioner all over him. If the Leckonby development gets held up, someone’s head’s going to roll. At the moment, it looks like mine.’

  ‘So how can I help?’ I asked.

  ‘Write your story. I know I can’t stop you, but please, don’t go into details about the weapons. And particularly not the ammunition.’ Grimes looked at me imploringly.

  I thought for a moment. ‘How about a drug-related revenge attack with shotguns and petrol bombs? Police treating it as attempted murder.’

  ‘Perfect. Bill, you’re a star. Give me a call tomorrow and I’ll clue you in on what we’ve got.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ I said. ‘What really happened here tonight? Somebody must’ve seen or heard something, or you boys would still be sipping tea back at the station.’

  ‘One of the pikeys – sorry, one of the “traveller community” – called us.’ The inverted commas in his tone were almost visible.

  ‘Christ, that must be a first.’

  ‘Quite. Said he heard a noise like somebody tearing cloth, only much louder. Lasted about a second or so, he reckons. Then a bloody great bang when the cooking gas bottles went off.’

  No wonder Grimes wanted this kept quiet. One hundred rounds in one second. I did a bit of quick mental arithmetic. ‘And what do your Scene of Crime boys reckon can fire 6,000 or so .303 rounds per minute?’

  ‘They don’t know, Bill, but come and have a look at this.’ He led me back towards the police van where two white-suited figures were kneeling, intently studying something on the ground in front of them. As we got closer I saw what they were looking at: two small mounds, five feet or so apart, shining brightly under the floodlights. ‘Brass cartridge cases,’ he said. ‘Two weapons.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘That’s still 3,000 rounds per minute. You’d need something multi-barrelled to get that rate of fire. Or maybe…’ my voice trailed away to a whisper. ‘Four Brownings…’ I heard myself say. No, that was preposterous. Impossible. The feeling of being watched came over me again.

  ‘Maybe what?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing, just thinking aloud. Ignore me.’ Quickly changing the subject, I asked, ‘So apart from the gypsy hearing a noise, did anyone see anything?’

  Grimes looked shifty again. Good job you’re a copper, I thought. You’d make a lousy criminal. ‘Not at the time,’ he said at last.

  I pressed him further. ‘Meaning what, precisely?’

  ‘One of my lads saw something just after we got here. But that doesn’t make sense either.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘Listen, Bill,’ he steered me away by the arm once more. ‘This is between you and me, right? If you so much as breathe a word of this, I’ll kill you.’

  ‘I promise. Scout’s Honour.’

  ‘All right. Well, one of my lads was over by the hedge, securing the site, when he saw this bloke poking around in the pile of cartridge cases. Now, he’s a good copper. Level-headed as they come. Not one for making up stories. Anyway, the bloke stands up, starts walking towards him and, according to my young PC, as he gets closer he sees he’s dressed in old-fashioned flying kit. You know, sheepskin jacket, parachute harness, the works. Course, he thought the bloke was having a laugh, but when he went to speak to him, he just vanished into thin air.’

  I felt a chill run down my spine. Half afraid to ask, I stammered out the question anyway. ‘Did he get a look at his face?’

  I could see at once that Grimes realised why I had asked. ‘Christ, don’t say you’ve seen him too? I’m surrounded by fruitcakes tonight.’ He called the constable over. ‘Right, my lad. Your vanishing airman. Our resident newshound here wants to know if you got a look at his face.’

  I saw the PC give an involuntary shudder. ‘Yes I did, sir. Youngish – early twenties at a guess. Really pale face, skin almost white. Very dark hair –’

  I interrupted him. ‘Parted on the right with a long floppy fringe.’

  ‘You see, sir,’ he said, turning to Grimes. ‘Told you I wasn’t making it up. This gentleman saw him too.’

  Grimes tutted in disbelief. ‘Bill, please tell me you’re having a laugh.’

  I shook my head. ‘Sorry, no. I only wish I was.’

  He dismissed the young PC to his duties and then rounded on me. Grimes the friendly bear was replaced by Grimes the angry copper. ‘Listen, Bill,’ he said. ‘If you’re withholding information relevant to this case, I can and will nick you.’ Half a head taller than me, he put his hands on his hips and glared. ‘You can start by telling me who put you on to this.’

  ‘I told you. A bloke down the pub.’

  ‘And does he have a name, this bloke of yours?’

  ‘Probably, but he didn’t introduce himself.’

  Another glare. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Like your PC just told you,’ I replied. ‘Early twenties, very pale, dark hair parted on the right with a floppy fringe.’

  ‘Bill, so help me, I will nick you if you don’t stop wasting my time – ’

  ‘Here, take this,’ I said, interrupting him. I tore the page from my notebook with the details of the cartridge case and passed it to him. ‘Give it to your SOC boys. They’ll know what it is. Then if you still think I’m wasting Police time, give me a call tomorrow and I’ll come down to the station and turn myself in.’<
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  As I drove home, I couldn’t stop looking in the rear-view mirror. I’ve no idea what I expected to see, but I couldn’t shake off the feeling of being watched, even at 60 mph on a straight, well-lit road. My jitters subsided once I had got home and turned the lights on. Later, I managed to find distraction by filing my story for the following day’s edition of the Lincoln Post. I kept it deliberately low key and had it tucked away in the bottom left-hand corner of an inner page.

  By ten thirty I was in bed, but the events of the evening came crowding back, turning somersaults in my mind and chasing sleep away. The young man at The Lags meeting had been real flesh and blood, and the cartridge case, now sitting on the kitchen worktop, was solid enough too. Yet something told me beyond doubt that he was the spectral airman seen by the young Constable at Leckonby. Every logical ounce of my mind fought against admitting the existence of such things, but just like the episode with the gypsy and the statue, the only explanation happened to be an impossible one.

  Sleep would not come. Turning on the light, I rolled out of bed and put on my dressing gown. I shuffled over to my desk, started the PC, clicked on the icon for the satellite mapping software and zoomed in on the airfield at Leckonby, centring on the hardstanding where the gypsy caravans had been. Then I went to the airfield museum’s website and looked at the 1943 plan of the airfield that I had already bookmarked. There could be no further doubt. The gypsies had unknowingly parked their vans on the site of the old shooting butts where the bombers’ guns were test-fired and harmonised.

  Next, I found a photo of a Lancaster rear turret – quite why I bothered, I don’t know, it wasn’t as if I hadn’t seen the BBMF aircraft hundreds of times. It confirmed what I already knew. The two chutes for spent cartridges, one either side of the turret, were about five feet apart. That explained the two piles of spent cases that the SOC teams were so interested in. None of this was possible, yet it had happened. I shut down the PC, but still could not sleep. Insidiously, like a gas seeping under the door, the fear was back. Its tendrils closed around me.

  I shut my eyes and tried counting sheep, but even against my closed lids, geometric patterns began to appear, like a time-lapse film of ice crystals forming, white against a background of shimmering blue. Cursing, I swung my feet to the floor and put on the bedside light. My pills were in the bathroom and I caught an unwelcome glimpse of my jowly, grey features in the mirror over the sink as I washed down the two blue and white capsules. I padded into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea – tea always helps me sleep – and as I filled the kettle from the tap, I caught a movement to my right. It was the ginger cat and I knew that I was in for at least ten minutes of hallucinations before the medication took effect. As usual, the animal sauntered along the worktop, oblivious to my presence, and continued towards the wall. However, this time it did something different. It stopped, turned to look at me and then, with one of its front paws, playfully swiped the cartridge case onto the floor. Seeming satisfied with its night’s work, and with a flick of its tail, it continued its promenade past the microwave and disappeared through the wall.

  Hallucinations have become such a part of my life that at first I thought nothing of the incident. It was only a few moments later that the enormity of what I had just witnessed sent cold fingers down my spine. Apart from the odd occasion when the hallucination is plausible for a few seconds, I am always able to tell the difference between what is real and what isn’t. So how could a non-existent cat with a penchant for walking through walls, conjured into being by a misfiring tangle of my own synapses, possibly interact with solid matter? After an evening of trying to reason away the impossible, this was the final straw. Sleep was even further away so I resorted to sleeping pills. I hate the wretched things. They always leave me feeling hung-over and useless the next day.

  Once more I shut my eyes, willing the geometric patterns to stop their dance across my retinas. They did nothing of the sort, and the sleeping pills left me feeling dry-mouthed but still no nearer the oblivion I craved. Then I heard it. At first I thought it was the wind blowing fallen leaves around on the terrace. But no, it was in the house and getting closer to my bed. I swore aloud and, screwing my eyes tighter shut, shouted at the hallucination to leave me alone.

  ‘It’s all right, it’s only me.’ I recognised the voice. Amy.

  ‘No, leave me alone. Don’t bloody do this to me,’ I screamed, curling into a ball of misery. This was cruelty beyond measure, and the torturer was my own mind.

  Then, the rustling noise again and something brushing against my cheek. I opened my eyes and wished I hadn’t. In the dark of the bedroom I could make out the blacker outline of something solid – a human form leaning over me. I tried to shout for help but no sound came. My hand flailed for the bedside lamp, but all I did was knock it onto the floor together with my water glass and the book I had been reading. With the duvet wrapping itself around my legs, trying to hold me back as though in league with this nightmare, I half fell, half crawled out of bed, groping in terror for the elusive lamp.

  ‘Bill, don’t worry, I won’t hurt you. Come to me, Bill, come to me.’ The form was definitely Amy’s, and getting closer. At last, my trembling fingers closed round the stem of the lamp and light flooded the room. Yet she was still there. Solid, living flesh, her shadow stark against the white of the bedroom wall. Delicate fingers closed over mine. I looked into her face. Sadness in those familiar brown eyes, and then the faint trace of a smile as she held one finger to her lips to silence my attempt to speak. Taking her hand, I pressed it to my mouth and kissed it. Warm skin and that scent of her I had missed so long. I shut my eyes and made to pull her to me, but my arms closed on thin air. I opened my eyes. Nothing. Silence. Amy had gone. The pills had done their work and the hallucination was over.

  With tears streaming down my face, I sat clasping my knees and rocking slowly backwards and forwards, sobbing in paroxysms of despair. I could hear a voice calling her name, neither knowing nor caring that it was mine.

  How long I stayed like that I do not know, for a grey winter dawn found me on the floor, shivering in a tangle of duvet, light flex and the scattered detritus from my bedside table. I wanted to see her again, had to see her again. If this was madness, then so be it. I considered giving up my medication – but did I really have the courage? On the other hand, was this shadow land with its dancing demons really so much worse than the tedium of reality?

  Tired and gritty-eyed, I dragged myself into work. The images of the night world were burned into my mind, and even by daylight, in the land of the living, they haunted my imagination. Trying to distract myself from thinking about Amy, I picked up a copy of the morning’s Lincoln Post and found my article.

  Attempted Murder at Leckonby, ran the headline.

  Police are treating a shooting and firebomb attack on a traveller encampment yesterday evening as attempted murder.

  An unoccupied caravan was left a smouldering wreck on the edge of the disused airfield, soon to be the site of Lincolnshire’s first eco-town. The emergency services were called to the scene but no injuries have been reported. According to police sources, their investigation is focussing on a possible drug-related feud between rival traveller gangs.

  I hoped it was vague and low-key enough to keep Grimes happy. I understood my readers well enough to know that travellers shooting at each other over drug-dealing rights should dog-whistle just the right prejudices to stop any awkward questions being asked.

  Later, acting on nothing better than a hunch, I phoned the landlord and went back to the Rose and Crown. When I got there I was afraid of what I might find, but none the less, I explained in more detail the story I was writing on the airfield, the new town and the tragic history of the men of 362 Squadron. He lent me a screwdriver and in a few moments I had unscrewed the framed photograph from the wall. Its absence left a vivid white rectangle. ‘Don’t worry,’ I told him. ‘I’ll have it back to you tomorrow.’ Turning it over, I saw to my sati
sfaction that the backing card was held in place by cheap metal clips – no need to cut it out of its mount.

  Back in the office I took several scans of the photo at the highest possible resolution. I then spent nearly an hour poring over it with a magnifying glass, trying to find more clues about when and where it had been taken. In the background, I could just about make out a group of single-storey buildings which had probably been demolished years ago. On the back, I could just make out a list of names. L-R: Jones, McIntyre, Bailey, Skipper (I took this to mean Preston, who, according to the odd young man at The Lags meeting, was captain of the crew) Armstrong, Foster, self. Clearly, the photo had once been the property of the man on the extreme right. If the crew had indeed all perished in March 1944, the casualty records should put a name to the man who noted himself as “self”.

  I had just finished putting the photo back into its frame when my phone rang. It was Inspector Grimes. ‘Liked your story in the paper,’ he said. ‘Nicely judged. Looks like I owe you an apology.’

  This was a first. ‘Really? Why’s that?’

  ‘That reference you gave me, how did you get it?’ I reminded him about the eccentric young man in the pub and the cartridge case. ‘And do you know what “RG 44 B7 VII” means?’ he asked.

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’ I replied.

  ‘My Scene of Crime boys have. It means your cartridge was made at the Royal Ordnance Factory, Radway Green in Cheshire. It was loaded as an incendiary round – that’s what the B7 bit means, apparently. But guess when it was made?’

  ‘From RG 44, I’d say 1944.’

  ‘Spot on,’ said Grimes. ‘Now guess what fired them.’

  ‘No idea,’ I lied. I had a very good idea but, just like the episode with the statue, the most logical answer was also the most impossibly absurd.

  Grimes continued. ‘From the firing pin marks on the cartridges and from the rounds they’ve recovered, forensics are sure that four automatic weapons were involved – ’

  ‘Brownings,’ I said.