Permissible Limits

by Hurley, Graham

  I looked again at Harald. He was one of them too, very definitely, and I bent towards him, trying to concentrate. The Fighter Meet, he said, was to end with a tribute to the Little Friends.

  ‘You know the phrase?’

  I nodded. Ralph Pierson had used it only a couple of weeks ago. It was the nickname the American bomber crews used for the escorting Mustangs which shepherded them to Berlin and back. On the big daylight raids, Ralph said, the Little Friends took care of the men in the B-17S.

  ‘You’re putting up lots of Mustangs?’

  ‘Double figures. Fourteen at least.’

  ‘Sounds a brilliant idea. Adam would have loved it.’

  ‘You’re right.’ he nodded. ‘That’s why we’re dedicating the Meet to him. Good weather, we should pull a huge crowd.’

  I felt my eyes filling with tears and I turned my head away. It was a lovely gesture but Adam’s death was too close, too recent, for me to say anything as trite as thank you.

  Harald touched me lightly on the arm.

  ‘Steve Liddell,’ he murmured.

  I blew my nose, wondering where Steve could possibly fit in Harald’s plans for this pageant. ‘Steve?’

  ‘Yes.’ Harald took a sip of his grapefruit juice. ‘You’ve seen the state he’s in. What did he tell you about Harvey’s Spit?’

  I recounted what little Dennis and I had picked up. Harald never took his eyes off me for a second. When I’d finished, he sighed.

  ‘There’s more,’ he said, ‘and if he hasn’t told you then I guess I should.’

  ‘You know what happened?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  Harald studied me for a moment. I put the shadows under his eyes down to exhaustion. And concern.

  ‘Steve’s been under a lot of pressure,’ he said. ‘Personal. Business. You name it.’

  This was the first time I’d realised that the two men might be close. When I asked, Harald nodded.

  ‘I like the guy,’ he said softly. ‘He’s young, he’s gutsy, he’s not afraid of hard work. And when it comes to aircraft, I’d trust him with my life.’

  He explained about the work he’d put Steve’s way. Lately he’d been importing ex-Soviet military trainers, an aircraft called a Yak-52, and he’d been only too happy to ask Steve to check them out. The aircraft had been ferried in from an airbase in Romania, and Steve had spent days going through each one before Harald sold it on.

  I’d never heard of a Yak. I asked Harald what they were like.

  ‘Wonderful little planes, very tough, very forgiving. Fully aerobatic, too. The guys on the Yaks went straight on to jet fighters. That’s how good a plane it is.’

  He said he’d sold every aircraft he could get his hands on. Except one.

  ‘And what happened to that?’

  ‘I’ve kept it.’

  ‘It’s with Steve?’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘In his hangar?’

  ‘Sure. And why? Because, like I say, I trusted the guy.’

  He knotted his hands on the tabletop, squeezing hard. The Yak had been in Steve’s hangar the night of the fire. Harald had turned up next day to find the airport fire chief sifting through the remains of Harvey Glennister’s Spitfire. The Yak, hard up against the far wall, had mercifully escaped serious damage.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘A little blistering on the paintwork. Nothing structural. Nothing expensive.’

  ‘But you talked to the fire chief?’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘And?’

  Harald took his time answering. When he spoke again, his voice had a harsher quality, an anger I’d never associated with him before.

  ‘Steve phoned for the fire guys the moment he was inside the hangar. When they got there, they found the aircraft hot.’

  ‘You mean on fire?’

  ‘No. She’d gone up, sure, but they meant she was plugged in, powered up. Everything on the goddamned Spit was live. Filaments. Contacts. Instruments. Electrics. The lot.’

  I was getting out of my depth. I tried to visualise our own mechanic, Dave Jeffries, over in the hangar at Sandown. I’d seen a lot of him during the rebuilds on the Harvard and the Mustang and I knew Harald was right. Without electricity to bring the plane to life, an engineer was dealing with a corpse.

  ‘You’re saying Steve was working on the plane? In the middle of the night?’

  ‘I’m saying it looks that way.’ He nodded, sombre now. ‘Number one, you’ve got the aircraft powered. Number two, they found a bowl under the starboard fuel pipe. When they looked hard at the fuel pipe, they found a fracture. Number three, someone had run a lead light out to that same place.’

  A lead light is a little inspection lamp with a wire guard over the bulb. That, at least, I knew.

  ‘And the lead light was on, too?’

  ‘It runs off a twelve-volt transformer. The transformer was live, yes.’

  I looked at him a moment, wondering why Steve hadn’t been franker. The answer, of course, was all too obvious. Harald spread his fingers wide, tallying the probable chain of events. More numbers, I thought grimly. More grief for Steve Liddell.

  ‘What do you need for an aircraft fire? One, fuel. Two, some kind of wick. And three, a spark, or a heat source, or some damn thing to get it going.’

  ‘Wick?’ I was lost again.

  ‘Yeah, an oily rag will do. Just anything to kindle the fire.’

  ‘And they found a rag?’

  ‘No, but they wouldn’t. Avgas burns at a thousand degrees C. You saw the roof?’

  I stared glumly at my untouched drink, remembering the melted panels in the hangar roof. There were implications here, not just for Steve but for me too.

  ‘So what do you think happened?’ I said slowly.

  ‘You want my theory?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘I think Steve was working on that plane. I think he was in the middle of a repair job on the fuel pipe. And I think he went outside to get his head down for an hour or so.’ He frowned. ‘Did he mention that van he’s got?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I guess that’s where he was. The last month or so he’s been sleeping rough, poor guy.’

  ‘And the plane caught fire?’

  ‘Sure.’ He made a brisk gesture with one hand. ‘Work it out for yourself. A fuel leak. A lead light. The aircraft already hot. That’s not a situation you walk away from. Not if you’re sensible.’

  ‘But Steve is sensible. You said it yourself.’

  ‘I said he’s a regular guy. These are irregular circumstances.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I’d remembered the photo on the desk in Steve’s office, the face of the child. Was this what lay behind it all? Had something in Steve’s private life driven him to the edge?

  Harald was looking at my glass.

  ‘You don’t want that Scotch?’

  I shook my head, struck by something else.

  ‘What about the insurance people? They’ll be talking to the fire chief, bound to.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So what will that mean? For Steve?’

  ‘On paper, not much. If I’m right about the fire then it’s negligence, sure, but that’s why you take out insurance in the first place.’

  ‘They wouldn’t blame him? They’d still pay out?’

  ‘Yeah. Problem is, he went for the cheapest deal.’

  Harald bent towards me again, more bad news. Steve, like any engineer running his own business, had taken out cover. The policy, called ‘hangar/keeper insurance’, protected the premises, the quality of his own work, plus any damage that might occur to aircraft in his keeping. To keep his premium down, Steve had agreed to a limit of £500,000 on any single aircraft.

  ‘And the Spitfire?’ I asked.

  ‘It was a Mark IX, really neat rebuild. Glennister had the hull insured for seven hundred and fifty grand.’

  ‘That means Stev
e’s…’ I frowned, doing the sums, ‘… two hundred and fifty thousand short.’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘So where does that leave Glennister?’

  ‘If he’s smart, and he is, he’ll claim on his own insurance. They’ll pay out in full. Then they’ll instruct a lawyer to reclaim costs from Steve’s insurers.’

  ‘But Steve’s underinsured.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So what happens?’

  ‘I guess they’ll claim against him. They’re a quarter of a million in the hole. It’s figures, Ellie. Money. They have no choice.’

  ‘So where does that leave Steve?’

  Harald drew a finger across his throat, then leant back in the chair, emptying his glass. I began to regret ever leaving the B&B. I should have stayed, I thought. I should have tumbled into bed, pulled up the covers and won myself a decent night’s sleep.

  Harald was watching me again. I had the feeling he’d got something off his chest. His manner had softened.

  ‘You had some exposure to Steve,’ he said.

  It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘You mean business dealings?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I nodded, wondering how he knew. Advice wasn’t something Adam had ever been keen on, but I knew he admired Harald’s judgement and it was conceivable the two men might have talked.

  ‘Did Adam ever mention it?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He told me he wanted to take a stake in Liddell’s outfit.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I told him to be damn careful.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it was going to be an arm’s-length arrangement, at least the way he described it. And because, I guess, Steve’s still a kid.’

  ‘But you trusted him enough to look after the Yaks.’

  ‘Sure, but that’s different. As an engineer, I’ve never had a problem with the guy. As a businessman, he was getting in very deep, very fast. If Adam wanted to be a part of that, OK. But you need to be here, you need to be hands-on, every day of the week, otherwise it just runs away from you.’

  I thought of Adam’s recent visits to Jersey. Some weeks it seemed to me he practically lived there. I shared the thought with Harald. He shook his head.

  ‘He wasn’t with Steve,’ he said. ‘He wasn’t where he needed to be. He wasn’t with the action.’

  ‘But he guaranteed Steve’s loan. I know he did.’

  ‘Sure, and right now that’s not looking such a great decision.’

  I nodded, miserable, lost for words. There was nothing to say, nothing to add, nothing to soften the brutal logic of what Adam had done.

  ‘I didn’t know anything about this,’ I said softly. ‘I knew Adam had been interested but I’d no idea he’d got involved.’

  For a split second, Harald looked astonished.

  ‘He didn’t tell you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You only just found out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jesus…’ he shook his head,’… then I’m sorry.’

  One of the pilots at the bar came across and laid a hand on Harald’s shoulder. He flew commercial jets for a living but his real love was for warbirds and he couldn’t get enough of them. Adam had nicknamed him Martini. Any plane, any time, any where.

  He smiled at me and murmured an apology. Then he asked Harald about progress on the 109. Harald told him the rebuild was on schedule. Fingers crossed, his engineers were looking to May for certification. Some time in July, once the auxiliary tanks were installed, he’d ship it across from Florida to the UK. I listened to the two men discussing how they’d showcase the Messerschmitt at the Fighter Meet, glad of the interruption.

  The conversation over, Harald turned back to me.

  ‘Are you really rebuilding a 109?’ I asked him.

  ‘Sure.’ He nodded. ‘I’ve got three beaten-up hulls back home. If this one turns out nice, we’ll do the other two.’ He paused. ‘I’d no idea about Adam not telling you. Jeez, I feel almost guilty.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ I shook my head. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘I guess I just…’ He shrugged. ‘It was no business of mine. He wanted my advice and I gave it but in the end, hell, you do what you do.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Harald gazed at me, then shrugged again and got to his feet and glanced at his watch. We’d already established in the car that I’d eaten. Now, he apologised for fetching me out to the hotel. He’d have reception ring for a cab. I’d be back in St Helier in no time at all.

  We left the bar and went through to the lobby. While we waited for the cab to arrive he promised to keep me briefed on progress with the search. He’d instructed the charter skipper to stay out at least another couple of days. The guy had worked the Channel currents most of his life. If there was really wreckage out there, he’d be the one to find it.

  The cab arrived. Harald walked me down the steps. Already, I’d told him I planned to return home next day. Quite when, I’d left vague.

  He opened the rear door for me, then paused, struck by a sudden thought.

  ‘I’m going back myself tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘Which flight?’

  ‘Private, not commercial. I’m taking the Yak.’ He reached forward, picking a ball of fluff from my coat. ‘Drop you off at Sandown? Save you the ferry from Southampton?’

  He helped me into the cab and smiled, not waiting for an answer.

  Dennis Wetherall collected me, next morning, at 9.45. I’d slept badly, Adam’s fault again, though this time his body was floating down some African river. One or two of the images echoed earlier nightmares I’d suffered when he was flying mercenaries out in Angola, and when I parried Dennis’s gruff ‘Good morning’ with a grunt of my own, I recognised the effect events were beginning to have on me. I was getting fed up. Maybe that was a good sign.

  Gulf Services Banking Corporation occupied the fourth floor of a modern glass and steel block half a mile inland from the harbour. A secretary met us as we emerged from the lift. The manager’s name, she said, was Ozilio Sant’Ana.

  I was still trying to commit the name to memory when she led us into a big, carpeted office at the end of the corridor. Mr Sant’Ana rose from his desk, buttoning his jacket and extending a hand. He was tall and courtly with dark curly hair and nice eyes. His skin was olive, beautifully smooth, and his smile revealed a perfect set of teeth. Used to doing business with dowdy, hard-pressed company ciphers, I was heartened by what I saw. This man oozed authority. If we made our case, I sensed he had the power to order a stay of execution.

  At the other end of the office was an L-shaped sofa, arranged around a low table. Sant’Ana invited us to sit down. His voice was soft and he spoke with a light American accent. On the table, beside the waiting tray of coffee, were copies of the Economist and the Wall Street Journal.

  Dennis got down to business at once, snapping open his briefcase and consulting a thickish file. He wanted to establish a chronology, an exact list of dates. When, exactly, had Steve approached the bank for a loan? How long had it taken him to draw up a business plan? What kind of revisions had the bank demanded to the plan? And at what stage had Adam’s name surfaced as guarantor? Sant’Ana answered the torrent of questions with immense patience and I was still trying to put a name to his aftershave when Dennis caught my eye.

  ‘We have a problem with one of the signatures,’ he announced. ‘Mrs Bruce denies ever seeing the form.’

  A frown ghosted over Sant’Ana’s face. He must have been in his late forties. Fit, relaxed, good-humoured, he’d have fitted perfectly into the crowd of pilots at the hotel bar where Harald had taken me last night.

  He was looking at me now. He’d already told me how sorry he was about Adam.

  ‘Your husband didn’t give the form to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s not your signature?’

 
‘No.’

  He looked, if anything, amused, spurring Dennis to yet greater efforts. The assets against which the loan was secured were held in joint names. If my signature was indeed a forgery, then the guarantee was invalid.

  ‘But how do we know?’ Sant’Ana gestured at the photostat Dennis had laid between us. ‘I accepted the signature in good faith. How can I be sure it’s fake?’

  ‘Are you calling my client a liar?’

  ‘Of course not, Mr Wetherall, but there are protocols here. We have a formal agreement. There are procedures. They govern what we do.’

  Dennis repeated that I hadn’t been party to the deal. I hadn’t discussed it, nor had I given it my authority. My husband had been acting on his own, without my knowledge. I listened to Dennis with a sinking heart. As far as money was concerned, despite my efforts to keep costs under some kind of control, it seemed a pretty fair description of our relationship.

  Sant’Ana reached for the coffee pot. The spout hovered above my empty cup. When I nodded, he smiled.

  ‘He sounds very Brazilian, your husband.’ He began to pour the coffee. ‘What would women know about business?’

  ‘Nothing. Until they have to sort it all out.’

  I regretted the comment at once. It sounded thin-lipped, embittered, not at all the way I felt. Sant’Ana was still smiling.

  ‘Your husband treated me as a friend,’ he said. ‘I like to think you’ll do the same.’

  An hour or so later, Dennis and I were back in the Porsche. We had, in Dennis’s phrase, got the beginnings of a result. The bank was aware of the depth of the hole Steve Liddell had dug for himself, but Mr Sant’Ana had given his word that nothing would happen to the collateral on the loan until the insurance picture was a good deal clearer. Perhaps Steve’s insurers would pay out on the claim. Perhaps Steve, given a reasonable period of grace, could trade his way back to solvency. I listened to Dennis putting his gloss on the conversation we’d just shared. Under the circumstances, he concluded, it had turned out a lot better than he’d expected. What still bewildered him was the speed with which the bank had advanced the loan in the first place. Given Steve’s lack of a track record, his relative inexperience, £300,000 was a helluva lot of money.

  ‘Thank Christ you came along, though.’ He glanced sideways at me. ‘He’ll be asking you out to lunch next.’