Wings of Death

by David Holman

  ‘Miss Townsley. Alex Swan. Pleased to meet you. Do take a seat.’ He turned to his colleague. ‘Arthur, please be a good chap and take this young lady’s wet coat.’ He turned to her, asking if she would like some tea.

  Kate Townsley gave an appreciative nod. ‘Yes please, that would be grand after the long journey,’ she replied in her Cumbrian brogue as she removed her coat to reveal a black sweater, grey knee length skirt, ribbed white tights and black leather calf boots. She handed her coat to Gable, who placed it on a wooden coat rack.

  Swan turned again to his colleague. ‘Arthur, would you be so kind, dear fellow, and fetch the lady a cup of your finest?’ He sat back down at his desk; a matching suit jacket hung on the back of his chair. Kate relaxed herself, taking in the man sitting in front of her. She noticed that he was tall, in his late forties, had a clean shaven, thin and gaunt looking face with hazel coloured eyes, and a small mole at the side of his nose. Finally, she observed the salt and pepper coloured hair that was completely grey at the temples. This had instantly reminded her of the actor who played Alan Quartermain in King Solomon’s Mines, the first film that she saw with her family that had not been a Walt Disney cartoon. Swan gave her a friendly stare, however, having already had prior knowledge of her recent bereavement and reason for her visit, he knew that he had to be cautious for fear of upsetting her.

  He decided to start with some small talk. ‘Your journey from Maryport was a pleasant one, I trust?’

  Kate Townsley responded hesitantly, ‘Yes. As it happens, when I got on the train this morning at the station, the sun was shining.’

  Swan interrupted, turning his head to look out of the rain marked window. ‘And by the time you arrived in London, the heavens had opened,’ he remarked.

  Arthur Gable returned, carrying a tray supporting a silver teapot, three china cups and saucers, a jug of milk and a small bowl of sugar, he served the tea.

  Swan leant back in his desk chair glancing at his guest in front of him. ‘Now, before we start Miss Townsley, I would like to express my deepest condolences to you for the recent tragic passing of your fiancé.’

  Pausing to allow their client to gather her thoughts, Swan turned to his assistant sitting to the left side of the desk. ‘Arthur, I take it you have brought Nobby with you?’

  Gable reached into the inside pocket of his double breasted suit jacket and taking out a small black notebook, replied with a smile.

  ‘Yes sir. You know me, Nobby and me never part company.’

  Swan was irritated by the way his colleague addressed him. Ever since he had recruited the ex-Detective Sergeant to SID, he had insisted that he call him by his first name. Swan preferred things that way, noticing that it relaxed people. He then gazed at Kate Townsley’s puzzled expression. ‘Please excuse us Miss Townsley, Arthur, being an ex-officer of the Yard, has always given a nickname to his police notebooks since his beat days. A small yet amusing eccentricity I’m afraid. In the past we’ve had a Norman, a Nicholas, a Nathaniel and now we have a Nobby. I have asked him to take some notes while you tell us your reason for your visit.’

  Kate smiled coyly, turning her head to Gable who was waving a pen across his opened cherished Nobby.

  Swan rubbed his hands together. ‘Now Miss Townsley, please take your time and do not leave out any of the most minuscule detail, as every little thing will only aid us in our follow up work.’

  Kate took a gulp of tea from her cup, then placed it down into the centre of the saucer.

  Making herself comfortable in her chair, she looked down at the desk to recollect her thoughts. ‘Mr Swan, Mr Gable. In March last year, James and I had been engaged for three months. He proposed to me on the day that the company he worked for, Brinton Aviation, had just been awarded a government contract to come up with a design for a new warplane. He was ecstatic about this and we enjoyed an evening of celebration at the works social club. Afterwards, while walking me home, he spoke more about how this contract would see him right for the next thirty years. He would be part of the design team and see the project through upgrades.’ Kate then gave a little chuckle. ‘He even boasted about maybe being head of his team, when it came to replacing the plane in the nineteen nineties. His colleagues even had a silver pen inscribed for him: Move over HB, it said on the side of it, referring to his boss Howard Barnett. It was also the moment when he took my hand, went down on one knee and told me that it would be more than life itself, if I accepted his proposal to marry him. I accepted there and then. We then planned the wedding for early September and James worked hard on the designs for the contract, sometimes working all hours of the night. He idolised and respected his boss and mentor, who is a bit of a perfectionist, and seeing that two other firms were also coming up with designs; things had to be right.’

  Swan clasped his hands and looked across at his assistant as Gable scribbled into Nobby. ‘I take it, Miss Townsley, we are now talking about the BR-101? Dubbed by the press as The Silver Angel.’

  Kate instantly recognised the name of the plane. ‘That’s correct, Mr Swan.’

  Swan nodded. ‘Please continue, and I will try to give the most minimum of interruption.’

  Kate continued. ‘All through the summer of last year, everything was going smoothly. Then, one night, James came to my parent’s house very upset. We went into the kitchen and he asked my father if he had any scotch. My father poured him one and he sat down and told us that the three companies involved in the project had been ordered by the Government to merge to build the plane. A few members of his team at Brinton had already been laid off, with members of the other companies replacing them. You may already be familiar with this from press releases last year, Mr Swan.’

  Swan nodded in confirmation.

  Kate sighed. ‘Any rate, James was worried that his dream plans for us would be ruined; he was afraid that he, too, might be replaced at any day. But thankfully, he wasn’t, and in July last year, the design had been given the go ahead by the Ministry, and the BR-101 prototype went into production. James still continued to work hard on the project, as it needed to be ready for the maiden test flight, set for the beginning of October. I was heavily involved in helping my parents plan our wedding, so James and I hardly saw each other during August.’

  Kate then paused as tears began to well in her eyes. ‘Then James came around to the house after almost two solid days at the works and told me that he would have to call off the wedding. The maiden flight was to be brought forward to September the fifteenth. That was our planned wedding day. The Ministry wanted a spectacle to mark the twenty-fourth anniversary of the Battle of Britain, so we talked that night and told my parents that we would postpone the wedding until spring this year. I was upset, but for James, this meant big things for him. He could concentrate on helping in getting the BR-101 airborne. As the day drew closer, James began to tell me less of the whole thing. He also mentioned that some American officials had come to visit the project office and spent some time with HB, but whenever they were in the office, no one else was allowed to enter. My father, who was most interested in how the project was going, often chatted with James over an evening brandy; sometimes to the early hours, and James would gladly give him updates. But suddenly, he began to say less and less to him. I confronted James about this silence all of a sudden, and he just snapped at me, shouting that he can’t tell me anything anymore and I should forget what he has already said about it. I respected his wish and no more was asked of him. My father could then only follow the press releases in the paper and what was said on the television.’

  Kate fidgeted in her chair and sighed. ‘Anyway, due to loads of problems in the structure, and a delay in fitting the engines, this put the project back three months. It wasn’t until November last year that the Silver Angel was finally ready for her first flight, a week before the aircraft was due to be transported to RAF Pembridge for final assembly. That Monday afternoon, the twenty second, James telephoned me from work. He sounded out of breath, li
ke he’d been running, and said he loved me and I was not to worry. I became confused and wanted to know why he had said this, but he just kept repeating it, and then said something that I didn’t understand.’

  Swan cut in. ‘What was that?’

  Kate gulped. ‘He said: I’ve seen their spectres, so now they’re after me. Then he hung up. I tried to phone him back, but the receptionist informed me that he was not in his office. I told my mother, and she asked my father to meet me from work and drive me to Brinton’s. When we arrived at the main gate at around six thirty pm to pick up James as we normally do around this time, we were stopped by a guard who told us that we would not be allowed through. The security guard on the main gate knew who we were, and is usually quite friendly, but that evening, he was quite stern and abrupt with us. I could clearly see the main assembly hangar and three large trucks parked up outside. I noticed they were all covering something. There were some soldiers nearby, and I also heard some American voices from somewhere, but couldn’t see who they belonged to. Then a soldier who was also American came over to us with his machine gun in his hands. He noticed me staring at this scene and told my father to turn the car around. We decided to drive well away from the site and give James a call at home later. As we drove out of the plant, an ambulance was coming in with its sirens going, followed by a police car. I was very upset, so my father suggested we stop off at The Ploughman for a drink to calm my nerves. After the drink at the pub I felt a little better; and it was a bit later when we finally got home. Then when we arrived, my mum was in my brother’s arms and was crying.’

  The two SID men then noticed the tears that started to pour down the face of their guest, and Swan got up from his side of the desk and put his hand on her shoulder.

  Slightly sobbing, Kate Townsley continued. ‘It was then, even before they told me of the accident. I somehow knew that something terrible had happened,’ she paused. ‘James was dead!’

  She reached into her handbag and taking out a tissue, wiped her eyes. Still holding the tissue near to her face, she bravely continued. ‘The report said that he had been found by the night security guard in the assembly hall under the prototype, lying face down with a severe head wound. The inquest said that he had fallen from a service platform next to the plane. A clipboard with some figures in his handwriting was found next to him. The verdict was that it was an unfortunate industrial accident.’

  It was at this point that Kate became hysterical. Gable put down his notepad and rushed over to her. She got up out of her chair, and buried her head into his burly chest. Swan paused, allowing his guest some time to be consoled by his associate. A few moments later, she sat down, wiping her eyes again with the tissue.

  Swan got up from the desk and leant on the edge of it next to her. ‘Will you be okay Miss Townsley, Kate, to answer some questions for me?’ She looked down at her knees and nodded her head to him.

  Swan continued. ‘In the inquiry, what time did they say the accident happened?’

  ‘About two-thirty in the afternoon.’

  ‘And what time was it, when you spoke to James on the telephone?’

  Kate waved her tissue. ‘Well, this is where I get confused again Mr Swan. I thought that it was past three o’clock, as I saw the children leaving the school next to where I work, but it must have been earlier than that. Perhaps the school finished early that day. I’m not sure.’

  Swan was suddenly intrigued by this. ‘May I take the name of this school?’

  ‘Yes. It’s St Teresa’s Primary School, in Eaglesfield Street, Maryport.’

  Swan wrote it down as she spoke. ‘Thank you. I will make enquiries with the Headmaster at the school. He should have hopefully kept a diary, and maybe in a position to tell me if the school did, indeed, finish early that day.’

  Swan stood up, walked back around his desk and sat down again. ‘I think that we will leave it there for now. Thank you for coming to see us today, Miss Townsley. I take it you are staying in London?’

  ‘Yes, I am staying at my sister’s house in Hampstead.’

  Swan raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed. Please may I trouble you for the address?’

  Kate responded as Swan wrote it down on his desk pad. ‘That’s excellent. I may need you to return to this office, but in the meantime, Arthur will drive you to your sister’s house and I will make some enquiries starting with the school.’

  Kate got up from the desk and looked into Swan’s eyes. ‘Do you think the inquest could be wrong in some way, Mr Swan?’ she asked directly.

  Swan replied to her firmly: ‘If I didn’t, I wouldn’t ask you to return to this office. Being an ex-intelligence officer, I have a few contacts at the Air Ministry and I will call in some favours to see if I can get a few details of the inquest.’

  Kate managed a pleasing smile. ‘I’m glad that Mr Buckworth advised me to contact you. Mr Swan.’

  Swan grinned. ‘Vernon has been an old friend of mine for many years. We go way back, him and I.’ He took her hand and shook it. ‘Thank you for now, Miss Townsley. I can assure you that Arthur and I will try our best to get to the bottom of this.’ He watched her as she walked towards the door, escorted by his associate, then looking at the notes he had made, picked up the telephone and using his pen, dialled the number of the school. While waiting for the MOD operator to connect him, he doodled on the notepad. His sketch started with a triangle, then he joined it to a long cylinder with a point at each end. Finally, he finished it. Then, underneath his simple drawing of a delta winged jet aircraft, he wrote the words: Silver Angel.

  Chapter 3

  At St Teresa’s Primary School in Maryport, Headmaster George Salter sat at his office desk writing out a performance report and, realising that he had left his tea to go cold, cursed to himself. Fancying a hot fresh cup, he lifted his eighteen stone frame out of his chair with the intention of walking next door to the school secretary’s office.

  As he rose, the highly polished black phone on his equally polished oak desk rang with the internal ring tone. He sat back down and reached for the receiver.

  Salter barked in his usual authoritarian manner. ‘Headmaster.’ His secretary, Pamela Bryant, replied. ‘Good afternoon, Headmaster. There is a gentlemen from London for you on the phone, a Mr Swan. He would like to speak to you about school finishing times last year. Shall I put him through?’

  Salter raised an eyebrow to this odd request. ‘Yes please Pamela, if you may. Oh, you couldn’t also be a charm and bring in a fresh cup of tea could you? I seem to have let my last one go cold. Thank you so much.’ There was a click on the phone as the call was transferred to the headmaster’s extension. ‘Good afternoon, George Salter speaking. How can I help you?’

  At the other end of the phone line, Alex Swan greeted the broad shouldered, thinning haired headmaster of St Teresa’s Primary and introduced himself.

  ‘Good afternoon, Headmaster. My name is Alex Swan, I am a retired officer of the security services, now running a small investigations office attached to the Ministry of Defence. I was wondering if I could intrude on some of your valuable time to check a date in your school calendar with you.’

  Looking out of his office window at the mass of coated children in the playground, Salter replied in an obliging tone. ‘What exactly is your query sir, and I will try and be as helpful as I can.’

  Swan acknowledged. ‘I want to confirm with you that on a certain date this year, the school closed earlier than normal on that particular day. The day in question being Monday, the twenty-second of January.’

  Salter reached over his desk and took hold of a burgundy desk diary with 1965 in gold leaf embossed on the right hand side. He opened the thick book and thumbed through the pages, until he placed the whole hand firmly on the page marked Monday, January 22nd. He looked down the entries before lifting the receiver to his right ear.

  ‘Hello Mr Swan, I have the page in front of me now. I’m afraid that there was no such closure on that particular day. As a matter
of fact, I can only recall two early closures, one being the last day before the Easter holiday and at the end of the school year last year.’ The headmaster thumbed the pages to confirm his last statement.

  Back in Wellesley Mews, Alex Swan had a puzzled expression on his face. ‘Thank you very much for your time sir. Good afternoon to you.’ Swan concluded his call and put back the receiver, rose from his chair and went to the window, watching a red double-decked Routemaster bus disgorge some passengers at the bus stop outside. He began to think to himself, recalling what the Headmaster had informed.

  *

  As Arthur Gable drove the silver 1956 Armstrong Siddeley Sapphire through the West End traffic, Kate Townsley spoke to the back of his head. ‘So how long have you two been working together then, Mr Gable?’

  Gable looked at her in the mirror. ‘Please feel free to call me Arthur. Actually, we’ve been working together for four years now. Mr Swan was asked to set up an independent department while still with the Security Service, and having worked together before on cases of national security involving Soviet spies, the recent well known scandalous affair for instance, he informed me that he needed a civilian to help him with investigations on cases that were connected to the military. I was due for retirement with full pension, but felt it was still too early for me to be picking up the pruning shears just yet, so I talked it over with my wife Annie, and within a month, Mr Swan and I were on our first case together.’

  Kate looked down at her lap. ‘Do you think that Mr Swan will discover the truth about what happened?’

  As they had stopped at a red light, the ex-Police Detective Sergeant turned his head to her, giving her a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t worry Miss, Mr Swan is very thorough in all of his investigations. He wasn’t nicknamed The Weasel of MI5 for nothing.’

  *

  Later, Arthur Gable returned to the office to find Swan standing looking out of the window. He turned to acknowledge his colleague. ‘How did it go with taking Miss Townsley to her sister’s house, Arthur?’