The Third Breath

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  She came towards him to look. “That’s the one I saw him handling, thought it was to do with additional fuel for either the helicopter or the car but they might have been used in the bar. I don’t know. They take them from the car usually. I’ve seen them put them here.” She pointed to two pods that were secured to the helicopter’s landing skids. “They take them when they fly, especially when they’re going to France. I’ve seen them load them into this part.”

  She moved inside and touched the pod. “He had these fitted just after he bought it, gave more room inside for bags and those when he took them. David had told Jonathan that they…” She pointed to the containers. “…Should never be carried in the cockpit.” Her face was blank. It was clearly telling Cyril that she was ignorant as to their true use.

  Cyril noticed April and Jonathan’s sister approaching. Cyril stood.

  “Joanne’s told me that if we try to get into the phone it will delete everything. He told her that he’d set that facility for security. After ten attempts the phone is rendered useless as far as evidence and information for this investigation is concerned. She also believed that his father had set that on his too but knowing that someone had access to it maybe not.”

  “Does he have a second phone, Joanne?”

  “I couldn’t say and if he did I doubt he’d share that information with me.”

  “Have you ever flown carrying these?” Cyril pointed to the container in front of him and the one in the hangar.

  “You’ve seen my logbook. I haven’t flown for ages. Dad pushed us…”

  Joanne’s mother was quick to step in. “That’s not fair, young lady.”

  “He did. He wanted us to both be the youngest pilots and I did it to keep the peace. At first it was fun, something boys and my friends looked up to me about but to be honest, it frightened me at times, especially flying on my own. I was alright with another pilot with me or even Mum but on my own, no.”

  “And the answer to my question, Joanne. Have you ever had to fly with these, take them anywhere or collect them?”

  “They might have been in the pods when I flew but I never saw them being loaded or unloaded.”

  “Surely you did your pre-flight check and that would include weight and balance. You’d have looked in the pods?”

  She started to cry. “I’ve done nothing. I don’t know why he’s gone. He did the pre-flight or Dad did after they brought it from here. I’ve told you I didn’t and I don’t like flying.” She turned and stormed back away from the garages into the house.

  “You must forgive her, since her dad’s death she’s been so uptight. What she was telling you is true. She wasn’t a natural Amy Johnson. She flew for her dad and that’s it. I, on the other hand, would never go in anything that doesn’t have a first class lounge and continuous and generous offerings of Champagne throughout the flight.”

  April had to smile. There was a woman who knew her own mind.

  31

  Cyril had organised a forensic search of the Stephens’s hangar and the adjoining garages. They had quickly acted on information that the Bauhaus Champagne and Cocktail Bar received a regular but limited supply of liquid nitrogen for use when creating their special cocktails. The exotic drinks had not proved to be as popular as they had hoped, after worldwide news reports of members of the public sustaining serious injuries from inexperienced or overenthusiastic bar staff mixing varying quantities of the liquid directly into cocktails rather than using it to freeze the products going into the drink.

  News of the incidents had spread rapidly and not only had sales declined nationally, but a formal tightening of operating procedures and practices had followed. Many bars and clubs had withdrawn the service. Bauhaus had also considered stopping but no direct decision had been taken. With David Stephens’s death, more important issues had arisen. They had checked the records before and this second investigation corresponded with the first. It was clear that Paul Ashton’s name would move to the outside edges of the investigation.

  Even with extensive media coverage and appeals to the public for help, there had been no further sightings of Jonathan Stephens. The one consolation Cyril had was that they had received no further calls using the missing mobiles and therefore assumed and hoped that there were no more frozen corpses.

  The follow-up on the potential landing sites that Bob Ryan had circled on Cyril’s aviation chart had also proved fruitless, apart from eating into more vital resources. However, it was important that his hunch should be followed. It was one fewer lead to pursue.

  On vacating the railway station, Jonathan lifted the shoulder strap of his bag over his head, leaving both hands free before checking the details on the paper he held in his hand. He felt lost without his phone, in fact not having a mobile at all seemed totally alien and strange. Feeling isolated and unsure, he tried to recall the last time that had happened. It never had.

  Once down Station Road, he checked his notes detailing the buildings and waypoints before turning right. Walking quickly, he soon passed the Queen’s Head pub on his right and to his amazement, he noticed two Celtic crosses positioned to his left. They were set just off the pavement to the front of the stone community-type hall; their presence seemingly incongruous. He had little desire to stop and look. His destination, if he had written down the directions correctly, should require a turn to the left a few metres ahead. This route would take him down Iron Row, a narrow lane comprising the former factory workers’ cottages and a row of modern garages. The path would soon lead him between two gateposts, the original mill gates and a modern tunnel under the busy dual carriageway that bypassed the town.

  After fifteen minutes he found himself standing in front of a stone house. Gates to the right were closed but they blocked only a cobbled road. There was neither wall nor fence to the right of the gates; they protected nothing but at one time they had secured the entrance to the part-derelict Greenholme Mill. He continued, unsure as to his real destination or as to who or what was to greet him.

  On the roadway by the side of the house, his eyes were drawn to a metal oblong set into the cobbles. Concrete filled the central space, the old and the new set in marked contrast. Had he known the history of the place he would have realised that this was once the gatehouse to the mill and the oblong, the weighbridge. He had little interest other than in trying to control the fluttering nerves of uncertainty crashing about in his stomach.

  As he approached the ruins of the stone-built mill, he noticed a number of large red signs announcing and warning of demolition and the advice to Keep Out. He paused feeling uneasy. He listened for bird song but there was none, there was nothing other than the drone of cars speeding along the bypass hidden behind the barrier of trees.

  The road running past the mill was patched occasionally with concrete, careless repairs of convenience with total disregard to the historical value or cobbles’ symmetry. The cobbled road surface seemed to stretch as far as a distant bend behind the furthest section of the mill site.

  Part of the building to his left had already been torn down. Only the lower portion of the wall remained, encapsulating a hollow in the ground but still offering a clear picture of what was once the footprint of the structure. It was then that he saw his first real marker; the mill clock. Its ruined metal remains projected at almost right angles to the wall of the deserted building. Checking his notes they described the clock; he had reached his destination. He read the last instruction on the page.

  Once at the clock you must wait and look. I shall be there and when I am ready you will see me.

  He stopped beneath it. He must wait and see. On one side, the face and hands remained intact but frozen at a time in the past, thirty-seven minutes past six. On the other side was a void where there had once been an identical clock face.

  It’s right twice a day that clock, he said to himself trying to calm his nerves. He screwed up the notes and tossed them on the ground.

  Suddenly he sensed it, the feeling that he h
ad experienced in the driveway at home, that sensation of being observed and scrutinised. He let his eyes drift along the row of windows set at regular intervals along the building’s façade. Surprisingly few had suffered at the hands of vandals. It was then that he noticed it. Initially he was unsure and he passed over the window, but slowly he returned his gaze and there it was, a face set back in the shadows, a face he thought he knew and had seen before. The figure, semi-silhouetted against the northern lights set high and angled into the roof, stood motionless.

  A tingle of warm fear ran through Jonathan’s body and his instincts screamed to move away, turn and tell, but that was not the deal. He fingered the bag’s strap that ran across his chest and realised that avoiding this meeting was against everything he had achieved to get there. He had to see it through.

  32

  Owen sat looking at his computer screen whilst chewing his thumbnail. There was very little to nibble at but he persevered. It helped him think of the times when his gran had told him that he would end up looking like Venus de Milo. That brought a smile to his face. It was only years afterwards that he had realised who she was and the significance of the comment. He looked at the remnants of the nail before removing the bits from his mouth and depositing them in the bin. He wandered towards April’s desk.

  “Do you think Stephens is up to his armpits in all of this even though he was the first to kick the bucket?” Owen perched on the side of her desk and picked up two CDs that April had left there. He looked at each and turned them over as he listened to her reply.

  “Second, Thorndyke was the first to die. In my opinion, Owen, what was once a smooth and possibly long-standing operation has gone wrong for some reason. The trips to the continent, the returning with so-called products and now the Dewars and the additional helicopter pods. You couldn’t fly with liquid nitrogen in the cockpit, it’s an enclosed space and should there have been a leak, what with altitude and pressure and all that, the pilot’s judgement and ability to function safely would be seriously impaired. You witnessed the demonstration. I’ve contacted the flying school where he kept the plane and sent images of the Dewars giving dimensions and approximate weights to see if they recognise them. I asked the question about separate stowage on his aircraft too. Then again, there’s the food factory and the fact that Stephens, Baines and Baldwin were acquainted. I’m talking about Claire, that is, and not Arthur or Albert Baldwin. He’s a mystery who doesn’t seem to have existed other than for a couple of weeks whilst working at Yeadon.”

  Owen looked at the top CD cover. “Sympathies… need bloody sympathy with that picture on the front!”

  “Symphony, Owen. Symphony of Sorrowful Songs.” April smiled and hit his thigh whilst shaking her head.

  He looked again and then smiled back. “I’ve felt like that chap on occasion when trying to work out this puzzle… pull my hair out and scream.” He tapped the part of the cover image before dropping the CD in front of her and copied the pose of the character pictured. “Pulled all his hair out already… look!” He paused and his expression became more serious. “I’ve seen that face before.”

  It was only then when his remark registered did they stop and look at each other. He felt a hot flush run through him.

  “Edvard Munch. It’s called The Scream. You’ve seen the white masks you can buy at Halloween.” She turned to her computer and tapped the words into the search engine; a number of images appeared. “Yours for just 99p. Flash will know more about Munch. Funny how Stephens thought he saw a masked person looking at him, remember when he was getting flowers from his car?” She flicked through the notes in the file she had on her desk, first checking the index down the side, impressing Owen. “There, Jonathan Stephens said…” She read from the notes:

  “… He’d seen someone at the end of the driveway, just staring, a mask-like face focussed on him, he said but then thought he was mistaken, perhaps a trick of the light.”

  “So this Munch bloke painted and made music?”

  “No, that’s…” She didn’t finish, but took the CD from Owen and her file. “Come on. Is Bennett in?”

  Cyril had just entered the incident room when Owen and April appeared.

  “Owen’s made a discovery, sir, an important one, one that might answer some questions.” She passed him the CD.

  “$120 million that sold for a good few years ago, 2012 or maybe a little later, and it was one of his two pastel works and not the oil.”

  Owen plonked himself on a desk.

  “How much? One hundred and twenty million?” He sounded each word as if he were chewing it. “For that? I could do better with one arm tied behind my back!”

  Cyril simply raised an eyebrow. “Really? He’s a Norwegian artist, Victorian… lived in the reign of Queen Victo…” It was unusual for Cyril to state the obvious but he was talking to Owen. He did not finish the sentence. “She has a number of streets, roads and avenues named after her throughout the world and throughout this bloody case. You have my full attention, tenuous as the link might be,” he announced, alternating his gaze between each officer.

  April handed Cyril the CD cover. “That’s the music we heard on the video with Mr Potato Head, the first piece. Owen said he’d seen the face; that face, The Scream and of course, you see it every year on Halloween masks. They’re all over the Internet. The victims said that they believed that someone was looking at them, that they’d seen a face!”

  April moved to the whiteboards and focussed on the two photographs of the frozen faces. “Look at the mouth. It’s open and remains slightly dark because of the potato. The faces are now white and crystalline, not too dissimilar to that of the masks. Look at the position of the hands too.” She held the CD cover next to the images and Cyril had to admit that there was clearly a resemblance.

  “Surely the coincidence with Victoria Avenue can’t be so tenuous.”

  “Sir.”

  The voice of the detective who had supplied Cyril with the details of the potato rhyme had been working at one of the desks and approached. “I studied history and specifically Queen Victoria for A level, I was fascinated by her. She was the longest ruling monarch until our present queen. Came to the throne on 20 June 1837 and stayed there until she died on 22 January 1901.” Cyril could sense the enthusiasm in her voice.

  “You need an anorak,” Owen muttered.

  She frowned looking for reassurance from Cyril.

  “Ignore the sergeant, please continue.”

  She moved closer to Cyril. “It was a well known fact that she kept a number of mourning relics, something the Victorians did. She wore black after her beloved Albert died. I was fascinated by a relatively bizarre fact, sir. She also had a post-mortem photograph of him taken as if he were on a bed asleep, she had it accurately hand coloured and framed in an evergreen wreath. Her relationship with that photograph was quite intriguing and some would say morbid as wherever she were to spend the night, the photograph was hung above the vacant side of the bed.”

  Cyril stared at her trying to take in the information.

  Owen broke the silence. “On the photographs here and here, there are what look to be some frozen leaves. Evergreen maybe. Looks a little like grey-green ivy. We seem to have our mysterious Albert or Arthur.”

  Cyril turned to the young detective. “It was you who brought the photograph?”

  “Yes, sir. You asked me to research the elimination poem. I’d considered the connection then but thought you’d think me foolish like the sergeant did.”

  Owen quickly apologised. “A silly joke.”

  Cyril nodded. “I should think so! I’m grateful for your diligence, thank you. We missed an opportunity on that occasion but fortunately I believe we might have a link, thanks to your quick mind and enthusiasm.”

  She blushed slightly.

  He tapped the photographs. “So, my trusty hounds. Who is speaking to us and why? Are we being led forward or are we simply being distracted? What is staring us in the face?” He l
ooked across at the photograph of the emoji. “We’re surrounded by faces, some real and some fictitious but all are expressive, all are open-mouthed, conveying either a sense of shock or fear. There’s an explanation. Are we dealing with revenge, or just simple madness? The jigsaw pieces are on these boards. All we have to do is find the correct sequence to put them together.”

  Owen sighed. “We need the bits that go around that emoji, the ones that show a building, some trees. We need something to give us a clue. Have you heard nothing from the pilot chap Ryan?”

  Cyril shook his head.

  Jonathan Stephens managed to take his eyes from the motionless figure staring from within the mill building. The dirty windows and the light shining from behind only allowed him a limited view. He glanced at the frozen clock face and then back at the window. The figure had gone. He felt a stab of panic as his eyes searched every dark window. It was then that he noticed the door set at the top of some wrought iron stairs swing slowly open. It was his invitation to step inside.

  33

  It took a while for Bob Ryan to get to the phone. “Sorry, Detective Chief Inspector, just finishing some groundwork with a student. Hope that you’re well and have found your mysterious landing field.”

  “Sadly not, we checked all the fields marked on the chart but nothing. Did you have any response from your enquiry regarding the corn face, the one photographed on the hangar pin-board?”

  Ryan sounded surprised by the question. “Yes, you should’ve been informed. One of our old students remembered taking that shot when he was on, and I quote, a photographic detail. Some amateur pilots clearly suffer from delusions of grandeur once they qualify!” He laughed out loud before giving Cyril the answer. “The secretary said she’d left you a message but alas… Anyway, do you have your chart close to hand? It would be a lot easier to give you the co-ordinates? I’ll just be a few minutes, I have them in my case.”