“Get in!” Turner yelled at me again.
Stevenson laughed. “Run, College Cop. Or should I call you Chicken?” He dropped his hands. “Run, Chicken, run!”
I took a breath and climbed into the passenger seat. The other men were laughing and clucking like chickens.
I clenched my hands harder against the adrenaline.
Turner bumped back to the sandy road. I looked back and saw Stevenson with his arms in the air, raised in victory.
The men cheered.
Turner said, “Good job I came back.”
I turned away and focused on the rutted track.
“Why did you come back?” I asked after a few more breaths.
“We found something. Well, actually, the Squadron Leader found it in the flight logs. You’ll want to see.”
TWELVE
Squadron Leader Kennedy was on the steps as we drove up and he beckoned us into his office. We sat opposite his desk and he spun a ledger around so that it now faced us.
I recognized it as a flight log. At the top of the page was an aircraft number. Below was a grid with headings, some of which meant nothing to me. They were: Check; VOR; Course; Altitude; Wind (dir and vel); Temp; CAS; Others with + and -, then; Time off; GPH and Fuel.
“A busy little plane,” Kennedy said.
“What am I looking for?” I asked, shaking my head at the meaningless columns of figures.
“Well I don’t know if all these destinations are correct, but let’s look at another Auster’s records. Let’s find one with the same destination.” Kennedy pulled another log from the pile on the desk and ran his finger down it. “There,” he said. “If we compare two flights to this place up north, one for this plane and one for the first, what do you see?”
I compared the two lines. Much of the detail was different, but the one that shouldn’t have been too different was Fuel. Same distance but about fifteen percent more fuel.
Kennedy pointed to another destination and again I saw the first plane was using more fuel.
“Could it be a less efficient engine?” I suggested.
Kennedy nodded. “Yes it could, but if it was then the difference would be proportionately the same each time, roughly. It’s not. Proportionately more fuel is used for shorter distances. Look, here’s another example.”
This time the fuel consumption was similar.
I said, “The first two records show the plane diverted. That last flight didn’t and proves our case.”
“Exactly,” Kennedy said. He stood and walked outside. We followed him to the small single hangars. We walked past the first, the second and the third. At the fourth he stopped and pointed. “That’s the second plane.”
“Mine,” Turner said beside me.
Kennedy walked past the gyro-plane. He walked past the next hangar too. It was empty. At the final hangar he went inside.
“The first of the two planes,” Kennedy said.
This one was another Auster but was different. It was tan with non-RAF markings. In fact, I didn’t recognize them, although they were clearly British with a red cross on the tail but also the Union flag.
Kennedy had his hands on his hips as though waiting for me to understand.
I shook my head.
He said, “Not one of ours.”
Turner said, “Humanitarian aid unit’s plane.”
I took a closer look.
“Virtually identical to the T7,” Turner said, “but without the twin controls. Still a two-seater but more space.” He opened a hatch and showed me a small hold.
Of the crates I’d seen at Singorah airfield, I figured you could get at least three of them in the space. Packed without the crate, maybe you could get a whole lot of drugs in the fuselage.
Kennedy said, “Like I said when you were here earlier, not one of my men and not one of my planes.”
We walked back to the office. I noticed the light was fading fast.
Turner said, “Want a lift back to Kota Tinggi? Now that you know the plane is the aid unit’s, I mean.”
“Better that I go back with my two MP friends,” I said.
Kennedy shook my hand and left us outside his office door.
Turner looked at me and cocked an eyebrow.
I said, “I’ll head for my hotel.”
“In JB?”
I responded that it was the King George. He said I would have to wait a while for a taxi or he could drop me there. And so we were soon heading back down Route Three into Johor Bahru. He put the headlights on and the elephant grass became a blur.
If the pilot expected good company he was surely disappointed. My mind was on the case, and more specifically the humanitarian aid unit.
Turner must have read my thoughts because he started talking.
“Hearts and minds,” he said. “Bloody ridiculous. You know the original strategy was containment—the Briggs Plan. So now it’s about winning them over, winning their hearts and minds, about being on their side rather than being at war with them. As if they’d forget, right?”
Although I was thinking about Slugger Stevenson, I must have nodded because Turner kept talking.
“We reckon it’s why this is an Emergency and not a war,” he said. “Look at Korea. Bloody Americans go in there with hobnailed boots on. They’ve trampled on the very people they were supposed to be fighting for. Instead of a fight between North and South, it has become a war between the US and Communist China. Korea won’t be the end of it, mark my words.”
I must have been half listening because it reminded me of The Art of War translation. There was nothing in it about the general population, although there was a passage about not fighting all the time. Sometimes it was better to defeat the enemy by breaking down their resistance.
Turner carried on and told me the same story about the Chinese Committee member’s wife who had been airlifted and taken to hospital.
“And then there’s the humanitarian aid,” he said. “On the one hand our boys are fighting but on the other we’re giving food and medical supplies to the needy.” He laughed. “But who are the needy? The bandits, that’s who. My point is, we don’t know. They get instructions where to deliver the supplies and off they go. Hearts and minds and a bit of food. And maybe you’ve also discovered that there’s a bit of quid pro quo.”
I looked at him, registering the words about food and drugs. “What?”
“Maybe, just maybe those dodgy aid chaps are trading the supplies for drugs.” He stopped the jeep. “Here we are, though I’m surprised you aren’t staying at the European and Oriental.”
“Why?”
“It’s much nicer.”
“Hold on,” I said, and went inside. A minute later I was back with my bag.
“European and Oriental, sir?” Turner said, grinning.
“That would be marvellous.”
A few minutes later he stopped at the end of the drive rather than the steps of the splendid-looking hotel. It was British colonial from before the war, I reckoned. Large windows glowed with orange warmth. Much nicer than the other hotel. Undoubtedly more expensive, but then the government was paying.
A porter in full uniform, hat and white gloves that picked up the light, stood on the steps and looked our way.
Turner coughed.
I faced him and saw that same quizzical look in his eyes that I’d seen before. Previously I thought he’d been appraising me.
He said. “I just wanted… I don’t suppose you go the other way?” A smile flickered on his lips, and that’s when I realized what he meant. It was illegal so I guessed he was always careful how he broached the subject.
“No,” I said.
“Oh.” He looked nervous. “Please don’t—”
“Not a problem,” I said, shook his hand and thanked him for the ride.
The porter took my luggage from me and guided me to the front desk. I was introduced to the receptionist, who said there was an available room.
I was just signing the register
when I heard a commotion. A young woman in uniform was remonstrating with a member of staff.
“I’m sorry about that, sir,” the receptionist said to me. “I’m afraid it’s because she’s missed the sitting for dinner.”
I focused on the young woman’s words, listening to her complain.
“I’ve travelled for hours to get here,” she said. “I’ve walked bloody miles and I’ve been bashing my head against a brick wall. All I seem to get are officious prigs like you!”
I looked at my watch. We’d missed the sitting by less than fifteen minutes. I walked over to the member of staff who was blocking her way.
Another staff member—who I figured to be the manager—joined them. He said, “If you don’t desist this instant, madam, then I shall be forced to expel you from the hotel. You are disturbing the other diners.”
“Other diners? How can they be other diners—you aren’t allowing me—”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted. I showed the manager my government ID and glanced into the dining room. “It would appear that your customers are being served their starters.”
The manager flushed with nerves and looked in. “Hmm, yes, Mr Carter.”
“So I would be grateful if you would allow me and my companion to have a table and skip the starter.”
The manager blinked twice, swallowed and said, “Please come this way, Mr Carter.”
I may hate working for Secretary Coates, but there certainly were advantages. Especially since the young lady was rather good-looking.
THIRTEEN
Jane Dobson was a nurse; a WRAC based in Penang. Her strawberry-blonde hair was short with a curl and she had an energy about her that could either be called vivacious or feisty. Her brown eyes were quick and bright, although the way she collapsed into her chair at the dinner table told me she was exhausted.
The maître d’ had put us on a table tucked away from the other diners. After he lit a candle and left us, Jane said, “He thinks we’re a couple.”
She then introduced herself and wanted to know all about me. Lots of questions that made it hard for me to find out even the basics about her.
There was no choice of meal, and I ordered a bottle of white wine from the menu as the main course was served.
I let her taste the wine. After a sip she pulled a face and laughed. Then she stopped herself. There was something wrong. Something in her life that wasn’t a laughing matter. I smiled encouragingly but received no explanation.
As we ate, I managed to learn that she was from Hastings originally, been a military nurse for four years, the last two of which had been in Penang. It wasn’t hard to figure her for about twenty-two and engaged. Twenty-two based on her time in the army. Engaged because of the ring on her finger. She was at the hotel alone, so I figured she was here because of the boyfriend; perhaps he was in the army too. Maybe they were having problems and she was here to confront him or possibly track him down.
I couldn’t have been more wrong but it took a long time to get the story.
It wasn’t until the dessert had been served, and she had drunk most of the bottle of wine, that she finally told me why she was here. She had already learned I was a detective of sorts and about my strange case. I wondered why she was so interested about my reach and influence.
She poured herself the final glass after offering to top up the one I’d hardly touched. Then she took a gulp and began. “Six weeks ago, one of the girls from the orphanage connected to the hospital was adopted. She came down here to a new family. She was a lovely girl. Half Dutch, half Malay. Looks unusual because she had blonde hair and light brown skin.” She trailed off, staring into the middle distance as though picturing the girl.
“You said ‘had blonde hair’, like something’s happened.”
Jane looked at me with tears welling in her eyes. She blinked and they ran down her cheeks. When she spoke, her voice was very small and choked. “I can’t find her, Ash. That lovely little girl. I can’t find her!” She wiped her eyes. “Sorry, I was doing so well, holding myself together and all that. No point in getting emotional.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “Do you have her new address?”
“No, I don’t have anything. I thought she would be easy to find. You know, go through the adoption organization, check the paperwork. There is no paperwork! No one has any. It’s as though she never existed.”
Jane said that the girl’s name was Laura van Loon. She pronounced the first part of Laura as Lau as in cow, the Dutch way. They had become attached while the girl was at the hospital for a kidney problem.
“I was so pleased Laura was to be adopted, but then it happened so quickly. When I asked for details I was fobbed off and then it was too late. She had been transferred via Johor Bahru’s adoption centre to meet her new parents.”
Jane finished her glass and I called the wine waiter over to bring another bottle. She composed herself while the bottle was brought, opened and poured into her glass.
She smiled awkwardly at me. “You must think me so foolish. Sorry to have spoiled your meal.”
“Not at all. Tell me the rest.”
She said, “I hadn’t even seen her off, hadn’t said goodbye, but at least I knew Laura would write. But she hasn’t. Six weeks and no word.”
“How old is she?”
“Twelve.”
“Virtually a teenager then. She’ll write eventually.”
“No, we were close. She would have written straight away. She’d want me to know she was all right.”
“So you’ve spent the day looking for her.”
“I had to wait until I could use my leave. I’ve been to the adoption centre here and got nowhere. I didn’t even manage to see anyone of importance.”
“I’m sure everything is fine, Jane. You know how it is with bureaucracies. My guess is that they’re rushed off their feet and didn’t understand the importance of it. After all, you’re not related to Laura, just knew her from Penang. They probably have a hundred and one things to deal with and she’s just another statistic to them.”
We talked some more, the discussion going in circles. The dining room emptied as people adjourned to the lounge or bed. We stayed at the table. The staff cleared up around us and eventually we were alone.
She was quite tipsy now. I finished my single glass and she had the rest. I turned the conversation to other things and for a while we talked about England and childhood. Then she came back to my more recent history.
She asked about the Middle East and then: “After your science degree, why become an MP?”
I shrugged. Sometimes I asked myself the same question. “General science was fine, although I was more interested in astronomy. I just decided academia wasn’t for me. Why the army? Well, remember the war was coming to an end, but it was by no means over. Plus I came from a long line of military men.”
“Your father?”
I didn’t want to get drawn into what my father had been responsible for during the war. Hero or villain was a matter of perspective. I also didn’t want that to lead on to my mother’s suicide. It was too personal for this conversation despite her appeal and the enjoyable company. So I switched the topic away from it.
“I became an MP because no one in the family had ever been one.”
She looked at me knowingly. “Like you were thumbing your nose at your ancestors.”
I laughed. “Maybe. Maybe a shrink would analyse it that way. For me, it seemed logical. Science teaches you to process problems in the same manner needed to solve crimes. That’s the story I’m sticking with anyway.”
Now it was her turn to laugh. Then she stood up, unsteady on her feet. “Thank you. You’ve cheered me up. I didn’t think…”
I stood up as well. “What’s your plan—for tomorrow I mean?”
“I’ve failed to find Laura in JB. I’ve a few places to visit in Singapore tomorrow but then I need to get back to work.”
“I’m sure she’s fine. Bureaucracy…”
>
“Yes,” she said unconvincingly, and took a step. I reached out for her as she wobbled. “Did the room just spin?” She laughed again, more of a giggle now, then said, “Would you take me upstairs?”
“I’ll help you to your room.”
She smiled weakly and took my arm, leaned heavily on me. She stumbled a couple of times and I needed to put my arm around her. She giggled, but it was the wine, not her. Not really.
At her room, she opened the door and looked at me in a way that only a woman can. She didn’t need to say anything.
I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Take care, Jane Dobson.”
She pulled away and the door closed quickly behind her. I was left standing in the hall feeling I’d handled it badly when the door opened again.
“Thank you,” she said. “For… you know…”
Then she handed me a piece of paper. It had her name, and an address: Minden Barracks, Penang.
“You’ll find me there,” she said.
I nodded.
She blinked as though trying to stay in control, to stay focused.
On the other side of the paper was more writing. Laura’s name and other personal information.
She took hold of my hand and looked into my eyes. Hers were starting to look bloodshot but the vitality was still there. And the sadness.
“Find her, please. You can investigate… because of who you are.”
“I’ll do what I can,” I said, unsure that I should promise anything. “If I hear anything, I’ll be in touch.”
Then she kissed me, full on the lips, and was gone.
FOURTEEN
My room was clean and nicely decorated with a period feel, like Georgian, I figured. The bed was queen-size and comfortable. But sleep eluded me.
I briefly thought about Jane’s mission to find the young girl, but that was a distraction. In fact the whole evening had been a distraction from what was really troubling me. I hadn’t told Jane about Slugger Stevenson. I hadn’t told her that I had backed down from a fight. For the first time in my life, I had walked away from confrontation.
Singapore Girl: An edge of your seat thriller that will have you hooked (An Ash Carter Thriller Book 2) Page 6