‘So how come the phone call?’
I’m sitting back with my coffee. Cleggie’s Cessna is parked beside the yellow biplane.
‘I’d like you to take me flying,’ I say. ‘And I’d like you to show me how to frighten someone so they start being honest with me.’
‘I’m not with you.’ He’s frowning.
‘Dual controls? One set for the pilot? One set for the passenger? Have I got that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’m the passenger.’ I nod towards the Cessna. ‘And you’re going to teach me what to do.’
‘I am?’
‘Yes.’
He nods. He holds my gaze for a long moment, then finally he gets it. ‘We’re talking Spitfires? Mr Franklin?’
‘Indeed.’
‘And he’s going to take you up?’
‘That’s the plan.’
Cleggie studies me a moment, then gets to his feet. ‘My pleasure,’ he says. ‘Couldn’t happen to a nicer man.’
We’re in the air within minutes. Cleggie heads south-west, towards Salisbury Plain. He needs something called uncontrolled airspace to teach me a manoeuvre which will, he says, put the shits up anyone with half a brain. En route, he talks me through the essentials of flying straight and level: the lightest touch on the control column, fingertips feeling the aircraft, eyes fixed on a point I’ve selected some distance ahead.
‘Nice and easy,’ he says. ‘Ignore the instruments. Just relax. Woman often make the best pilots because they’re so sensitive. Don’t think too hard. This stuff should come naturally.’
I assume he’s kidding me. I don’t feel the slightest bit relaxed but it’s a relief not to be bothered by having to understand all the dials and read-outs on the dashboard, and after a while I begin to enjoy myself.
With Cleggie beside me, I feel safe in this little cocoon. I love the brightness of the light and the view is stupendous. We seem to be suspended high over the greens and yellows of southern England. Glance down and I can see a lattice of fields and country roads and tiny villages. Toy cars parked beside a church. A thin plume of smoke from a bonfire. A worm of a train slowing for a station. From time to time shreds of cloud suddenly appear and disappear and once, looking down, I spot our own shadow racing across a field of stubble, but otherwise there’s absolutely no feeling of speed.
North of Salisbury, Cleggie makes contact with someone on the radio and warns them that we’ll be performing aerobatics. There appears to be no conflicting traffic in the area. We have the sky to ourselves.
Cleggie takes back control and begins to climb. He says I’ve done well so far. A couple more sessions and we might start thinking about take-offs and landings. I tell him that’s not my plan at all. I’m here to learn one thing and one thing only. How to take Dominic Franklin to a place where he might start telling me the truth.
‘You’re serious?’
‘I am.’
‘And you really think he’s a player? In the drugs biz?’
‘We’re working on it.’
I tell him about the research that Tony Morse has commissioned, the shell companies in far-away tax havens, the smoke and mirrors he uses to get ever richer. None of this appears to surprise Cleggie.
‘The man’s an animal,’ he says. ‘Women? Money? Bricks and mortar? Shiny new toys? He can’t resist it. He’s Mr Ugly. Not on the outside, but on the inside. Some people are born that way and he’s one of them.’
Mr Ugly. I like that.
Cleggie directs me to the altimeter. For what’s about to happen, it’s very important that we know exactly how high we are.
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m going to do something very violent to the aircraft. It’ll make us black out. It won’t last more than a couple of seconds but it’ll give us a bit of a shake and I’ve a feeling that’s what you may be after. You’re the expert. Tell me what you think.’
I’m staring at the altimeter. It’s showing eight thousand feet. The fields below are suddenly very small. Then, without warning, Cleggie hauls back on the control column and the aircraft rears up and then falls away to the right. Violent is right. Violent is exactly the word. Blood seems to have drained from my head. A huge hand is trying to physically crush me. I can’t see colours any more, no yellows, no greens, just grey. Then comes darkness and I’m struggling to even breathe. This, as promised, is terrifying. I very badly want it to stop.
Moments later, I come to. The world outside is revolving very fast. We’re going round in tighter and tighter circles and we seem to be dropping like a stone. The pressure, if anything, is worse. My face feels like it’s parting company with my skull. Then, abruptly, the pain stops and we’re straight and level again, Cleggie is still at the controls as if nothing has happened. I’m looking out the window. The fields are much bigger.
‘We call that a spin,’ Cleggie says. ‘In a Spitfire it can be much worse. That’s because of the torque of the prop but I won’t bother you with the details. What do you think?’
I think that will do very nicely indeed. How hard is it to survive?
‘You mean from Franklin’s point of view?’
‘Of course. And maybe the plane, too.’ I’m frowning. ‘And me.’
‘The Spit should be fine. Franklin will have a fight on his hands but it’s nothing he shouldn’t have practised.’
‘Is that a guarantee?’
‘No. In this game there are no guarantees.’ He gestures at my control column. ‘Your turn now.’
‘My turn?’ For some reason it hasn’t occurred to me that we’ll have to go through the whole nightmare a second time. ‘You’re serious?’
Cleggie doesn’t answer. We’re climbing again. Past eight thousand feet, he says, he’ll talk me through exactly what I have to do. In essence it’s very simple. On his command, I pull back and drop the control yoke to the right. No need for either of the pedals. Just my two hands.
‘Try and get it right,’ he says. ‘Then we won’t have to do it a third time.’
Good point. I have control. Straight and level. Miles ahead I can see an approaching ledge of cloud. I’m waiting for his cue, trying to remember the exact sequence of events. I feel a prickle of sweat, cold, on my face. Don’t think too hard about what’s about to happen, I tell myself. Just listen to Cleggie. And get it right.
‘I’m going to count you down from three,’ he says. ‘Three … two …’
I want to take him by surprise and so I jump the gun, pulling the control column back into my lap and twisting the thingy on the top to the right. The plane reacts just like a horse might to the whip, rearing up and then spiralling away. Brilliant, I think, as the colours turn to grey and the iron corset on my body tightens and tightens, and I’m finally engulfed once again by the darkness. This time, I tell myself, it’s not so bad. By the time I’m conscious again, Cleggie has regained control.
I steal a glance at the altimeter. It shows 6,780 feet.
‘That was good,’ he says. ‘You might try a hijacking next.’
I’m back at Flixcombe by late afternoon. I’ve treated Cleggie to an early lunch, which is just the tonic I need because he finds it so easy to make me laugh. It takes nothing to prompt more war stories from his years in the Red Arrows and he tells them very well indeed. When I let him into our little secret, that’s he’s become ‘Arrows’ in H’s fertile brain, it’s his turn to laugh. He says he’s flattered and I’ve a feeling he means it.
H knows nothing about my check-up at the hospital. He’s not good around illness or injury, regarding them as marks of weakness, and on balance I prefer to keep the consultant’s bleak prognosis to myself. By now, he’s read everything he can lay his hands on about Spitfires.
‘Why?’ I ask.
‘To get myself in the mood.’
‘For what?’
‘For my little trip with Franklin.’
Oddly enough, H has come up with the same game plan as yours truly: pay your money, get yourself
in the back seat, wait until you’re safely airborne, and then make life tough – in H’s words – for the numpty in the front seat. H has yet to work out exactly what it takes to get a result like this but I tell him not to bother. Cleggie has wised me up about the rules that govern flying paid passengers. Very recently, the CAA have insisted that a pilot with a paying passenger in the back must have a full commercial licence. Franklin has hired a seasoned warbird pilot who’s spent most of his professional life flying for British Airways to take care of this part of the business. As for friends and family, Franklin can fly them himself and stay legal.
H is frowning. Evidently this is news to him.
‘You’re telling me you’re a mate of his?’
‘I’m telling you he’s offered me a flight.’
‘When?’
‘I’ve got to phone him later.’
‘So what makes you so special?’
‘I’ve no idea. Maybe he likes films that make you think.’
‘Right.’ He nods. ‘And you’re going to make it tough for the bastard?’
‘I’m going to give him the fright of his life. If you don’t believe me, talk to Cleggie. I saw him today. We went flying. Trust me. It’s sorted.’
‘What’s sorted?’
‘Franklin.’
H nods. He wants to know what else Cleggie has told me.
‘He says Franklin’s obsessed by the family tree. He thinks he’s descended from John Franklin, the Arctic explorer. That’s why he’s renamed his pile Beaufort House. The Beaufort Sea was where Franklin was heading when he came to grief. According to Cleggie, the place means everything to him. He’s owned it ten years now and spent a fortune doing it up.’
H sits back at the kitchen table. He says he’s not happy with me taking a risk like this, which is nice, but I tell him this particular deal is non-negotiable. I suspect Franklin has poisoned thousands of lives and needs to confront one or two home truths.
‘You’re going to reform the bastard?’
‘I’m going to frighten him half to death. Then we’ll see.’
‘You’re sure about this? I don’t mind paying. Four grand’s small change if we put the shits up him.’
I shake my head. In a couple of minutes, I tell H, I’m going to ring Franklin on his private number. When it comes to a date for the flight, do we have a preference?
‘No.’ He turns away. ‘Your call.’
H is subdued all evening. When I phone Franklin, he affects a certain rough charm. With the exception of tomorrow, he says I can have the pick of any of the next three mornings that follow. As it happens, he’s in residence at Beaufort all week. After that, he’s in America for a while. Best for me to ring back once I’ve made a decision.
Once again I consult H, and once again he leaves it to me. The sooner the better, I decide. An hour or so later, I phone Franklin again. He’s not available but Baptiste is happy to take a message. Franklin must have had a word or two because she’s being civil, even friendly. I tell her the day after tomorrow would be perfect for the flight.
‘I’m sure that’ll be fine,’ she coos. ‘We have so much to talk about.’
I say something inconsequential, assuming she’s about to hang up, but it turns out I’m wrong.
‘Dom’s invited you to spend the night here,’ she says.
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘That’s very kind.’ My pulse is beginning to race. ‘What happens if I can’t make it?’
‘Then I’m afraid the flight’s off. That’s him speaking, not me.’ She laughs. ‘Your choice. Just let us know.’
FORTY-FIVE
I think long and hard about sharing the invitation with H. Part of me wants to do this thing alone. Malo is my son. I brought him up. I’ve spent most of my life with him. I don’t have a moment’s doubt that Franklin knows about Clem – knows where she is – and I want to be the one Malo thanks for getting him and Clem back together again.
But Malo and Clem aren’t the only ones in harm’s way. After Glasgow, I’m uncomfortably aware that I, too, have become a target. Malo has got us into very bad company and spending a night alone with the spider in the very middle of the web might not be a wise move on my part. My tumour will probably, in the end, kill me. But just now it seems equally possible that Dominic Franklin, or Brodie, or the lunatic Somalis, might get there first.
H, when I tell him about the invite the following morning, doesn’t believe me.
‘He wants you to spend the night before the flight there? At his place?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he really thinks you’ll say yes?’
‘He does. And he might be right.’
H shakes his head. He says I’m crazy. He thinks I’ve got a death wish. Payback is fine, especially given what happened with the Somalis, but there’s an art to these things. You have to stack the odds in your favour. You have to be artful, clever. You have to think time and place. Giving him a shake in his own fucking aeroplane, he says, is a demon idea. But a night alone under his own roof would be suicide.
‘The place’ll be full of Somalis,’ he says. ‘I guarantee it. He’ll ship the buggers in by the thousand. There won’t be enough of you to go round.’
‘Then come with me,’ I say.
‘The pair of us, you mean? So they eat us both?’
I don’t know whether he’s joking but I’m not sure I care. What’s important is to get airborne the following day, and to enjoy that moment when I can exact a little revenge for everything for which this man appears to be responsible. No one will die. No one will even be hurt. But I can return to Mother Earth with the knowledge that I, too, have a stake in all this, and that for a couple of seconds at least Mr Franklin – with all his power, and all his money – won’t have it entirely his own way. Is this a modest ambition on my part? Yes, I suspect it is. But will it make me happy? Mais oui.
‘If you’d prefer not to come,’ I tell H, ‘I’ll quite understand. But don’t think for a moment I’m not going.’
H says he’ll give me a decision by lunchtime. I retire to my bedroom and put a call through to Pavel. He says he’s pleased I phoned. He misses me badly. He says it’s like having to leave a movie when you’re really hooked and you want – need – to know how it all ends. I tell him I understand completely. A lot has happened since I last left his bedside and I take a great deal of pleasure in filling in the latest bits of the plot.
He says nothing until I’ve brought him completely up to date. What seems to fascinate him most is Franklin.
‘Are you sure he’s related to the explorer?’ he asks. ‘Sir John?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘But he might be? Is that what we’re saying?’
I’m grinning. ‘We’. Good sign.
‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘He might, he might not. Either way it seems to matter to him.’
To my shame I know very little about Arctic exploration but Pavel is only too happy to oblige. He’d once done some work in this field for a docu-drama pitch. Sir John Franklin, he tells me, was a naval officer. A big fan of Nelson, he fought at the Battle of Copenhagen, and later at the Battle of Trafalgar. He enjoyed surviving against the odds and when peace came he turned to exploration.
Pavel’s voice is very low and I’m having trouble hearing him.
‘When he couldn’t fight the French,’ Pavel whispers, ‘he headed north. Explored bits of the Arctic. Looked for the Northwest Passage. He came to grief in the end. Two ships, the Terror and the Erebus. Over a hundred men.’
‘So what happened?’
‘They got trapped in the ice.’
‘And?’
‘They all died.’
‘And the ships?’
‘The Canadians found them quite recently, lying on the seabed way up there in the high Arctic. Perfect condition. Pristine.’
> ‘You dived on them?’ My question is only half in jest. I’m thinking about Scapa Flow, and Pavel’s strange obsession with moments of history frozen in time.
‘If only,’ he murmurs. ‘So are you going to turn up tonight? At this man’s house?’
‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘I am.’
This prospect appears to entrance him. I’m not quite sure what he expects to happen at Beaufort House but the sudden possibility of a historical perspective to this story of ours seems to have done him a power of good. His voice is stronger. He’s back in that no-man’s land between fact and fiction, between real life and fantasy, where he’s done so much of his best work. There are echoes here of Cotehele, the project we’ve been nursing all these months, but Beaufort House, he seems to suggest, might prove infinitely more promising.
‘How?’ I enquire. ‘Promising, how?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ He manages a soft laugh. ‘But promise you’ll ring back and tell me. Beaufort House? I can see it already.’
FORTY-SIX
In the end, after another lengthy discussion, H decides to come with me. In the name of prudence, he’s made some phone calls to Pompey, summoned half a dozen soldiers to the colours, and asked them to drive to Flixcombe. This news is sobering. It means that he isn’t at all sure about Franklin, about the way he might react if things get sticky. By now, thanks to the map in the library, H knows the area around Beaufort House by heart. There’s a sawmill half a mile from the estate where the van can park up. He’ll brief the guys beforehand. A phone call is all they’ll need should the evening get out of hand.
‘One favour, yeah?’ We’re in the kitchen, finishing lunch. ‘Give the guy a ring. Tell him it’s the two of us.’
I phone Franklin once H has gone. When I confirm I’d love to come across this evening, he seems genuinely pleased.
‘You’ll love it,’ he says. ‘It’s something special, believe me.’
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