The Burning Man

by Edward Figg

  ‘That’s correct, Mr Jones. The forensics taken from the site confirms those facts. We’re withholding his name for obvious reasons. Our priority at the moment is to locate any living relatives. They need to be informed first. We still have more inquiries to make yet. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you at the moment.’

  ‘Would I be right in saying his name was Robert Lang?’

  Turner, who had been rolling a pen back and forth across the desktop with his free hand, suddenly snapped back his head and momentarily froze. The pen slid off the desk and onto the floor. How the fuck did the man know that? he thought.

  ‘I take it from the deathly silence that it means I’m right? I’m right, yes? If that’s the case, then I think I can clear up a lot of this little mystery. I have all the evidence you need. How about if I pop down to Kingsport tomorrow and I’ll show you what I’ve got? Even if you don’t find any living relatives, at least he’ll no doubt end up with a full military funeral. With the information I have here in front of me, we’re in a position to change history by putting a terrible injustice to rights. That man was not a deserter, and we can now restore his good name and set the records straight.’

  ‘Well, all this sounds very interesting. You have me intrigued. If what you’re saying about the evidence is true, Mr Jones. I’d be most pleased to see what you have. I shall be here all day. When you come in tomorrow, ask for me at the front desk.

  ‘I look forward to it. Until tomorrow then.’ The line went dead.

  Turner sat thinking. He held the receiver in his hand for a full minute, tapping it against his cheek before he put it back on its rest. What the hell did he mean by we are in a position to change history by setting a terrible injustice to rights, he wondered.

  It was just after two thirty when Carter walked up the steps and through the sliding doors into the Kent Street central reception area. Sergeant Tom Crane was nowhere in sight. The only sign he was not far away, was that the crossword page of the Kingsport Advertiser lay open on the counter.

  He made his way through the security door and up the stairs to the CID office.

  Walking passed Bill Turner’s desk, he stopped. ‘Bill, how are you going with that Canadian pilot thing?’

  He looked up at Carter. ‘I’ve been onto the National Archives and gave them what details I have. I’m waiting to hear back from them. I did an online search and came up with four R. Lane’s, RFC. I do have other lines of inquiries, the Defence Department and the RAF records. ‘How far do you want me to go with this, guv? It might be a long job.’

  ‘Give it a few more days, Bill, and maybe they can come up with some relatives somewhere. It would be nice to close the file with a happy ending. God knows they’re few and far between these days,’ he sighed. ‘If you come up empty, we’ll hand the lot over to the Canadian Consulate — let them deal with it.’

  ‘One other thing,’ said Turner, bending down and picking up the pencil from off the floor. ‘I’ve just had a call from that feller from the developers. That historian chappie over at Oare, Martin Jones. The one I was telling you about the other day. Well, it seems he’s got some info that might be useful. He’s coming in sometime tomorrow. It sounds as if he’s got some historical background stuff. How good it is, I don’t know,’

  ‘Okay. You deal with it. See what Jones has to say.’

  Carter strolled away to his office and started to take his raincoat off. He thought about getting some quiet time so he could finish off those personal assessments he’d started on the night before.

  Luke Hollingsworth came and tapped lightly on the door frame. ‘Can I see you for a sec’, guv? It’s about these break-ins.’

  ‘Yes, Luke,’ he said, hanging up his coat. ‘Come in and shut the door.’ Carter went around his desk and sat down.

  ‘I’d like to pull all the CCTV security videos from the mall.’ He set about explaining what he had in mind.

  After a few minutes, Carter said, ‘Okay, if you think that would help then I’ll have a word with Inspector McPhee as well and see if he can spare the two of them for a few hours. Leave it with me.’

  ‘Great. Thanks, boss.’ He turned and walked out.

  Carter came out from behind his desk, walked over, shut the door and pulled down the blinds.

  Everyone out in the outer office knew the sign. It was Carter’s way of saying, “Do Not Disturb.” He went back to his desk, settled down and opened the file.

  Some three hours later, with all the paperwork sitting in the out tray, Carter walked into the bar of the Black Bear and ordered half a lager and a packet of crisps. While he waited, he scanned the faces of the drinkers in the bar. Not too many in tonight. Apart from Luke Hollingsworth and Jill Richardson, who were over in the corner booth, there were three women dressed in business suits sitting near the open fire and the two barristers he’d seen in the place the week before. They were seated at the same table as last time. Both were drinking cocktails from tall, slender glasses.

  George Sutton came back with his order. ‘So, how’s it going, Bob? Keeping you busy?’

  ‘Can’t complain, George,’ he said, unbuttoning his raincoat. ‘I would have thought you’d have been busier what with the soccer match on telly later.’ He looked up at the clock behind the bar. ‘I should be home just in time for the kick-off.’

  ‘The big telly packed up,’ he said. ‘I’ve lost all me regulars to the White Horse tonight. Gone over there to watch the game. Even the bloody darts team have deserted me. People don’t seem to have any loyalties these days.’

  One of the women from the fireside table came over to the bar. She had the air of one used to prompt service, her face poised to give her order and her manicured hand already reaching into her leather handbag for a purse. She asked for three white wines. She gave Carter a furtive smile and turned away. She looked very young and wouldn’t have looked out of place in a school uniform, yet she was dressed in a casually tailored suit and her hair was salon-perfect. George moved down the bar to take her order, his eyes dropping only momentarily to her low-cut neckline. He put her drinks on a tray then came back.

  ‘As I was about to say, I’ve had to order a new one but can’t get it until the bleeding weekend. In the meantime, I’ve had to make do with that fart arse little thing on the wall over there,’ George said, pointing through to the Sportsmen’s Bar. ‘I’ve got a much bigger one going up in there.’ He sauntered off down the end of the bar and gathered up some empty glasses and put them in the washer.

  Carter took a mouthful of beer, then went over to join the others in the booth. They shuffled up to make room for him.

  ‘You’ve just missed Marcia and Mike Reid, sir,’ said Hollingsworth, swirling the last of his Guinness around the bottom of the glass.

  ‘Not a problem, Luke. I wasn’t intending on staying long. I just popped in for a quick half before heading off home.’ He tore open the packet of crisps and popped some in his mouth, then offered the packet to the others. Richardson shook her head.

  Hollingsworth dipped in. ‘Ta, guv.’

  Carter took another sip of beer, then said to Hollingsworth, ‘That little chat earlier on today about those videos. George over there has just been telling me he has got to collect a big new TV on Friday. He didn’t say, but I’m presuming he’s getting it from that big electrical store in the mall. It might not be a bad idea if one of you two was to tag along and keep an eye on things. You never know, you might get lucky and spot something. It’s a big unit so it might attract the attention of our thief if he’s out there prowling around.’

  Richardson and Hollingsworth exchanged glances, slowly nodding at one another. Each one was waiting for the other to say something.

  In the end, it was Jill Richardson who spoke. She turned to Carter and said, ‘Sounds a good idea. If we haven’t had any luck by then, we’ll do that. You never know, we might get a result.’ She turned and looked at Hollingsworth. ‘You might even have time to do a bit of shopping as well while you�
�re at it.’ she smiled.

  ‘I thought that was more in your line, Jill?’ he said.

  ‘I’m not a great lover of mall shopping. Too many people.’ She turned back to Carter. ‘I’ll check with George a little later and have a word with him.’

  Carter drained the last of his drink and stood up. ‘Good. That’s that settled then.’ He buttoned up his raincoat and pushed the half-eaten packet of crisps across to Hollingsworth. ‘Time I was off.’ He looked down at them. ‘Don’t stay up too late, children, you’ve got work in the morning. Night all.’

  Hollingsworth went over to the bar to order another round of drinks, leaving Carter heading for the door, He called goodnight to George Sutton, and, as he drew level with the three lady drinkers, the one from the bar lifted her head and gave him a seductive smile. He acknowledged her briefly with a sharp nod of the head and walked out into the night.

  Chapter 19

  Wednesday 10:30 a.m.

  ‘I’m sorry I took so long, Mr Jones, but there was a bit of queue in the cafeteria,’ said Detective Constable Bill Turner, moving some magazines and putting the tray down on the table. ‘Please help yourself to sugar. Thank you for coming in — it’s appreciated.’ Turner made himself comfortable in one of the armchairs of the “Casual Interview Suite”. Jones helped himself to a coffee and selected a chocolate biscuit from the plate.

  Bill Turner looked at the bulging folder that lay on the table in front of him. ‘So, is that the evidence you were talking about yesterday? There seems to be a lot of it,’ he said, indicating it with his head.

  ‘A lot of it is irrelevant. But most of what we want lies in here. It’s history. Once I saw that newspaper article, I knew it had to be him,’ said Jones, stirring his coffee. ‘It excited me. I’ve taken out all the relevant paperwork about Robert Lang but think it’s best if I start right from the beginning.’

  Turner nodded and watched as Jones opened up the folder and rifled through the contents, taking out some of the papers.

  ‘Most of these belonged to my grandfather,’ said Jones. He was a motor mechanic, and he joined the Royal Flying Corps in 1917 at the age of seventeen. Grandad became an aircraft mechanic with number 63 Training Squadron stationed at Joyce Green Aerodrome near Dartford. He was the same squadron as Lieutenant Lang. Lang was stationed there as a flying instructor.’

  ‘A flying instructor,’ repeated Turner writing down the details.

  ‘Well, after the war, Grandfather started to write the history of the squadron. These are the notes and diaries he kept during his time there. Hence all this lot. He died in 1990. It’s a shame, really, that none of this ever got published. I think it would make a great story. I remember when I was a boy growing up, he’d often tell me all about it.’ He dunked the biscuit into his coffee and bit into it.

  He selected one of the papers and handed it across to Turner.

  ‘Lane was a bit of a rabble-rouser and a troublemaker. He survived the Western Front. That was a feat in itself because back then, the life expectancy of a pilot was six weeks. He continually wrote to the war office trying to get the airfield moved to a new location because of its position and all the structures around the aerodrome. It was considered unsafe for pilot training. But what he did, he did for his pupils.

  The aircraft of the day were not all that reliable. Lang sent off many reports saying that trainee pilots taking off and developing engine problems had to choose, depending on which way the wind was blowing, between drowning in the Thames or crashing into the Vickers TNT factory. Imagine what would happen if that occurred. Another choice was sinking into an extensive sewage farm just outside the perimeter or killing oneself and the patients by crashing into a nearby hospital.’

  He paused for breath. ‘There was also the possibility of electrocution by landing on the local power station which was full of pylons and cables. Several high chimney stacks also presented more obstacles. If they had engine problems, some pupils tried to do tight turns and get back to the aerodrome. Unfortunately, many novice pilots tried this, but they stalled the engine and spun to their deaths.’

  ‘Joyce Green sounds a right death trap,’ said Turner, picking up and sipping his coffee.

  ‘There were a lot of death and injuries — they’re all documented,’ said Jones, putting down his cup. ‘He reckoned it was only a matter of time before someone hit one of those structures. But now comes the interesting part.’ He flipped through some more pages.

  Turner was now seeing Martin Jones in a new light. He was fired up and full of energy. He wasn’t the same dull man he’d met at the construction site. He was a man on a mission.

  ‘In September 1917, after three pilots died in one day, he refused to train any more. He was brought up on charges and sentenced to a court-martial for insubordination, neglect of duty, so on and so forth. In the meantime, he was to be transferred out to number 20 Training Squadron at Wye, just outside of Ashford. There he was to be assigned to ground duties. Two days later, on the 26th, just on dusk, he took off for Wye. He never made it. A duck hunter found his aircraft the following day out on the marshes at Oare. It had come down in one piece. There were no signs of Lang, but they did find some footprints leading away from the crash site. A local paper got a picture of it.’ He pulled out a newspaper cutting and handed it to Turner.

  Turner looked at the picture. It was dated September 28th, 1917. It was from the Thanet Advertiser. It showed a Sopwith Camel standing on its nose and a group of uniformed men beside it. The caption beneath it read, Aircraft crashes. There was a brief description of where the plane had come down and little else.

  ‘They haven’t given the pilot’s name. Censorship maybe?’ said Turner, handing it back and standing up. The room had started to get stuffy. He loosened his tie, then went over to the window and opened it, letting in a steady stream of fresh air. He came back and sat down.

  ‘There’s was a good reason for that. That picture was taken two days after the crash. By then, and because they thought Lang was running away from the court-martial, they posted him as a deserter. If you look again at that picture, you can see the top of a sailing barge in the background. It’s that same channel they filled back in the ’20s. The same piece of land we are now building on. By the way, that man standing by the wing is my grandfather.’

  Turner took another look at the picture, silent and thinking. After a few seconds, he sucked in his breath and said. ‘So, here we have a man whose plane has just crashed. He’s staggering around in the dark in a dazed, injured and confused state and walks straight into the water. With what we now know, this all makes a lot of sense. This has not been made public, Mr Jones, but we know that he had a cracked tibia. That would have happened in the crash. Now, that alone would have made it very painful to walk. He’d also have been wearing heavy flying gear.’ Turner suddenly remembered the bits of leather found at the site. A long coat. ‘That would have weighed him down.’

  ‘So now you see what I meant about you righting a wrong. Lang didn’t desert — he drowned. The charges of desertion brought against him should be retracted, and the records set straight,’ said Jones, closing the folder.

  ‘It’s your grandfather who should take a lot of the credit for all this,’ said Turner, indicating the folder. ‘If it hadn’t had been for him, then none of this would have come to light, and no one would have been any the wiser.’

  ‘So, what do you intend to do, now that you have all the facts?’ asked Jones.

  ‘Depends if they find relatives or not. If they do, they might want him buried here, or they might want him shipped back to Canada.’

  Jones suddenly became alert and lifted his head up in surprise said. ‘Canada. Why Canada?’

  ‘Because that’s where he came from,’ replied Turner.

  Jones screwed up his face. ‘What on earth gave you that idea?’

  ‘Among his remains, forensics found parts of a corroded pocket watch. From the inscription where they managed to lift most of the nam
e. There was also an emblem. Part of a maple leaf.’

  He rifled through his folder and took out several photos and passed them over to Jones, who examined them, then leant forward in the chair and, giving a soft chuckle, said, ‘A maple leaf?’ He shook his head from side to side. ‘No. I don’t think so. Lang was born and bred in Dublin. He was as Irish as a pint of Guinness. And as for your maple leaf — I think you’ll find it’s a shamrock.’

  Turner took back the forensic photos of the watch and studied them carefully. He snorted in agreement and slowly nodded his head. They’d got it wrong. Forensics had got it wrong. Not surprising really. It was an easy mistake to make.

  ‘In the light of your evidence, I think you’re right. It is a shamrock.’

  ‘I can see how it could have been mistaken for a Canadian maple leaf,’ Jones said, ‘especially in the corroded state it’s in.’

  Turner scribbled some notes on the back of the photos, then slipped them back into his folder.

  ‘If you really wanted to get more confirmation, you could. If you look closely at the newspaper photo, you will see a serial number on the tail of the plane. You could trace the plane and the pilot who flew it that day from records!’

  ‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I think we have all that we need here. Thanks to your grandfather, I think we can now close the file on Robert Lang and let him rest in peace. From what you have given me here, it proves beyond all shadow of a doubt — Lieutenant Robert Lang was no deserter.’

  Both men sat in silence for a minute. The only sound to be heard was that from the traffic outside in the street as it passed below the open window.

  ‘If I can have copies of those, I’ll add them to my report and make sure all the proper authorities get a copy. You’ve been a great help.’ He leaned over the table and shook Jones by the hand. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘I have one request,’ Jones said, as they walked out of the room. ‘When the time comes, I would like to attend the funeral. I think I owe him that much. He should have someone there.’