The Final Flight by James Blatch (books to read in your 30s .TXT) 📗

then suspicious. “If you must.”

“Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, boss. I’d like to go home to Mary. I found the interview rather upsetting.”

Kilton moved aside.

In the car park, he started up the Healey and sped out, thankfully avoiding a car search.

On the way into the village he pulled over into a long lay-by with a phone box.

He dialled the operator. “Yes, I need a bed and breakfast called Prickwillow.”

“In which area?”

“Try Amesbury.”

A few seconds of pages turning.

“Nothing listed, I’m afraid. Would you like me to look further afield? How about Andover?”

“Yes, please. It’s urgent.”

Seconds ticked by. More pages turning. Other operators in the background.

“Sorry, sir. There’s a Willows Surgery in Andover, but nothing like Prickwillow.”

His heart sunk.

“I could try Salisbury?”

“Yes, please.”

“Hold on.”

The line went quiet. More seconds went by. He couldn’t get the image out of his mind: Susie tipping the box onto a raging fire.

 “Please… hurry up,” he said to the silence.

The line opened again. “Sorry about that. I had to get a different directory. Now, let’s have a look. Porch Hall, Practice… Ah, Prickwillow Bed and Breakfast. It’s Salisbury 2197. Would you like me to connect you?”

“Can you give me the address first?”

“Bell View Road. I’ll connect you now.”

He waited as the line clicked and whirred. The phone rang four times with agonising pauses between each tone. A woman answered, but the pips interrupted her.

He pulled out a handful of coins; several clattered to the floor. He fumbled a tuppence into the slot, pushing it hard against the clunky mechanism.

“Susie?”

“Do you mean Miss Attenborough?”

He didn’t even know her surname. And what if she’d made up a first name?

“Susie Attenborough,” said the woman. “Is that who you mean?”

“Yes. Yes, please.”

“Please wait.”

The phone went down, but was quickly picked up again. “Sorry, who shall I say is calling?”

“Rob,” he said, immediately wondering if he was breaking all her rules.

The phone went down again. In the background he heard a tap on a door and a mumbled exchange.

A moment later, Susie’s voice appeared on the line, bright and friendly.

“Hello?”

“Have you burned the stuff?”

“Oh, hello, Robert. How are you? Everything OK?”

“Have you burned the stuff? Please tell me you haven’t.”

“It’s all fine here, thank you. No fires. Ha ha. How’s your father?”

Rob was at a loss. How to take part in this conversation… Clearly the landlady was listening in.

“So you haven’t burned the stuff?”

“No, no. Not yet. The weather’s been lovely, hasn’t it? How’s it looking over there?”

“It’s all changed. They’re pressing on with the project. They’ve blamed Millie for the crash. I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet of you, but really. You didn’t have to. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I buy the drinks next time? I’ve been going to a very nice place in Salisbury. Do you know The Haunch of Venison? It’s quite famous.”

“Yes, yes. I do. When?”

“Oh, you know. The usual. Same, same. Anyway, we mustn’t chat on like this, it must be costing you a fortune. Do give my love to Sandra. Byeeee!”

She hung up.

His hand shook as he replaced the receiver.

Same, same.

7.30PM sharp?

He looked at his watch; it was nearly 5PM.

At dinner, he wrestled with the idea of telling Mary everything.

But he decided news of a secret meeting with a young, attractive woman might not go down well and he didn’t need any more complications.

“I’ve got to head off to the mess. I promised the boys.”

“OK,” Mary replied and smiled at him.

He paced the garden, willing away the minutes. At one point he caught Mary staring at him from the dining room.

Susie’s admonishing first words came to him.

Act normally.

The Haunch of Venison was packed. It was a small pub and 7.20PM on a Friday was the middle of the overlap period, mixing office workers and Friday night revellers.

Smoke stung his eyes as he pushed his way to the bar.

The landlord, with reading glasses on a chain around his neck, poured a succession of pints before he caught Rob’s eye.

“I’ll be with you in a moment, sir.”

“Thank you.”

A voice piped up beside him. “Bloody Friday nights.”

It was Susie. Still blonde. She flashed a smile.

“The usual?” he asked.

“Yes, please. Why not make it a pint? It’ll take a while to get back to the bar.”

“A pint?”

Rob couldn’t remember ever seeing a woman with a whole pint.

A group of drinkers had spilled onto the pavement outside and they headed out with them. A couple of men were clearly taken by this slim blonde with a pint of Guinness.

They walked along the Tudor exterior of the pub and found themselves a quiet spot.

“So, what’s changed?” she asked.

“I had my Board of Inquiry interview today.”

“I see. And who runs that?”

“A group captain. They always appoint someone more senior than anyone on board. Anyway, it was all awful, going through it again. But at the end, he said it wasn’t Guiding Light that caused the crash.”

Susie didn’t look surprised.

“Did he say what did cause it?”

“Millie.”

“I’m sorry?”

“He’s going to blame Millie. He says the master switch on Millie’s Guiding Light panel was off.”

“So who was flying the aircraft?”

“That’s just it. No-one. If that was the case, and I’m bloody certain it wasn’t. But if Millie had switched it off, the aircraft would have reverted to manual control. Unfortunately, on this version of the equipment, there’s no alarm that goes off to alert us that the autopilot’s been cancelled. So in theory, the Vulcan just drifts without any input from the crew. In our case, he’s going to say it must have drifted lower until we glanced off the rocks, ripping the elevons off on one side.”

Susie looked puzzled.

“So what’s this group captain’s theory? That Millie did it deliberately?”

“That’s one option, although he says he’s minded to leave it out. But someone, and by someone I mean Mark Kilton, must have suggested to him that Millie did it to trigger a manual intervention from us, which he’d then blame on Guiding Light to prove his point. It’s a neat theory, I’ll give him that.”

“Rob,