Permissible Limits (67 page)

Saying goodbye at the front door, Perry had the grace - rather late in the day - to sympathise.

‘
Try and put it behind you,’ he said, ‘Sort out something to take your mind off it.’

We were standing beside the oil painting of the Mustang. Briefly, I told him about the Goodwood air show.

‘
Sounds perfect.’ Perry was still hunting for his car keys. ‘I might even pop over myself with the kids.’

Two days later, a little
before
three in the afternoon, I was sitting in the Mustang, the canopy open, the sun beating down from a near-cloudless sky. My slot time for the show was
15.18.
In ten minutes’ time, I’d have to fire up the engine. By
15.15,
I’d be airborne.

The crowd were still swirling round the flight line, the dads with their cameras and their long lenses, the mums pushing buggies, the sniggering adolescents open-mouthed at the sight of a woman in a man’s aeroplane. The airfield manager had been right.
Ellie B
was
attracting a great deal more than her fair share
of
attention.

Earlier, at the prompting of the show’s organisers, I’d done a longish interview with a video crew from one of the local TV stations. They’d positioned me carefully in front of the big four-bladed propeller and asked me endless questions about how difficult it must be for a mere woman to cope with so much horsepower. I’d done my best to explain about the ATA girls who’d ferried these planes around during the war but they hadn’t listened, and in the end I’d given them the toss of the head and shots of me climbing into the cockpit that they’d so desperately wanted. The big story was little Ellie Bruce in this most macho of aeroplanes. Anything else was strictly for the birds.

The big story. I smiled to myself, wondering whether they’d ever know just how close they’d come to a real headline. The morning after DC Perry’s visit, I’d phoned Dennis in Jersey. At first, Dennis had been slow to see the implications - to recognise how neatly all the ends tied up - but as soon as I’d reminded him about the way that Harald Meyler had first stepped into our lives, I could hear the eagerness in his voice.

‘
He wanted to buy the plane outright, yeah?’

‘
Yes.’

‘
And he bid silly money?’ ‘Yes.’

‘
Because he already knew the history. Is that what you’re saying?’

‘
Absolutely. The rebuild had been in all the specialist mags. There were photos too, with the plane’s production number. Harald must have been looking for the aircraft for years. It happened to be us that found it first.’

‘
But Adam wouldn’t give him sole ownership?’

‘
Or even a majority share. So there had to be another way.’

On the phone, Dennis had whistled - a long, slow whistle that signalled disbelief as well as excitement. Would anyone be so crazy about an aeroplane that they’d kill for sole ownership? Wasn’t that pushing obsession a bit too far?

‘
It wasn’t just a plane, Dennis. It was the plane that had shot down his father. Harald was the only son. His mother told me that. He inherited a debt. He had to make restitution.’

‘
You mean a debt of blood?’

A debt
of
blood.
I thought of the phrase now, watching the Spitfires that preceded my own display running in from the east, four abreast. One by one they peeled off into long, climbing turns, and as the last soared upwards, I thought of Harald’s pre-flight briefings, the way he’d thrown down the gauntlet, daring me to join this strange brotherhood of warriors. Fighter pilots always keep the score, he’d said. Too damn right.

‘
So he killed Adam to get his hands on the Mustang?’

‘
Partly, yes.’

‘
And you.’

‘
Yes.’

At this point, Dennis had gone quiet. He was making notes. He needed the photo of Harald’s father. He’d be talking to Roper in the morning. If the issue was motivation, then I was right. No one said no to Harald Meyler. Not unless they wanted to end up at the bottom of the English Channel.

The Spitfires were back again, in long-line astern this time. They slow-rolled in front of the crowd, one after the other, and I could hear Elgar’s
Pomp and Circumstance
blasting out over the tannoy system.

This morning, Dennis had called back. Roper, he said, had been showing the video pictures to Steve Liddell and at last the young engineer had begun to talk. Michelle had been right about the security system. Steve had installed it because of the hangar fire, but after Adam had gone missing, it was days before he got round to reviewing the tapes. When he’d seen Harald planting the device in the Cessna and double-checked the date and the time, he’d drawn the obvious conclusion and then used the pictures to persuade Harald to bale him out with the insurers. That was blackmail, of course, but for the time being, Steve Liddell was back in business.

As a precaution, Steve had lodged a copy of the cassette with Michelle, knowing that she too had a financial link to Harald and might need to keep him in line. That was a neat twist, but I wasn’t at all sure about the wisdom of what Steve had done. In the short term, certainly, he was back on his feet but one day I knew that Harald would get round to settling that debt too. Dennis was right. Harald Meyler wasn’t someone you’d ever mess with. Not unless you had some kind of death wish.

‘
Did Roper mention the photo at all?’

‘
What photo?’

‘
The one I found in Adam’s desk. The one of Michelle.’

‘
Yeah.’ Dennis had laughed. ‘Turns out you were right. It was a shot from Liddell’s album. He wrote on the back and Meyler planted it for you to find.’

‘
Why?’

‘
Why?
Because you’d be his for the taking. Betrayed by your husband. Mega upset. Flat broke. Three good reasons for falling into the bastard’s arms. Clever, huh?’

I sat in the Mustang, staring out. The Spitfires were coming to the climax of their display, edging inwards into the Missing Man formation, their own tribute to the pilots who’d lost their lives in the Battle of Britain. On the tannoy, Elgar had given way to Churchill’s recorded voice, booming out over the heads of the watching crowd. The four Spits were flying slowly down the display line and the sight of the hole in the formation reserved for the missing pilot brought a lump to my throat. I thought of Adam’s memorial service and the lone Mustang as it breasted the down behind the little church, Harald up there at the controls. Afterwards, he’d winged the plane over, heading out to sea with my precious floral tribute. What had he been thinking about? Was there any hint of remorse? Of regret? Or was this just another test he’d had to put himself through? To prove that there was only room, in the end, for one top-dog?

Only Harald knew the answer to these questions, but when I asked Dennis for the latest news - whether or not he’d been arrested yet - he, like DC Perry, said it was only a matter of time. Harald had too much profile, too many international deals on the go, to simply disappear. Sooner or later he’d surface, and when that happened, the rest of it would be a formality.

‘
They’ll really lock him up?’

‘
Bound to.’

‘
You’re absolutely certain?’

‘
I guarantee it.’

The thought of Harald behind bars was some small consolation, and I watched the Spitfires breaking formation, thinking about his mother, Monica, back in the chill, shadowed spaces of the Casa Blanca. What would she make of it all? And what would she do without him?

The lead Spitfire rolled lazily off the top of a loop and then swooped down towards a landing. The pilot was an old friend of Adam’s, and I glimpsed a blur of white as he flashed past, waving to the crowd. I reached for the transmit button.

‘
Goodwood Tower, Golf Papa India. Clear start?’

‘
Golf Papa India, roger. Your display slot remains fifteen eighteen.’

I steadied the check list on my knee and began to go through the start-up procedure. One of the marshallers had shepherded the crowd back into the public enclosure and when the prop was clear I pushed the start switch. The big Merlin coughed a couple of times and then burst into life, and I tightened my harness, knowing that the next few minutes would demand my total concentration. The weather had brought a big crowd and I was determined to do the Mustang justice. Harald Meyler was at last behind me. Solo, in Adam’s precious aeroplane, it was time to settle some debts of my own. A woman could do this. A woman could fly like any man. Just watch.

I slipped the brake and inched the throttle forward. Bumping out over the grass, I weaved the Mustang left and right, aware of the crowd behind me. It was a calm, hot, cloudless day, virtually no wind at all, and we were taking off towards the west. I pulled the Mustang to a halt and went through the run-up checks before turning on to the runway. The canopy was still open and I could hear the commentator briefing the crowd as I did a last left-to-right scan of the instruments.
Ellie B
had seen active service with the mighty Eighth Air Force, he was saying. Her amazing range had taken her further than any other Allied fighter and the day Goering saw a Mustang over Berlin was the day he knew the war was lost.

‘
Ladies and gentlemen, Miss
Ellie B…’

Over the growl of the Merlin, I heard the faint ripple of applause.

I’d been meaning to give the commentator a copy of Ralph’s research but in the confusions of the last week or so it had somehow slipped my mind. Just as well, I thought, reaching for the throttle again. The last thing I needed was yet another reminder of Karel Brokenka’s finest hour.

‘
Goodwood Tower. Golf Papa India. Request take-off.’

‘
Golf Papa India. Take off at your discretion. Runway two four. Surface wind calm.’

I gave the seat harness a final tug, kissed the tip of my left forefinger and then reached for the throttle. I kept my toes on the pedal-ends while the revs built up, then slipped the brakes.
Ellie B
responded like a true thoroughbred. A third of the way down the grass runway, I lifted the tail. Seconds later, we were airborne.

The undercarriage retracted, I kept her low until we flashed over the grey ribbon of racetrack that marks the edge of the airfield. Then I raised the flaps and pulled hard on the stick, winging over into a steep climbing turn. Below me, away to the left, I could see the jigsaw of streets around Chichester Cathedral. Ahead was the startling white of the grandstand overlooking Goodwood racecourse. The airfield was down to the right now, the sun dancing over the thousands of windscreens in the car park. Between the car park and the flight line, the dark mass of the crowd.

I throttled back, taking my time, waiting for the diving turn that would bring me racing across the airfield for the run and break that opened my display. I’d been practising exactly this manoeuvre over my home field back in Sandown and I knew how important it was to get the run-in exactly right. Leave the turn too late and I’d flatten the dive way before I was anywhere near the airfield. Wing the Mustang
over too early, and
I’d be in
danger of overshooting.

I had my eyes fixed on a line of glasshouses about a mile east of the airfield. When they were in line with the cockpit, I smacked the stick over hard and squeezed in plenty of right rudder. For one glorious moment, the Mustang was vertical on its starboard wing. Then we were slanting down in a shallow turn while I trimmed and re-trimmed as the airfield rotated towards us. When the orange display line markers were perfectly aligned, I straightened up, checking my height and speed. The needle on the altimeter was dropping through 750 feet. With maximum boost
Ellie B
was nudging
330
m.p.h. At 400 feet, I levelled out, aware of the perimeter racetrack flashing past beneath. Perfect, I thought. Just perfect.

I sneaked a look at the crowd. They were down to the left, a blur of upturned faces. At
330
m.p.h., everything happens very fast, and seconds later I was hauling the aircraft up into the long climbing turn that fighter pilots use to shed speed. My next manoeuvre called for a slow pass, plenty of flap, undercarriage down, giving the punters a chance to have a proper look at my beautiful horse. I was still waiting for the speed to fall off when I saw something streak past. It happened again. Then a third time. I gazed at the little dots of yellow light as they disappeared in front of me. Under any other circumstances, I would have sworn they were tracer bullets.