19
SATURDAY 25TH JUNE
An elderly woman pushed an upright shopping trolley as she headed toward the newsagents. A tradesman drove by in a Morris Minor van. Two men passed each other walking their dogs.
Susie noted that both men had military haircuts.
Amesbury was busier than she expected for an early Saturday morning. Not ideal.
She glanced at the two military men again. Both slim. Neither matched the description of Squadron Leader Christopher Milford.
The church clock bells tolled 7.45AM. Susie kept close to the stone wall that ran around the elevated graveyard and dipped into the path that ran to the porch. Lifting the heavy metal latch, she slipped inside the Norman building, taking a pew immediately to her left.
She lowered herself into a praying position and monitored the entrance.
It was cool in the church. After a few minutes, her knees hurt, and she shifted back onto the wooden bench.
Another glance at her watch. 7.55AM.
Milford might arrive early.
She imagined a nervous man unaccustomed to stepping outside strict military protocols.
A copy of The Book of Common Prayer sat on a wooden ledge on the back of the pew in front. She browsed it, keeping the doorway in her peripheral vision.
Most of her field training anticipated the briefest of exchanges with other agents, or distanced observation of a mark. This was different; she’d been authorised to speak to an outsider.
An informant.
The CND sting had given her a taste for field work.
As the seconds ticked toward the appointed time, she went through her pre-contact checklist a final time.
Had the contact been followed? Would they be overheard? How reliable is he?
The bells tolled for 8AM.
The church stayed silent.
She frowned. She didn’t expect him to be late.
The standard operating procedure was to abandon a meeting the moment the mark failed to show, but she gave Milford some allowance. After all, he wasn’t an intelligence professional.
A bird flapped high up in the rafters.
After a few minutes, the door latch made a sharp metallic scrape which echoed around the empty church.
She startled as a man in a dog collar and long black cassock swept in.
He walked straight to the centre of the church and headed up the aisle, without glancing. She had chosen her position well.
Once his flowing frock disappeared into a room by the organ, she slipped out.
8.12AM.
Susie cursed her luck at the failed meeting, already anticipating the grief from Roger.
She crossed the road outside the church. More Amesbury folk were up and going about their Saturday morning. She walked over to the newsagent, picking up a copy of The Daily Telegraph from a rack outside before entering.
A man with a labrador was chatting to the ancient shop owner. She stood in line, occasionally glancing toward the church, just in case she saw a balding, slightly plump man who looked as if he was running late for a meeting.
“Not good. Not good.”
The man in front shook his head, gossiping with the owner.
He tapped the newspaper on the counter. “Happened in Wales, apparently, but they were all from around here.”
Susie ignored them. She might go home and snuggle down in an actual bed tonight. The thought made her feel warm.
“See you later, Peter.”
She set her paper down on the counter and pulled the change out of her pocket. As she did so, she noticed the picture on the bottom half of the front page: a grainy shot of twisted metal and the smoky remains of an RAF jet. The headline sat beneath the photograph.
RAF BOMBER CRASHES – THREE DEAD.
“Thruppence please, love.”
She held out the money as her eyes continued to scan the article. Below a brief paragraph describing the barest details were three pictures, each one an RAF officer in his peaked cap, looking proudly into the middle distance.
She read the names of the dead.
“Oh, shit”.
“I beg your pardon?” The shopkeeper looked shocked.
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, it’s thruppence, love.”
She stared at the man.
“Thruppence. That’s tuppence.” He pointed at Susie’s open hand. She dug into her pocket and pulled out a twelve-sided thruppence coin, dropped it onto the counter and hurried out of the shop.
Breaking into a fast walk, she headed back past the church, to the bench.
She unfolded the paper and stared at the face of Squadron Leader Christopher Milford.
Deceased.
He was more than just late for their meeting.
The article had almost no information.
A routine flight… the cause under investigation.
“Christ alive.”
The clock tolled for half past the hour.
Susie entered the phone box outside the newsagent and called Roger.
“My dear, how are the flower people?”
“We have a situation.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Christopher Milford, the RAF officer I was due to meet?”
“Due to meet? Don’t tell me you missed it. Did you oversleep in your tent?”
“Roger, he’s dead.”
There was a moment’s pause.
“How so?”
“He’s been named in the Telegraph as one of the crew killed in a crash, yesterday.”
“The Vulcan in Wales?”
“Yes.”
She heard shuffling and rustling on the other end of the line.
“Well, well. That’s interesting. Of course, it could be a coincidence.”
“Roger, we spent three years in training being taught the Service doesn’t believe in coincidences.”
“True. On the other hand, it could actually be a coincidence.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I obviously need to follow this up,” said Susie. “Who brought him in?”
“Stand by.”
She waited while he disappeared, presumably to dig out the file. Outside the phone box, a young woman with a pram had appeared. Susie smiled at her and made a motion with her hand to indicate that the call had some time to go. The woman pushed the pram off toward the newsagents.
Roger’s voice came back on the line. “He called us.”
“Really? No-one brought him in? That’s unusual, isn’t it? It’s not like we’re in the Yellow Pages. Someone must have given him a number and codename.”
“Well, whoever received the call didn’t ask him, unfortunately. I have the transcript. It was brief.”
“Damn.”
More rustling at the other end of the line.
“There is something here, though,” Roger said. “Have you read the report in the Express?”
“No. What does it say?”
“Check out the last line. It’s not much but might be a start. Meanwhile, I’ll send this up the pole. Give me an hour or two to find out what I can and call back.”
She replaced the handset and pushed the door open.
In the shop, she tapped the young mother on the shoulder.
“I’m all done.”
The woman gave her a wan smile. It looked like she might have been crying.
It was a small community and three people were dead.
She picked up a copy of the Express and took it to the counter.
“Ah, it’s sweary Mary,” the shop owner said when he saw her. “Can’t get enough of the news today, dear?” Susie passed over a tuppence coin.
As she walked out, she scanned the report, which was on page two. Again, it had little detail, but Roger was right. The last line was of interest.
There was one survivor.