Sean Dillon 3-Book Collection 1: Eye of the Storm, Thunder Point, On Dangerous Ground. Jack Higgins
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wasn’t the same. It was poor land there. It was hard work to make any kind of living and it showed in the people, my mother, for instance. It was as if they’d been to war and lost and there was nothing to look forward to.’
‘You’ve got a way with the words, girl,’ he told her.
‘My English teacher used to say that. She said if I worked hard and studied I could do anything.’
‘Well that must have been a comfort.’
‘It didn’t do me any good. My stepfather just saw me as an unpaid farm labourer. That’s why I left.’
The lights picked out a sign that said Grimethorpe Airfield, the paintwork peeling. Dillon turned into a narrow tarmac road that was badly potholed. A few moments later, they came to the airfield. There were three hangars, an old control tower, a couple of Nissen huts, a light at the windows of one of them. A Jeep was parked there and Dillon pulled in beside it. As they got out, the door of the Nissen hut opened and a man stood there.
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me, Mr Grant, Angel Fahy. I’ve brought someone to see you.’
Grant, like most pilots, was small and wiry. He looked to be in his mid-forties, wore jeans and an old flying jacket of the kind used by American aircrews in the Second World War. ‘You’d better come in, then.’
The interior of the Nissen hut was warm, heated by a coke-burning stove, the pipe going up through the roof. Grant obviously used it as a living room. There was a table with the remains of a meal on it, an old easy chair by the stove facing a television set in the corner. Beneath the windows on the other side there was a long sloping desk with a few charts.
Angel said, ‘This is a friend of my uncle’s.’
‘Hilton,’ Dillon said, ‘Peter Hilton.’
Grant put his hand out, looking wary. ‘Bill Grant. I don’t owe you money, do I?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’ Dillon was back in his public school role.
‘Well that makes a nice change. What can I do for you?’
‘I want a charter in the next few days. Just wanted to check if you might be able to do something before I tried anywhere else.’
‘Well that depends.’
‘On what? You do have a plane, I take it?’
‘I’ve got two. The only problem is how long the bank lets me hang on to them. Do you want to have a look?’
‘Why not?’
They went out, crossed the apron to the end hangar and he opened a Judas so they could step through. He reached to one side, found a switch and lights came on. There were two planes there, side by side, both twin-engines.
Dillon walked up to the nearest. ‘I know this baby, a Cessna Conquest. What’s the other?’
‘Navajo Chieftain.’
‘If things are as tricky as you say, what about fuel?’
‘I always keep my planes juiced up, Mr Hilton, always full tanks. I’m too old a hand to do otherwise. You never know when a job might come up.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Mind you, I’ll be honest. What with the recession, there aren’t too many people looking for charters these days. Where would you like me to take you?’
‘Actually I was thinking of going for a spin myself one day,’ Dillon said. ‘I’m not sure when.’
‘You’re certified then?’ Grant looked dubious.
‘Oh, yes, fully.’ Dillon took out his pilot’s licence and passed it across.
Grant examined it quickly and handed it back. ‘You could handle either of these two, but I’d rather come myself, just to make sure.’
‘No problem,’ Dillon said smoothly. ‘It’s the West Country I was thinking of. Cornwall. There’s an airfield at Land’s End.’
‘I know it well. Grass runway.’
‘I’ve got friends near there. I’d probably want to stay overnight.’
‘That’s fine by me.’ Grant switched off the lights and they walked back to the Nissen hut. ‘What line are you in, Mr Hilton?’
‘Oh, finance, accountancy, that sort of thing,’ Dillon said.
‘Have you any idea when you might want to go? I should point out that kind of charter’s going to be expensive. Around two thousand five hundred pounds. With half a dozen passengers that’s not so bad, but on your own …’
‘That’s fine,’ Dillon said.
‘Then there would be my overnight expenses. A hotel and so on.’
‘No problem.’ Dillon took ten fifty-pound notes from his wallet and put them on the table. ‘There’s five hundred down. It’s a definite booking for sometime in the next four or five days. I’ll phone you here to let you know when.’
Grant’s face brightened as he picked up the bank notes. ‘That’s fine. Can I get you a coffee or something before you go?’
‘Why not?’ Dillon said.
Grant went into the kitchen at the far end of the Nissen hut. They heard him filling a kettle, Dillon put a finger to his lips, made a face at Angel and crossed to the charts on the desk. He went through them quickly, found the one for the general English Channel area and the French coast. Angel stood beside him watching as he traced his finger along the Normandy coast. He found Cherbourg and moved south. There it was, St Denis, with the landing strip clearly marked, and he pushed the charts back together. Grant in the kitchen had been watching through the half-open door. As the kettle boiled, he quickly made coffee in three mugs and took them in.
‘Is this weather giving you much trouble?’ Dillon said. ‘The snow?’
‘It will if it really starts to lay,’ Grant said. ‘It could make it difficult for that grass runway at Land’s End.’
‘We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed.’ Dillon put down his mug. ‘We’d better be getting back.’
Grant went to the door to see them off. They got in the Mini and drove away. He waved, closed the door and went to the desk and examined the charts. It was the third or fourth down, he was sure of that. General English Channel area and the French coast.
He frowned and said softly, ‘And what’s your game, mister, I wonder?’
As they drove back through the dark country lanes Angel said, ‘Not Land’s End at all, Mr Dillon, it’s that St Denis place in Normandy, that’s where you want to fly to.’
‘Our secret,’ he said and put his left hand on hers, still steering. ‘Can I ask you to promise me one thing?’
‘Anything, Mr Dillon.’
‘Let’s keep it to ourselves, just for now. I don’t want Danny to know. You do drive, do you?’
‘Drive? Of course I do. I take the sheep to market in the Morris van myself.’
‘Tell me, how would you like a trip up to London tomorrow morning with me, you and Danny?’
‘I’d like it fine.’
‘Good, that’s all right then.’
As they carried on through the night her eyes were shining.
9
It was a cold, crisp morning, winter on every hand, but the roads were clear as Dillon drove up to London, Angel and Danny Fahy following in the Morris van. Angel was driving and more than competently. He could see her in his rear-view mirror and she stayed right on his