As the Crow Flies (89 page)

It
was the word “local” that worried Charlie.

Once
they had disembarked from the plane, Charlie ran from airline counter to airline
counter trying to find out if there were any flights bound for anywhere in
Europe due out of New Delhi that night. He quickly discovered that the only
flight due out that night was destined for Sydney. He began to pray for the
speed and efficiency of Indian engineers.

Charlie
sat in a smoke-filled waiting lounge, leafing through magazine after magazine,
sipping soft drink after soft drink, as he waited for any information he could
garner on the fate of Flight 102. The first news he picked up was that the
chief engineer had been sent for.

“Sent
for?” said Charlie. “What does that mean?”

“We
have sent a car for him,” explained a smiling airport official in a clipped
staccato accent.

“Sent
a car?” said Charlie. “But why isn’t he at the airport where he’s needed?”

“It’s
his day off.”

“And
haven’t you got any other engineers?”

“Not
for a job this big,” admitted the harassed official.

Charlie
slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “And where does the chief
engineer live?”

“Somewhere
in New Delhi,” came back the reply. “But don’t you worry yourself, sir, we
should have him back within the hour.”

The
trouble with this country, thought Charlie, is they tell you exactly what they
think you want to hear.

For
some reason the same official was unable to explain later why it had taken two
hours to locate the chief engineer, a further hour to bring him back to the
airport and yet another fifty minutes before he discovered the job would
require a full team of three qualified engineers, who had themselves recently
signed off for the evening.

A
rickety old bus delivered all the passengers from Flight 102 to the Taj Mahal
Hotel in the center of the city where Charlie sat on his bed and spent most of
the night once more attempting to make contact with Becky. When he eventually
succeeded in reaching her he was cut off even before he had time to explain
where he was. He didn’t bother to try and sleep.

When
the bus dropped them back at the airport the following morning the Indian
airport official was there to greet them, his large smile still in place.

“The
plane will take off on time,” he promised.

On
time, thought Charlie; in normal circumstances he would have laughed.

The
plane did take off an hour later and when Charlie inquired of the purser at
what hour they expected to land at Heathrow he was told at some time Saturday
midmorning: it was hard to be precise.

When
the aircraft made a further unscheduled landing at Leonardo da Vinci on
Saturday morning Charlie telephoned Becky from the airport. He didn’t even give
her time to speak. “I’m in Rome,” he said, “and I’ll need Stan to pick me up
from Heathrow. As I can’t be sure what time I’ll arrive, tell him to go out to
the airport right now and sit tight. Got that?”

“Yes,”
said Becky.

“And
I’ll also need Baverseock back in his office, so if he’s already disappeared
off to the country for the weekend ask him to drop everything and return to
London.”

“You
sound a little harassed, dear.”

“Sorry,”
said Charlie. “It’s not been the easiest of journeys.”

With
the picture under one arm and no interest as to what was wrong with the
aircraft this time or where his suitcase might end up, he took the first
European flight available that afternoon for London, and once it had taken off
checked his watch every ten minutes. When the pilot crossed the English Channel
at eight o’clock that evening, Charlie felt confident that four hours would
still be ample time for him to register Cathy’s claim so long as Becky had
cracked down Baverseock.

As
the plane began to circle London in a familiar holding pateem Charlie looked
out of the little oval window and seared down at the snakelike Thames.

It
was another twenty minutes before the lights of the runway glared up in two
straight lines at Charlie, followed by a puff of smoke as the wheels couched
the ground and the plane taxied to its alloted gate. The doors of the aircraft
were finally opened at eight twenty-nine.

Charlie
grabbed the picture and ran all the way to passport control and on through
customs.

He
didn’t stop until he saw a telephone box, but as he hadn’t any coins to make a
local call he told the operator his name and asked to transfer the charge. A
moment later he was put through.

“Becky,
I’m at Heathrow. Where’s Baverstock?”

“On
his way back from Tewkesbury. Expects to be in his office around nine-thirty,
latest ten.”

“Good,
then I’ll come straight home. I should be with you in about forty minutes.”

Charlie
slammed down the phone, checked his watch and realized that he hadn’t left
himself enough time to phone Dr. Atkins. He ran out onto the pavement, suddenly
aware of the chill breeze. Stan was waiting by the car for him. Over the years
the former sergeant major had become accustomed to Charlie’s impatience and
drove him smoothly through the outskirts of London ignoring the speed limit
until they reached Chiswick after which only a motorbike could have been
stopped for speeding. Despite the teeming rain he had his boss back at Eaton
Square by nine-sixteen.

Charlie
was about halfway through telling a silent Becky all he had discovered in
Australia when Baverstock phoned to say he was back at his office in High
Holborn. Charlie thanked him, passed on his nephew’s best wishes and then
apologized for ruining his weekend.

“You
won’t have ruined it if your news is positive,” said Baverstock.

“Guy
Trentham had another child,” said Charlie.

“I
didn’t imagine that you’d dragged me back from Tewkesbury to tell me the latest
test score from Melbourne,” said Baverstock. “Male or female?”

“Female.”

“Legitimate
or illegitimate?”

“Legitimate.”

“Then
she can register her claim with the estate at any time before midnight.”

“She
has to register her claim with you in person?”

“That
is what the will stipulates,” said Baverstock. “However, if she’s still in
Australia she can register with Trevor Roberts, as I’ve given him... “

“No,
she’s in England and I’ll have her in your office by midnight.”

“Good.
By the way, what’s her name?” asked Baverstock. “Just so that I can prepare the
paperwork.”

“Cathy
Ross,” said Charlie. “But ask your nephew to explain everything as I haven’t a
moment to spare,” he added, replacing the receiver before Baverstock could
react. He ran out into the hall searching for Becky.

“Where’s
Cathy?” he shouted, as Becky appeared at the top of the stairs.

“She
went to a concert at the Festival Hall. Mozart, I think she said, with some new
beau from the City.”

“Right,
let’s go,” said Charlie.

“Go?”

“Yes,
go,” said Charlie at the top of his voice. He had already reached the door and
climbed into the back seat of the car before he realized there was no driver.

He
jumped out and was on his way back to the house as Becky came rushing out in
the opposite direction.

“Where’s
Stan?”

“Probably
having some supper in the kitchen.”

“Right,”
said Charlie, passing over his own keys. “You drive, I’ll talk... “

“But
where are we off to?”

“The
Festival Hall.”

“Funny,”
Becky said, “after all these years and I had no idea you cared for Mozart.” As
she took her seat behind the wheel Charlie ran round to join her in the front.
She pulled out and moved deftly through the evening traffic as Charlie
continued to explain the full implications of his discoveries in Australia and
how imperative it was that they find Cathy before midnight. Becky listened
intently but made no attempt to inrerrupt her husband’s flow.

By
the time Charlie asked her if she had any questions they were crossing
Westminster Bridge, but Becky still remained silent.

Charlie
waited for a few moments before he demanded, “Have you nothing to say?”

“Yes,”
said Becky. “Don’t let’s make the same mistake with Cathy as we did with
Daniel.”

“Namely?”

“Fail
to tell her the whole truth.”

“I’ll
have to speak to Dr. Atkins before I can even consider taking that risk,” said
Charlie. “But our more immediate problem is to make sure she registers in time.”

“Not
to mention the even more immediate problem of where you expect me to leave the
car,” said Becky as they swung left into Belvedere Road and on towards the
entrance of the Royal Festival Hall with its double yellow lines and “No
Parking” signs.

“Right
outside the front door,” said Charlie, which Becky obeyed without question.

As
soon as the car had come to a halt Charlie jumped out, ran across the pavement
and pushed through the glass doors.

“What
time does the concert end?” he asked the first uniformed official he spotted.

“Ten
thirty-five, sir, but you can’t leave your car there.”

“And
where’s the manager’s office?”

“Fifth
floor, turn right, second door on the left as you get out of the lift. But...”

“Thank
you,” shouted Charlie, already running past him towards the lift. Becky had
just about caught up with her husband by the time the light above thelift
indicated G.

“Your
car, sir “ said the doorman, but the lift doors were already closing on the
gesticulating official.

When
the lift doors slid apart at the fifth floor Charlie jumped out, looked right
and saw a door to his left marked “Manager.” He knocked once before charging
in, to find two men dressed in dinner jackets enjoying a cigarette and
listening to the concert over an intercom. They turned to see who had
interrupted them.

“Good
evening, Sir Charles,” said the taller of the two as he rose, stubbed out his
cigarette, and stepped forward. Jackson. I’m the theater manager. Can I help
you in any way?”

“I
only hope so, Mr. Jackson,” said Charlie. “I have to get a young lady out of
your concert hall as quickly as possible. It’s an emergency.”

“Do
you know her seat number?”

“No
idea.” Charlie looked towards his wife, who only shook her head.

“Then
follow me,” said the manager, who strode straight out of the door and back
towards the lift. When the doors reopened the first official Charlie had come
across was now standing in front of them.

“Any
problems, Ron?”

“Only
that this gentleman’s left his car bang outside the front door, sir.”

“Then
keep an eye on it, will you, Ron?” The manager pressed the third-floor button
and, turning to Becky, asked, “What was the young lady wearing?”

“A
burgundy dress with a white cape,” said Becky urgently.

“Well
done, madam,” said the manager. He stepped out of the lift and led them quickly
through to a side entrance adjoining the ceremonial box. Once inside Mr.
Jackson removed a small picture of the Queen opening the building in 1957 and
flicked back a disguised shutter so that he could observe the audience through
a one-way mirror. “A security precaution in case there’s ever any trouble,” he
explained. The manager then unhooked two pairs of opera glasses from
theirlittle stands under the balcony and handed one each to Charlie and Becky.

“It
you can locate where the lady is seated, one of my staff will discreetly pull
her out.” He turned to listen to the strains of the final movement for a few
seconds before adding, “You’ve got about ten minutes before the concert ends,
twelve at the most. There are no encores planned for tonight.”

“You
take the stalls, Becky, and I’ll cover the dress circle.” Charlie began to
focus the little opera glasses on the audience seated below them.

They
both covered the one thousand, nine hundred seats, first quickly then slowly up
and down each row. Neither could spot Cathy in the stalls or dress circle.

“Try
the boxes on the other side, Sir Charles,” suggested the manager.

Two
pairs of glasses swung over to the far side of the cheater. There was still no
sign of Cathy, so Charlie and Becky turned their attention back to the main
auditorium, once again scanning quickly over the seats.

The
conductor brought his baton down for the final time at ten thirty-two and the
applause followed in waves as Charlie and Becky searched the standing throng
until the lights eventually went up and the audience began to make their way
out of the theater.

“You
keep on looking, Becky. I’ll go out front and see if I can spot them as they’re
leaving.” He dashed out of the ceremonial box and down the stairs followed by
Jackson, nearly knocking over a man who was leaving the box below them. Charlie
turned to apologize.