As the Crow Flies Read online

  It was ironic, thought Charlie, that so much of what he had discovered in Australia had all the time been lodged in a file at Number 1 Chelsea Terrace, marked “Cathy Ross, job application.” But not the missing link. “Find that,” Roberts had said, “and you will be able to show the connection between Cathy Ross and Guy Trentham.” Charlie nodded in agreement.

  Lately Cathy had been able to recollect some memories from her past, but still nothing significant when it came to recalling her early days in Australia. Dr. Atkins continued to advise Charlie not to press her, as he was delighted with her progress, especially over her willingness to talk quite openly about Daniel. But if he were to save Trumper’s he surely had to press her now? He decided that one of the first calls he should make the moment the plane touched down on English soil would have to be to Dr. Atkins.

  “This is your captain speaking,” said a voice over the intercom. “I’m sorry to have to inform you that we have encountered a slight technical problem. Those of you seated on the right-hand side of the aircraft will be able to see that I have turned off one of the starboard engines. I can assure you that there is no need for any anxiety, as we still have three engines working at their full capacity and in any case this aircraft is capable of completing any leg of the journey on just one.” Charlie was pleased to learn this piece of news. “However,” continued the captain, “it is company policy, with your safety in mind, that when any such fault arises we should land at the nearest airport, in order that repairs can be carried out immediately.” Charlie frowned. “As we have not yet reached the halfway point on our outward leg of the journey to Singapore, I am advised by air traffic control that we must return to Melbourne at once.” A chorus of groans went up throughout the aircraft.

  Charlie made some hasty calculations about how much time he had to spare before he needed to be back in London, then he remembered that the aircraft he had been originally booked on was still due out of Melbourne at eight-twenty that night.

  He flicked open his seat belt, retrieved Cathy’s picture from the rack above him and moved across to the nearest available first-class seat to the cabin door, his mind now fully concentrated on the problems of getting himself rebooked on the BOAC carrier bound for London.

  Qantas Flight 102 touched down at Melbourne Airport at seven minutes past seven. Charlie was the first off the aircraft, running as fast as he could, but having to lug Cathy’s picture under one arm slowed him down and made it possible for several other passengers, who obviously had the same idea, to overtake him. However, once he’d reached the booking counter Charlie still managed to be eleventh in the queue. One by one the line shortened as those ahead of him were allocated seats. But by the time Charlie reached the front they could only offer him a standby. Despite pleading desperately with a BOAC official he could make no headway: there were several other passengers who felt it was every bit as important for them to be in London.

  He walked slowly back to the Qantas desk to be informed that Flight 102 had been grounded for engine repairs and would not be taking off again until the following morning. At eight-forty he watched the BOAC Comet that he had been originally booked on lift off the tarmac without him.

  All the passengers were found beds for the night at one of the local airport hotels before having their tickets transferred to a ten-twenty flight the following morning.

  Charlie was up, dressed and back at the airport two hours before the plane was due to take off, and when the flight was finally called he was the first on board. If all went to schedule, he worked out, the plane would still touch down at Heathrow early on Friday morning, giving him a clear day and a half to spare before Sir Raymond’s two-year deadline was up.

  He breathed his first sigh of relief when the plane took off, his second as the flight passed the halfway mark to Singapore, and his third when they had landed at Changi airport a few minutes ahead of time.

  Charlie left the plane, but only to stretch his legs. He was strapped back into his seat and ready for takeoff an hour later. The second stage from Singapore to Bangkok landed at Don Muang Airport only thirty minutes behind schedule, but the plane then sat parked in a queue on the runway for a further hour. It was later explained that they were short-staffed at air traffic control. Despite the delay, Charlie was not unduly worried; but that didn’t stop him from checking his half hunter every few minutes. They took off an hour behind schedule.

  When the aircraft landed at Palam Airport in New Delhi, he began another hour of strolling around the duty-free shop while the plane was being refueled. He became bored by seeing the same watches, perfume and jewelry being sold to innocent transit passengers at prices he knew still had a fifty percent markup on them. When the hour had passed and there had been no further announcements about reboarding, Charlie walked over to the inquiry desk to discover what was causing the holdup.

  “There seems to be some problem with the relief crew on this section of the flight,” he was told by the young woman behind the General Inquiries sign. “They haven’t completed their twenty-four hours’ rest period, as stipulated by IATA regulations.”

  “So how long have they had?”

  “Twenty hours,” replied the girl, looking embarrassed.

  “So that means we’re stuck here for another four hours?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Where is the nearest phone?” Charlie asked, making no attempt to hide his irritation.

  “In the far corner, sir,” said the girl, pointing to her right.

  Charlie joined yet another queue and when he reached the front managed to get through to the operator twice, to be connected to London once but to speak with Becky never. By the time he eventually climbed back onto the aircraft, having achieved nothing, he was exhausted.

  “This is Captain Parkhouse. We are sorry for the delay in this flight’s taking off,” said the pilot in a soothing voice. “I can only hope that the holdup has not caused you too much inconvenience. Please fasten your seat belts and prepare for takeoff. Flight attendants, place cabin doors to automatic.”

  The four jets rumbled into action and the plane inched forward before building up momentum as it sped along the tarmac. Then, quite suddenly, Charlie was thrown forward as the brakes were locked in place and the plane came to a screeching halt a few hundred yards from the end of the runway.

  “This is your captain speaking. I am sorry to have to tell you that the hydraulic pumps that lift the undercarriage up and down at takeoff and landing are indicating red on the control panel and I am not willing to risk a takeoff at this time. We shall therefore have to taxi back to our stand and ask the local engineers to fix the problem as quickly as possible. Thank you for being so understanding.”

  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 y