African Sky by Tony Park Read Free Book Online Page B

sir.’
    The orderly room door opened again and WPC Pip Lovejoy stepped in. ‘I’m back,’ she said.
    â€˜So I see. What about your sergeant? Sounded like a spirited discussion you were having with him.’
    She failed to stop a little smile crossing her face. ‘Some issues about who does what. He’s going to check with the medical examiner.’
    Bryant imagined it wasn’t the first time the pretty young policewomanand her senior had clashed. ‘Richards, escort Sergeant Hayes back to the front gate.’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ Richards put his forage cap on and excused himself, leaving Pip and Bryant alone.

4
    I nside the cavernous metal-roofed hangar were a dozen long rows of trestle tables, laid end to end. On four of the rows were parachutes, in various states of being packed. The young women chatted as they methodically gathered in suspension lines and folded billowing panels of white silk.
    Pip looked around her. She reckoned you could tell a great deal about someone from their home or workplace, by the things that were lying around, or objects that were missing. Glenn Miller’s ‘American Patrol’ blared from a Bakelite radio on a table just inside the hangar door. The table was littered with dirty teacups, sugar, powdered milk and a scarred enamel teapot. An ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts. She imagined it was forbidden to smoke over the precious silk of the parachute canopies.
    Bryant turned the radio down then strode ahead, towards the working women. Pip lingered by the entry for the moment. The tin wall behind the tea table was plastered with newspaper cuttings, photographs, torn pages from magazines. There were pictures of men in uniform – perhaps boyfriends or husbands – film stars and aeroplanes. There were articles from the Bulawayo Chronicle about the women’s work at the base, and about visits by various dignitaries. Shesaw photos of half-a-dozen women in overalls and baggy khaki uniforms, but recognised none of them.
    â€˜Morning, sir,’ called a red-haired woman from the head of one of the trestle-table rows.
    â€˜Morning, Susannah,’ Bryant said.
    Pip caught up with him. The woman he’d called Susannah was much taller than she was, with fair skin, green eyes and freckles. She was about Pip’s age and wore overalls with the sleeves rolled up high above the bicep. Pip thought her arms looked very toned, almost muscled, from the constant work of packing and folding parachutes.
    â€˜Constable Lovejoy, this is Corporal Susannah Beattie. She’s the NCO in charge of today’s shift of parachute packers. Susannah, Miss Lovejoy . . .’
    The woman’s grip was firm, like a man’s. ‘It’s missus, actually, but constable’s just fine.’
    â€˜Sorry, Constable Lovejoy wants to ask you and the other girls a few questions about Felicity Langham. I’m afraid it’s not good news.’
    â€˜The rumour’s true then?’ She spoke with a trace of a Scottish accent.
    Pip saw the woman look back at the other girls, who had stopped working to listen in to the conversation. ‘I’m sorry, but Miss Langham has passed away,’ Pip said. ‘Squadron Leader, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind giving us a bit of time by ourselves?’
    â€˜Of course,’ Bryant said.
    She sensed his reluctance to leave – he obviously wanted to listen in on the interview. He finally turned and walked outside the hangar and lit another cigarette. Pip led the red-haired corporal towards the tea table.
    â€˜Do you mind if I call you Susannah?’ Pip asked, now that they were alone.
    â€˜Of course not. You’re Pip, aren’t you? Charlie Lovejoy’s wife?’
    Pip was taken aback. She’d got used to the fact that people were often a little nervous or off-balance when she asked them questions in her capacity as a volunteer policewoman. Now the shoe was