able to spot headlights for about half a mile. Wrappers, paper, were strewn on the verge. In the ditch, a rusted bike frame.
He approached the hedge, the gaps in which showed signs of recent and frequent use. He stepped through it. Behind the hedge lay human faeces and paper. Into the sloe thicket, which was dense, went several tunnels or passages, as though a wild beast had made its lair there in the close gloom of the thorns. One of the tunnels opened opposite to the washed-off concrete. He ducked his head and went into it. Its underfoot soil was compact and unimpressionable. A few feet into the bushes it expanded into a little chamber, and here also lay faeces, paper rubbish, an old saucepan. He turned about and peered through the twigs. He was looking through the gap to the washed-off concrete. Several of the twigs were smashed and singed and hung withered from bleached fibrous stumps. He turned again, went on following the tunnel. From here it had not been used very often. The ground was still hard, but it had grown a little moss, and new twigs projected to obstruct his passage. Some of these new twigs were snapped and withered and some of the moss was slightly compressed. He went on following. He came out of the sloe bushes. Beyond them was a stubble field, hedges, more fields. Far away southwards, peeking just above low trees, was a roof painted dull red. No other building was in sight.
He returned slowly through the tunnel, examining the walls of it more carefully. The sloe-twigs ended each in a spike and not all the outstanding spikes had been broken. Some yards down the tunnel he paused: a spike low down showed a wisp of snagged wool. It had been caught from a garment moving in a direction away from the road and was of a darkish grey-blue, the colour of certain service uniforms. He felt in his pocket, found an old envelope, stroked the wool off the spike into it. Then he searched for some while longer, but the single wisp was all he found.
Sweating, for it was hot among the sloe bushes, he returned to the lay-by and the car.
‘Have you a pass, sir?’
The SP from the guardroom was wearing his shirtsleeves rolled and had a white armband. Both his arms and his face were sunburned as though he spent his off-duty hours working for a farmer. Gently pulled out his wallet, showed the warrant card. The SP looked at him sharply, knowingly.
‘Yes sir, I see,’ he said, after a slight pause. ‘I didn’t know sir. We weren’t advised in the guardroom.’
‘Weren’t advised about what?’
‘About the civvie police being called, sir. I thought our own blokes were going to handle it.’
Gently shrugged. ‘Could be two other people, but I’ve come here on my own business,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to your commanding officer. Perhaps you’ll ring and let him know.’
‘The commanding officer . . . oh, I see, sir!’ The SP coloured, looked embarrassed. ‘Wing-Commander Thompson is on leave, sir, and the acting CO is visiting Cardington.’
‘Then who do you suggest I should see?’
‘The Adjutant, sir. Flight-Lieutenant Withers.’
‘Where do I find him?’
In HQ, sir. Straight ahead and first right.’
The SP stood back a pace and saluted, elbow angled, hand vibrating. Gently grinned a little sombrely, eased in the clutch, let the Rover drift. The wheels bumbled on the concrete roadway, much cracked and much repaired. On either hand, Nissen buildings; ahead the bleached levels of the airfield. He made the right turn. HQ was also a Nissen building. On one side of its doors was bolted a noticeboard, on the other an out-of-bounds notice. He parked, went in through the doors. Ahead stretched a dim corridor laid with blue linoleum. The linoleum was very highly polished and the smell of the polish hung in the air. On the doors off the corridor were affixed signboards: Central Registry, Pay Accounts, Orderly Room; and at the end of the corridor, Adjutant’s Office: F/Lt. Withers ( PLEASE KNOCK ). Gently
He approached the hedge, the gaps in which showed signs of recent and frequent use. He stepped through it. Behind the hedge lay human faeces and paper. Into the sloe thicket, which was dense, went several tunnels or passages, as though a wild beast had made its lair there in the close gloom of the thorns. One of the tunnels opened opposite to the washed-off concrete. He ducked his head and went into it. Its underfoot soil was compact and unimpressionable. A few feet into the bushes it expanded into a little chamber, and here also lay faeces, paper rubbish, an old saucepan. He turned about and peered through the twigs. He was looking through the gap to the washed-off concrete. Several of the twigs were smashed and singed and hung withered from bleached fibrous stumps. He turned again, went on following the tunnel. From here it had not been used very often. The ground was still hard, but it had grown a little moss, and new twigs projected to obstruct his passage. Some of these new twigs were snapped and withered and some of the moss was slightly compressed. He went on following. He came out of the sloe bushes. Beyond them was a stubble field, hedges, more fields. Far away southwards, peeking just above low trees, was a roof painted dull red. No other building was in sight.
He returned slowly through the tunnel, examining the walls of it more carefully. The sloe-twigs ended each in a spike and not all the outstanding spikes had been broken. Some yards down the tunnel he paused: a spike low down showed a wisp of snagged wool. It had been caught from a garment moving in a direction away from the road and was of a darkish grey-blue, the colour of certain service uniforms. He felt in his pocket, found an old envelope, stroked the wool off the spike into it. Then he searched for some while longer, but the single wisp was all he found.
Sweating, for it was hot among the sloe bushes, he returned to the lay-by and the car.
‘Have you a pass, sir?’
The SP from the guardroom was wearing his shirtsleeves rolled and had a white armband. Both his arms and his face were sunburned as though he spent his off-duty hours working for a farmer. Gently pulled out his wallet, showed the warrant card. The SP looked at him sharply, knowingly.
‘Yes sir, I see,’ he said, after a slight pause. ‘I didn’t know sir. We weren’t advised in the guardroom.’
‘Weren’t advised about what?’
‘About the civvie police being called, sir. I thought our own blokes were going to handle it.’
Gently shrugged. ‘Could be two other people, but I’ve come here on my own business,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to your commanding officer. Perhaps you’ll ring and let him know.’
‘The commanding officer . . . oh, I see, sir!’ The SP coloured, looked embarrassed. ‘Wing-Commander Thompson is on leave, sir, and the acting CO is visiting Cardington.’
‘Then who do you suggest I should see?’
‘The Adjutant, sir. Flight-Lieutenant Withers.’
‘Where do I find him?’
In HQ, sir. Straight ahead and first right.’
The SP stood back a pace and saluted, elbow angled, hand vibrating. Gently grinned a little sombrely, eased in the clutch, let the Rover drift. The wheels bumbled on the concrete roadway, much cracked and much repaired. On either hand, Nissen buildings; ahead the bleached levels of the airfield. He made the right turn. HQ was also a Nissen building. On one side of its doors was bolted a noticeboard, on the other an out-of-bounds notice. He parked, went in through the doors. Ahead stretched a dim corridor laid with blue linoleum. The linoleum was very highly polished and the smell of the polish hung in the air. On the doors off the corridor were affixed signboards: Central Registry, Pay Accounts, Orderly Room; and at the end of the corridor, Adjutant’s Office: F/Lt. Withers ( PLEASE KNOCK ). Gently
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