Chapter One
In the weeks to come, the surname of the tall man and his daughter would be spelled incorrectly by almost every newspaper and website that covered the story. It was spelled wrongly now, and the girl’s father had to correct the man with the strange sandy-coloured hairpiece who was bending over his flight book.
‘There’s no “e” in it, sadly.’
‘So we are C-o-o-m-s, sir?’
‘No. Keep the “b”, so C-o-o-m-b-s.’
For heaven’s sake! He was always having to spell it out. Call centres were particularly bad. That ghastly American rapper had not helped – he was Sean Combs. So now Andrew Coombs got Cooms, Coomes, Coombes, and Combs as well. Even Combes! How could anyone be Combes?
Clara, in a sing-song voice, tried to help. ‘Double-o, then “m-b-s”. Thank you!’ Well, she was ten. Andrew Coombs ruffled his daughter’s hair. ‘I’m sure the nice man has got it, love.’
‘And can I fly the plane for fun, like you promised?’ said the young girl.
‘She’s joking,’ said Andrew quickly. He ruffled her hair harder, accidentally catching the ribbon, trying to convey themessage:Don’t say that, darling; not in front of the chap who runs the airfield. I’m a new customer.
‘That’s not allowed, young lady.’ The other man straightened up with an audible clicking of vertebrae and looked out of the window. He was wearing a pilot’s jacket with service ribbons arranged in a line above the left breast pocket. He stared at the expanse of grass, mown down the middle in narrow strips to show pilots where to taxi. Beyond the strip, six single-propeller planes were parked side by side. Their noses faced the thick forest on the furthest edge of the apron, as if daring each other to take off in a slashing arc through the greenery. ‘We’re rather proud of this place. Devon’s finest tiniest. And you notice something? No fence around the strip. We trust our locals here. Not like London.’
Andrew would not defend the capital city, even though it had been good to him. ‘Yup. In London those planes would get smashed up in a minute.’
‘Or be stabbed,’ added the other man enthusiastically.
‘Thank you very much, Mr …’ He saw a name badge and read the name out loud, just as the man with the hairpiece said it too. ‘Gracey.’
Gracey addressed Clara. ‘Your daddy only just learnt to fly, didn’t he?’
‘My first flight,’ said Andrew Coombs, answering over her shoulder in case Clara said the wrong thing again. ‘I did the thirty hours and now I’m cleared for take-off. Fresh in my hand, look.’
‘Still warm,’ said Gracey, taking the flying licence with Andrew’s photo. It said his age: forty-three. Andrew felt like an obvious banker, and knew that by paying his £1,200 fee up front without hesitation, he had nailed himself. He saw Gracey thinking:A banker with an expensive hobby who is probably raising an expensive daughter, judging by the pink ribbons in her hair.‘As you’ll know, sir, we are a private airfield, all grass,short runways, so no Civil Aviation Authority inspections. Unlicensed but safe is how I like to see it. You mind me asking where you learnt your flying? Normally people take their first solo flight at an airfield they’re known at.’
‘Outer London. We moved down here before I could properly get my flying going. The wife wanted a decent view. There are no views in Pimlico.’
‘So you took off?’ Gracey laughed, enjoying his pun. ‘Oh, it’s beautiful down here. Proper country.’
‘We’re on the coast at Instow, and you love your new school, Clara darling, don’t you?’
The little girl wiggled a nose full of freckles.
‘She doesn’t look so sure!’
‘Daddy,’ said Clara, ‘I want to fly now.’
‘Righto, young lady. Yours will be the Ikarus. Single engine. That one in the middle.’
He pointed. They followed his gaze. The middle one of six was meaningless, but Andrew knew the plane because he had done half his lessons with that model. They were in the airfield office, a stained-wood cabin on stilts which everyone jokingly called ‘the ATC’, for air traffic control, of which of course there was none.
Half an hour later, Andrew and Clara Coombs felt the ground beneath them give way as they took to the skies in the two-seater fixed-wing single-engine Ikarus C42 FB. In the ATC, Joshua Gracey looked on, pressing his trusty binoculars to his face. Something was worrying him, but he could not put a finger on what it was.
Andrew Coombs shouted, ‘Can you hear me?’ The engine was loud, so they wore caps with earpieces and wraparound microphones.
‘We are going into the clouds!’ said Clara. The October sun was suddenly dazzling. ‘It’s so small, this plane!’
‘Just us two! Hey daughter, you can have control when we get up high, if you like!’ shouted Andrew, laughing.
‘And Daddy,’ said Clara, ‘I saw a starfish!’
He eased back the throttle, not sure he had heard her right. He pointed at the compact instrument panel, feeling his nerves abate as he recognized each control. ‘These are for the ailerons, which roll us this way and that.’ He showed her, tapping the control from the left and right. The plane banked twice, more than he was expecting. Clara screamed.
