He could see her mind was elsewhere. As she took the country roads at speed, cornering faster than he would have wanted, he googled ‘Dr J Wrigley murder’. He wasn’t much of an investigator, forgetting the appointment and doing his research this late. All the printouts he had made from online articles were in his kitchen. Phone signal was patchy on this road.
‘They’re decent men,’ she said suddenly.
‘The twins?’
‘They are so, so decent. They spend their lives just trying to help. They see a lot of people nearing the end. I think it gets to you.’
‘I couldn’t do it. When my listeners die, I feel it.’
‘Found anything on your phone?’
‘It’s all the stuff I’ve seen before. About the location.’
‘I brought an Ordnance Survey map,’ she said.
On YouTube he saw a thumbnail with Andrew Coombs, followed by a pop-up advert. He clicked the screen to close the pop-up, but suddenly the amateur pilot appeared, full screen, speaking out loud into the car: ‘The poor man was on the forest floor near the airfield. Spread out like a star in a white linen suit, right up against a tree, and we will never forget it. Naturally our thoughts are with the family.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Wrigley, I didn’t mean to play that.’
‘Wendy, please. And leave it on.’
Coombs was asked about his daughter. ‘Still in shock from me turning the aircraft.’ His tone was clipped, as if he was protecting her. Maybe they had nearly crashed. An accompanying photo, captioned ANDREW AND CLARA COMBS IN HAPPIER TIMES, showed father and daughter standing beside a tiny plane, both figures blasted by bright sunlight, him grinning, her face pixelated. The report cut to a Google image of the airfield which jerked to the forested area two hundred yards to the north. A red cross appeared alongside the words BODY FOUND HERE. Edward took a screenshot before the signal went.
The journey from Sidmouth to Chittlehamholt was more than an hour, even though she broke the speed limit most of the way.
They used a route that passed close to the north side of the airstrip, then took a right fork. After five minutes bumping along a track with hedgerows on both sides, they saw the entrance to the airfield itself. ‘Shall we?’ asked Wendy Wrigley, pointing. It seemed cheeky to park within it when they had no business there, but they did.
Sure enough, they had not been stopped for more than a minute on the edge of the pristine strip before a man in a gold hairpiece approached, jogging as if it was urgent.
He wore shorts and a pilot’s blazer, double-breasted with epaulettes and five gold buttons. He introduced himself as Gracey, the ‘manager-gardener-receptionist’ of the place, and said – as telegraphed by his rapid approach – that this was not a car park for casual walkers.
Before Edward could speak, Wendy had disarmed Gracey completely. She locked the car and asked Edward to show him the screenshot. ‘We need a man who knows his way around a map. It’s personal to me.’
Gracey took the page as Edward unfolded it. There were ominous clouds overhead, and it was starting to spit.
‘Where that poor doctor was found?’
Edward held his breath. Would Wendy be recognized by this man? Would he judge her like Coombs and everyone else?
‘He was my husband.’
Gracey stared at Wendy as if hypnotized. ‘Well. Thoughts with. God. That’s thrown me … We had a new flyer up in the air that day, brought his young daughter, some sort of London banker’ – the word, as he said it, loaded with negativity – ‘and I watched him coming in to land, and the lunatic tried to buzz the body! … Excuse me, ma’am.’ It was a distasteful phrase to use. He started pointing at a distant spot in the air. ‘So I feel I know the vertical position because I can visualize his plane up there, dropping like a bloody stone.’
‘Where were you when it happened?’ asked Edward.
Ignoring him, Gracey turned Edward’s phone landscape-portrait-landscape. ‘Agh, I need to lock this display. It keeps turning. I don’t know how helpful this map is, except yes, it’s definitely over there, past the four planes, into the wood. Oh, Christ. Gosh. I don’t know.’ A gust of wind blew the lapel of his overcoat across his face, and he pulled it away quickly, like a highwayman unmasking himself. ‘Walk between planes three and four, the Ikarus and the Cirrhus. The Cirrhus is grounded, in case you’re alarmed there’s a hole where the engine should be. Proceed around two hundred yards once you’re in amongst the trees. Two hundred, three hundred? Stay in a straight line between this point and the gap between the planes. The red cross could even be accurate.’
‘Where were you when you saw the plane buzz the site?’ Edward asked again.
Gracey folded the map, handed it to Wendy and, without looking away from her, said: ‘In ATC over there.’
‘That shed?’ asked Edward.
‘We call it ATC. Good luck. And while you’re in the mood for searching, please search yourselves for tick bites later,the bullseye mark on the skin. Lyme Disease is an absolute motorhome.’
It gave Wendy and Edward a bonding moment as they walked. She said, ‘Where is that phrase from, “an absolute motorhome”? I mean …’ and, as she laughed, he replied: ‘Something to do with Scottish politics? Wasn’t there a motorhome scandal?’
The two walked across the expanse of mown grass as instructed and passed between the last two light aircraft.
