Doctor Who_ Last of the Gaderene - Mark Gatiss [22]
Noah nodded slowly. He handed the binoculars back to the old man. Through a shimmering heat haze, Whistler could make out the shapes of a dozen or so men hauling bulky equipment and crates on to the concrete.
He let his hands flop to his waist. ‘Minn. Not what you saw before?’
‘No,’ muttered Noah. ‘Concrete-mixers or something.’
Whistler shook his head. ‘Whereas...?’
‘They were more like coffins.’ Noah looked him in the eye and then his head snapped up suddenly. ‘Look.’
Whistler followed the line of his outstretched finger. There was a freshly painted sign attached to the gates, announcing that the aerodrome was closed. It hung loose now, swinging from one corner.
‘Oh yes,’ muttered Whistler. ‘Old Jobey was talking about that in the pub. He’s been contracted to paint a few of them...’
He tailed off, frowning.
‘What is it?’ said Noah.
Whistler shrugged. ‘It may be nothing. But I haven’t seen Jobey in days. He’s always in his usual place in the pub. I’ve never known him miss a night.’
Noah looked steadily at Whistler. ‘But he wasn’t there last night?’
Whistler shook his head. Jobey’s sign creaked gently in the breeze. ‘Question is, why would anyone bother to announce the closure of the aerodrome if they were about to flog it to a private airline?’
Noah wiped the palm of his hand over his face and sighed.
‘I’d better be getting back. Uncle Max’s got me working this afternoon.’
Whistler smiled. ‘Me too. Mrs Toovey’s been on at me to get my act together for the fête. She treats me like a little boy most of the time.’
He smiled, then glanced back towards the aerodrome.
‘Perhaps we should come back tonight.’
Noah nodded. ‘Yeah. Let’s do that. I’m sure between us we can find out what’s going on.’
‘I might have some news from my friend,’ said Whistler.
‘He’s promised to do some poking about at the MOD. Find out what they know about these Legion International beggars.’
‘Cool.’
‘Eh? Oh yes.’ Whistler held out his hand and Noah took it, his grip warm and firm. ‘Until tonight, then.’
Noah grinned. ‘Until tonight, Wing Commander.’
A tall, rather Florid-faced man stood just inside the closed gates of the aerodrome, hot and uncomfortable in the uniform of a police constable.
John Trickett pulled a clean white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and rubbed it around the inside of the collar of his short-sleeved blue shirt. Then he dabbed his forehead and moustache and blew air noisily from his mouth. His thick woollen trousers were clinging to his legs, annoying him as much as the heavy helmet he cradled under one arm.
He thought back to his holiday in Rome and the cool, light wearable summer clobber he’d seen the Italian police wearing.
Luxury. ‘Sensible fellas,’ he’d said to his wife. ‘They may not know how to run a country but they don’t force their coppers to wear winter woollies in the middle of July.’
A black-uniformed guard appeared, obviously senior in rank to the one who had admitted Trickett to the aerodrome.
To Trickett’s annoyance, and in spite of the newcomer’s heavy black uniform, he didn’t seem uncomfortable in the slightest.
In fact, he was smiling broadly, his smooth face untroubled by perspiration.
‘Yes?’ The man’s voice was even and relaxed. ‘My name is Captain McGarrigle.’
Trickett cleared his throat. ‘I’m here to see your Mrs Bliss.’ He glanced down at his notebook. ‘Is it Mrs or Miss? I don’t think anyone’s said.’
The captain didn’t reply directly. ‘Is she expecting you?’
Trickett nodded.
‘I’ll just confirm that if I may.’ The broad smile didn’t falter.
‘By all means.’
McGarrigle turned away. Trickett expected him to walk back to one of the outbuildings but he just stood there with his back to the constable, for several seconds. Then he swung back, the sun glinting off his black glasses.
‘I’ll show you up,’ said the captain, extending a hand towards the centre of the aerodrome.
Trickett looked to see where the man concealed the radio he must have used to receive his instructions, but didn’t see anything. He gave a mental shrug. Probably miniaturised like everything