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He raised his fingers almost unconsciously to a glinting chain tucked into his shirt pocket. He knew that when the chips were down he could still put his faith in a tin whistle and a good pair of lungs.

Puffing slightly, he followed McGarrigle up a flight of metal steps to what used to be the old control tower. The steps clanged beneath their boots.

The captain pressed a button, which turned green beneath his thumb, and ushered Trickett inside.

The room beyond still resembled the interior of the control tower the constable sergeant remembered from his childhood.

There had been grey metal consoles and primitive radar equipment then, but now the antiquated machinery had been gutted to leave a huge, circular, white-walled room with a continuous window stretching all the way around. It had been freshly reglazed and the room was flooded with light.

Outside, Trickett could see that work was well under way on the new airport. There were lorries and uniformed men scattered all over the airstrip, assembling what looked like concrete-mixers. The slamming racket of a pneumatic drill occasionally broke the stillness.

There was little else in the room except for posters advertising the coming of Legion International and two tall rectangular boxes, with spinning spools of magnetic tape inside them, which Trickett assumed to be some kind of computer.

Behind a huge, oak desk shaped like a half-moon sat the tall, fat figure of Bliss, already smiling in greeting and holding out a pudgy hand for Trickett to shake. He took it and couldn’t help but notice what looked like tiny, semicircular cuts in the palm.

‘My dear Constable,’ cried Bliss. ‘How nice, how nice.

Can I offer you some tea?’

Trickett took a seat across from her.

‘No tea, thank you, ma’am. Although they do say it’s the best thing on a hot day.’

Bliss frowned. ‘Hot? Oh... yes. Yes, I suppose it is.’

Her smile reasserted itself. ‘Now you said something on the telephone about complaints?’

Trickett nodded and pulled his notebook from his trouser pocket. It was damp with sweat. ‘That’s right, ma’am. Various parties aren’t taking too kindly to these convoys driving all through the night.’

Bliss shook her head. ‘Oh dear.’

Trickett smiled kindly. ‘You see, ma’am, you mustn’t think that we aren’t happy for your company... for...’ He glanced down at his notes again.

‘Legion International,’ said Bliss with a flourish.

Trickett nodded. ‘We’re very happy to have you move in.

It’s grand to think the old aerodrome will be up and running again. It’s just the speed of it all has got some of the more...

shall we say, set in their ways, among us a little rattled.’

Bliss held out her flipper-like hands, palms upwards. ‘I quite understand. Progress is a bitter pill for some. But I’m afraid the conditions on which we purchased this place from the Ministry of Defence were quite specific. We need to get Legion International up and running immediately. We must.

It’s our...’ She looked to the ceiling, her dark eyes glinting, ‘. ,.

priority.’

Trickett gave a tight smile. ‘It’s a funny thing, ma’am. But Commander Tyrell never told us anything about your coming.’

Bliss’s smile didn’t falter. ‘Commander...?’

‘Tyrell, ma’am. Surely you dealt with him? He was in charge of the aerodrome right to the end.’

Bliss shook her head. ‘I’m afraid we dealt directly with the MOD.’

Trickett glanced down at his notebook again, refraining from mentioning that no one had seen Harold Tyrell for quite a while.

‘Is there someone at the ministry I could speak to?’ asked the constable at last. ‘I’m sure a proper statement would set everyone’s mind at rest. There are enough rumours going round as it is.’

‘Are there now?’ Bliss’s smile broadened even further.

There were little spots of foamy saliva gathering at the corners of her lips.

Trickett gave a little chuckle. ‘Well, yes. Mystery men turning up out of nowhere. One minute the aerodrome’s closed down, the next we’re the new Heathrow!’

Bliss laughed too, a small, harsh, dry chuckle.