The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [219]
When we met in Donald’s room that evening, he and Jenny confirmed that their initial research suggested that both men were who they purported to be.
“I was sure one of them would turn out to be Jeremy,” I said, unable to hide my disappointment.
“It would be nice if it was always that easy, Mr. Cooper,” said Donald. “But it doesn’t mean that one of them won’t lead us to Jeremy.” He turned to Jenny. “First, let’s go over what you found out about the wing commander.”
“Wing Commander Danvers-Smith, DFC, graduated from Cranwell in 1938, served with Number Two Squadron at Binbrook in Lincolnshire during the Second World War, and flew several missions over Germany and occupied France. He was awarded the DFC for gallantry in 1943. He was grounded in 1958 and became an instructor at RAF Cottesmore in Gloucestershire. His final posting was as deputy commanding officer at RAF Locking in Somerset. He retired in 1977, when he and his wife moved back to Great Shelford, where he had grown up.”
“Why’s he living on his own now?” asked Donald.
“Wife died three years ago. He has two children, Sam and Pamela, both married, but neither living in the area. They visit him occasionally.”
I wanted to ask Jenny how she had been able to find out so much information about the wing commander in such a short time, but said nothing, as I was more interested in hearing what the Don had discovered about Professor Balcescu.
Donald picked up a pile of notes that had been lying on the floor by his feet. “So, let me tell you the results of my research into a very distinguished professor,” he began. “Professor Balcescu escaped from Romania in 1989, after Ceauescu had had him placed under house arrest. He was smuggled out of the country by a group of dissident students, via Bulgaria and then on into Greece. His escape was well documented in the newspapers at the time. He applied for asylum in England, and was offered a teaching post at Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge, and three years later the chair of Eastern European Studies. He advises the government on Romanian matters, and has written a scholarly book on the subject. Last year he was awarded a CBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours.”
“How could either of these men possibly know Rosemary?” I asked. “Williams must have made a mistake when he wrote down the number.”
“Williams doesn’t make mistakes, Mr. Cooper,” said the Don. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have employed him. Your wife dialed one of those numbers, and we’re just going to have to find out which one. This time we’ll need your assistance.”
I mumbled an apology but remained unconvinced.
Hackett nodded curtly, and turned back to Jenny. “How long will it take us to get to the wing commander’s home?”
“About fifteen minutes, sir. He lives in a cottage in Great Shelford, just south of Cambridge.”
“Right, we’ll start with him. I’ll see you both in the lobby at five o’clock tomorrow morning.”
I slept fitfully again that night, now convinced that we were embarked on a wild-goose chase. But at least I was going to be allowed to join them the following day, instead of being confined to my room and yet more Australian soaps.
I didn’t need my 4:30 alarm call—I was already showering when the phone went. A few minutes after five, the three of us walked out of the hotel, trying not to look as if we were hoping to leave without paying our bill. It was a chilly morning, and I shivered as I climbed into the back of the car.
Jenny drove us out of the city and onto the London road. After a mile or so she turned left and took us into a charming little village with neat, well-kept houses on either side of the road. We passed a garden center on the left and drove another