The House of Lost Souls - F. G. Cottam [49]
‘Tea or coffee,’ he asked when they got to his office. His office made it plain to Seaton that Young Mr Breene did not concern himself with the day-to-day mechanics of calibrating shutter speeds and repairing light apertures. It was too big, too well-appointed. There were some good Scottish landscapes on the walls. There were pictures of Breene with various civic dignitaries at events Seaton supposed had been organised by the London Chamber of Commerce or the Lord Mayor’s office. There were signed prints of photographs taken by Beaton and Bill Brandt and even Cartier-Bresson. There were half a dozen golfing trophies in a glass display cabinet. And there was a view from two high broad windows cut into the side of the building out over the river, London Bridge a resplendent curve of stone and painted iron to the left in the light of the ascending sun.
‘Coffee would be very welcome.’
‘But first, your credentials,’ Breene said. He sat down behind the mahogany splendour of his desk in a swivel chair. Seaton, still standing, took out his NUJ and IOJ cards and the laminated pass with his picture on it the Met Police Press Bureau insisted you carry. Breene leaned over and looked. ‘A very nice likeness. But you’re not English, are you?’
‘Dublin.’
‘A wonderful city, Mr Seaton. Sit, please.’
Seaton sat in one of the two straight-backed chairs facing Breene’s desk. He put his press credentials back into his wallet. Breene pressed an intercom switch and leaned into the machine. ‘A pot of coffee, Mary, when you have a moment. Two cups. Thank you.’
He smiled his ragged smile again. ‘You don’t mind staring, Seaton, which is to your credit. How do you think I got to look such a sight for sore eyes as I do?’
‘I’d say you were in the cockpit or fuselage of an aero-plane when it came under enemy attack and caught fire. You baled out, which is why you can still smile and appreciate coffee. You baled out, or your pilot got you down. But you were badly burned.’
‘Very good. You’ve an instinct for what you do.’
‘Not really. I live near the Imperial War Museum. I’ve spent a couple of idle Saturdays in there.’ Seaton regretted the use of the word ‘Idle’ the moment it came out of his mouth. But Breene didn’t look offended. ‘May I ask about the specifics?’
Breene bowed his head, as if studying the grain on the polished surface of his immaculate desk. Which Seaton knew he wasn’t. ‘South Downs. Nineteen forty-three. I was the pilot. Five kills in nine missions had made me about as complacent and cocky a twenty-six-year-old as ever flew a fighter aircraft. How old are you, Mr Seaton?’
‘Twenty-Five.’
Breene nodded. ‘Well, then, you know how comfortably in youth the mantle of arrogance fits. Don’t you?’
Seaton swallowed and nodded. This man was not the fool Mike Whitehall had led him to believe he would be meeting. But then the building wasn’t exactly some squat Dickensian relic, either. Mike found a bit of embellishment amusing. A bit of understatement, evidently, too.
‘I didn’t see the chap who shot me down. I was on a homeward course, thinking already about a bath and a beer. When you were cruising, a Hurricane practically flew itself. I’d lost concentration for a moment and I didn’t see him. But he saw me. By God, he did.’
They all had faces like this. Some pioneer plastic surgeon had worked on them. They had survived, most of them, because they were young and resistant to secondary infection and because most of them were too callow at the age to appreciate the implications of being maimed through the long life to follow. Some had even returned to active service. Seaton found himself liking Young Mr Breene. He took a deep breath and regretted having lied to him over the telephone. Breene deserved better than the crude pretence.
The coffee arrived. A woman in a liveried blouse and pinafore carried it in on a silver tray. She poured them a cup each and added the cream Seaton requested. The woman withdrew and they both sipped in silence for a while. Then Breene opened a drawer and put on a