Free Last Out From Roaring Water Bay by Joe Lane Page A

with Matron about the possibility that Billy might have other visitors, nasty reporters trying to make a fast pound or two. I told her of the plane that had been recently discovered, and how Billy and the deceased had seen it crash during the war. I suggested that if uninvited callers insisted on speaking to Billy she should have them removed from the premises immediately. Her waspish glare convinced me she would oblige.
    “Don’t you worry, Mister Speed, Billy won’t be pestered by anyone. Will you be coming again to visit him?”
    In all honesty, I’d no reason to ever see Billy again. “Yes, of course I will.” I’d never found lying a hard task ever since childhood. I wasn’t about to change my ways.
    On the return journey back to London I found a nice eating place with a quiet corner where I could unravel the complexity of the entire situation so far and chew over a piece of skulduggery. Why would a R.A.F. Spitfire shoot another Spitfire from the sky? It didn’t make any sense. Perhaps what Billy saw was an incident of friendly fire, a regular occurrence during wartime night-fights, but not during daylight? Unless the pilot needed spectacles, it’s a mistake that couldn’t be made. Perhaps Billy had got the identification wrong and it had been a German plane that shot down the Spitfire. Overall it meant nothing conclusive to me. Then in reality, could I trust the mind of Billy Slade?

Chapter Five
    The following morning I went to the London Imperial War Museum on Lambeth Road determined to find out all I could about Craven, the pilot that had flown the crashed Spitfire I’d unearthed in Berkshire. One of the curators, a grey haired, grey winged moustached chap, who introduced himself by the title of Flying officer Captain Wright, retired, was keen to help me with my hesitant approach to where I could find the correct information.
    “Can I be of assistance, sir?”
    “Yes. Pilots missing in action during the second world,” I asked. “Is it possible to view records?”
    “Yes, of course, sir. Are you perhaps a journalist, Mister-ah?”
    I steered him away from wanting to know my name.
    “What makes you think I’m a journalist?”
    He tapped the side of his pock marked nose. “This tells me a lot, sir.”
    I gestured with my finger how right he was.
    “Follow me, sir.”
    The curator walked along the corridor in military fashion and funny as it might sound I found myself walking in the same manner. He ushered me to a table, pottered around the reference bookshelves and moments later plonked a thick hardback book in front of me. “If he’s missing in action,”-he tapped the book cover-“his name will be listed in here, sir.”
    I thanked him and he left me to dwindle through the pages at my leisure.
    There were two Cravens unaccounted for during the war. I could forget about the rear gunner on a Lancaster Bomber and concentrate on Wing Commander Ralph Craven, and the impressive number of honours that followed his name. I took out a pad and pen and began to make notes of importance. After gaining enough material to write a short story I went back to have a chat with the same curator.
    “Is there any relevant information on the particular missions the pilots were involved in at the time they went missing?’
    He expressed his surprise. “Now there’s a first. Not a usual request at this museum.” He shook his head unfavourably. “I’m afraid such information falls within the classified format and can only be obtained directly from the Ministry of Defence. For that you’ll require an appointment, and more appropriately, security clearance to view the sensitive material I should imagine. It’ll be the usual red tape affair, I’m afraid, sir.”
    There ended my day at the museum because it was one appointment with the MoD that I wouldn’t be making, and with my reputation, I’d be lucky to even stand outside the main entrance without getting clobbered by a police truncheon.
    Back outside I