Free African Sky by Tony Park Page A

from Britain. Rhodesia was still a colony, whereas Australia had become a nation under federation. Odd, he mused, that a country whose population had descended from convicts now occupied a higher place in the pecking order than this one, whose white stock came from business people and gentleman farmers. Even the name came from a trader – Cecil John Rhodes. Rhodesia had its own parliament and, since 1923, a prime minister; and while the people were fiercely loyal to Britain – about a fifth of the colony’s twenty-five thousand whites were in uniform – he reckoned there would come a day soon when they wanted to set themselves up as a nation, as Australia had.
    He’d felt confined in England, as though everywhere he’d looked there were people. No wide open spaces, like in Australia or Africa. The cold and the rain had been anathema to him. Even without the losses and the casualties, the weather had been enough to sap the blokes’ morale. But even here, in this town of perfumed jacarandas, clear skies and sunny weather, he couldn’t escape death. It was waiting for him.
    â€˜I hate these places,’ Bryant said.
    â€˜I don’t imagine anyone particularly enjoys a visit to a morgue,’ Pip replied.
    â€˜No, hospitals, I mean. Sometimes it’s harder confronting people who’ve been burned or maimed. I could have sent Wilson here, you know.’
    â€˜You would have had to come here anyway,’ Hayes said, ‘because we need someone to formally identify Miss Langham’s body.’
    Bryant was surprised, and a little uneasy at the prospect. ‘I thoughtI was coming here to identify Flight Sergeant Smythe.’ In truth, he wondered if he could identify the lost pilot. He barely remembered the man’s face. To assist him he had brought the trainee flyer’s personnel file, which included a small black and white portrait photograph. He most certainly did not want to see Flick’s body.
    â€˜Miss Langham is an only child. Her mother is dead and her father is serving overseas. We’re still trying to contact him. In the meantime, we need someone who knew her well enough to confirm her identity.’
    â€˜Very well,’ he said, steeling himself. He’d lost count of the number of dead men he’d seen in the last two years, but a woman, and a woman he knew , might be different.
    Pilot Officer Wilson’s news of the discovery of Smythe’s body on the saltpans west of Bulawayo, in Bechuanaland, had interrupted Pip Lovejoy’s uncomfortable line of questioning, but Bryant knew he would have to face her again. He wondered what questions they would spring on him here, in the morgue, where they could probably tell he was less than fully composed.
    Hayes knocked on a door and it was opened by a stooped, elderly white man with horn-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of his nose. ‘Afternoon, Sergeant, Miss,’ the man said.
    â€˜This is Doctor Lewis Strachan, our resident professor of pathology, who conducts postmortems for police investigations,’ Hayes said, then introduced Bryant to the doctor.
    â€˜Welcome, if that’s the right word,’ the doctor said with a thin smile. ‘Squadron Leader, I know this is a difficult task, but it’s a necessary one. I’ve not commenced the full postmortem on either deceased person, although I have conducted cursory examinations of both. I have to warn you that the young man’s corpse has been attacked somewhat, presumably by vultures.’
    â€˜I understand,’ Bryant said. ‘If you don’t mind, perhaps we could get on with it.’
    The doctor nodded. In front of them were two tables with bodies covered by white sheets. He pulled down the first.
    Bryant had told himself he would show no emotion, but he drew asharp breath when he saw Flick’s ghostly white face. He really hadn’t been prepared to see her like this. She was still beautiful, of