My Hero

18

My Hero

    The Sunday that Hill had planned to make a real effort to talk to Hattie the roof fell in—literally. The bloody roof of Chipping Abbas’s bloody Victorian ballroom. Possibly Red Watkins’s claim that it was dry rot in the rafters was correct, or Gordy Fanshaw’s claim that it was badly designed to start with was correct, or more likely both, but Jesus! Fortunately nobody was hurt: Red’s chaps, who had coincidentally been working on the gutters of the west wing just next to it, had heard the ominous rumbling sound and scrambled out of range in time. Also fortunately it didn’t happen to be a day on which high-up execs from the Gano Group were being shown over the place. Nevertheless that was pretty much it for the day and he didn’t have a hope of seeing Hattie. Damn and blast!

    Monday was also a complete wash-out: engineers and surveyors and Maurice doing his nut and architects senior to poor young Gordy…

    Tuesday was even better: back in London, Maurice doing his nut and formal responses to angry emails from the Gano Group and assessment of the engineers’, surveyors’, and senior architects’ first reports…

    Wednesday was about as joyous: back down at Chipping Abbas, not to mention Ditterminster and the county planning office and accident reports and— God! He finally managed to ring Hattie in the early evening, but no-one was home. He was staying at the Boddiford Hall Park Royal but on enquiry, Joanna was off-shift and the speaker thought she might have gone over to the cinema in Ditterminster ’cos it was Wednesday.

    On the Thursday morning he rang the cottage at what he thought was a reasonable hour, not too early, but he’d missed them. Damn! Enquiry at the hotel revealed that Joanna was rostered off today. Damn and blast! He went over to Chipping Abbas, chewed a few ears and checked that nothing else was likely to fall down around said ears and then had to head back to London, ’cos guess what? Maurice had scheduled a meeting to discuss scheduling for Fern Gully Ecolodge.

    There was still no reply at the cottage in the late afternoon: where were they all? Maurice then dragged him off to dinner with a man who owned a place on Guadeloupe, they might consider that area, though the Yanks had pretty much captured the ecolodge niche in the Caribbean… He did manage to ring the cottage during the course of the very painful evening but there was still no reply! What in God’s name were they all up to

    On the Friday morning he finally got Joanna at seven-thirty. “WHAT?” he shouted.

    “Um, sorry, Hill. Um, yes, Japan again. Um, Mr Watanabe rang in person.”

    Hill took a deep breath. “Toshiro Watanabe, was this?”

    “Um, I’m not sure. The man who stayed at the hotel.”

    “Right. Toshiro. The one who’s about fifty, not the one who’s about eighty!”

    “He is married, Hill,” said Joanna in a tiny voice.

    “That makes a lot of difference in Japan, does it?” replied Hill nastily.

    “I’m sure it’s nothing like that,” said Joanna miserably.

    He took a deep breath. “No. Okay. Look, Joanna, if I get Ma to lay on something for a weekend, is there any chance you and Hattie could come?”

    “No!” she gasped in tones of naked horror.

    “Uh—sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it, Joanna. I don’t know exactly what happened between you and Allan, but— Uh, sorry,” said Hill feebly.

    “There was nothing in it. I’m not suitable anyway, and I don’t wanna discuss it,” said Joanna grimly. “Hattie’ll be back in about a week. I’ll tell her you asked, but I don’t think she’ll want to go and stay at your mother’s place. Sorry, I’ve got to get the boys off to school.” She rang off.

    Hill hung up slowly, frowning.

    Joanna rang him the following Friday. “I—I’m suh-sorry to ring you at work—”

    “Is Hattie all right?” he said sharply.

    “What? Yes, of course. She’s due home this evening,” she said dazedly.

    He sagged. “I see. Thanks for letting me kn—”

    “No!” she gasped. “It’s not that!”

    “Then what’s up? I’m rather busy, I’m afraid.”

    “I’m suh-sorry; I—I just thought I better get hold of someone reliable in London, and Mrs Andrews is too old and Lorraine hasn’t got a car and the girls from upstairs are usually away—though I could try them, ’cos they know all about the airports— But you know him, so— But it doesn’t matter!” she said quickly.

    “Joanna, tell me what the matter is,” said Hill grimly.

    “It’s—it’s Gordon! ’E’s gorn to ’Eathrow to meet Hattie!” she gulped, bursting into tears.

    Jesus Christ! Couldn’t the girl keep an eye on her own brother for— “It’s all right, don’t cry,” he said heavily. “When did he go?”

    Sniffing and gulping, Joanna explained. Right: got it: June Biggs had got it out of her grandson that Gordon had stayed on the bus that morning. Kenny had ridden his bike to school, which was why he hadn’t stopped the little bugger.

    Joanna blew her nose. “I dunno if I can get there—I mean, it takes hours from here—so I thought I’d better—”

    “That’s all right: of course I’ll dash out there. Just hang on a moment, I’ll see if there’s a company car available.” He buzzed Hellen. “Come in, would you, Hellen? It’s a bloody emergency.”

    “What is it?” said Hellen quietly, coming in looking her usual competent self.

    “Long story. Not the family. Can you grab me a car with the best driver available to take me out to Heathrow rather sooner than yesterday?”

    Hellen nodded. “Sir Maurice’s driver is the best.”

    “Good, I’ll have him.”

    Nodding again, she went out.

    “Okay, Joanna, I’ll be able to leave in five minutes. Have you contacted the airport?”

    She had: she’d got onto the airport police. She gave him the details and began: “Thanks awfully, H— Oh, my Gawd!” she gasped.

    Hill rolled his eyes at the wall of his office. “What is it?”

    “I just realized I told them the wrong name!”

    “What?”

    “Hattie,” said Joanna in a trembling voice. “They said who was he trying to meet, so I said Hattie Perkins.” She gulped loudly.

    “Joanna, you’re talking through your hat,” said Hill heavily.

    “No! ’Tisn’t her real name!” she gasped.

    Uh—now he came to think of it, Hattie probably was short for something, though these days you never knew. “I think they’ll be able to recognize any Perkins as being her, I wouldn’t worry—”

    “No!” she gasped. “Not that! Perkins isn’t her legal name!”

    Hill’s tummy dropped right through his boots. “So she is married?” he croaked. “It was a bloody lie?”

    “Eh? No, ’course she’s not married! Um, Perkins is her mum’s maiden name, only she has to have her legal name on her passport, so I think that’ll be what’s on the passenger list.”

    God, the girl was a hen! “What is her legal name?” he said heavily, ignoring the fact that his lower limbs were now showing a tendency to tremble with relief.

    “Henrietta Tarlington,” said Joanna miserably.

    Hill turned very red. “Look, is this your idea of a bloody joke? Are you drunk—or on something? Because—”

    “No! She really is! ’Er dad was Col Tarlington!” she cried loudly. “And don’t blame me, ’cos I never knew till a few weeks back, neither!”

    Hill just sat there with his ears ringing as it began to come back to him that Hattie had said something about her mother having lived in the village—oh, yes, old Mr Tarlington had victimised her and an aunt over the bloody Lady Tarlington roses, that was it. Jesus!

    Finally managing to breathe again, he said: “I won’t ask why she never mentioned it.”

    “She ’ates yer,” replied Joanna dully.

    “That had dawned, thank you!”

    “Um, no! Sorry, Hill! I—I really meant she hates the Tarlingtons because of the way her dad let her mum down. He went on sleeping with other women after they were married. I think it’s really the idea of the Tarlingtons that she hates,” she elaborated miserably.

    Hill passed a hand over his forehead. “I suppose I see.”

    “But you see, I told the airport copper the wrong name!” she insisted.

    “What? Oh—yes. You’d better ring them back and explain. As soon as I hang up, okay? And tell them I’ll be ringing them in a few minutes, got that?”

    “Yes.”

    “Uh—when is the plane due, again?”

    “Seven o’clock.”

    Hill looked at his watch. “Mm. Well, you might make it, though the roads’ll soon be clogged with commuters. We don’t need you killing yourself, do we? You stay where you are. Hang on; are you at work?”

    “Yes,” she said, sniffing.

    “Right, well, you’d better tell Terry about it and get on home.”

    “Tuh—tell the Manager?” she gulped.

    “He does have a right to know why one of his employees is waltzing off in the middle of her shift!” said Hill on an annoyed note. Hellen had come in again: he said: “Yes, Hellen?”

    “The car’s ready and Sir Maurice’s Ben Simpson will drive you.”

    “Good. –Joanna, go home,” he said clearly.

    “I—I’ll tell João, he’s my direct boss,” she faltered.

    “Do that. Hang on, I’ll give you my mobile number.” They exchanged numbers, and he told her not to worry, and rang off.

    Hellen was still standing in the doorway.

    “I don’t know that I can explain it, Hellen,” he said weakly. “He isn’t even the son of a friend! Um—”

    “You don’t need to explain: I listened in,” said his perfect secretary with the utmost placidity.

    Hill gulped.

    “I thought I’d better, since it was an emergency. I don’t usually eavesdrop on your private calls,” she said drily.

    “The thought never even crossed my mind. Well, possibly it only remains to say that Gordon isn’t a tow-headed, skinny little White kid, he’s a bullet-headed, skinny little Black kid.”

    “Then let’s hope he has reached the airport safely, because there’s a fair few of them in London,” returned Hellen on a grim note.

    “Yes. Well, he’s a Cockney, he’s got street smarts, but—yes. I’d better dash. Just—uh—cancel everything, okay?”

    “Okay,” agreed his perfect secretary mildly. “I’ll stay on here until I hear from you.”

    “But— No, there is the thought that he may turn up in London, though God knows whether the police’ll look twice at— Yes; thanks, Hellen.”

    “That’s all right. Go: I’m holding the lift for you,” she said placidly.

    Shit, was she? He made a dash for the lift.

    The sympathetic Ben Simpson drove fast, professionally and silently. Hill spent most of the time on the phone, variously to the airport police and to Joanna’s home number to report—he didn’t think he’d better ring her on her mobile if she was driving home, he didn’t want her to end in a ditch. To his relief the elderly June Biggs was there, sounding completely compos mentis.

    “Lambie and me thought we better get in touch with some of the people Gordon knows in London, ’cos if he got that far and then couldn’t remember how to get out to Heathrow—”

    “Good idea. Joanna should have some contact numbers.”

    “Yes. We did look in Hattie’s book, it’s by the phone. Only we can’t tell… She ever mentioned a Lorraine to you?”

    “N— I think that’s one of the names Joanna mentioned earlier. Is it a London address?”

    June cleared her throat. “Just ‘Lorraine.’ We’ll wait for Joanna, then. So long!”

    Smiling in spite of everything, Hill replied: “So long, June,” and embarked on the long and painful task of getting hold of the airline, and then getting the right number, and then getting it to actually answer, and then leaving messages under a legal name and a pseudonym…

    Hill and Dustin Green sat companionably at a table in one of the many airport cafeterias, keeping their strength up. Well, Hill had an unspeakable coffee and something that might have been a ham sandwich in a much earlier life, and Dustin had a Coke, a jam doughnut, and a fruit and nut bar with enough calories in it to allow him to go ten rounds with Mohammed Ali. Dustin was with the airport police and it wasn’t he who was coordinating the search for Gordon, which was just as well, it was Greg Spurling. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Sergeant Spurling had coordinated it. All avenues had been exhausted, which was why Hill and Dustin were now free to sit down in the cafeteria which Greg had worked out laboriously from prolonged interrogation of an ever more tearful Joanna on the phone was probably the one where Gordon had come last time, when they’d seen Hattie off. It was reasonably close to where Hattie’s plane would land. Dustin had been appointed by Greg to help Hill keep an eye out for Gordon—or more accurately to stop Hill, as an idiot member of the public, from haring off and doing the first mad thing that came into his head. And quite possibly to spare Greg’s nerves further exposure to Dustin that day.

    Hill’s phone rang for the thousandth time.

    “Greg?” said Dustin hopefully.

    “Nope: Lorraine.” He’d got to know Lorraine quite well over the past several hours. A grandmother several times over, Lorraine Minns had been Granddad Perkins’s cleaning lady (public areas of the flats). She had a hubby on an invalid pension (though he couldn’t be literally an invalid: as they spoke he was at the pub on the corner). She lived down the road from where the Perkins residence had stood and had been able to give Hill chapter and verse on the fire. “Any news, Lorraine?”

    “’Fraid not, ducks: just checking in. You?”

    “Nope.”

    “Plane on time, is it?” said Lorraine without hope.

    “No: delayed half an hour.”

    “Goddit. Be like that time our Kath ’ad that trial weekend in Amsterdam with the Dutchman—didn’t lead to nothink, mind you. Well, better than leading to another pregnancy and a ’uge great credit card debt like what the last bugger left ’er with, innit? Dunno why she ’ad to fly back, could of got the ferry. Anyway, ’er plane was delayed for four hours. See, the delay was longer than the ruddy flight, goddit?”

    “Absolutely, Lorraine!” he said with a laugh.

    “Right. Well, let us know, won’t you? Ta-ta!”

    “’Bye, Lorraine,” he said, smiling. “No news, just checking in,” he said to Dustin.

    “Ri’,” he agreed thickly through the fruit and nut bar. He swallowed, with some difficulty. “You oughta have one of these: give you energy.”

    “Uh—no, thanks, not hungry.”

    “You need to keep your strength up, though,” the plump, pallid Dustin informed him seriously. “Hang on! Is that— No: Arsenal colours,” he discerned, as a little Black boy in a knitted hat was seen to join the long, long cafeteria queue. “He did have a hat, didn’t ’e?”

    “Um, Gordon?” replied Hill weakly, used though he was to Dustin by this time. “Well, Joanna said he started out with one. She said something obscure about Sydney Swans but, um, I don’t think it’s got it on it. She seemed to think it was red and white but he has got a red and black one as well.”

    “Not Sydney Swans?”

    “Um, I don’t think so, Dustin,” he said weakly, used though he was to Dustin by this time.

    “People’ll probably think it’s Man United,” he said comfortably.

    “Mm.”

    “Is it football?” he then asked.

    “Yes. Oh! I don’t think it’s soccer, Dustin. They do play that in Australia but, um, well, I don’t know. It’s the older boy’s hat, he’s the one that’s Australian,” he added on a very weak note. “I think it’s something that they call Australian Rules, but, um,”—why had he started this speech?—“they are keen on Rugby League as well. It could be that.”

    Dustin nodded thoughtfully, chewing. He swallowed with difficulty. “What did you play at school?”

    “Rugger, for my sins,” replied Hill without enthusiasm. “I was a forward.”

    “That’d be right, with your build. Didja have to be in a team?’

    “Mm. For both winter and summer sports.”

    “Yeah. Mr Witherspoon, ’e made everyone be in a team at our school, even if you couldn’t play,” he revealed glumly. “Soccer. No-one’d watch us, they only wanted to watch the school team”—Hill nodded, he did understand this peculiar distinction—“so ’e gave up on the Saturday matches and just made us play in sports period and once a week after school.”

    “I see. What about summer?”

    “There was only one indoor court so most of us were allowed to play ’oops.”

    Oh, dear, he’d completely lost Hill there! “Hoops?” he croaked.

    “Yeah. You know, Hill! Basketball hoops!”

    “Oh! Right! Of course. Um, you didn’t have outdoor basketball courts?”

    “Nah, the girls grabbed all the courts for their stupid netball. But you don’t play proper basketball outside, anyway,” he said kindly.

    Not if you were an American kid growing up in an urban ghetto or in an air-conditioned artificial atmosphere, no. He didn’t say it, or anything like it, he just said: “Did you enjoy it?”

    “Nah, not tall enough. –Ever played that beach volleyball?” he suddenly said.

    Hill had been under the impression that that was a game for girls. Extremely wiry Australian girls, actually, with no hips whatsoever, obviously discarded from the breeding stock and put into one of the few occupations on earth where the physique would be an advantage rather than a cause of rude hilarity— “Uh, no, I’ve never even seen it in real life: only on the telly,” he said weakly.

    “Me, too! They had it in the Sydney Olympics!” he said excitedly.

    Had they? Broadcast to the rest of the world? The mind boggled. No, well, possibly that was where Hill had seen it. He let Dustin tell him a lot about beach volleyball…

    Dustin had just got around to asking him if he’d ever played bowls—no, real bowls, Hill: ten-pin—when Hill’s phone rang for the thousand and first time.

    “Greg?” said Dustin hopefully.

    “Nope: Julian.” He’d got to know Julian Wetherall quite well over the past several hours. Julian, who was a hairdresser, and his boyfriend, Bruce Coster, who was a chauffeur with one of those fancy limo-hire firms, had had the basement flat at Granddad Perkins’s place before Amanda’s sun-bed burnt the house down. Julian was still apt to get tearful on recalling that all their treasures had been lost. Joanna didn’t think that Gordon would remember Julian and Bruce’s new address but he knew the hairdresser’s quite well: he sometimes used to go there after school if Amanda had an appointment for a home visit.

    “Any news, Julian?”

    “No, alas, Hill! Just checking. Anything?”

    “No,” he said with a sigh. “Still not a sign of him.”

    “Is the plane on time?”

    “No: delayed half an hour, last time we checked the board.”

    “Display,” corrected Dustin.

    “Mm. –What, Julian? No, Lorraine’s just rung me. Nothing from the London police, either.”

    “Them! The salon was broken into two months back—and what they thought they’d find in here, goodness knows! If they want cash all they’ve got to do is hang round and mug Julie-Anne when she goes to the bank in the afternoons—though these days most of our customers pay by credit card, of course. –No, Angela, Mrs Balduccio wants the silver-blonde rinse! Honestly! –Sorry, Hill, where was I? Oh, yes! The alarm went off, you see, and Mr Rao over the way woke up—they live over the restaurant, you see—and there was no sign of the cops so he called them, and they had the cheek to say could he go and see if it looked like a break-in or only a false alarm, and then he rang Wanda”—Hill didn’t have to ask: he already knew that Wanda was the manager, though not the owner, of the salon—“and of course she fell out of bed and shot round here, and would you believe? They still hadn’t come! Dear old Mr Rao was out there in his dressing-gown with a hockey stick in his hand—was it, dear?—Yes, Tamara says it was a hockey stick, their Indira plays it at school—and they waited forty-five minutes more before the bleeders came! Can you believe it?”

    “I can, as a matter of fact,” said Hill on a dry note, watching Dustin inspect the inside of his fruit and nut bar packet hopefully for overlooked smears of nourishment. “Thanks for calling, Julian. I’ll let you know any developments.”

    “Ta, dear. Hang on; has Bruce managed to get through to you?”

    “No, I think he must be in the Channel Tunnel still.”

    “Mr Jansen,” agreed Julian glumly. “I s’pose if you’ve got the dough, the round trip to Brussels is nothing. And he always asks for Bruce. Well, it’s good money,” he admitted on a sour note. “But it’s getting beyond a joke! The man’s making a trip a week!”

    “Better Bruce than the airlines, Julian.”

    “Or the ferries!” he said with a shudder. “Nothing would get me back on one of those things, dear! Oops, here’s Mrs Samuelson: must dash! Bye-ee!”

    “’Bye, Julian,” said Hill with a smile in his voice.

    “’Ow’s the salong?” asked Dustin kindly.

    “All systems go: Angela’s doing Mrs Balduccio’s rinse and Julian’s Mrs Samuelson’s just arrived for her shampoo and set.”

    “Wanda come back?”

    “No: skived off as usual on their late nights!” said Hill with a laugh.

    Dustin consulted his watch. “Yeah. Think we better check the display again?”

    They did that, having to emerge into the concourse in order to do so. Hattie’s plane was now delayed by an hour. “You better ring Joanna,” advised Dustin. Obediently Hill rang Joanna. No more news their end, of course. Tearfully Joanna worked out that she could have made it over to Heathrow. June’s voice was heard loudly rubbishing this and then June came competently on the line.

    “You checked the Men’s?”

    “Mm. Several times,” replied Hill, not explaining how very, very, very glad he was that the uniformed Dustin had volunteered to inspect underneath the doors of the cubicles.

    “Ye-ah… He’s a cunning little bugger, you know. Checked the Ladies’?”

    Neither Hill nor Dustin had had the guts to volunteer for that duty, though Dustin had noted that it would of been all right if they’d of had another man free to stand guard outside. However, Greg had competently got a couple of policewomen to do it.

    “Yes, but the thing is, he may be dodging us. They haven’t got the manpower to simultaneously search all loos.”

    “They wouldn’t! Where are you now?”

    “In the concourse: just checked the boar—display.”

    “You’d better go back to the cafeteria. Sit somewhere inconspicuous where you can see the door and he won’t spot you as ’e comes in,” ordered June.

    “Yeah. Is there any liquor in that dump?”

    “No, but Lambie shot home and got her brandy. We’ve given Joanna a slug.”

    “Good. Oh—heard from Lorraine and Julian a bit back: nothing new there.”

    “No, well, Lorraine’d give him a flea in the ear, according to Joanna, but this Julian sounds like a soft touch. –’Ang on! Seen any air-hostesses?”

    “Hundreds,” said Hill blankly.

    “No! Joanna got hold of a couple of the girls from the old upstairs flat, said they’d keep an eye out and report to you. Most of ’em don’t work Heathrow, they’re on the local runs, but— Um, forget the names. Anyhow, there’s at least two around the place today.”

    “Good show. Every pair of eyes helps.”

    “Right. My bet is ’e’s lying low until the plane’s actually due.”

    That was Hill’s bet, too. “Yes. Uh, how will these air-hostesses recognize me?”

    “Tall, dark guy in a business suit sitting with a policeman in a cafeteria? Don’t think even an air-hostess could miss yer, though if they’re any of the ones that used to come down here for holidays with Hattie, they’ll do their best to. Anyhow, if they’ve got news they’ll put it over the loudspeaker. Better go, might see if we can get some dinner into ’er. Keep yer pecker up, dear! No news is good news! Bye-bye.”

    “’Bye, June,” agreed Hill.

    He had only just hung up when she rang back. “Yes, June?”

    “No, it’s Kenny. Did they tell you he had his new backpack with him?”

    “No, Joanna just said his schoolbag.”

    “Yes, it’s his new backpack.” Kenny described it in minute detail. Okay, it had Japanese lettering on it, but as it also had a logo not only recognizable to the entire telly-watching world but worn by them— However, Hill took due note of the details and said he’d pass them on to the airport police.

    “And the Metropolitan Police,” prompted Kenny.

    “Uh—okay. June doesn’t want to—? No, okay, I’ll do it, Kenny.”

    “Thanks. Um, I didn’t know what he was up to,” he growled.

    “No, I realize that, old man. The little shit took advantage of the fact you biked to school this morning, didn’t he?”

    “Yeah,” said Kenny gratefully. “Thanks, Hill. See ya!”

    “See ya, Kenny,” he agreed. “–Come on, Dustin, we’re supposed to be in the cafeteria, we’d better go back.”

    Obediently Dustin accompanied him, allowing him to bag a table that was as inconspicuous as was possible, given that they were not the only persons looking for quiet tables away from the door in a large airport cafeteria at getting on for dinnertime. Agreeing to a Coke—it’d have more caffeine in it than the coffee, that was for sure, and he could do with the sugar—Hill let him go off to join the queue again while he made his phone calls.

    “What’s all this?” he said feebly as Dustin returned to their table with a laden tray.

    “Dinner,” replied the young policeman stolidly, handing him a plate of pie, sausage and chips. “Get it down you.”

    “Thanks,” he said weakly.

    “Want some of these baked beans?” asked Dustin kindly.

    “Um, no, thanks all the same, old chap.”

    “Not everybody likes them,” agreed Dustin smugly, embarking on his plateful of pie, sausage, chips and baked beans. “Have you rung Greg?”

    “Yes. He’s passing the intel on.”

    “Goob,” he said thickly.

    Hill gave in and embarked on his plateful of pie, sausage and chips, weakly accepting a packet of bright red dye, salt, sugar and chemicals misnamed tomato sauce. …That did feel a lot better, actually.

    “Thanks, Dustin,” he said with a sigh. “That hit the spot!”

    Dustin nodded smugly round a great mouthful of pie and baked beans.

    “Oh, Hell, how much do I owe you?” realized Hill, scrabbling for his wallet.

    Dustin allowed him to reimburse him for the meal, though as he didn’t have much change he had to accept more than he was owed. He’d get the next lot, he promised.

    “Oh: look for air-hostesses,” remembered Hill.

    “Eh?” he said, fork suspended.

    “A natural impulse, to which one doesn’t need to be urged, true!” he conceded with a silly grin.

    Dustin collapsed in baked bean-y splutters, nodding madly.

    “Yeah,” said Hill with another silly grin. “No, these are a couple of air-hostesses that Joanna knows and that’ll recognize Gordon if they see him.”

    “Right: from the flat upstairs,” he recognized.

    Exactly. Dustin was certainly going to have plenty to report after this little lot to Mrs Green, Senior, and his sisters, Roseanne and Leonora, who still lived at home, as he did, and to Arnold Green and Mrs Green, Junior, (Debra) and their twins, little Ross and Courteney, when they came over to visit on Sunday. –Hill had, after some thought, seized the derivation of the “Roseanne,” and certainly the “Dustin,” and it had eventually dawned that “Arnold” was after the Governor of California, but “Leonora” had had him stumped. Unless Mrs Green was fond of classical music? So he’d asked. Dustin had revealed happily that Mum had got it off a poster near Covent Garden. It was quite pretty, wasn’t it? Hill had agreed with perfect sincerity that it was, reflecting that those who lived in glasshouses featuring a paternal nomenclature out of, ye gods, Galsworthy, had no grounds for stone-throwing. Debra had another one on the way and he was horribly afraid the poor little sprat was going to be landed with “Hilliard”: Dustin’s interested inquiry had resulted in a startled: “Crumbs!” but he’d then admitted that Mum and Debra would probably like it.

    Dustin now embarked on the entrancing game of air-hostess spotting. “Ooh, here’s one! …No.” And: “Ooh, there’s one! Ooh, she’s pr— Oh. No.” And etcetera. A much healthier occupation than stuffing himself on more cafeteria junk, so Hill didn’t attempt to stop him.

    Hill’s phone rang for the umpteenth time but it was only Greg checking that they were on duty and that they hadn’t seen a sign of him. He had let everyone know about the backpack but this had only resulted in certain cretins hauling in a perfectly innocent professor of anthropology that could have been a child molester-cum-backpack-thief but as far as could be ascertained, wasn’t, he was travelling with his wife, who had been in the Ladies’ at the time a certain gormless twit had nicked him, a perfectly innocent teenage Black kid that might have been Gordon if he’d been two feet shorter, and a perfectly innocent female Black kid of the right age and size but with a very angry aunty in charge of her.

    “Yeah. Sorry, Greg. But it’s good they’re on the look-out.”

    “Yeah. My bet is he’s lying low until Hattie’s plane’s due, the little bleeder.”

    “And so say all of us.”

    “Yeah. Talking of cretins, that Dustin had a meal-break?”

    Yes, a continuous one. “Uh—”

    “As opposed to stuffing his great fat gob with junk food,” said his superior heavily. “I know it’s hard to tell the difference, but he is supposed to have a meal-break on this shift.”

    “Then, yes, we’ve both had our dinners, thanks. Pie, sausages and chips, and in his case, baked beans.”

    Greg sighed. “I suppose there’s some sort of roughage in baked beans. The young ones these days are either like that or complete health-food nuts—go the other way. Down the gym all hours of the day and night admiring their abs.”

    “Were we any different in our day, Greg?” replied Hill with a smile in his voice. “When I did my officer training the local pub used to put on a so-called Magyar Special that consisted of a hearty goulash topped with thickly sliced potato, served with mountains of chips and a choice of side salads based on potato, rice or macaroni, all slathered in mayonnaise. Went down a treat!”

    “God Almighty. –Is he saying that sounds good?” he croaked.

    “You got it!” replied Hill with a laugh.

    “Yeah, well, they’d of made you lot run it off, right?”

    “Mm. Twenty miles a day, minimum. That and the scrambling over obstacle courses.”

    “Right. Wish the Force’d wake up to itself and see it’s our responsibility to keep our lads fit,” he sighed. “Well, keep your eyes skinned, Hill, okay?”

    “Sure. Thanks, Greg.”

    They got on with it. “Ooh, here comes one— Oh. Blow.”

    “Ever thought of jogging round your local playing field five times before breakfast, Dustin?” said Hill idly as the blonde air-hostess sat down with her cup of tea and plate of salad—so there were salads!—at a table with another air-hostess, not as pretty, and commenced gossiping.

    Dustin thought that was a tremendous joke. He then had to question Hill narrowly about his officer training and Army experience thereafter but after all, if he hadn’t wanted it commented upon he should never have mentioned it in front of the boy, should he? However, when he got to the “Have you got any medals?” bit he’d had enough.

    “Look, shut up, Dustin! It’s past history!”

    “But have you?”

    “A couple. It’s hard to avoid them when you’re sent overseas and made to kill people. Look for air-hostesses, for God’s sake!”

    “Actually I think you’re supposed to call them flight attendants, these days,” he said in a vague voice, looking round. “There’s one! –No. None of them seem to be ours,” he said sadly.

    Hill had to swallow. “No,” he croaked. “Well, uh, look for Gordon, there’s a good chap.”

    “I am. That kid over there, that’s not him.”

    No, that kid was Indian, and he had seven members of his extended family with him—though his knitted hat was red, admittedly.

    Hill’s phone rang but it was only Ben Simpson, who had elected to stay with the car. Well, it was Sir Maurice’s Roller, there was method in his madness. No progress? If you asked him the little bleeder was lying low until the lady’s plane came in. An hour’s delay? No problem, he had his flask and his sandwiches.

    After that they just looked for Gordon and air-hostesses for hours and hours and— Ooh! A really juicy one, and she was actually for them!

    “’Ullo, are you Hill?” she panted. –Dustin’s eyes were on stalks, and no wonder.

    “Yes,” he croaked, dragging himself to his feet. “I’m Hill Tarlington. This is Dustin Green.”

    “Hi, I’m Helga!” she panted. “Sorry I couldn’t make it before! See, me and Tracy, we ’ad a good look rahnd, and we suddenly fort, what abaht that time ’e run orf in Selfridges and ’id in the Ladies’, the cunning little sod, an’ poor Amanda looked for ’im everywhere, and ’ad to get them to make a public announcement! And all the time ’e was in there pretendink ’e was waiting for ’is mum and ’is sister!”—Helga was very blonde indeed, in fact golden. Golden and crisply curled, not to say crisply curved as to the parts that weren’t golden. Never mind the Scandinavian name, she had been born within sound of Bow Bells or he, Hill, was a Dutchman. She was, actually, pretty enough to make any young chap of the opposite gender feel about as clumsy and inept as a Dutchman in Gargantuan clogs and by the look on Dustin’s face, he did.—“So we’ve been checking all the Ladies’!” she finished, panting.

    “Yes,” croaked Hill, dragging his eyes off the bits that were panting. “Thanks awfully, Helga, that’s great.”

    Dustin had managed to stumble to his feet. “They did check there,” he croaked.

    “Can’t ’urt, though,” she said cheerfully.

    “No: it’s very good of you,” said Hill. “Sit down, Helga; unless you have to dash off?”

    “No,” said Helga with a blinding, thousand-watt smile, sitting down. “My flight doesn’t leave for ages but I come on aht soon as I got Joanna’s message.”

    “What about Tracy?” croaked Dustin.

    “’Er an’ all. –She’s back with us girls again, she dumped that German that was somethink in the EU,” she explained. She sniffed. “We all told ’er ’e was married! See, we decided to go for the big international flights for a bit. You get some interesting layovers, if yer lucky.”

    Hill looked at Dustin’s glowing cheeks. “Between flights? Yes, you would: places like New York and Hong Kong, mm? Can I get you something, Helga? Cup of tea? Coffee?”

    “Ta ever so, Hill, I’d love a cup of tea!” she beamed.

    Hill ascertained she didn’t want anything to eat, let Dustin decide on a Coke without telling him he didn’t need any more caffeine or sugar, and kindly let him, the blush, and the hard-on sit next to the juicy Helga while he went off to the end of the long queue. Well, you were only young once, and God knew he’d had his share in his time.

    His phone rang as he was queuing. Hellen. Still at the office, it was more central than her place. Just reminding him to call her on her mobile immediately if the London police had picked him up, and she’d go and collect him. And what were the details of the older, responsible woman in town? Hill gave her Lorraine’s details, and Hellen explained she wouldn’t try to collect her before going to the police station, she’d get her to order a taxi which she would pay for. And she’d checked with the airline: did Hill realize the plane was now delayed an hour and a half? God! He hadn’t, no but he managed to thank her nicely and to order her to get herself some dinner on him.

    His phone rang again as he was queuing. Bruce, now out of the Channel Tunnel and on course to deliver Mr Jansen to the Dorchester. No news? Damn. Probably hiding somewhere until the plane landed, he was cunning enough, though not as bad as that little sod of a Shelby. If Hill thought he could help, he’d come on out to Heathrow.

    Shit, the chap had just driven all the way from Brussels! He pointed this out and Bruce replied cheerfully: “That’s nothing: I used to be on the long-distance lorries: had a run all the way from Turkey, at one stage!”

    Sternly repressing the phrase “rough trade” which inevitably sprang to mind at this point, Hill thanked him nicely but said that he thought, just in case Gordon did turn up at their flat, Bruce would be better there, as Julian had to be at the salon.

    “Right,” said Bruce. “Um, look, how well do you know Hattie, Hill?”

    “Uh, not really well, I’m afraid, Bruce. I first met her about seven years back.”

    “I know: that daft war-gaming course,” agreed Bruce calmly. “I did say if you’d made that much of an impression why on earth didn’t she give you a bell: you know, make some excuse, say she’d left something behind, or something—but she wouldn’t: not that sort. Um, look, the thing is, she, um, well, she could take this thing two ways, y’know?”

    Hill was now a sort of glowing puce shade, added to which his chest felt as if it was failing to expand when his lungs told it to. Hattie had mentioned him after the course? “Um, yes?”

    “Well, she might just shrug it off, say what’s all the fuss about, Gordon’s perfectly capable. I mean, whether or not he turns up as she steps off the plane.”

    “Uh-huh.”

    “I have seen her act like that before. She got real off-hand when her granddad died.”

    “I think I see, Bruce. Go on.”

    “Um, well, alternatively she could burst into tears and collapse all over you.”

    “Mm. I know which I’d prefer,” he admitted .

    “Me, too,” said Bruce with a smile in his voice. “Tears are easier to cope with than off-handedness, any day, in my book.”

    “Absolutely. Thanks very much for the warning, Bruce. Um,” he said, unable to help himself, “so did she mention me, after the course?”

    “Mm. Not with approval, but me and Julian couldn’t help noticing. I mean, she barely mentioned the men from work, y’know? But she went on and on about you.”

    “Jesus,” he said weakly.

    “Hang in there. And ring us the minute the little bleeder turns up.”

    “Yes; thanks, Bruce,” he said weakly, ringing off. Jesus!

    His phone rang yet again as he was queuing.

    “Hullo, is that Hill? You don’t know me, this is Jill—Jill Cornwall. Jill Rigby that was. I’m a friend of Hattie’s and Joanna’s: I used to live in Hattie’s upstairs flat. I got Joanna’s message and I checked with her and I’ll be with you in a few minutes: I’m on the shuttle-bus now.”

    “Um, that’s very good of you, Jill. Er—shuttle-bus from where?” he said weakly.

    Cheerfully Jill explained it was between the airports: she was on the Manchester run these days. Shit, she must just have come off duty, then! There wasn’t much he could say, as she was nearly here, so he thanked her fervently and tried to explain where they were. She claimed to know that cafeteria so he thanked her fervently again, and said they’d see her soon.

    When he tottered back to the table it was occupied by Dustin, Helga, and another air-hostess! Same uniform, just as juicy, but with lightly-frosted brown hair, big slanted greenish eyes and a pixie-like face with a cheeky nose and a scattering of freckles. There was nothing particularly pixie-like about the figure, which was as well-developed as Helga’s, and he could only conclude that the airline liked ’em that way. Must be run by hetero chaps. –Tracy White. Thanking her for her help, he sat down feebly. Only just remembering to tell them that Jill was on her way.

    “Good!” beamed Tracy. “’Member that time the little horror hid in the ladies’ loo in Selfridges?”

    “Yes!” they all chorused.

    Unphased, Tracy continued: “Jill was the one that thought of checking out the Ladies’.”

    “Yes, that’s right, so she was! But we’ve looked, ducks,” Helga reminded her.

    “Never mind, she might think of something!”

    “Yer right. –She was always the practical one,” Helga told them.

    “Apart from Frank, love,” Tracy reminded her.

    “Oh, ’im! Yeah, well, we’ve all ’ad a Frank or two in our time. ’E was a pilot,” she explained to the interested Hill and Dustin. “Fort ’e was a cut above the likes of us, din’e, dear?”

    Tracy sniffed. “Yeah. Well, they’re all the same. ’Member that very first time we went out to see Hattie’s cottage, Helga? After Granddad Perkins died: we thought it might cheer ’er up a bit,” she explained to the interested Hill and Dustin. “Jill couldn’t come ’cos she had a date with Frank. She was absolutely convinced,” she said with a smothered sigh, “that it was gonna lead to something. ’Course, what we all thought it’d lead to was what all her other dates with Frank led to!” she ended with some feeling.

    “What?” asked Dustin before Hill could leap on him and strangle him.

    “Wotcher fink?” retorted Helga vividly.

    “Him getting into her knickers,” Tracy elaborated kindly.

    Dustin turned the bright mottled scarlet that Hill had been expecting, right up to the ears, and nodded, unable to utter.

    “So presumably Mr Cornwall isn’t Frank?” said Hill smoothly as Tracy opened her giant handbag and produced a selection of bottles.

    “Nope: under-manager at the supermarket two blocks from Hattie’s place,” she explained.

    “’E was then, ducks: promoted to manager, now!” corrected Helga.

    Tracy grinned at them. “Yeah. Sorry: living in the past; it’s brought it all back. ’Member that Kimberley and her new winter coat? –She bought it at the end of season sales.”

    “Oh, yeah! She couldn’t get the smoke aht of it: it was ruined. Mind you, that fireman wot carried ’er aht over ’is shoulder in a fireman’s lift, ’e sounded a bit of all right!”

    “She was on a layover,” explained Tracy helpfully. “Wasn’t with us for all that long, was she, Helga? –She came after Jill got married,” she explained. “I’ve got mineral water, mineral water and lime, and sparkling mineral water, and lessee… Gin, bourbon, vodka, more vodka—that was the fat bloke in 19B: ordered three to save time after Paris and then dozed off,” she explained cheerfully. “What’s this? Oh: tequila. It’s horrible, only Roxanne, she likes it in them margaritas of hers.”

    “Was she with you at Hattie’s?” asked Hill, smiling.

    “Nah, she’s new!” they chorused. They looked at each other and laughed and Tracy repeated: “Living in the past! –What do you fancy?”

    “Don’t you have to be on duty, though?” asked Dustin dubiously.

    Manifestly not, or did the boy imagine she lugged that bagful of goodies around with her everywhere she went? Tracy was explaining she’d just come off duty, the flight had just debarked when she’d got Joanna’s message. Quite.

    “He is on duty,” noted Hill mildly. “Thanks very much, Tracy. I’ll have a vodka.”

    Tracy was opening the mineral water and lime and explaining that that was nice with it, so they had that.

    … “’Ang abaht!” shrieked Helga, leaping to her feet just as the last of their vodkas was disappearing down Hill’s and Tracy’s throats and Dustin, having finished the Coke provided by Hill, was deciding he might try a sparkling mineral water: “That’s ’im!” She was off and running. The others stumbled up and followed her.

    “Gotcha!” she shrieked, grabbing his arm and pulling him round fiercely just he was about to dart through the doorw— “Oh. No. Blow. –Sorry, ducks, fort you was someone else.”

    “I never done nuffink!” he shouted.

    Helga released him, looking dry. “Well, you were nicking a cake, but you’re not the one we wanted, so push orf. And oy!” she shouted as he disappeared: “Don’t try it on again!”

    “He’ll remember that in his dreams until he’s eighty, Helga!” said Hill with a laugh, coming up to her side.

    “He means nightmares!” panted Dustin.

    No, he didn’t! Hill’s shoulders shook slightly but he merely said: “Never mind, Helga; nice try.”

    “Yeah: looked just like him,” agreed Tracy.

    “Wasn’t him!” gasped another air-hostess, skidding to a stop before them.

    “Nah,” agreed Helga sourly. “We reckon ’e’s arahnd ’ere somewheres, though. Well, ’member that Selfridges do?”

    “I’ll say! Hullo, you must be Hill,” she said nicely, holding out her hand. “I’m Jill.”

    “Lovely to meet you, Jill. It’s really good of you to come.” Different uniform, rather older, almost as pretty as Helga and Tracy but in a much cooler, more composed style, the sleek, shiny brown hair in a neat bun under her entrancing cap. Did they still wear those? Well, on her airline, evidently. She radiated good sense, competency, and just plain niceness. And as her figure was rather like Sophia Loren’s in her heyday, Hill could only conclude that Frank was a deluded tit not to have gone for a permanent helping of it all.

    Dustin having been introduced, they adjourned to their table, where Jill gratefully accepted a bourbon and mineral water from Tracy, and asked if they’d put an announcement over the loudspeakers.

    “Several,” admitted Hill.

    “What did they say?”

    “Asked him to come to the security office. Was that wrong?” he said, looking at her face.

    “I’ll say! Would you, if you were a bad little kid of ten or so?”

    “Uh—you’ve got a point.”

    “We’d better put another one over,” decided Jill. “Ask him to come to the counter, Helga.”

    “Hang on. Greg—I mean Sergeant Spurling—is coordinating it all,” said Hill weakly as Helga got up.

    “’S’all right: I know ’im. Go on, you can ring ’im,” she said generously. Hill rang him. It was all right, though Greg’s opinion was that he’d gone to ground.

    “Fink I oughta stay at the desk, ducks?” said Helga to Jill.

    “Um… he might scarper if he sees someone he knows. No, you’d better just do the message and come on back, Helga. Make sure they know at the desk they gotta hold onto him, though.”

    “Don’t worry!” she said with feeling, going.

    In the interval Hill’s phone rang four times: Joanna, Lorraine, and Hellen, just checking, and the Metropolitan Police, making sure the cretinous member of the public hadn’t found him and forgotten to alert them; and Dustin plucked up courage and asked Tracy and Jill about the old flat.

    Then an announcement came on. “Would Master Gordon Broadbent, a visitor to the airport, please report to…” Hill looked dazedly at the girls. Jill nodded and smiled.

    “Was that Helga?” he croaked as the repeat of the announcement died away. It had all been in the fruitiest Oxbridge.

    “Yes; she’s good on the mikes,” said Tracy comfortably. “It’s a real waste now that we’ve got those daft recorded messages about the emergency exits.”

    “Uh—oh! She doesn’t get to do it any more?’

    “No. We just have to point and that,” she said sadly. “She does all the announcements about the serving, though.”

    “What about Manfred?” asked Jill.

    “’Im! Thinks ’e’s God’s gift to the travelling public! No, last time out—no, time before—Captain Hardy told him he was too long-winded, people don’t pay to hear him listening to the sound of his own voice, and if he wanted that route, he hadda let Helga do it or he’d get him transferred to the South African run. –It’s horrible,” she explained to the fascinated Hill and Dustin: “you can’t leave anything in your hotel room, they nick stuff; and going out you get all the drunk South Africans and Australians going home, and coming back it’s not much better, because the Australians have had time to get drunk already. There’s always loads of sports teams, they always seem to come that way.”

    “Roxanne said that some of them go Thai Airways, through Bangkok,” objected Jill mildly.

    Helga returned, panting. “’Oo?”

    “Drunken Australian sports teams, Helga,” explained Hill kindly.

    “Eh? Nah! They don’t all go frough Bangkok: we get millions of ’em on ahr Sarf Afri—”

    “I just told ’em that,” explained Tracy.

    “Oh, right. Did it come over good?”

    Everyone agreeing that it had, Helga recruited her forces with a mineral water, Tracy and Hill had another vodka, since it was there, and Jill finished the bourbon. And they all racked their brains to think of somewhere else to look for Gordon…

    Hattie’s plane was now delayed by two hours. Helga had gone off to her flight, with grateful thanks from Hill and blushes from Dustin. Jill had had an inspiration and gone off to check the medical stations because he could have told them a tale about feeling seedy. N.B.G. She and Tracy, firmly deciding to station Dustin and Hill outside them as they did it, had carefully rechecked all the ladies’ loos. N.B.G. Greg had come past on his regular patrol and agreed that Hill and Dustin might as well recheck the gents’. N.B.G. Jill had carefully checked all the TV viewing areas while sending Tracy off to check all the video machines, though they’d both admitted he was probably much too fly to go anywhere near them. Same lack of result. Tracy had rounded up an amiable co-pilot, name of Vern, and gone off to check the areas where they only let ticketed passengers through, ’cos you never knew—though these days with tighter security it wasn’t so likely. Whether or not Gordon had managed to con both the ticket checker and the security staff, they certainly saw no sign of him. Jill had then decided it was no use mucking about: if he was here he couldn’t have missed their announcement, so she’d rung through to Greg on Hill’s phone and persuaded him to put over a sensible message. This one said that Gordon Broadbent was not in trouble but his sister and friends were worried about him and he was to meet Hill Tarlington at the airline enquiries counter…

    Hill drooped behind the counter. Even though Katrina and Sinead, currently on duty there, were both lovely girls and extremely sympathetic, this was pointless! If Gordon was here, he obviously wasn’t about to give himself up. And meanwhile Dustin was stationed in the cafeteria with the delicious Tracy and the delightful Jill, sopping up Tracy’s mineral water and hearing all about Grandad Perkins and Hattie! It served him right that the juicy Helga had had to catch her flight, that was what!

    “I could put it over again, if you like, Hill,” said Katrina kindly, smoothing a blonde wisp of hair off her face. She had one of those longish, very smooth hairdoes that seemed to be In; with only a few short wisps at the side of the face, just where, he’d have said, they’d tickle and drive you crazy. But Katrina seemed remarkably sane. Remarkably, in view of the cretinous members of the public she’d competently dealt with in his, Hill’s, hearing. Fifteen with daft questions about flight arrivals that were clearly marked on a million screens in plain view; eight that wanted to know where the loos were when they were clearly marked with both words and images, just over there; six that didn’t know where their flights went from even though they had their boarding passes and had been told; two that had come on the wrong day (separately); four that claimed their baggage had been lost but didn’t have baggage checks to prove it; five with daft queries about excess baggage that they must have known would be excess; seven that wanted directions to another airline entirely… Oh, and approximately thirty-five that were just plain lost, but then, it was a very big airport. And those were just Katrina’s lot, Sinead had been just as busy!

    He let Katrina put it over again, why not? They all watched eagerly… Nothing.

    Hill sagged on the stool they’d kindly given him. “I wouldn’t have your jobs for quids,” he said as there was a momentary lull in the enquiries.

    Sinead smiled at him. She was a very pretty girl, though they weren’t Irish looks: Black. Darker than Joanna but something of the same elegant look. Her hair was long and straight, in a big shiny bun, and she had wonderful facial bones. “You’ve never seen that Airport programme, have you?”

    “Uh—no,” he groped. “Don’t think so.”

    “No! This is a quiet day!” she said with a laugh. “Well, the rush is over, eh, Katrina?”

    “That’s right; it was a busy afternoon, they were snowed under when we came on shift, but it’s slackened off,” she agreed.

    Hill just looked at them limply.

    “We haven’t had a shouter for ages,” elaborated Katrina.

    ‘No. Nor a bawler, neither,” agreed Sinead.

    “Sometimes they shout and bawl,” added Katrina. “I put in for extra boxes of tissues. I mean, you can’t just stand here while the woman’s crying all over your counter!”

    “Yes; but there’s no reason we should subsidize them. –See, they’re usually in the wrong—well, always, really, unless we’ve lost their bags. Well, they’re hardly ever lost, they’ll just’ve been put on the wrong flight or sent on instead of taken off,” explained Sinead.

    “Yes. But they bawl even if it’s their own fault. –’Scuse me. The toilets are just over there, madam,” said Katrina smoothly, pointing. “You’ll see the signs.”

    “At one stage we did trying telling them the Ladies’ had a little lady in a frock—well, seems logical, dunnit?” said Sinead comfortably, easing a shoe off and rubbing her arch against her calf. “But that George Walker, he called us into his office and said it could be misconstrued if it was a Muslim lady in a tunic and pants.”

    “I don’t see how saying it could be misconstrued, Sinead,” he said dazedly.

    “Exactly!” said Sinead triumphantly. “Only his word is law, see?”

    Katrina sniffed. “He thinks it is. –No, sir, this flight doesn’t leave until tomorrow. To-mor-row. See this date here? That’s to-mor-row. To-mor-row. You come back here at this time tomorrow: that’s when your flight leaves.”

    The unfortunate fellow burst into speech—in what language, was anybody’s guess.

    “Yes,” said Katrina, smiling nicely. “I didn’t quite get that, sir, but your ticket says that your flight leaves tomorrow. Not today. To-mor-row.”

    The gentleman made another speech.

    “I didn’t quite get that, sir, but your ticket says that your flight leaves tomorrow. Not today. To-mor-row.”

    She’d won: he retreated, looking baffled.

    “What language was that?” said Hill feebly.

    “Dunno,” admitted Katrina cheerfully, easing a shoe off and rubbing her arch against her calf. “Sometimes they go on for ages, eh, Sinead?”

    “Yeah. –I’m sorry, madam, you’re in the wrong terminal building. The—wrong—terminal—building.”

    This could last for some time: Hill just sat there quietly, looking without hope for Gordon…

    In the next lull he said: “May I ask, does either of you speak any foreign languages?”

    “Well, no,” admitted Katrina. “Well, I did French at school.”

    “When I was on the early morning shift,” said Sinead, easing a shoe off and rubbing her arch against her calf, “I worked with a girl called Georgina—’member, Katrina? You might not’ve worked with her. Well, she spoke three foreign languages: French and Spanish and Italian. Only guess what?”

    “You never had any enquiries from people that needed them?” he said weakly.

    “Right! I mean, we did have some that were, but they all spoke English. –Want me to put the announcement over again, Hill?”

    Hill thought not, thanked them warmly for their assistance, and with assurances he would let them know, headed back to the cafeteria, keeping a really sharp eye out…

    “That’s her flight!” said Jill sharply, bounding up.

    Hill looked dazedly at his watch. “It isn’t due for another half hour.”

    “They must have caught a following wind. Come on!”

    “They’ll be ages getting through Customs, Jill,” warned Tracy, getting up without haste.

    “Yes, but if we get there early, we can spread out inconspicuously.”

    “Grab ’im in a pincer movement, yeah!” agreed Dustin excitedly.

    “Um, well, you’re the one that’s done tactics and stuff, Hill, what do you think?” asked Tracy cautiously.

    “Sounds good to me. Approach with caution, though, Jill.”

    Jill slowed down. “Oh. You’re right. He’ll be off like the wind if he spots us.”

    “’Specially you: you’ve never worked out of here,” agreed Tracy.

    There was already a small crowd of people waiting to meet debarking passengers, but nobody seemed to be coming through. They didn’t really need to spread out inconspicuously, because a considerable number of police and security guards were already spread out, though personally Hill wouldn’t have used the word “inconspicuously.” After moment Greg Spurling appeared, looked round, and then came over to them.

    “Try to merge with the crowd.”

    “Thanks,” replied Hill drily.

    “Pity you hadda broadcast your presence here, really: now he’ll be on the lookout for you,” he said mildly.

    “I thought it was an excellent idea, actually,” said Hill as Jill’s cheeks reddened.

    “So did I!” agreed Tracy aggressively.

    “Keep your hair on. Helga gone, has she? –Right. Who is it on this incoming flight, again?”

    Hill goggled at him but Tracy replied calmly: “Suzanne.”

    “Uh-huh.” His eyes roamed the crowd. “Sensible, is she?”

    An agonised expression came over Tracy’s face but Jill replied mildly: “Yes, she’s a very practical person. Well, she did go off to Australia with that Australian co-pilot, but you have to give these things a chance, don’t you? Don’t worry, she’ll look after Hattie.”

    “If Helga managed to get the message to her—yeah,” he acknowledged drily.

    “Would this message have to go via Helga’s pilot to the control centre—I won’t ask,” decided Hill.

    “No, don’t,” advised Greg drily. “Okay, remember what I said: if he does turn up, don’t make a rush at him, it’ll scare him off. Leave it to me. I’ll be just over there.” He nodded, and went off.

    “Shall we spread out?” asked Tracy.

    “I have to stay with Hill,” croaked Dustin.

    “I’m not going to do anything potty, but stay with me by all means. Maybe if we go over there by that cigarette-butt depository masquerading as a potted plant, and you girls take this side? –Okay, then.”

    They did that. The crowd swelled, but more significantly thickened to the point where it was impossible to determine if there was any small Black kid hiding in it. Or, in fact, anybody less than six foot tall.

    Hill’s phone rang. Greg. “No: haven’t spotted him. I’ve got a couple of men taking a look from the mezzanine, I’ll let you know if they see him.”

    Hill reported to Dustin and they went on peering while trying to look inconspicuous…

    “People are coming through,” said Dustin in a low voice.

    “Mm.”

    “Is that her?”

    “No.”—Dustin was watching the debarking passengers.—“Dustin, watch the crowd!”

    “Eh? Oh.” Dustin dragged his eyes off the passengers and more or less resumed peering at the crowd…

    “This is pointless,” decided Hill: “I can’t see a thing!”

    “Me, neither,” agreed Dustin gratefully.

    “Look, if Gordon’s here to meet Hattie then he’ll meet her! Let’s go over there where at least we’ll see her!” He was about to tell Dustin to use his authority to force a way through but Dustin was already doing it.

    “Aren’t you supposed to be over there?” the burly uniformed man by the last barrier penning off the travelling public greeted Dustin. “Where’s your bloke?”

    “Here. This is him: Hill. This is Stan.”

    “Hullo, Stan,” said Hill mildly.

    “We couldn’t see nothing so Hill thought we better come over here, ’cos if Gordon’s here to meet Hattie then he’ll meet her,” Dustin explained quickly.

    “Does Greg know?” replied Stan, unmoved.

    Dustin looked guiltily at Hill.

    “I’ll ring him,” he said heavily. He rang him, reported and then passed the phone to Stan.

    “Oh,” said Stan grudgingly to the first message. The phone gave him a further message. “Was ’e? Thought they were still out there, they didn’t find any of them weapons of mass dest—Oh, right, I geddit. …All right, if you say so. …No, only some of the first-class passengers have come through.”

    “In the desert,” said Dustin helpfully to Hill.

    “Mm,” he agreed as Stan rang off and passed the phone back. “I won’t ask when you passed on that unnecessary piece of intel.”

    “Greg says you can stay, only don’t make any sudden moves,” said Stan.

    “Right,” he agreed.

    Stan’s phone rang. “Business class are coming through now,” he reported to them, hanging up. It immediately rang again. He gave it a number and rang off. Hill and Dustin had only just started peering hopefully in the direction whence Hattie might appear when it rang again. “Good. Ta, Suzanne,” he said. He rang off. “Coming through now,” he reported.

    “Ooh, good!” cried Dustin.

    “Thanks,” said Hill feebly.

    “Look for the bloody kid!” replied Stan, rather loudly.

    Guiltily Hill and Dustin stopped looking for Hattie and started looking for Gordon.

    “Um, sorry, Hill, I meant Dustin,” said Stan on a weak note. “You watch out for Hattie, none of us don’t know what she looks like.”

    “Medium height, long brown hair, great big eyes and pink cheeks,” said Dustin, peering hopefully.

    “I said, look for the kid!” replied Stan with some heat. Possibly he was kindly overlooking Hill’s puce cheeks, but possibly he genuinely hadn’t noticed: as usual with international airports the heat was stifling.

    Hill watched out for Hattie with some glancing round for Gordon. Dustin glanced round for Gordon with considerable watching out for Hattie. Stan looked sourly at the crowd, which was now seething and pushing and even more closely packed…

    “Jesus!” gulped Hill.

    Dustin and Stan looked round quickly. A tall blonde air-hostess was pushing a wheelchair towards them. Beside her a petite dark hostess was pushing a baggage trolley containing one suitcase, a briefcase, a shiny Duty-Free Shop plastic carrier bag and two bulging logo-ed carry-on bags. In the wheelchair was Hattie with her leg in plaster.

    “Is that her?” gasped Dustin.

    “Yes.”

    “She’s broken her leg!” he gasped.

    “Yes.”

    They stood there numbly, gaping, as Hattie was wheeled towards them.

    “Hullo,” she said to Hill in a small voice.

    He was opening his mouth to reply when there were pained and annoyed sounds from behind him, Dustin shouted: “Get him!” and Gordon’s small form hurtled towards them.

    Stan, Dustin and Hill all made grabs, the blonde air-hostess released the wheelchair and also made a grab, and Hattie shouted: “You stupid little WANKER!”

    Then nobody spoke or moved for a moment.

    “I’ve got him,” announced Dustin redundantly.

    “Well, don’t let go,” recommended Stan in a weak voice.

    “Put the cuffs on him,” said Hill sourly as Gordon glared pugnaciously and opened his mouth. “Don’t dare to speak. You’re in very hot water, chum,” he said evilly. “They’ve wised you up, have they, Hattie?”

    “Yes.” She swallowed. “This is Suzanne, she’s from the old flat upstairs, and this is Melanie. They’ve been looking after me, they’ve been really great.”

    “We’d have looked after her in any case,” beamed the blonde Suzanne, “but heck! What with a broken leg as well!”

    “Exactly. Um—come over here,” said Hill in a weak voice.

    Stan came to with a jump. Whether it was the unexpected wheelchair or the unexpected smallness of Gordon— “Yes. Stand aside, please, sir! Excuse us, madam, let the lady in the wheelchair through, if you please! Give way, there, sir—” They forced their way through the crowd and onto a relatively clear floor space where they were rapidly joined by the panting Jill and Tracy.

    “So he was hiding!” said Jill viciously. “You stupid little bleeder, Gordon Broadbent!”

    “Yeah: you deserve a spanking and for two pins I’d give it to ya meself!” snapped Tracy.

    “I only—”

    “Shut up!” several persons shouted.

    Into the sudden silence Greg’s voice said very sourly indeed: “So ya got him.”

    “Yes. Uh—sorry, Greg; just about to call you,” said Hill feebly.

    “I’ll just tell the lads to stand down.” Greg’s sinewy person was adorned with both a mobile phone and a short-wave radio: he spoke into the latter and advised: “Panic over. I’ve let the Security boys know, too.”

    “Thanks, Greg. And many thanks for all your help”

    “No problem. So this is Hattie, eh?”

    “Oh—yes! Hattie Perkins: Greg Spurling—Sergeant Spurling. He’s been coordinating the effort to find bloody Gordon.”

    “I never done—”

    “Shut up!” several persons shouted.

    “Do you want the cuffs on?” added Greg in a grim voice.

    “Yes, go on, handcuff him,” agreed Hattie.

    “You’re MEAN!” he shouted. “I only come to meet yer!”

    “Gordon, you stupid, selfish little toad, you’ve had Joanna and Lambie and June going out of their minds, and all the girls from the flat looking for you all over the airport and making calls to me in mid-air that they’re not supposed to!” said Hattie loudly. “I can’t even think how to punish you for such a stuh-stupid—”

    “Hush! Don’t cry any more, love,” said Suzanne quickly, passing her a fresh tissue. “She’s been bawling most of the way since Rome!” she informed the company angrily.

    “I only come—”

    “Cuff him!” snapped Greg.

    Looking surprised but far from unwilling, Dustin did so.

    “Right!” said Greg grimly, grabbing Gordon by the grimy tee-shirt. “You’re collared!”

    Hill had now got the point. “Yes: take him to the police station, Sergeant.”

    “It’ll be my office, for a start,” said Greg grimly. “Come on, you!”

    Hattie blew her nose quickly. “Yes; thank you very much, Sergeant Spurling.”

    And forthwith Greg and Dustin marched Gordon off.

    Stan cleared his throat. “He’s kidding, really, Miss.”

    “Hattie,” she said, smiling at him. “I know, but let’s hope it doesn’t dawn on Gordon. Thank you very much! I’m afraid we’ve put you all to an awful lot of trouble.”

    “That’s okay,” he said, grinning. “What we’re here for. Well, better get back on duty!” He marched off looking very pleased with himself.

    Hattie blew her nose. “Thank you so much, everybody.”

    “That’s okay, Hattie, dear!” beamed Tracy. “I was here anyway.”

    Hattie nodded soggily and said to Jill, turning very red: ”I know you came out specially, Jill, and I can’t thank you enough, and I’m really, really sorry you had to waste your time—”

    “Rubbish! Of course I had to come! Well, might’ve known it’d be another Selfridges do, but it is a big airport and— Well, anyway. All’s well that ends well!”

    “No thanks to him! I’d give ’im a good spanking,” noted Tracy.

    “Dunno that that’d work,” said Jill dispassionately. “Amanda belted him good and proper after Selfridges, ’member? Didn’t work, did it?”

    “No,” Tracy admitted glumly. “–I wonder where he was hiding?”

    “Probably just dodging us,” said Hill, trying to pull himself together. “Look, shall we all sit down for a bit? I’ve got a lot of phoning to do.”

    “Of course!” said Jill quickly. “Come on, this way! –Hill’s been wonderful, Hattie,” she explained as they went. “It’s been him that’s been coordinating everything and phoning the police and all that. Joanna seems to have gone to pieces. Well, she is very young,” she said kindly.

    Tracy began to object: “She’s not that young: those poor girls on the planes on 9—”

    “Yes, we know,” said Jill, kind but firm. “They were wonderful, and an example to us all, but they were trained for emergencies, Tracy, like all of us, but Joanna isn’t. And actually, though it seems unfair to say so, they couldn’t possibly have known how it would end, they must just have thought it was an ordinary hijacking.”

    Hill had always thought that; he nodded approvingly.

    “Yes,” said Hattie unexpectedly, blowing her nose. “That’s what I thought.”

    “Hattie, love,” gasped Suzanne, “you bawled for a week over 9/11 and didn’t go to work and lost your job!”

    “Shut up, Suzanne, we don’t need that dragged up again,” said Jill very firmly indeed. “The point is, Gordon is Joanna’s little brother and she was in charge of him. –Good, let’s sit here. Melanie, you’re not missing your ride, are you?”

    “No, Dirk said he’d wait for me.”

    “Nothing’ll come of that,” warned Tracy.

    “Shut up, Tracy, you should talk!” said Suzanne quickly.

    “Me? It wasn’t me that waltzed off all the way to Australia with—”

    “Yes,” said Hill very firmly. “All right, girls; don’t let the sudden relaxation of tension affect the tongues.”

    “Running off at the mouth, he means,” said Jill into the sudden silence. “Go on, Hill, you make your calls.”

    “There’s rather a lot of them, I’m afraid.”

    “That’s all right,” she said comfortably. “We need to give it time to sink into that thick head of Gordon’s that he’s dropped himself right in it, don’t we?”

    Obediently Hill made his calls. Joanna first. Very fortunately June answered, so the burst of tears was only in the background. Oops—two: Lambie was bawling as well: poor June. He rang off quickly and said: “That was June—she and Lambie are both with Joanna, Hattie.” Hattie nodded meekly, and didn’t say anything, so he quickly rang Hellen, reported all was well, thanked her for staying on at the office, and rang off. “Was that your secretary?” said Hattie faintly. “Uh-huh.” He rang Lorraine—he didn’t feel the Metropolitan Police needed to be next, they hadn’t been that sympathetic. “Very relieved but not surprised the little bleeder’s turned up,” he reported. “Lorraine?” said Hattie very faintly. “Uh-huh.” He rang Julian. The salon was closing but Julian was finishing off Mrs Vanstone’s streaks. “Sends his love, advises a good spanking,” he reported. “Our Julian?” croaked Hattie. “Yes. I will ring Bruce, since he was so good as to—Bruce? It’s Hill. He’s turned up at the airport, the little bugger. …Well, yeah, that’s what Julian said! Thanks for your support. …I’d love to. Okay, this Sunday as ever was: seven-thirtyish? Done. See ya then!” He hang up. “Huh-Hill,” said Hattie in a trembling voice, “Bruce and Julian are gay.” Hill was pressing numbers. “Mm? I know. Blast! This was supposed to be a direct number! Oh, sod the man!” He rang off and rang Ben in the car, deciding he’d better bring it round in twenty minutes, since they still had to sort things out with the cops here. “Who—who was that?” said Hattie in a trembling voice. “Mm? Ben Simpson—drove me out. –Blast and damn! Where is the man? Very well, I will press 2!” He pressed 2 and left a message in words of one syllable, though without any real hope that the Met would stop searching for a small Black boy in a putative Sydney Swans hat as a result. Meanwhile Tracy was explaining helpfully: “Ben Simpson, he’s Sir Maurice’s driver, really: he drove Hill out in the firm’s Roller. See, it’s the firm’s for tax purposes, only Sir Maurice always uses it. Don’t worry, he’s got a John Grisham as well as his paper.”

    “Sir Maurice’s car?” said Hattie very faintly indeed.

    “Mm: I was in at the office: Joanna rang me there. Who the Hell have I forgotten to contact?” he muttered. “Oh! Of course!” He rang Katrina and Sinead.

    “Is—is Sinead one of the girls?” faltered Hattie.

    “Mm. Uh—not a hostess,” he said, smiling at them, “but on the enquiries counter.”

    “You see—” began Tracy helpfully.

     But Hattie had burst into tears again.

    Half an hour later it was all over, even the shouting. A chastened Gordon had been collected from Greg’s office. Everybody had been thanked, Melanie had gone off with Dirk, Suzanne and Tracy were taking Jill home in the former’s little car before heading for the new flat, and Hill, Gordon, Hattie and the wheelchair were in the Rolls with Ben. Possibly the wheelchair should not have come, as it belonged to the airline, but Suzanne and Melanie had ordered them breezily not to worry about it.

    After quite some time Hattie said in a trembling voice: “Whuh-where are we going?”

    “My flat.”

    Gordon brightened horribly. “Ooh—”

    “Shut up. No-one’s speaking to you. It’s very poky, but he can sleep on the floor, Hattie.”

    “Yes. But… I don’t understand,” she said in an exhausted voice. “Why are you involved?”

    “Because I love you, Hattie,” said Hill very firmly indeed.

    Hattie went very pink. Her lips trembled.

    “We can talk about it later. Try to rest.”

    To his astonishment she leaned back and closed her eyes. Hill stared blankly out of the window, his heart pounding.