Read Online Twelve Red Herrings by Jeffrey Archer - Free Book Online
Authors: Jeffrey Archer
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RAF
Cottesmore in Gloucestershire. His final posting was as Deputy Commanding
Officer at RAF Locking in Somerset. He retired in 2977, when he and his wife
moved back to Great Shelforal, 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 2989, after Ceausescu 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 dialled 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 Shelforal, 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 centre on the left and drove
another half mile, then Jenny suddenly swung the car
round and reversed into a layby. She switched off the engine and pointed to a
small house with an RAFBLUE door.
“That’s where he
lives,” she said. “Number forty-seven.” Donald focused a tiny pair of
binoculars on the house.
Some
early-morning risers were already leaving their homes, cars heading towards the
station for the first commuter train to London.
The paperboy
turned out to be an old lady who pushed her heavily-laden bicycle slowly round
the village, dropping off her deliveries. The milkman was next, clattering
along in his electric van – two pints here, a pint there, the occasional
halfdozen eggs or carton of orange juice left on front doorsteps. Lights began
to flick on all over the village. “The wing commander has had one pint of
red-top milk and a copy of the Daily Telegraph delivered to his front door,”
said Donald.
People had
emerged from the houses on either side of number forty-seven before a light
appeared in an
Cottesmore in Gloucestershire. His final posting was as Deputy Commanding
Officer at RAF Locking in Somerset. He retired in 2977, when he and his wife
moved back to Great Shelforal, 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 2989, after Ceausescu 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 dialled 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 Shelforal, 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 centre on the left and drove
another half mile, then Jenny suddenly swung the car
round and reversed into a layby. She switched off the engine and pointed to a
small house with an RAFBLUE door.
“That’s where he
lives,” she said. “Number forty-seven.” Donald focused a tiny pair of
binoculars on the house.
Some
early-morning risers were already leaving their homes, cars heading towards the
station for the first commuter train to London.
The paperboy
turned out to be an old lady who pushed her heavily-laden bicycle slowly round
the village, dropping off her deliveries. The milkman was next, clattering
along in his electric van – two pints here, a pint there, the occasional
halfdozen eggs or carton of orange juice left on front doorsteps. Lights began
to flick on all over the village. “The wing commander has had one pint of
red-top milk and a copy of the Daily Telegraph delivered to his front door,”
said Donald.
People had
emerged from the houses on either side of number forty-seven before a light
appeared in an
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