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upstairs room of the wing commander’s home. Once that light had
been switched on Donald sat bolt upright, his eyes never leaving the house.
    I became bored,
and dozed off in the back at some point. When I woke up, I hoped we might at
least be allowed a break for breakfast, but such mundane considerations didn’t
seem to worry the two professionals in the front. They continued to concentrate
on any movement that took place around number forty-seven, and hardly exchanged
a word.
    At o.9 a thin,
elderly man, dressed in a Harris tweed jacket and grey
flannels, emerged from number forty-seven and marched briskly down the path.
All I could see at that distance was a huge, bushy white mustache. It looked
almost as if his whole body had been designed around it. Donald kept the
glasses trained on him.
    “Ever seen him
before?” he asked, passing the binoculars back to me.
    I focused the
glasses on the wing commander and studied him carefully. “Never,” I said as he
came to a halt by the side of a battered old Austin Allegro. “How could anyone
forget that mustache ?’
    “It certainly
wasn’t grown last week,” said Donald, as Danvetssmith eased his car out onto
the main road.
    Jenny cursed. “I
thought that if he used his car, the odds would be on him heading into
Cambridge.” She deftly performed a threepoint turn and accelerated quickly
after the wing commander.
    Within a few
minutes she was only a couple of cars behind him.
    Danvers-Smith
was not proving to be the sort of fellow who habitually broke the speed limit.
“His days as a test pilot are obviously long behind him,” Donald said, as we
trailed the Allegro at a safe distance into the next village. About half a mile
later he pulled into a petrol station.
    “Stay with him,”
said Donald. Jenny followed the Allegro into the forecourt and came to a halt
at the pump directly behind Danvers-Smith.
    “Keep your head
down, Mr. Cooper,” said the Don, opening his door.
    “We don’t want
him seeing you.”
    “What are you
going to do?” I asked, peeping between the front seats.
    “Risk an old
con’s trick,” Donald replied.
    He stepped out
.of the front seat, walked round to the back of the car, and unscrewed the
petrol cap just as the wing commander slipped the nozzle of a petrol pump into
the tank of his Allegro.
    Donald began
slowly topping up our already full tank, then suddenly
turned to face the old man.
    “Wing Commander
Danvers-Smith?” he asked in a plummy voice.
    The wing
commander looked up immediately, and a puzzled expression came over his
weather-beaten face.
    “Baker, sir,”
said Donald. “Flight Lieutenant Baker. You lectured me at RAF Locking. Vulcans,
if I remember.”
    “Bloody
good memory, Baker. Good show,” said Danverssmith. “Delighted to see
you, old chap,” he said, taking the nozzle out of his car and replacing it in
the pump. “What are you up to nowadays ?” Jenny
stifled a laugh.
    “Work for BA,
sir. Grounded after I failed my eye test. Bloody desk
job, I’m afraid, but it was the only offer I got.”
    “Bad luck, old
chap,” said the wing commander, as they headed off towards the pay booth, and
out of earshot.
    When they came
back a few minutes later, they were chattering away like old chums, and the
wing commander actually had his arm round Donald’s shoulder.
    When they
reached his car they shook hands, and I heard Donald say “Goodbye, sir,” before
Danvers-Smith climbed into his Allegro. The old airman pulled out of the
forecourt and headed back towards his home. Donald got in next to Jenny and
pulled the passenger door closed.
    “I’m afraid he
won’t lead us to Alexander,” the Don said with a sigh. “Danvers-Smith is the
genuine article – misses his wife, doesn’t see his children enough, and feels a
bit lonely. Even asked if I’d like to drop in for a bite of
lunch.”
    “Why didn’t you
accept?” I asked.
    Donald paused.
“I would have done, but when I mentioned that I was from Leeds, he