The Fuller Memorandum Read Free Page B

around the entrance hall. There’s something casting a weird shadow overhead; I look up, and find myself staring at the bulging ventral fuel tank of an English Electric Lightning interceptor, dangling from the ceiling like a demented model-maker’s pride and joy. It’s enough to stop the foot tapping for a moment—if the cable fails, I’ll be squashed like a bug—but a moment’s consideration tells me that it’s highly unlikely. So I stare wistfully at the Lightning for a couple of minutes. Two missiles, sharply raked razor-thin wings, a huge, pregnant belly full of fuel, and the two screamingly powerful engines that once rammed it from a cold start to a thousand miles per hour in under a minute. Life would be so much simpler if our adversaries could be dealt with by supersonic death on the wing—but alas, Human Resources aren’t so easily defeated.
    “Mr. Hogarth?”
    I turn round. There’s a bluff-looking middle-aged man in blue overalls standing by the front desk: sandy receding hair, a gingery regulation mustache, and a face creased with questions. I hold up my warrant card. “Mr. Howard ,” I say. “Capital Laundry Services. I believe you asked for a visit.”
    He does a visible double take. “Eh, yes, I did—” He’s clocking the jeans, tee shirt, and casual linen jacket, and I can see the gears whirring in his head as he wonders if I’m some kind of impostor. Then his eyes reach my warrant card and something clicks behind them and he’s slightly less human than he was a moment before—“sir.”
    “I was told your problem is in Hangar Six. Why don’t you take me there? You can explain along the way.”
    I put the warrant card back in my pocket. No point in frying him.
    “If you’d follow me, please, sir.” He has a pronounced borders accent. He turns and opens a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. “Sorry about Helen on the front desk,” he murmurs. “She’s a little slow, but she means well. Only see you, she’s been helping out here since forever, and we run on volunteers.” He shrugs. “I suppose it’s better for her than sitting around an old-age home waiting to die—” He lets the door close behind us before he says anything more. “Bloody rum business, Hangar Six.”
    “Tell me about it. In your own words,” I add.
    “It’s another of the Lightnings—hull number XR727.” He glances over his shoulder. “It’s been sitting in Hangar Six for years while we were waiting for funding to come through—plan was to restore it for static display in Hall Four when it’s ready. It’s an F. Mark 3, upgraded from F.2A like the one over the front desk.” I’ll take his word for it: I’m not au fait with the model numbers. “We’ve had a few odd incidents.”
    Odd incidents? “Define odd.”
    “Frosty patches on the hangar floor, mysterious oil leaks—under hydraulic pipes that were drained more than twenty years ago when it was taken out of service—nothing really unusual, seeing where it came from, if you follow my drift. But then there was the business with Marcia and the instrument panel, and I thought it might be a good idea to call you chappies directly.”
    Clunk . A domino slips into place in my mental map. This enquiry didn’t come through the RAF, this came direct from Hastings. “You’ve worked with us before.”
    “Not exactly . . .” He pauses beside an anonymous door, and extracts a fat key chain: “But I was with the Squadron, on ground crew. Once you’re in, you never really leave.” Click . “They like to stay in touch.”
    What squadron? I wonder, annoyed but afraid to display my ignorance. “Tell me about Marcia,” I prompt, as he opens the door to reveal another prefab tunnel between buildings, this one windowless and stifling.
    “Volunteer airframe conservator Marcia Moran. Age twenty-nine, completed her short service enlistment, then signed up with BAE Systems maintenance division when the defense review came down—she’s solid. Was