Black Wattle Creek (Charlie Berlin #2)(64)

The man who opened the door had wasted no time pouring himself a drink and now stood in the kitchen doorway, tumbler in his hand. He downed the whisky in one gulp and had a coughing fit. Millikin did the introductions.

‘DS Berlin, this is Group Captain Chapman, Royal Air Force.’

Chapman smiled. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ He held out the empty glass. ‘Deborah old stick, can you get us all a drink? Make mine a triple.’

Millikin glanced at Berlin, who shook his head.

‘Nothing else to drink in the place, I’m afraid, OS Berlin. Just some creaming soda, I think, but it’s probably flat.’

‘I’m right. Why don’t we just get on with why I’m here.’

Chapman lit a cigarette with a gold lighter that was completely out of place in the shabby room. ‘Straight to the point, eh old chap? That’s what we like. Pull up a pew, name’s Peter.’

The two men shook hands. Chapman’s palm was clammy and his grip was tight, too tight. Berlin thought of a drowning man.

‘Charlie. Pleased to meet you. I’ve got a son named Peter.’

‘Chip off the old block, is he?’

‘I hope not.’

Berlin sat on the couch. The cushion sank under him and he could feel the springs though the upholstery. He noticed multiple cigarettes burns in the floral fabric of the arms. Chapman slumped down into one of the armchairs. Millikin came in from the kitchen with a tray holding two whiskies and an empty ashtray. One of the glasses was almost full and she handed it to Chapman. She put the empty ashtray on the arm of his chair.

Berlin recognised the glass as an old jam or lemon butter container. After you finished the contents you washed off the label, chucked out the lid and presto, an instant drinking glass. Chapman raised his glass. ‘Per Ardua ad Astra.’

The British RAF had the same motto as the Australian air force: Through struggle to the stars.

Berlin nodded and raised his empty hand. ‘Over the teeth, over the gums … ’

Chapman smiled. ‘Bit of a cynic are we, Charlie?’ He swallowed his whisky in one gulp again and handed the glass to Millikin. ‘Deb darling, I don’t suppose there’s any chance …’

Millikin handed him her own glass.

Berlin put Chapman at around thirty-five but the man looked like hell. He was unshaven and there was a stale odour about him that suggested he hadn’t washed for a day or three. His hair, too long for a serving RAF officer, was also unwashed. He was wearing badly creased trousers, a rumpled black skivvy and shabby brown carpet slippers. Both his skivvy and trousers, like the arm of the couch, were pockmarked with cigarette burns.

Chapman stubbed out his cigarette, peered into his empty packet and then looked at Millikin. She tossed a packet of Players through the air. He opened the packet and offered Berlin one. When he declined Chapman lit one for himself, holding the lighter in both hands to bring it up to his face. His shaking hands made the flame dance under the tip of the cigarette. He dragged the smoke deep into his lungs and held it there. When he let the smoke out it came with a sound almost like a sob. Berlin had seen men behaving like this before, men who had been pushed to their limit and sometimes beyond.

Chapman took another drink. ‘Lancaster pilot, I hear, old chap, on Ops.’

‘Once upon a time.’

‘Me too, no Ops, though. I qualified in June’ 45, too late for any action in Europe, unfortunately. We were getting ready to go to the Far East when the Yanks ended it with Hiroshima and Nagasaki.’

‘You didn’t miss anything, mate, believe me.’ He thought about Len and all the poor bastards like him, desperate to get into the fighting before it finished and then cursing their stupidity and terrified that they wouldn’t live through it.

Chapman looked up at the tone in Berlin’s voice. ‘I heard a story that you lost your aircraft.’ He paused. ‘And your crew.’

Berlin said nothing.

‘I stayed in after the war ended, moved on to Lincolns, and then I went over to jets. You ever miss flying, Charlie?’

Berlin shook his head.

‘I’m an Avro man, you see, just like you. Lancasters and Lincolns. After that I got into the V Bomber program. Flying Vulcans through the development stage.’

So that was the link. Berlin knew that the RAF V bombers – the Vickers Valiant, Handley Page Victor and the delta-winged Avro Vulcan – were all specifically designed to drop atomic bombs. And Millikin was all about banning the bomb.

‘Beautiful aircraft to fly, the Vulcan,’ Chapman said. ‘Tops out at seventy tons and it can still outfly every fighter the Russians have. You can even do a barrel roll in them. Couldn’t do that in a Lanc.’

‘I think I did, once.’

‘That’s supposed to be impossible.’

Berlin shrugged. When you’re heading for home over Holland with tracers from night fighters’ cannons blasting away your tail, anything is possible.

Millikin was at the window, peering out through the curtain. ‘Any chance we can get on with this, Peter? I’m sure all this wartime reminiscing and bomber chitchat is fun for you blokes but I’m getting nervous. We need to move on to the new place as soon as we can.’

Chapman sat up straight. ‘Trouble? What can you see?’

He jumped up and crossed the room, pulling the curtain back for a moment. Berlin followed and looked out over his shoulder, before Millikin tugged the curtain closed.