LITMIR.BIZ

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colours. The hands, propeller-shaped, stood at twelve-fifteen.

      ‘It’s very nice,’ said Mulgan politely.

      ‘Yes, I thought we’d meet here. It’s handy for us both and I hate them stuck-up places with their fancy prices. Besides, I’m going up a bit later on, so I’d have to be here anyway. You ever tried it, Mulgan?’

      His host was Bernard Middlefield who with his brother John was co-owner and dictator of a small electrical assembly plant on the Avro Industrial Estate. Middlefield Electric was feeling the pinch of the latest credit squeeze and Mulgan guessed that these new friendly overtures in his direction were just so much bread scattered on the waters. He was not offended. Middlefield under his abrupt, loud-mouthed manner was a sharp enough operator. Chicken-in-the-basket today meant that he had been spotted as being possibly worth filet mignon tomorrow. That was one thing about these Yorkshiremen. You knew precisely where you were with most of them.

      ‘No, I haven’t,’ said Mulgan. ‘What kind of plane do you fly?’

      ‘Plane? Not a plane, Mulgan. Do you never look up from that desk of yours? It’s gliders we fly here. Though planes have been known to land, isn’t that right, Austin? Alistair Mulgan. This is Austin Greenall, our CFI, that’s Chief Flying Instructor, secretary, and master of all trades.’

      ‘As you see,’ said the man who had taken the place of the middle-aged woman who had been behind the bar to start with. ‘Except cooking. We’re short-handed today. Summer flu, would you believe! Jenny has to keep an eye on the kitchen too, so if there’s anything else you require from the bar, I’m your man.’

      ‘No, thanks. These’ll do us. I’m flying and Mr Mulgan’s got to keep his head clear else he’ll get his sums wrong at the bank.’

      ‘I thought I recognized you,’ said Greenall. ‘The Club account’s there.’

      ‘Watch him,’ said Middlefield to Mulgan. ‘He’ll be wanting to screw some money out of you for another couple of planes if he can.’

      ‘The Club does own some planes already, then?’ said Mulgan.

      ‘A plane. We’ve got a Cub we use for towing but it’s long past its best. And there’s a Cherokee owned by a consortium of local businessmen, Mr Middlefield included. No, it’s the gliding that keeps us going. Just.’

      ‘But not if you have your way, eh, Austin? He’s only been here five minutes and he’s got ambitions to turn us into Heathrow.’

      ‘Hardly. I just think there’s a lot that can be done to improve facilities and attract members.’

      ‘As long as you keep in mind it’s not like Surrey up here. We know what we like and we like value for money. How’s our grub coming on? Take a look, there’s a good chap.’

      Greenall smiled amiably and left the bar.

      In the corner Ellie Pascoe said to Thelma Lacewing, ‘Why doesn’t your secretary hit him with a bottle?’

      ‘Middlefield’s on the committee, also a JP,’ said Thelma. ‘But mainly he’s a reactionary shit. For instance, trying to get the weekend discos stopped on the grounds that they breed immorality. I keep a very close eye on that sod, I tell you.’

      The two women made a striking contrast. Ellie was long-limbed, mobile, though the taut line of her athletic figure was now slackened by the contours of pregnancy; black-haired, grey-eyed, and with a face that after thirty-odd years was handsome rather than pretty, and her chin gave promises of determination her character kept. Thelma’s face had the frank wide-eyed pensive beauty that goes with folded wings and flowing white robes and that a monk might dream of without sin. She was a dental hygienist.

      ‘Let’s get down to business,’ she said. ‘Ellie, are you going to sink cow-like into the placid, man-pleasing, expectant-mother role, or are you going to cut your brain off from your belly and start doing some real work for WRAG?’

      ‘Depends what you mean by real work,’ said Ellie.

      The third woman spoke. This was Lorraine Wildgoose, teacher of French at a local comprehensive school. She had a striking face, with high cheekbones and intense eyes. Her hair was at fag end of an old freak-out cut and her figure had the kind of thinness that derives from nerves rather than diets.

      ‘Vacancies in all areas,’ she said. ‘Typing, telephoning, tea-making.’

      ‘Propagandizing, preaching, protesting,’ murmured Thelma.

      ‘Not to mention subverting, suborning, and sabotaging,’ added Lorraine.

      ‘I rather fancied assailing, assaulting, and assassinating,’ said Ellie, not to be outdone. ‘But seriously, look, I want to help, but also I want some time to write. I’m into another novel. I’ve finally got over my feelings of failure with the first. I mean twenty-two publishers can’t be wrong! And I really want to get this new one sorted out before this.’

      She patted her stomach disgustedly.

      ‘We’ve all got calls on our time,’ flashed Lorraine. ‘Two kids, a pending divorce and an unbalanced husband takes a bit more of your time than a couple of neatly turned paragraphs.’

      This unexpected outburst brought a hiatus in the conversation which was filled by the timely arrival of Greenall with their baskets of food. At the bar the discussion seemed to be getting a little heated too.

      ‘Well, you know your own employees best, I dare say,’ Middlefield was saying. ‘But give me leave to know something too. When you’ve been on the bench a bit, you get to read between the lines. I mean, just look at the facts. A field behind a pub! A shed on an allotment! The canal bank! Not the kind of places you’d look to meet the vicar’s wife, are they?’

      ‘I can assure you, Brenda Sorby was as nice and decent a young woman as you could hope to meet,’ protested Mulgan, his rather fleshy face pinking with indignation or embarrassment.

      ‘That’s how they all seem,’ scoffed Middlefield. ‘You see a bit more of the world in my line than yours, I dare say.’

      ‘You’re not saying those poor women deserved what happened to them?’

      ‘Don’t be daft! But them as take chances can’t complain overmuch when things go wrong.’

      ‘Those women certainly can’t complain, can they?’ said Thelma in a clear, carrying voice.

      ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Middlefield turning on his stool to view her. ‘Oh, it’s you, Miss Lacewing.’

      ‘I’ll just fetch the tartare sauce,’ murmured Greenall. He retreated to the kitchen.

      ‘I suppose you might say that unaccompanied women coming to places like this take the chance of overhearing primitive sexist prejudices being expressed by loud, ill-informed men,’ continued Thelma.

      ‘I expect I know as much about it as you, young woman,’ said Middlefield grimly.

      ‘Really? Perhaps we ought to put the police in touch with you, then. Fortunately one of my friends is married to one of the officers on the case. Ellie, perhaps you’ll pass the word to your husband that Mr Middlefield knows more than he has yet been willing to volunteer.’

      Ellie smiled warily. There weren’t many people left in the world who could embarrass her, but Thelma was certainly one of them. Which was probably why, as Peter had theorized, she allowed her the moral ascendancy.

      Greenall had emerged from the kitchen with two more baskets which he placed before the two men at the bar, saying blithely, ‘Here you are. Piping hot.’

      Thelma turned back to her friends, completely unruffled. That’s what I envy too, thought Ellie. I get all pink and abusive.

      ‘Is your husband really on the case?’ asked Lorraine Wildgoose.

      Ellie nodded.

      ‘Are

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