Dead Man's Footsteps

hesitated for a moment, then indicated for him to come in.
    Pewe stepped on to a mat which said welcome, andinto a tiny, bare hall which smelled faintly of a roast dinner and more strongly of cats. He heard the sound of a television soap opera.
    She closed the door behind him, then called out, a little timidly, ‘Derek! We have a visitor. A police officer. A detective.’
    Tidying his hair again, Pewe followed her through into a small, spotlessly clean living room. There was a brown velour three-piece suite with a glass-topped coffee table in front, arranged around an elderly, square-screened television on which two vaguely familiar-looking actors were arguing in a pub. On top of the set was a framed photograph of an attractive blonde girl of about seventeen, unmistakably Sandy from the pictures Pewe had studied this afternoon in the files.
    At the far end of the small room, next to what Pewe considered to be a rather ugly Victorian cabinet full of blue and white willow-pattern plates, a man was sitting at a small table covered in carefully folded sheets of newspaper, in the process of assembling a model aircraft. Strips of balsa wood, wheels and pieces of undercarriage, a gun turret and other small objects Pewe could not immediately identify were laid out on either side of the plane, which rested at an angle, as if climbing after take-off, on a small raised base. The room smelled of glue and paint.
    Pewe made a quick scan of the rest of the room. A fake-coal electric fire, which was on. A music centre that looked like it played vinyl rather than CDs. And photographs everywhere of Sandy at different ages, from just a few years old through to her twenties. One, in pride of place on the mantelpiece above the fire, was a wedding photograph of Roy Grace and Sandy. She was in a long white dress,holding a bouquet. Grace, younger and with much longer hair than he had now, wore a dark grey suit and a silver tie.
    Mr Balkwill was a big, broad-shouldered man who looked as if he’d once had a powerful physique before he let it go to seed. He had thin grey hair swept back on either side of a bald head and a flabby double chin that disappeared in the folds of a multicoloured roll-neck sweater that was similar to his wife’s – as if she had knitted both of them. He stood up, round-shouldered and stooping, like someone who had been defeated by life, and ambled to the front of the table. Below the sweater, which came almost to his knees, he wore baggy grey trousers and black sandals.
    An overweight tabby cat, which looked as old as both of them, wandered out from under the table, took one look at Pewe, arched its back and stalked out of the room.
    ‘Derek Balkwill,’ he said, with a quiet, almost shy voice that seemed much smaller than his frame. He held out a big hand and gave Pewe a crushing shake that surprised and hurt him.
    ‘Detective Superintendent Pewe,’ he replied with a wince. ‘I wondered if I could have a word with you and your wife about Sandy?’
    The man froze. What little colour he had drained from his already pallid face and Pewe saw a slight tremor in his hands. He wondered for a horrible moment if the man was having a heart attack.
    ‘I’ll just turn the oven down,’ Margot Balkwill said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
    ‘Tea would be perfect,’ Pewe said. ‘Lemon, if you have it.’
    ‘Working with Roy, are you?’ she asked.
    ‘Yes, absolutely.’ He continued to stare, concerned, at her husband.
    ‘How is he?’
    ‘Fine. Busy on a murder inquiry.’
    ‘He’s always busy,’ Derek Balkwill said, seeming to calm down a little. ‘He’s a hard worker.’
    Margot Balkwill scurried out of the room.
    Derek pointed at the aircraft. ‘Lancaster.’
    ‘Second World War?’ Pewe responded, trying to sound knowledgeable.
    ‘Got more upstairs.’
    ‘Yes?’
    He gave a shy smile. ‘Got a Mustang P45. A Spit. A Hurricane. Mosquito. Wellington.’
    There was an awkward silence. Two women were discussing a wedding dress on the television screen now. Then Derek pointed at the Lancaster. ‘My dad flew ’em. Seventy-five sorties. Know about the Dambusters? Ever see the film?’
    Pewe nodded.
    ‘He was one of ’em. One of the ones that came back. One of the Few.’
    ‘Was he a pilot?’
    ‘Tail gunner. Tail End Charlie, they called ’im.’
    ‘Brave guy,’ Pewe said politely.
    ‘Not really. Just did his duty. He was a bitter man after the war.’ Then after some moments he added, ‘War