Eyes Turned Skywards: A work of fiction, but at its heart is a real-world mystery

By Ken Lussey

This novel reflects on the rumours and theories surrounding a number of real-life events, including the death of the Duke of Kent and the aircraft crashes of Short Sunderland W4032 and Avro Anson DJ106.
Wing Commander Robert Sutherland has left his days as a pre-war detective far behind him. Or so he thinks. On 25 August 1942 the Duke of Kent, brother of King George VI, is killed in northern Scotland in an unexplained air crash; a second crash soon after suggests a shared, possibly sinister, cause. Bob Sutherland is tasked with visiting the aircraft's base in Oban and the first crash site in Caithness to gather clues as to who might have had reason to sabotage one, or both, of the aircraft.
Set against the background of a country that is far from united behind Winston Churchill, and the ever-present threat from the enemy, we follow Bob as he unravels layers of deceit and intrigue far beyond anything he expects.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fledgling Press
• Release date: May 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781912280162

Ken Lussey

Ken Lussey spent his first 17 years following his family – his father was a Royal Air Force navigator – around the world, a process that involved seven schools and a dozen different postal addresses. He went to Hull University in 1975, spending his time there meeting his wife Maureen, hitch-hiking around Great Britain, and doing just enough actual work to gain a reasonable degree in that most useful of subjects, philosophy. The next step seemed obvious. He researched and wrote A Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to Great Britain, which was published by Penguin Books in 1983. An inexplicable regression into conformity saw him become a civil servant for the next couple of decades, during which time he fulfilled the long-held ambition of moving to Scotland. In more recent times he has helped Maureen establish the website Undiscovered Scotland as the ultimate online guide to Scotland. Eyes Turned Skywards is his first novel.

Book preview

1

For Maureen

Prologue

‘For once you have tasted flight you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will always long to return.’

Attributed to Leonardo da Vinci

There was something forbidding about this place. The old keep and the surviving walls were covered in dense ivy. At this time of the evening, even a summer’s evening, there was the sense of a weight of history here that was enough to send shivers down the spine.

Fight Sergeant Peter Jacobs checked his watch again. Gregory hadn’t seemed the sort of man who would be late. But late he was, by 45 minutes. They should have been gone from the castle at least half an hour ago, Gregory in possession of Jacobs’ verbal update, and Jacobs in possession of a forged travel warrant to Glasgow and then to London.

Jacobs flicked the still burning butt of his cigarette over the edge of the long drop. It fell towards the undergrowth at the foot of the cliff, though he lost sight of it well before it came to rest. He cursed the need to be up here. As far as he was concerned, it would have been much safer to meet in plain sight in the town, perhaps a brief encounter on the esplanade or in the railway station. But no, Gregory was the boss and Gregory had said they should meet in the same godforsaken spot as they had on Monday evening, almost exactly three days earlier. Jacob felt he stuck out like a sore thumb here. For that matter, he thought that anyone at all would have stuck out like a sore thumb here.

The location had its compensations. As the sun sank towards the western horizon, it painted that whole side of the sky in a complex pattern of reds and oranges. From here the view was dominated by the Isle of Mull in the distance, with the sun still glinting off the side of Ben More, the island’s highest point.

Closer at hand was the much smaller island of Kerrera, somewhere he had come to know only too well over the past two weeks. In the shelter of the island, to the left as he looked, were a series of large shapes, now in deepening shadow, each tethered to a buoy. Jacobs knew that even when moored and apparently at peace, each flying boat had to be manned, in case the weather changed overnight. It wasn’t a job the men relished. Oban might not have the world’s most exciting nightlife, even without the blackout, but a night in a bobbing aeroplane was much less attractive than a night tucked up in your own bed, or someone else’s.

The sight of the last of the sun’s disk dropping below the horizon reminded Jacobs he still had to descend the steep and narrow path to the road below and then walk back into Oban before it got totally dark. Finding his way in the blackout was not an attractive prospect. He looked at his watch again and tutted. An hour was later than anyone in this game should ever be, unless something had gone badly wrong.

With a last look at the glorious array of coloured clouds in the west, Jacobs made his way across the overgrown courtyard to the narrow gateway. This provided the only way into and out of the ruined castle. Jacobs had to duck a little to protect his head as he passed through, and, as he had when entering, he removed his side cap. The last thing he needed was to have to explain how he’d got moss or pigeon droppings on his only uniform cap.

As it turned out, the last thing Jacobs really needed was the pineapple-sized piece of rock that was brought down hard on the back of his skull as he emerged, head still bowed, from the gateway. He never heard the person who wielded the stone, and certainly never saw them. More surprisingly, despite his musings about the possible reasons for Gregory’s failure to make the meeting, he had no premonition of danger, still less any inkling that his world was about to come to a sudden end. And he certainly never felt the hands that then searched his pockets and under his clothing.

Nothing of interest was found and nothing was taken. There was, after all, no reason to give anyone cause to think that this was anything more than an unfortunate accident. Everyone knew that Dunollie Castle was old and overgrown and that its stonework was highly unstable. Accidents happened, even in wartime, or perhaps especially in wartime.

The man who had killed Jacobs stood up and looked around to see if he had been observed before making his way cautiously back down to the road. Ferdi hadn’t really believed that Jacobs would still show up for the planned meeting, thinking instead that he’d have bolted for cover after what had happened to Gregory. But then perhaps Jacobs hadn’t heard? Ferdi still didn’t know what the two had intended to do, but at least his information about the meeting had proved accurate, and Jacobs’ death tidied up an important loose end. Now he just needed to deal with Captain Gubkin.

The dark-haired man stood on the platform that topped the concrete wall separating the waters of the loch from the fish ladder. He disliked this place. You could see hills in the distance to the west and the south, but the immediate landscape, for miles around, seemed dismal and uninteresting. A wet, peaty desert that did nothing to counter the deep sense of lost hope and failure that he now felt.

A chill north wind blew along the loch. There was nothing between where he stood and the Arctic to get in its way. He knew that this was what the British called a ‘lazy wind’. Too idle to go around you, so it just went straight through you. The man pulled his long overcoat around himself, shivered, and wished he was somewhere else. Almost anywhere else. It might have been August, but it felt like November.

As he stood and watched the loch’s waters flowing over the weir and into what he knew was the River Thurso, the man became aware that a green staff car was bumping along the narrow track that led from the road to the stone cottage standing on the shore of the loch.

He slowly crossed the walkway over the fish ladder to the cottage, and paused briefly to collect his thoughts as he passed one of the nameless guards who had been left with him. The young man wore a camouflage smock and the maroon beret of the Parachute Regiment. He carried his rifle with the easy authority of someone able and prepared to use it.

The car had stopped on the far side of the cottage. A man in a British army officer’s uniform, complete with Home Guard shoulder flashes, emerged from the rear of the car. The driver remained where he was, as did the Parachute Regiment officer in the front passenger seat.

‘Any news, major?’ asked the dark-haired man.

‘I’m sorry, sir, it’s not looking good. I’ve been able to reach my people in London from the radio in the lodge. They have confirmed that our friends left on time, but can tell me nothing more. That means they should have been here nearly an hour ago.’

The two men turned to look south, at a point to the left of the most prominent hills that defined the horizon. The black pall of smoke they had first seen rising between patchy clouds an hour previously had faded to a lighter, greyer tone, but was still visible.

‘I don’t think they are coming, do you, major?’

‘I’m afraid it doesn’t look that way, sir.’

‘So what do we do now?’

‘I don’t know, sir. For the moment we are advised to return to the lodge, and stay there until the situation is clearer.’

‘By advised do you mean instructed, major?’

‘Yes, sir, I suppose I do.’

They walked over to the vehicle. The dark-haired man took a last look around before climbing into the car, whose rear door was now being held open for him by the driver.

Chapter One

Children who fall off their bicycles are always told to get straight back on before the fear takes hold. That thought crossed Bob Sutherland’s mind from time to time when he strapped himself into his Hawker Hurricane single-seat fighter. His trip up the coast had been a joy. Despite the forecast of rain in the west, he had encountered beautiful weather with just the odd cloud, and visibility that seemed to stretch forever. It was a morning that offered absolutely ideal conditions for a flight through magnificent scenery.

Bob’s first thought had been to plot a route that took in Glasgow and then Renfrew Airport. It had been three years since he’d spent any real time in the area and it would be interesting to see how it had changed.

It didn’t take long to realise that might not be a great idea. One of the ways that Clydeside had changed since 1939 had been through the attentions of the Luftwaffe, especially in March of the previous year. He could live without the memories and regrets that seeing the destruction would bring back. And while a lone Hurricane in broad daylight might not be easy to mistake for a formation of German bombers at night, betting your life that every single anti-aircraft gunner could tell the difference was an unnecessary risk.

It was often said that while fighter pilots might, if they were able and lucky, grow old, they never grow up. Bob had turned thirty earlier in the year and the relative youth of many of those around him sometimes made him feel older than his years, but this morning he once again felt the pure youthful excitement of flight. The Sound of Kerrera gave him a perfect approach to Oban Bay from the south and he headed along it at very low level, with the throttle pushed well forward.

Common sense returned just in time and Bob eased back on the throttle and pulled up to a more prudent height, moments before the town of Oban burst into view on his right. He flew over a flying boat progressing across a bay that was crowded with naval and other vessels, before seeing the line of the road climbing the hill on the north side of the town, a road he knew would lead him where he wanted to go.

Bob had been told to look out for Connel Bridge, and he soon picked up its metal struts glowing in the sunlight. RAF Connel was immediately to the north west of the bridge. Deciding he’d save flying under the bridge until he really wanted to end his career, Bob did a slow pass along the line of the runway to check for grazing sheep or parked tractors, before flying a circuit over the sea to the west and coming in to land.

The only aircraft on view were an Avro Anson and a Tiger Moth parked on the grass, and a line of four Fairey Fulmar aircraft of the Fleet Air Arm. To say that RAF Connel was quiet that morning was an understatement. His arrival brought a few men in overalls out of the second hangar, while nearby was an RAF staff car with what looked like its WAAF driver standing beside it. Bob taxied over to the concrete hardstanding nearby and shut down his engine. Someone was on the ball, because scarcely had he opened the canopy than an airman was signalling that the wheels were chocked.

Bob jumped off the back of the wing, carrying his small canvas overnight bag with him. The only problem with travelling by Hurricane was the lack of luggage space. ‘Who’s in charge?’

‘That would be Flight Sergeant Orr, sir,’ said the airman, coming to attention and saluting as Bob removed his leather flying jacket to reveal the wing commander’s insignia on the uniform jacket he wore underneath.

It seemed that Flight Sergeant Orr had been warned to expect a senior officer arriving by air mail and he was soon on hand, offering assurances that Bob’s aircraft would be looked after in his absence.

Bob was reasonably content with what he heard. ‘Do you have any experience of Hurricanes here?’

‘Yes, sir, we’re used as a forward operating base for attack training.’

‘There’s one thing to bear in mind. The old girl here might be from a training unit, but tell your men to be a little careful. She’s fully armed. And flight sergeant, I know it’s summer, but would it be possible to find some space for her in one of your hangars? With the sea so close, I’d prefer to avoid the need to have my chaps clean off a crust of salt when I get her back.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

‘Can you satisfy my curiosity, flight sergeant? Are the Fairey Fulmars over there based here?’ He gestured towards the line of aircraft in front of the other hangar.

‘No sir, they’re here for servicing. They normally live at the naval air station at Machrihanish, over by Campbeltown.’

The car stopped at a red traffic light at the north end of Connel Bridge. Bob leaned forward so the driver could hear him more easily. ‘Why are there railway lines beside the road?’

The driver, bearing the insignia of a Women’s Auxiliary Air Force leading aircraftwoman on her arm, half-turned in her seat so she could see the passenger in the rear of the car. ‘The bridge was built for the railway at the beginning of the century, sir. This place used to be called Connel Ferry, because a ferry was the only way to cross the mouth of Loch Etive and avoid a huge diversion inland. Then someone finally worked out that they could use the bridge for road vehicles as well as trains. I don’t think there were ever many trains using it, even before the war. Have you been posted to Oban, sir?’

‘No, I’m just spending a day or two here.’

The trip into Oban was a short one, and Bob knew that when he arrived his work would begin.

Or perhaps it had really begun two days earlier, on Monday evening. Bob had been dining with some of his instructors and students in the officers’ mess at RAF Annan when word had reached him that he was wanted on the telephone.

‘Hello, Sutherland here.’

‘Hello, sir, this is the office of the head of Flying Training Command. Air Marshal Sir Andrew Nicholson would like a word with you.’

Bob counted upwards. Nicholson was his boss’s boss twice removed, and Bob knew that he had been in post for only a couple of weeks. A new broom. Bob couldn’t immediately think of a good reason why an air marshal might want to speak to a wing commander, especially at this time of day, and that made him nervous as he listened to a series of clicks on the line.

Then, ‘Hello, is that Sutherland? Nicholson here.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘How are things at 55 Operational Training Unit, Sutherland?’

‘Very good, sir. You’ll have seen my reports.’

A pause. Here it comes, thought Bob. This is where he tells me he no longer wants a second-hand, slightly broken fighter pilot running one of his training units.

‘Sutherland, would you be able to attend a meeting in London, tomorrow?’

‘Of course, sir.’ The sinking feeling in the pit of Bob’s stomach got worse.

‘I understand you are flying again?’

‘Er... Yes, sir.’ Bob knew that this was the bit where the new boss tore a strip off his underling for defying medical advice, and started to line up the arguments in his defence.

‘Good,’ said Nicholson. That was not what Bob had expected to hear. ‘Get yourself down to RAF Northolt by 10 a.m. tomorrow. A driver will pick you up and take you into London. There is a gentleman there who would very much like to meet you. His name is Air Chief Marshal Sir Philip Washington-Smith and he is the commander-in-chief of RAF Coastal Command.’

‘Could I ask what this is about, sir?’

‘You can certainly ask, Sutherland, but I have no idea. I have simply been asked to ensure you meet Sir Philip, and for what it’s worth, this instruction has come down from the very highest level. You are to consider yourself on loan for an indefinite period from Flying Training Command to Coastal Command. Do you have a good deputy you can leave in charge during your absence?’

‘Yes sir, Squadron Leader John Tickell.’

There was a pause; Bob could imagine Nicholson making a note of the name. ‘Thank you, wing commander, and good luck.’

Bob carefully replaced the handset and sat back in the chair in the mess manager’s office. What the hell was that all about? Oh well, he thought, better go and find John and let him have the good news.

London in September 1942 seemed to Bob to be a slightly less appalling place than the London he could remember from the dark days of the Blitz. There were still uniforms everywhere, but far fewer civilians were carrying gas mask cases. And while it was difficult to judge the atmosphere from the comfort of his official car, it seemed to Bob that the capital was much more relaxed than it had been when death could, and often did, rain from the sky on a nightly basis.

The car dropped Sutherland in Whitehall. ‘You want the doorway over there, sir,’ said the driver, pointing at a fairly unassuming entrance on the west side of the street.

Bob complied, passing a brass plaque telling him he was entering the Cabinet Office as he did so.

‘Wing Commander Sutherland? Do you have your identification, please?’

Once Bob had shown his RAF identity card to the WAAF flight officer who was waiting for him, he followed her into the interior of the building.

‘This way, sir.’ The flight officer led the way into a room occupied by perhaps half a dozen men and women, none in uniform. She then knocked on a door on one side, before entering. ‘Wing Commander Sutherland is here, sir.’

Bob found himself in a large wood-panelled office. Windows lined one wall, but each pane carried the now familiar motif of crossed sticky tape, intended to minimise blast damage from bombs.

‘Welcome to my humble abode, Wing Commander Sutherland. Please, let’s not stand on ceremony. Sit down over there. Actually, you should know that it’s not my abode at all. It’s the cabinet secretary’s office, but I’ve been loaned it for the next hour.’ Air Chief Marshal Sir Philip Washington-Smith waved towards two high-backed leather chairs placed by the unlit fire at one end of the room.

Bob waited until Sir Philip had sat down before doing so himself.

‘Did you have a good trip down from Scotland?’

‘Yes sir, thank you.’

‘Do you want some tea?’

‘No thank you, sir,’ said Bob.

Sir Philip paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘I suppose you are wondering why you are here?’

‘I’ve wondered about little else since I got Air Marshal Nicholson’s call last night, sir.’

‘I’ll get straight to the point, then. We have a problem, Sutherland, and it’s a problem I hope you can help resolve. I am sure you are aware that a fortnight ago today, Prince George, the Duke of Kent, was amongst those killed when one of my Sunderlands, an aircraft of 228 Squadron based at Oban, crashed in northern Scotland.’

‘Yes, sir. I read about it in the papers. He was en route to Iceland, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, he was. You may know that he served as an air commodore in the welfare section of the office of the Inspector-General of the RAF. His role was to visit RAF stations and meet the people on the ground. He did a lot for morale.’

‘Why Iceland, sir?’

‘He was due to visit RAF Reykjavik. We’ve had a base there since we took over in the spring of 1940. It’s seen as a bit of a backwater, and it was thought a visit by the duke would be a good thing.’

‘Yes sir, I passed through last year and can see that would make sense.’

Sir Philip was silent for a moment, then placed his fingertips together and looked at Bob. ‘You are probably not aware of this, wing commander, but on Saturday another of 228 Squadron’s Sunderlands crashed. It was on routine patrol when it appears to have run out of fuel. It tried to alight on the sea near an island, but hit a rock and sank. Most of the crew were lost. Also lost was a journalist who is thought to have been on the trip because he was looking for background on a story about the death of the Duke of Kent.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir. You believe that the two crashes may be linked?’

‘Possibly. But there’s more. On the Friday before the Duke of Kent’s crash, a flight sergeant called Jacobs, who was newly posted onto 228 Squadron’s engineering flight, was found dead at an old castle at the north end of Oban Bay.’

Bob looked at Sir Philip. ‘I’m guessing that you’ve not quite finished, sir?’

‘Correct, wing commander. Early yesterday morning a man was found in a dazed and confused condition in a residential street in south east London. From what we have been able to piece together, he had been held in the coal cellar of a house by captors who then abandoned him. He found a way of forcing the cellar door and escaped.’

‘What’s the connection, sir?’

‘The man turned out to be Flight Sergeant Jacobs, and it appears he was abducted while passing through London on his way to Oban, over a month ago, on the third of August.’

‘So we have two crashed Sunderland flying boats, one causing the death of the king’s younger brother and the other the death of a journalist who might have been looking into the first crash? And then we add into the mix someone who had access to the squadron’s aircraft who turns up dead, and wasn’t who he should have been in the first place?’

‘That’s about the size of it.’

‘Why am I here, sir? Surely there are any number of agencies who would be able and more than willing to look into this?’

Sir Philip stood up from his seat and walked slowly over to one of the windows. ‘Would you care to join me, wing commander?’

Bob, who had risen as the air chief marshal had stood, went over to the window.

‘Down there, wing commander, is the garden of 10 Downing Street, and beyond it is Horse Guards Parade. Within a fairly short distance from here, you can find the headquarters of the many and various sections of the Directorate of Military Intelligence, not all of whom are working together as well as they should. We also have our own RAF Special Investigation Branch. But for a number of reasons we want to bring in someone who is unconnected with any of the established agencies, yet who has the necessary skills and background.’

‘And you think that’s me, sir?’

‘You have a number of things going for you. You are a bona fide war hero with a very clearly established record, and you are an officer whose background and loyalty are above question. And until 602 Squadron was mobilised you were a detective with the City of Glasgow Police.’

Bob looked at Sir Philip. ‘I was only a detective sergeant, sir, and I was only promoted to that rank in May 1938.’

‘I know, Sutherland, but I think you are the right man for the job.’

Bob hadn’t heard the office door open and turned quickly as a familiar voice spoke from behind them. ‘And so do I, wing commander. But please take care, and remember that not everyone you encounter will necessarily define loyalty in the same way as you do.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Bob was unclear what the prime minister meant, but was not going to reveal his ignorance.

Churchill closed the door behind him and came over to stand with the two officers. ‘Wing commander, I need to be frank with you. There are things about the death of the Duke of Kent that raise serious questions about the role of some of the state’s more secret servants and their commitment to the cause shared by the three of us here. It certainly seems to me that there are men in positions of power in this country who do not share my view that this is a war that must be won at all costs. But for the moment there is little I can do about them for political reasons. Please bear that in mind. Now good day to you. And good luck.’

‘I’m sorry that was sprung on you, Sutherland,’ said Sir Philip, after the prime minister had left. ‘That’s the reason our meeting took place here. There’s a connecting door to Number 10, just along the corridor. Winston wanted to meet you himself and leave you in no doubt about the importance of what you are being asked to do.’

Bob hated the smell of hospitals. He had been a frequent visitor to them while serving with the City of Glasgow Police, but had never really let them get under his skin. That had all changed since. As he walked into the main entrance of Queen Alexandra’s Military Hospital on London’s Millbank, the smell transported him instantly back to a period of his life he’d really rather have left unremembered.

He walked over to the reception desk. ‘Hello. I’m here to see Flight Sergeant Jacobs. I understand he was brought in yesterday.’

A nurse led Bob along corridors and up a set of stairs. ‘He is in a private room at the end, on the right.’

As Bob approached, the two RAF policemen sitting on chairs outside the room stood up and saluted. Bob returned the salute. ‘Do you know if he is awake?’

‘I believe so, sir. May I see your identification, please?’

The room was much as Bob had expected. A hospital bed, two basic chairs and a window that gave a glimpse of the outside world.

‘Flight Sergeant Jacobs?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The figure in the bed looked tired and emaciated.

‘You are looking very well for someone who was found dead in Oban a couple of weeks ago. Have you been able to let your family know you are alive?’

Jacobs replied in a soft West Country accent. ‘My parents are travelling from Cornwall to see me tomorrow. My wife, well, she left me last year and I’m not sure where she is.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Could you tell me how you came to end up wandering a London street?’

‘Yes, sir. I was posted from 72 Squadron, flying Spitfires out of Biggin Hill, to RAF Oban to work on the Sunderlands there.’

‘Was that your idea?’

‘No, sir, I was pretty happy on 72 Squadron, even though we moved around a fair bit. I just got a posting notice with orders to report to Oban and a travel warrant. I didn’t even know where Oban was at first.’

‘What’s your trade, flight sergeant?’ asked Bob.

‘Engines and fuel systems, sir.’

‘How were you abducted?’

Jacob blushed. ‘Ah, well, I ran into a very nice young lady who said her name was Mary, in a pub on Euston Road, while I was having a drink before catching my train to Glasgow. She said she knew me and that I’d brought her a drink in a pub in Biggin Hill. I though she must be mistaking me for