‘Ever heard of the telephone?’

‘Thought you’d tell me to eff off.’

‘Too right I would have.’

Harry Nesbitt, white-whiskered as ever, was looking at me like I was a dead dog. A very dead dog, stinking and covered in flies. He was dressed in grey slacks and a white sweater, with silk scarf around his neck.

Nice house, gravel drive, oval flower-beds and a lawn that looked manicured. I was on the doorstep. The front door was pale varnished wood with a little stained-glass window inset and a fancy bronze knocker. Nesbitt was ready to close it in my face.

‘I need to find out about my grandad. You owe me that.’

‘I owe you nothing.’

But unexpectedly he stepped back and let me in. When a white-haired lady appeared, Nesbitt said the lad wasn’t staying long, no, didn’t want coffee. We went into a side-room, looked like his study. Framed photos of aircraft and men in flying gear on the walls, a squadron crest. A massive long-bladed propeller on the wall. He sat in a big leather armchair, gestured me to another.

‘You’ve got five minutes.’

Then he’d whistle up that dog I could still hear barking. Luckily Blocky had opted to stay with the car. Alright, so this had to be full on.

‘You made a few cracks about my grandad after he was dead —’

‘I would have said it to his face — in fact I did.’

‘So I’m still getting some fallout on that. What happened?’

Luckily he didn’t ask what ‘fallout’. He sat and his bony hands come together. The hostile look dis appeared, like he’d switched off — like he was back in the war-skies of Europe, sixty years ago. He glanced at the silver-framed photos and blinked, as though memory hurt.

‘Jingo Brook was a great skipper. Still sparking after five long years of war, a damn fine leader. He inspired us, made us a great fighting outfit. Saved my life more than once.’

He knotted and unknotted those long bony fingers, the blue veins standing out like dark ropes on his white wrists.

‘Your grandfather was a good pilot, I’ll give him that. Became an Ace quickly; Jingo’s wingman, and that was a place of honour. Anyway it was June, the war nearly over, when Helmut’s boys did their death-ride, took on our wing in the biggest bloodiest donnybrook ever.’

I shook my head. I knew nothing of this. The hands knotted more tightly, his voice more deliberate.

‘We all knew a fight was coming, a big one. A few of us would die just before the war ended. Well, word was your grandfather wanted no part of it. An argument. Charles Pinkney knows more about it — claims he overheard.’

‘Overheard what?’

‘Jingo threatening your grandfather with L.M.F. — lack of moral fibre. Swore he’d gone yellow. Anyway we tangled with Helmut’s boys, every one an Ace and shot each other to hell. So Jingo’s kite takes a hit, he crashlands and your grandfather follows him down. Crashlands and Pinky swears there was nothing wrong with Tucker’s kite.’

Pinkney again. ‘Then what?’

Nesbitt unclasped his hands and picked up a box of matches. He took a match out, between two fingers, and broke it with the pressure of his thumb. Crack, and he flicked it aside. He was getting to the difficult part that — I realised with a chill — I did not want to hear. He brooded a moment and fitted another match to his fingers.

‘Look boy, your grandfather and Jingo were down and behind enemy lines. Chased by a Jerry patrol and, well, our troops find them next day by some canal. Your grandfather alive and Jingo dead — shot.’

He split the match and brooded another moment.

‘Your grandfather had an old German Luger automatic, 8mm calibre, Jerry souvenir. Jingo was shot with the same calibre bullet.’

‘Hell, that doesn’t mean —’

‘Gus claimed Jingo had broken his ankle and ordered him to keep going. Says Jingo grabbed the Luger and made him leave. Well there was no Luger with Jingo’s body — sure the Germans may’ve taken that — but nor did Jingo have a broken ankle.’

Split, went another match. I was about to speak but he went on.

‘The Luger gone, no broken ankle. Why would Jingo have made that up? Your grandfather claimed he had fever, couldn’t remember much. But it added up to us, and to the powers-that-be. He never got that last gong he was in line for. We didn’t just take Pinky’s word. Now that’s all I know, so push off son.’

There was a little pile of broken matches by his chair. I think he relived those days a lot. On the way out, I thought of something: ‘Do you know where Charles Pinkney lives?’

‘North Island. He phoned about the death, I nearly went into the funeral service — but couldn’t.’

I was out on the porch and he was shutting the door. I turned. ‘I thought you came down together.’

Harry Nesbitt wanted to shut the door. He sighed. ‘We met in town, overnighted, then I left. Don’t know where he is now — don’t care either. Now put all this to rest. It’s over and gone, let the past bury itself.’

And the door shut.

‘Want to come in with me?’

Blocky thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No mate. Any strife and Dodd’ll have my arse in a sling. Not that Dodd worries me,’ he went on hastily, ‘but I did promise your grandad.’

So I got out and he U-turned the Toyota. I looked up and down and went through the motel entrance. A woman in the reception office, middle-aged with dyed-red hair, in a blue tracksuit. The smile dimmed a little when I told her I wasn’t a guest — dimmed still more when I asked for ‘Uncle Charles’.

‘Unit Four. If your uncle wants late checkout tomorrow, there’s a surcharge.’ She unhooked a key and passed it over with a funny arch little smile. ‘Just in case your uncle doesn’t hear you knock.’

I walked down the line of units. Like a neat row of white-painted cells, each with a ranchslider door. A cleaner was pushing her trolley up ahead, and she turned, smiled.

‘Hi. You still owe me twenty.’

‘Get lost, Josie.’

‘You’re not supposed to have that key. I should tell someone.’

I paid over the twenty and got an evil smirk in return. She moved off, one finger in the air. I waited for her to turn into the next unit, then unlocked the ranchslider. I opened it and all at once that funny arch smile and pointed remark about ‘late checkout’ made sense.

Inside it was dark, and a thick horrible smell of alcohol hit me in the face. I swear I heard Josie titter as I slid the door shut again.

As I fumbled for the light-switch, my foot skidded on something round — a bottle. I lost balance, grabbed the curtain and half of it came away with my hand, tearing a lopsided shaft of light into the room.

It was a very basic studio unit, but it looked like someone had held a party in here. Someone had. Bottles on the sink, one on the ground. Some cans, one squashed flat by a careless or drunken foot. An open suitcase, tumbled with clothes. And on the bed a sprawling figure, one arm hanging over the side, shoes off. The socks were a grubby white.

Charles Pinkney, sauced to the gills. His face was red and mottled, his breath wheezed hard. An empty glass dangling from a limp hand, the sheets around it soaked brown. It looked like he’d spent the last couple of days on beer and whisky chasers. The sight of it was enough to put you off booze for life.

Then the wheezing became a gurgle and cough, the old boy rolled sideways and coughed again. He sat up and blinked a horrible bloodshot pair of eyes at me. It took him a moment to focus and register. It took me that long to see there was nothing resembling Grandad’s stuff here.

‘You …’

He shook his head as though trying to clear his head. I must say, for an old boozer jerked out of sleep, he recovered very quickly.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, looked around for his glass, and rasped: ‘Who the hell let you in?’

‘I’m here about Grandad.’

‘We’ve had that conversation,’ he muttered. ‘Blokes entitled to a bit of a jag in private, you know. Who let you in —’

There was something furtive in the way he looked around. Didn’t matter, though, Josie had lost no time in getting to the office. The red-haired woman was in the doorway, Josie smirking behind her.

‘Here, you two — someone will have to pay for those curtains.’

Pinkney was looking uncertain still, then the outrage returned. ‘I woke up to find this kid poking around — stealing.’

‘Thought you were a bit old to be his uncle,’ said the woman with an arch smile.

A screech of brakes outside as the cop-car pulled in. Dodd must have moved like lightning when they called. He walked in, grim-faced, looking at me.

‘Got some explaining to do, son.’

‘I think this old guy scored some of Grandad’s stuff — the night his house was trashed.’

‘No idea what he’s talking about,’ said Pinkney, practically back to normal.

‘We’ll talk about this at the station,’ said Dodd. ‘Come on.’

A flicker of fear in Pinkney’s eyes. That furtive little look at — I jumped over and upended his suitcase off the luggage stand.

Pinkney gasped and sat heavily on the bed. Dodd looked down, too. At shirts, a pair of long johns, socks — and a set of brown tattered books and a sweet tin, marked CURIOUSLY STRONG PEPPERMINTS. It had fallen open and a little tangle of medals had spilled out.

Charles Pinkney put his hands over his face and his shoulders shook.

Dodd shooed the manager and Josie away. I didn’t want to press charges, I just got the stuff and headed out. Dodd stayed on to have a few words with the old boy. I passed Josie and her trolley, got the finger again. She got one back.

I walked back to the house. It took a lot of self-control not to dance.

Blocky Hoyt turned up a couple of hours later with the Toyota. I’d cooked up sausages, bacon and eggs and had my first decent meal in two days. Grandad’s medals back in the peppermint tin and his three books on the table.

They were small thin exercise-books, the sort you can buy anywhere, well-worn and the pages slipping free of their rusty staples. Inside was Grandad’s scribbled writing, some photos — and even some poems. The first was lettered in ink GUTHRIE TUCKER: Personal reflections, a photo stuck to it showing Grandad and a man with long black moustaches who could only be Jingo Brook. Like the other photo, they seemed best mates.

It was very late afternoon now and I felt a sudden new tingling as I touched the books. Inside these books were secrets, maybe more of that crazy dream stuff. Blocky was looking at me.

‘You don’t want to read them, do you?’

Did I want to trespass into Grandad’s innermost thoughts? No, but I had to; too many questions needing answers. ‘You want to stay?’

‘It’s your thing mate, not mine.’

I pushed the medals across to him. He hesitated, I picked up the box and pressed it into his hand. He blinked hard a couple of times, shoved it in his pocket, muttered a ‘thanks’ and made for the door. He turned again, that big sullen mouth easing into something like a smile.

‘You know how Josie likes to listen at doors? Turns out Pinkney had fed Dodd a line about being a long-lost mate of your grandad’s. Lived a long way off and would Dodd call him when his old mate died.’

‘No kidding.’

‘He must’ve jumped on a plane and come straight down. Dodd’s embarrassed as hell. He’s not going to bother me too much from now on.’

Blocky left, banging the door shut. I got up and locked it, I wanted no visitors. I switched off my cellphone, made a big pot of coffee and sat down. It was dark outside already, and I shivered as if something cold was stealing through the silent house.

I opened the first journal. The title page … Episodes in the Life of a Fighter Pilot. That photo and a good sketch of a Tempest fighter-bomber. The lights overhead flickered a moment and my eyelids felt heavy, but nothing more. Opposite me, feet shuffled and the chair creaked, Grandad coughed.

‘I had some fancy about writing a book. Poetry’s not much: inspired doggerel, some poet bloke said. Hell, his stuff didn’t even rhyme. Read one out to you when you were a nipper — fell asleep.’

I looked up and he was there, shadowed a little, the light flickering again — the same sense of un/reality stealing over me. As though this was a prickling strange dream that just kept on going … and going.

‘Read it, Matt.’

His chair creaked and scraped again as I looked down at the title page. Then up again — he was gone. If he was ever there. The lights stopped flickering and it was dark outside. I looked at my watch — suddenly it’s past midnight.

I knew I would not sleep that night. But the strange feeling of dread was gone. I made more coffee and settled down. Somehow the scribbled writing was no problem at all. I could read every word clearly, easily.

And somehow the words were speaking to me, as though in Grandad’s own voice. They spoke clearly in my head and I even seemed to breathe the cold air of a European winter, 1945. And cold blue skies, waiting for the roar of aircraft engines.