She then changed names, disappeared and hadn’t contacted him in three years.

Frankburg had been stunned by the abruptness of it. Still was. He told himself he’d botched it. Playing the game of reality with no real cards in his hands.

Frankburg resolved to move offices.

734

Samuel picked up the hotel telephone and dialed zero.

“Reception.”

Sam didn’t answer. He was staring at the television screen.

It was a local news item. A camera team had made their way to Birmingham International Station and a reporter was interviewing a senior policeman who wore a bright tie but a grave look.

He confirmed that a man had jumped in front of a train and had been killed. They were still making enquiries but they’d ruled out assault. It seemed the gentleman had jumped onto the track of his own free will.

Bang!

The man was carrying identity on him when he died, but next of kin were to be informed first.

The reporter thanked the police officer.

The police officer thanked the reporter.

“If you need help with using the telephone, there’s a card on the table by the side of the bed.”

“Oh, sorry, this is Samuel Thorn, could I have a room without a bath, please?”

733

Frankburg switched off the heater and gathered his notes together. Eight pages for pilot Graham Johansson. This constituted four sessions. Johansson’s notes were brief. But then they’d only just started.

Session one had remained the easiest session to transcribe because Mr. Johansson hadn’t said a single word.

He’d chosen to sit in the chair opposite Frankburg rather than lie on the couch to one side. It gave a better view out the window. From that window you could see the airplanes in the distance making their approach to the airport. Around six would descend during a one-hour session. Johansson would watch each one.

He was an impressive-looking man: six feet three, solid, very well groomed, with fair hair, a faint accent in his voice, well-defined features and good teeth. Capped?

Session two had more content. Some personal details had emerged.

Family: father Danish, mother English. Both alive. Only child.

Graham Johansson: forty-six years old. Single? Pause. Yes. Frankburg had underlined the pause. Something to return to. Born and educated in Copenhagen. Trained as a pilot in England. Full captain for five years. Lived in Warwickshire. Preferred short hops to Europe and Atlantic flights to the United States, didn’t like the long haul east.

Session three, at first, seemed to be going the same way as session one. In the lengthy silence Frankburg remembered the psychologist R. D. Laing had recommended that a catatonic client become a life model. Frankburg had chuckled and Johansson had looked up. To cover the chuckle Frankburg had asked Johansson why he felt the need to come. Johansson answered that he’d been thinking a lot about what it was to be a pilot. What it represented and how it related to one’s life on the ground. Johansson had asked to hear the doctor’s theories about flying and leaving home, flying and nationality, and flying and escape.