I snapped the seatbelt closed and the plane roared off, climbing rapidly. It levelled off and the warning lights went out. Haslam said over the speaker, ‘Okay, Mr Kemp, you can come forward if you want to.’

I found Philips at the controls and Haslam chatting to someone on the radio. He signed off and I said, ‘Who were you talking to?’

‘Air traffic control at Benning Airport.’

‘Do you have to do that, even on a flight like this?’

‘They like to know what’s in the air,’ he said. ‘It’s mostly for the benefit of the missile tracking station at Fort Edward. We’re down-range of Cape Canaveral and they don’t like unforeseen blips on their radar.’ He put his hands on the controls. ‘I’ll take her, Les.’

I studied Philips. ‘You’re a long way from home, Mr Philips.’

He half-turned in his seat so as to face me and somehow combined the movement with a shrug. ‘If you’re in the flying business you get around.’

‘Have you been working for Mr Salton long?’

‘Three years.’

‘Me too,’ said Haslam. ‘Ever since he moved back to Campanilla permanently.’

We chatted for a while. Both Haslam and Philips seemed depressed by the death of Salton and their depression seemed to be an amalgam of worry about their jobs and a genuine regret for the death of their employer: they had both liked Salton and thought him a good boss.

We flew a triangular course and came back to El Cerco flying low over the lagoon. By then I was back in the cabin with my belt fastened for landing, and I had a good view of the house on the tiny island.

I could even see the swimming pool and a diving board on which was a tiny figure that must have been Mrs Salton. As the plane went over, she dived and I caught the splash as she hit the water. Then the plane had passed and I lost sight of her.

Back on the runway I said to Haslam, ‘Thanks for the flip.’

‘Did you find everything you wanted to know?’ he asked.

I grinned at him. ‘Who does?’ I nodded pleasantly and walked away.

He called out, ‘Okay, Les, let’s get the bird back into the nest.’ I turned and looked back to find him staring at me. I waved and he waved back, then I turned the corner of the hangar and looked out over El Cerco.

THREE

I

‘Kemp,’ said Mrs Salton lazily. ‘Is that Celtic, Norse?’

‘English of the English,’ I assured her. ‘There was a Will Kemp in Burbage’s company at the Globe Theatre. I like to think I have an ancestor who, perhaps, acted with Shakespeare.’

‘Did Shakespeare act?’

‘He’s supposed to have played the ghost in Hamlet.’