Freya rounded the corner into the hospital grounds. Couldn’t imagine painting any more. The narrow village lane gave way to debris. Fragmented metal. Scarred earth. Red bricks tumbled across the snow, a collapsed lego tower. Everything black and charred and broken. And in there, somewhere, her father.
She stared, feet stuck into the icy granite ground. Felt that swirl of unreality, that any moment now she would wake from this dream. Because this didn’t happen, not in real life. You didn’t wake up one morning and have your father be dead because his plane had tumbled from the sky. Life just didn’t happen that way, not really. A heat rushed through her. She thought that she might be sick.
She turned her back to the wreckage, facing the line of trees still black with the heat of the fire.
She wanted a memory, something to cling to that would wash clean the image of charred white bones, crimson sinew, black ash. Him teaching her to ride a bike, reading her a bed time story, anything would have done. But there was nothing but the ghost of him, moving through her life, barely touching it.
She stared at the trees, the way the branches hung down, spindly thin and black. She hadn’t cried. Not once. When her mother wept and her brother wept and her grandmother wept, she had watched and had comforted and hadn’t cried. How could she do that? How could she be human and a daughter and not want to cry?
She stared at the trees, the ring of snow melted by the fire that killed her father and willed herself to cry.
But there was nothing. Just this low thrumming in her chest where her heart used to be.
She didn’t see him. Had been too caught up in the sight of the ruined building to pay attention to the figure standing at the cordon line.
“Pretty shocking, isn’t it?”
Freya turned with a start. He was late-thirties maybe, tall and thin. His face was awash in five o’clock shadow, dark eyes ringed with dark circles. She didn’t recognise him, not at first. Then she noticed the black leather jacket, got a wash of cigarette smoke, and remembered the cameraman who had followed her along her path, red light blinking.
He was watching her, assessing.
Freya stared at him for a moment. This was a terrible idea. She should never have come. Her feet turned, willing her to walk away.
“You’re Oliver Blake’s daughter? Right? I saw you at the house. Yesterday.”
She looked at him, her mouth set into a hard line. “What do you want now?”
He studied her for a moment, then gave a half smile. “Why did you come here?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“No.” The man allowed with a slight shrug. “Probably not. But I am a reporter, so I tend to ask anyway.” He glanced back towards the ruined building, the yellow jackets and white hard hats swarming across it like flies on a carcass. “Quite a sight, huh? They’ve been out here all night,. Probably will be tonight as well.” He shivered ostentatiously. “Wouldn’t fancy that.”
“Indeed.” She should just walk away. She should never have come. Now couldn’t remember just what it was she’d been thinking. Just that she’d wanted something to cling to. Some final piece of her father that she could point to and say, look, he was a good guy.
“I’m Ian Slater, by the way.” He didn’t offer his hand.
Freya didn’t reply.
Would it have repaired itself? In time, after he had walked her down the aisle, after she had given birth to children and he had played with them, doted, been the grandfather for them even though he could never really be the father to her. Would they have found peace eventually? Perhaps even joy in one another’s company? But now he was gone, lost in the metal and the snow and the tumble down bricks and they would never know.
“Look. Tell you what. You look like you could use a drink. Only, ha,” He glanced at his watch “okay, a little early. But a cuppa. You could use a cuppa? Yeah? Come on. There’s a cafe, just down there. I’ll buy you one.”
Freya stared at him.
“What? Look, I won’t question you.” Ian held up his hands. “Promise. And, I’ve had a chat, with some of the guys working the site. People, they talk. They say things even when they shouldn’t.”
Freya started. “You know something?”
“Well, ha, I mean, I know a lot of things.”
Irritation bubbled in her. “Forget it.” She turned, away from the paltry remains of the plane and the tumble down building. Should never have come.
“Wait.”
The reporter had reached out, gripped her elbow. “Look, I’m sorry. Okay? I know this is a shit time for you. It’s just, okay, I have to report on this stuff. I mean, it’s my job. If my boss - the guy you met earlier, remember? If he had been here, the story would already be out. But you’re here, and, I’m supposed to call in, was just about to in fact. But the thing is, I know…” He shook his head “I know what it’s like to lose a parent. It’s rough. And…” He let go of her elbow, tucking his hands back into his pocket. “I think you should know first. I think you deserve that.”
“Was it fast?” Freya asked, surprising herself with the uneven quality of her voice.
“Huh?”
She bit her bottom lip. Surprised by how much she needed to know. “My father. When he died. Did it happen fast?”
“Yes.” But it was too quick. He said it without thinking. Because she needed to hear it, not because it was true.
Freya studied him for long moments. Then, tucking her coat tighter around her, gave a half smile. “A cuppa would be good.”
Chapter 21
Freya – Saturday, 17th March – 12.12am
“Look, right, the thing is, I’m a chatter, okay. I mean, I’m a reporter, so that’s kind of part of the job.” Ian grinned at her. “So, I like hang around, and I talk to people and they get comfortable with me and they tell me things that they probably shouldn’t. So, I popped up here, last night, hung out in the bar a little, where some of these guys are staying. You know, the investigators, the guys helping out on site. And so I get talking to them.”
Freya shivered, a sudden chill in spite of the unnatural heat of the doll sized cafe. Took a sip from the thick china mug. The coffee was good, bitter and sweet. The air smelled of breakfast, radio humming low in the background. The reporter spoke quietly, leaning forward, even though they were the only ones there.
“One of the guys, well, he had a bit too much to drink. Just enough to make him chatty. He tells me that they found the flight data recorder - the FDR. They found that and they found the cockpit voice recorder on the night of the crash, so pretty much straight away. Now, what my guy tells me is that, they took them up to Farnborough, listened to the CVR, looked at the FDR and what they’re seeing is that the flight had problems, pretty much from the get go.”
“What kind of problems?”
“He says that the engines were straining. Says that it was like they were struggling to pick up speed. Now, he was very careful to say nothing definitive, too early to say, blah, blah, blah. But he also said they were investigating the possibility that there was ice…on the, ah, whatsit, the wing chord.”
“So they’re thinking it was the weather?”
Ian looked down, studied his coffee cup. His fingers drummed against the side of the cup. “Look, my guy, he says that they’re thinking that weather played a part. Probably. But that wasn’t all of it.”
“Okay?”
“He said that the pilot - your Dad - he had a chance. There was talk early on about the ice. He had time to abort take-off. His co-pilot seemed to think that he should. But your Dad seemed…confident. That was what my guy said. He chose to press on.”
Freya took another sip of her coffee, thinking of her father. Confident. Always confident. Even when he was wrong.
“The scuttlebutt is that they also got some pretty interesting information from the flight data recorder. What my guy told me was that there was some kind of problem with the plane, that they don’t think there’s any question about that. But the issue that their having is in the level of difficulties.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, the ice and shit, it had made the plane tough to fly. But not impossible. They’re saying that they don’t think that the problems your Dad had would be enough to bring down a plane.”
Freya stared at him. Couldn’t seem to make sense of what he was saying. “I don’t understand.”
Ian sighed. “Look, there were problems, right? But there were also solutions. In the first place, he could have aborted the take-off. Or he could have called for a divert, could have returned the plane to the ground. The plane was struggling, but it was flyable.”
“So what…”
“All Right…now, you’re going to have to bear with me on this, ‘cause this is a long way beyond my wheelhouse.” The reporter pulled a notebook from his pocket.
Freya saw it, leaned back.
“No, it’s not…Look.” He flashed a page at her, black with scribbled notes. “I didn’t understand the technical stuff, so I did some research. Like I said,” he gave her a fleeting grin “not my wheelhouse. Okay, from what I could find out, when you have a build-up of ice on the wing, you get a number of effects. Reduced stalling angle of attack. Reduced lift. Increase in drag and stall speed. Now, what I think that shit means is that you’re just at greater risk of stalling because the airflow over the wing is interrupted. Now, sometimes that can just make a plane unflyable. But in this case, from what we can see from the FDR data, that wasn’t what happened. The plane became difficult, unwieldy, but not unflyable.”
“Then what happened to it?”
He was looking down at the notebook now, fingers tapping against it, wouldn’t meet her eye. Freya felt a creeping sense of foreboding.
“Ian. Please?”
He gave a deep sigh. “When they were nearing a stall, they would have known, any pilot worth his shit would have known, that the way to deal with it was to lower the nose. Help the airflow over the wing. This would have helped the plane pick up speed. Moved them away from the stall.”
“But that’s not what my dad did?”
“No. From what I can make out, what they’re saying is that, your Dad, he pulled the nose up. Now what that means is that by increasing the plane’s angle of attack he was also increasing the drag. That would have lowered the speed of the plane. It would have essentially forced it to stall.” He was moving his hands, palms down, teaching. “His co-pilot. Now, he was doing something different. He was trying to lower the nose. He was doing exactly what he was trained to do in a stall situation. So essentially what you have is these two guys fighting against each other for control of the plane.” A long pause. “Your father won.”
“He…so my dad…he made a mistake?”
“Yes…maybe.”
“Maybe?”
He still wasn’t looking at her. “Look, we talked about this yesterday. He had been flying for a very long time. He has been flying this type of plane – a turboprop – for a very long time. He knew that plane. He knew what it could do. He also knew what it couldn’t. What my guy told me was that if this had been a new pilot, someone new to this type of plane…I don’t know. Maybe they’d be thinking something different. But they cannot figure out why the hell he would have chosen that as an option, when he would have known, had to have known, that bringing the nose up, when the plane is already on its way into a stall, bringing the nose up was the one way of guaranteeing that a stall occurred.”
The air became thicker. Freya leaning forward. “What are you saying?”
He shook his head. Didn’t answer.
“Are you saying that you think my father committed suicide?”
Chapter 22
Cecilia – Saturday, 17th March – 11.45am
Cecilia’s legs were concrete. Her insides ached, like she was hollow.
Maisie was asleep when she left, had fallen into an uneasy drowse, chin resting awkwardly on her chest. Would shudder occasionally, too many tears just for the waking hours. Cecilia had sat awhile, watching her, holding her hand like she had in the snow. She knew that she should leave. Knew that she had nowhere to go. Glancing up as the nurse leaned past, checking the IV. Wondering if she should tell her who she was.
“Poor love.”
Nodding, couldn’t think what to say.
Sighed. “I do hope they find him. If they don’t…” Another sigh. “It’s good that you’re here. She’s told us so much about you.”
“She has?” Looking up, feeling something fluttering in her chest.
“Are you kidding?” The nurse had smiled, squeezing her shoulder. She was pretty, in a dumpy sort of way. “She’s told everyone about her solicitor daughter.”
Cecilia walked slowly now, looking down, people billowing around her. She could go home. Sit inside the beige box. There were no friends, no-one who would be worried, not any more. Could ring her mother. But her mother was holed up in a new-built flat in the outskirts of Glasgow with her new boyfriend. They had spoken, briefly, after Ben was born. Her mother had promised to visit. She had never arrived. Cecilia could have rung her father, but he had given up pretending he was just a “social” drinker, had taken it on as a serious occupation. He rang her, every couple of weeks, long, meandering calls where he talked more than listened, about her mother, their marriage and his bitter mistreatment. The calls often ended in wrenching tears. There was nothing left now but a shadow of the handsome, charming man she had grown up with. Cecilia turned a corner, slowly, getting in people’s way. The information desk was still there. The woman was still there, drinking a bottle of sparkling water, coral lips clamped around the plastic bottle. Her fingernails were painted black, too long, looked like claws. She started when she saw Cecilia, water spilling in rivulets down onto her dove grey blouse. “Oh, my, oops.” Dabbing at the water spots with her hands. “Oh, sorry. Um, all right? Did you…everything okay?
“I, I was wondering…Maisie’s husband…”
“Maisie?”
“Mrs Collins.”
“Oh.” Still dabbing at her blouse. “Now, he was on the plane too, was he?”
Cecilia looked down at the scarred linoleum. It crackled with flames. She could smell flesh. “Is there news?”
“Um, right, I’ll…oh dear, well that’s just made it worse.” Sighed, turning to her papers. “Let me just…Collins, Collins…”