Authors: Quintin Jardine
Àrrow, yes, sir. SAS no; not any more. I'm on MOD attachment now. That's what brought me up here.'
Legge nodded. 'Of course. Bob did mention it, but I'd forgotten.'
`So what have you spotted, Gammy?' asked Skinner.
`More debris. About a mile and a half to the south. It's all more or less together in a sort of gully, a ravine almost, in the moorland. We didn't go too low, for fear of blowing it around, but there are flight seats there, and quite a bit of other wreckage . . . some of it human, I'm afraid.
`Let's go and take a look, then.'
TWENTY
The helicopter put down on a high knoll. It overlooked the heather-grown moor for at least a mile in all directions. Skinner stared all around him, at the acres of brownish heather.
The landscape had been turned into a sort of patchwork by the watery autumn sun, as it picked out gold highlights on the tops of the bushes, and cast long shadows upon the rest.
On another day, the countryman in Skinner would have thought it beautiful.
`Where is it, Major?' he asked as he, Arrow, and the four uniformed soldiers of the Bomb Unit stood alongside the silent bulk of the helicopter.
Òver here.' The Ulsterman pointed south. 'You can barely make it out from here, but if you look hard you'll see a solid, darker shadow across the ground. As I said, it's a sort of crevice, and from the air, it looked as if it goes down very sharply.'
Skinner strained his eyes until he picked it out, a sudden blackness amid the light and shade of the sun-washed moorland. He guessed that it was around half a mile away.
They made slow headway as they moved through the scrubs, spread out in a broad line.
They walked with their eyes cast downwards in case there was debris tangled up among the undergrowth; but they found none, and in just under fifteen minutes they came to the edge of the ravine. It was around forty Yards wide, bisecting the moor from east to west.
No heather grew within it; instead its sides were grassy. They fell steeply towards a stream which ran through it, around a hundred feet below where the six men stood, looking downwards in horror.
Where the debris in the main crash-site had been spread around the shallow valley, here it was concentrated in a single area. Even looking down into the shadows they could see that little or nothing had survived the crash intact. Most of the plunging wreckage had smashed into the northern slope of the gully, more or less beneath their feet, but a few pieces had skidded down the opposite bank, tearing gashes in the grass. Others lay in the narrow stream, which was blocked in one place by a particularly large object.
Skinner waved and his five companions gathered around him. 'We have to go down there, lads. It'll be ugly, I'm sure, but nothing we haven't seen before. Apart from the bodies, we are looking to recover two red leather-bound steel boxes, one belonging to Colin Davey, the Defence Secretary, one belonging to my own Minister, Roland McGrath.
`They may not be here. There may be more wreckage further on, but let's get this lot searched right now.'
Arrow stopped him with a hand on his arm. 'Wait a minute, Bob. 'Ow many passengers are we short from the front rows?' Èleven.'
`Right. Let's count the flight seats. I can see quite a few down there.'
`Good idea,' said Skinner. He looked down again. Smashed and distorted against the slope at his feet, he could see clearly six seats still attached in rows of three. At other points in the ravine, lay other twisted pieces of metal which could have been seats. Most were blackened. Scorched stuffing protruded from one or two. Others seemed still to be occupied.
Ì think there are twelve seats down there,' said the DCC.
'Let's hope so. I'd like to find everything before the Americans arrive.
'My FBI pal Joe Doherty was promoted out of the Embassy a month ago,' he muttered to Arrow, `to a big job on the National Security Council. I've no idea who they'll send up here, or how many. But with Shaun Massey among the victims you can bet that whoever it is, they'll be gung-ho and looking for action!'
He turned to the pilot. 'Gerald, I'd like you to go back to the main site and bring up a recovery team with stretchers and body-bags:
The young man nodded, saluted briefly and turned to jog back towards the helicopter.
The rest of us . . .' said Skinner grimly . . well, let's get on with it!'
TWENTY-ONE
As Skinner had feared, the large object blocking the little stream was a body . . . or rather, part of a body. Dark red blood stained the water which flowed under and around it.
The remnants of what had once been a man lay on its back across the burn. The head, right arm, upper torso and right foot were missing. Most of the clothes had been blown off, but a few scraps of cloth still clung to the dismembered thing, and a brown belt still circled its waist.
As the DCC stared down at it, Adam Arrow glanced towards him and was struck by his eyes. They were slightly wide, and icy- as if somehow his friend had learned to switch off his normal reactions, and to take in the detail of what he saw as if he were processing and filing any other piece of information. It was a rare skill, but one that Arrow recognised, since he possessed it himself.
`Look at the left thigh,' said Skinner softly.
Arrow leaned over the body and stared. The limb was mostly blackened meat, but in the midst of it all, he could see a cluster of small, round punctures. 'What the f—'
‘Bullet-holes, Adam. I'd guess that this was one of the protection guys. You'll see the scraps of a holster in his belt. It looks as if all the bullets in his revolver discharged themselves in the blast, all at the same time.'
The soldier nodded. 'I've seen that 'appen: he said. 'He must have been bloody close to the seat of the explosion, although not at the heart of it as there's some of 'im left. What did the seat plan show' again?'
`Seat IA was wee Mark, like I said. His dad, Roland, was next to him. Then the first protection man. ID was Davey's Private Secretary, then Davey himself, then the Yank.
`Row 2 — A, B and C were MOD and Scottish Office civil servants. D, E and F were the second protection guy and two US Secret Service people.'
`Sir! Over here!' They were interrupted by a shout from one of Legge's Sergeants, thirty yards away up the steep slope.
They stood up from the truncated body and hurried towards him. The soldier was standing just beyond where one of the rows of three seats had slammed front first into the side of the gully. From yards away they could see that all three were still occupied, but all that showed of the three corpses was black, twisted and unrecognisable.
‘D'you reckon two of them could be Davey and Massey?' asked Arrow.
`Who's going to give a stuff?' said Skinner tersely. 'It'll probably come down to guesswork at the end of the day. As long as the leaders can hold their martyrs' funerals, and pick up a few votes on the back of them, they won't care what's in the boxes.'
`Jesus, Bob,' Arrow muttered. 'And I thought you were an idealist.'
Skinner stopped in his tracks. 'I can remember a time when I was, pal. I saw the world as I wanted it to be; I assumed that people did things for noble motives. Somewhere along the line all that changed. I reckon it was having to do with the politicians that did it. I thought about some of the characters I work for, elected people, locally and nationally, and I came to see what most of them are really like.
Ì reckon that men and women who seek office fall into three categories. Category one are the real idealists; folk with a mission to serve their country. Category two are those who want to help their fellow human beings. Category three are those who want the power and the glory. Mind you, they never own up to it. They pretend to belong to category one or two. But they're the ones who rise to the top. We are governed by the ambitious, Adam, by the category three men. By people whose decisions are designed to serve their own ends.
The guy McGrath, wee Mark's father, was a prime example. He'd have shoved his granny off the ladder to get to the top himself.
`But he'll be useful in death, and Davey too. They'll have their fine solemn funerals, and in the cortege you'll find other ambitious people with eyes on the by-elections, waving their grief in public for the electors to see.
Ì'm glad that I've got a simple job, Adam. I catch people who do wrong things, then I hand them over to be judged and punished. You soldiers are in much the same boat. Your country decides who its enemies are, it tells you, and you kill them. It's easy for us, really.
We don't need to please any voters. We just see what to do, and we fucking do it.'
Arrow looked at his friend. He saw his narrowed eyes, and the lines around them. He heard the hardness in his quiet voice. He listened to what he was saying, and he knew what he meant, and what he was feeling. For he had been there himself, in the dark bleak place that the world can become for those who have seen too much of other people's suffering.
Suddenly Skinner smiled, but savagely, without humour. `Listen to me, Adam, on my bloody soapbox. I sound like a politician myself. Come on, let's see what this is.'
They walked across the last few sloping yards towards the Sergeant. He was crouched over what both men thought at first was a triangular object, until they saw that it was a box, impacted ground. It was blackened, as if scorched, and the mud had splashed up around it, but its red-leather covering still showed through in places.
Skinner bent over the box, and tried to pull it clear of the ground, but his hands slipped on the mud.
‘let me,' said Arrow. He squatted astride it and pressed his hands on either side, rocking it backwards and forwards, gently at first, then faster until at last it loosened and a handle came into view. The little soldier seized it, yanked, and the box came clear of the ground.
`Christ, it's heavy,' he said.
`Steel-lined, I told you. And, it seems, bombproof. Let's wash some of that crap off of it in the burn.'
The policeman jumped and trotted down the slope to the bank of the stream, with Arrow at his heels, carrying the heavy box effortlessly.
`Here, Adam, gimme it.' Taking the box, Skinner laid it on the ground and knelt down beside it. Looking closely at it, he saw a small patch of the red-leather binding, decorated with gold leaf, showing through the dirt and scorch-marks, running parallel with the edge.
He tried to rub off some of the mud with the flat of his hand, but only succeeding in smearing it into the leather.
`Bugger it,' he said. 'Let's hope it's waterproof too!'
He picked up the box by its handle and lowered it into the burn; the air inside buoyed it up, making it feel suddenly lighter in his hand. He swung it to and fro in the clear water, watching as the mud washed off in its flow. After around half a minute's immersion he lifted it out, held it up and looked at its surface. One side was still almost black, but not with mud. 'Scorched by the blast, I'd guess,' said Arrow. Skinner turned the box around and laid it on the grass. One or two patches of dirt still stuck to the surface, but mostly the rich red leather shone up at him, glistening and damp; the rectangular line of gold-leaf decoration twinkled in places.
Suddenly he bent over the box, peering at it closely, then rail the fingertips of his right hand over the surface.
He beckoned Arrow. 'Look, Adam. D'you see what's embossed in the surface?'
The little man squatted down beside him, bending to follow his friend's pointing finger.
He too felt the surface.
Ìt's a crest, isn't it?'
`That's right. The Scottish Office crest, to be exact. That means that this was Roland McGrath's Red Box. With luck Davey's should be around here too.'
Àye,' said Arrow, 'and it looks as if t' buggers are bombproof at that.'
`Too bad their owners weren't. Come on, let's join in the search.'
They made their way back up the hillside, where Legge and the Sergeant who had found the box continued to pore through the flotsam of the disaster. The second NCO was at work on the other slope. Arrow broke off to the left, to widen the area of the search, while Skinner headed right. As he passed the Major, he called to him. 'Bob, here a second, please.'
The slope was at its steepest and Skinner had to dig his heels in to make progress upwards.
When he reached Legge, he found him standing upright and grim-faced. On the ground, at his feet, the top part of a human body, with the head in right profile, was embedded in the bank of the gully, just as the Red Box had been. The policeman's stomach heaved, and he was glad that he had not eaten since breakfast. Even at that, for a few uncertain moments his record of never having thrown up at the crime scene hung by a thread.
He took a deep breath and gathered up his self-control once more.
`Look at it. If you can . . .' said the Major. Skinner nodded and crouched beside the thing.
The arm was twisted and shrivelled, without a hand, and seemed to point up at them. The face was burned black, but the features were still obviously human, apart from the ear, which resembled nothing more than a piece of charcoal. The hair, rising from a high forehead, and the beard and moustache were frizzled and melted.
Àahh!' he hissed. 'It's like some sort of demented sculpture, but still it's recognisable.'
`You know him?' said the Irishman, surprise in his voice.
`Yes. This was Roland McGrath, the Scottish Office Minister.'
`Well, if it's any consolation, the fellow never knew what hit him. The blast must have taken him out in an instant.' He dropped on both knees beside the head. 'Sorry, Bob, but this has to be done.' Carefully, he dug his fingers into the mud beneath the remains and turned them over, freeing them from the ground. Skinner took a step sideways and watched. The left arm was gone, at the shoulder, and the torso ended just below that point in a tangle of bone and muddy organs. The policeman drew a quick breath and concentrated his gaze on the face. The left side looked more human, with unscorched flesh tones showing through the dirt. The left ear, although filled with mud and grass, was still there and reddish hair still clung to temple and jawline.