Authors: Quintin Jardine
`But wouldn't that have been blown apart too, sir?'
`No, I don't think so. It's not as if the thing went nose-first into the ground. Look at the mark — it shows you what happened. If anything, it came down nose-high. See the way the tail is? That was ripped right off on impact. The engines? They were too, and flung ahead of the rest of it. The fuel left in the wings ignited, and that, together with the impact, blew the fabric of the cabin all over the place . . . But the nose-cone would have survived, at least something recognisable would have. Think of all the air-crash scenes you've ever seen on TV, or in person.
Ì've never seen anything like this before, Bob,' said Radcliffe softly. 'Thank Christ!'
`Well, think back to that crash a few years ago. The body of the plane was shattered, but the nose-cone remained in one piece. Not that it helped the people inside, though.' He shuddered violently. 'Down there, though, there's nothing that looks remotely like the sharp end of that plane. And we have to find out why. Come on,' he said briskly. 'Time we talked to your eye-witness in the van, whether he's ready for it or not.'
He led the way across to the blue minibus. The man was sitting in the second row of seats, staring over his shoulder away from the valley, down the hillside to where a flock of sheep had gathered dumbly around the body of the slaughtered ewe. Chief Superintendent Radcliffe opened the passenger door and leaned inside.
`How are you feeling, sir?' he asked.
The shepherd shrugged his shoulders, helplessly.
`There's someone here who has to speak to you. Is that okay?' The man nodded. Radcliffe backed out of the vehicle and allowed the DCC to climb into the front seat.
`Good morning,' he said. 'My name's Bob Skinner. What's yours?'
The man looked at him as if he was trying to remember. Seated, he looked short, but stockily built. He had thick, black, matted curly hair, and wore a dirty tweed jacket over a heavyweight check shirt. His hands were in his lap. Skinner was shocked to see that they were stained with blood. He looked at the man's face properly for the first time, and saw a red smear by his right temple.
The shepherd blinked. 'Ronnie Thacker. My name's Ronnie Thacker.'
`What were you doing up here, Mr Thacker?'
`Getherin' in the sheep. It was time tae bring them back tae the ferm.
`Mr Radcliffe said he found you running down the road. You didn't have a vehicle, then?'
`Lost ma licence!' The man glared at him, as if he should have known. 'The boss dropped me off on the hillside, then went back for his breakfast.'
`So. Let's talk about the crash, Ronnie. Take your time, now, and try to remember everything. When did you see the plane first?'
Thacker knitted his brows. Àh dinna ken really. Ah just looked up and it was there, comin' towards the ground.'
Was there anything in particular that made you look up?'
The shepherd paused, as if struggling to express himself. Àh dinna ken for sure. At first, Ah thought Ah heard a shot, far away, like. Ah thought tae myself, "Wha's out wi' a twelve-bore at this time o' day?" It was then Ah saw the plane.'
`Can you describe it, as it came down?'
Ìt . . . It . . . It seemed tae be in slow motion at first. It just sort of drifted down. Then the closer it got, the faster it seemed tae be goin'. Ah couldna dae a thing, ken. Ah thought it was goin' tae hit me, but Ah couldna move. Then it went past me and crashed intae the valley. The tail tore aff and then a'thing just blew up. Great big dods o' metal goin' up in the air, and fallin' all about me. Yin bit just missed me. It hit wan o' ma ewes, though.
Turned the poor bugger inside out. Never seen a mess like yon, outside of a knacker's yard.'
He held up his bloody hands to illustrate the point. Skinner winced:
`That's when Ah panicked. Ah just had tae get away from that thing. Ah never thought where Ah wis goin' other than just down the road, away frae here. Ah walked and walked .
. . Then Ah met your lot, and the buggers brought me back!'
Skinner smiled at him gently. 'You're an important man, Ronnie. You're maybe the only witness we've got.'
A light seemed to go on in a dark recess of the shepherd's brain. D'ye think I might get money, like? Frae the papers?'
`Don't book your holidays on the strength of it. Now, let's go back to the crash. I want you to think carefully. When the plane hit the ground, what happened to the nose-cone?'
`The whit?'
The bit at the sharp-end, Ronnie. Where the driver sits.'
The shepherd's brow furrowed again. D'ye ken, that's a funny thing. And it never occurred tae me till you said. The bit at the front. It wisna there!'
`You didn't see it at all?'
`Naw. It wisna there, Ah tell ye. The front was open. There wis smoke and some flames comin' out. But Ah never saw the bit at the sharp end. Not at all!'
Skinner sat and stared at the man for several seconds. `Honest!' said Thacker, plaintively.
Òkay, okay. I believe you!' He stepped out of the car, and beckoned to Radcliffe.
`Charlie. I want you to put this boy in a car and send him up to Brian Mackie. Tell him he's to give him a statement, repeating everything that he's just told me. Then get word to Brian that no journalists are to be allowed within a mile of the bloke. Got that?'
Radcliffe looked at him, wide-eyed. 'Got it, sir. Every word of it!'
NINE
Sir James Proud rarely used a police driver if he could avoid it. `Policemen are trained for policing,' he said often to Bob Skinner, 'not for driving pompous sods like us around, just so that we can be seen in our big cars.'
On the other hand, the veteran Chief Constable was rarely seen out of his impressive uniform on public occasions. The boys and girls on the beat like to see their Chief wearing the silver braid, Bob. It makes their uniforms feel that bit more important. Besides, it makes me feel that I really am in command of this outfit. When you drive a chair for as long as I have, you need to reassure yourself on that score.'
But, on this day, when Proud Jimmy's car crested the rise and pulled into the impromptu police carpark, he was in the back seat. When he stepped out, Skinner saw that he was clad in a heavy navy-blue pullover and baggy old flannels, their legs tucked into thick grey woollen socks worn inside tan hiking boots.
For a moment, Skinner's anger over Sarah's involvement threatened to burst to the surface, but it evaporated as soon as he saw his friend's shocked, drawn face. 'I came to help, Bob,'
said the Chief quietly. 'But on the way, I received this over the car fax.' If Skinner disliked his car phone, he loathed the very idea of a fax on wheels, but in the official vehicles reserved for chief officers they were standard equipment.
With an expression of distaste he took the sheets of paper which Proud Jimmy held out to him. 'What is it?'
Ìt's the passenger list, row by row. D'you see the name against Row 1 seat E?'
Skinner glanced at the first page and saw the name of Colin Davey MP. 'I know about him. Wee Adam Arrow called me a few minutes back. He's flying up here.'
`Mmm,' said the Chief. To the DCC's surprise, he sounded almost uninterested. 'Now look at the fourth page. Row 28, seat A.'
Skinner thumbed through the pages until he found the reference. He stared at it, and as he did so he paled, and his shoulders sagged. 'Oh Jimmy, no. Surely not! Not Roy Old. Not nice, amiable, easygoing Roy.'
Ì'm afraid so,' said the Chief sadly.
`What the hell was he doing on that plane? I spoke to him yesterday. He was going to the conference dinner last night. It was a black-tie do, port and cigars and all that. A real
"AlkaSeltzers at Oh Nine Hundred" job. Why the bloody hell did he have to be so damned conscientious that he dragged his hangover on to the seven o'clock shuffle?'
Detective Chief Superintendent Roy Old was Head of CID, Skinner's immediate deputy in the criminal investigation hierarchy, and once upon a time Detective Inspector to his Detective Sergeant in the Gayfield Police Station. He was a quiet, self-effacing man, to the extent that he had been in a backwater job in West Lothian until Skinner's accession to Chief Officer rank. One of the first acts of the newly appointed Assistant Chief Constable had been to install his former boss as his number two — the ideal man, he had thought, to maintain stability while he formulated his long-term plans. Those plans were in place.
Now their implementation would have to be brought forward.
Skinner turned his back on the Chief and leaned against the roof of his car. 'I put him there, Jimmy!' It was almost a howl. 'I could have gone to that bloody conference, I should have gone. But I sent Roy instead. And why? Because I looked at the programme and thought, "Christ what a bore! A three-day inter-Force conference on fraud! No way I'm sealing myself up in that. Roy can go. Good old Roy. It'll help him while away some time till his retirement."
`Now good old modest Roy's lying in bits down in the heather, because the great Bob Skinner was too self-important to bother with the mundane parts of his job!'
Sir James laid a hand on his shoulder. 'Bob, son. There's no reason for you to think like that. Delegation's the name of the game. You and I could each spend eighteen months of every year at conferences if we went to them all.'
`No, Jimmy, that won't wash. I can't get away from it. I put Roy on that plane. And I did it for a laugh. I did, man! I looked at the programme and I said to Maggie, "Old can go to that one. He's just the guy to sit on his arse for three days listening to a team of accountants droning on about corporate misbehaviour!" So I filled his name in on the form and sent it through to him. It was a joke, really, but he didn't get it. He just booked himself in and went.
Ànd he never came back! How am I going to tell Lottie that, or look in her eye at the funeral?' Skinner, desolate, bowed his head.
`Bob, Bob,' said Proud Jimmy quietly. 'It wasn't a joke, and you know it. I sent Roy out to West Lothian for much the same reason, and I'd have sent him to that conference as well.
He was the sort of copper who could sit for three days, listening conscientiously and taking notes, and then represent the Force like a trouper at the dinner. He was a good, solid, dependable bloke, so bloody dependable that he probably decided that bad head or not, he was going to put in a full day at the office. So he booked himself on the seven o'clock flight. That's how you've got to see it, man, or you'll gut yourself.'
Skinner straightened up. He shook his head. The last thirty seconds, Jimmy. That's all I can see. But don't let's talk about that, or I really will go crazy.'
Àye. Let's grieve afterwards. You wait till you read the rest of that passenger list. Quite apart from the Right Honourable and late Colin Davey, some of the names on there are very familiar to me.'
Skinner looked at the list again. His stomach turned over as he read the first name aloud.
'Master Mark McGrath. Oh dammit! Life's just not fair, is it? And next to him, must have been his dad. Roland McGrath MP. McGrath! Christ, he's the Home Affairs Minister in the Scottish Office. It's not three months since he paid us a visit to open the new station in Craigmillar.'
The Defence Secretary's protection officer was in the seat next to McGrath,' said the Chief. 'That's why it's simply labelled "Male Passenger". Another lost policeman.'
Not so likely,' said Skinner. 'More probably a soldier. Defence tend to look after their own.'
`Colin Davey himself was in the middle seat on the other side of the aisle,' said Proud. The people on either side of him were his Private Secretary and someone called Shaun Massey.
That name's familiar too, but I'm damned if I can remember from where.'
Skinner grunted. 'Jesus, it should be familiar. He's the American Secretary for Defense.
Look at Row 2 Seats D to F. Three more "Male Passengers", two of them marked "US".
Another of our protection people and two Secret Service, I'd say.
'Who's this in Seat 2C, d'you know?' he asked, and read the name aloud. 'Ms Victoria Cunningham.'
`Roland McGrath's Private Secretary,' said the Chief Constable. 'She was with him when he performed the opening ceremony. I remember her quite well. A nice wee lass. She looked a bit like my daughter-in-law. Oh dear.' He shook his head mournfully.
Skinner read on, down the list. Several of the names seemed familiar to him, and four more of them were Members of Parliament. He looked up at Proud. 'Six MPs in all,' he said. 'I make it two Tories, two Labour, one Lib Dem and one Nat.'
`That's right. The first shuttle on Friday's a popular plane with Parliamentarians. I'm surprised there weren't more on board. Did you see Lord Barassie's name there?' Skinner nodded. 'He sat on the Labour benches. A spokesman on something or other.'
`You said you think you know who some of these other people are?'
Àye,' said Proud Jimmy. 'It's well seen you don't use the New Club as much as me. You'll need to get to know the Edinburgh establishment better, Bob. I tell you, I reckon the Club will have a right few vacancies as a result of this calamity.
`The two chaps sat next to each other in Row 5. Yeats and Bernard. They're both directors of the Bank of Scotland. I recognise three other names as senior people with the insurance companies. There could be a couple of directors of the brewery there as well.
`The business community will have been decimated here, Bob. There were eight Japanese on board, too. Possibly inward investors, or executives with some of the electronics companies.
Ì counted the names on the list. There were a hundred and ninety-eight passengers and seven crew on board. Two hundred and five lives, snuffed out, just like that. And for what? Just to get from point A to point B that wee bit quicker. You can't exist in this world without flying, but I'll tell you something, my friend: every time I do it, I'm scared stiff.'
Skinner looked at his Chief. Do you think you're unique?' he said quietly.
They stood there in silence for almost a minute, looking down at the scene of growing activity in the valley. Eventually Sir James glanced back towards Skinner. 'Has the airline given us any idea what might have caused this?'