Authors: Quintin Jardine
`Give me the hammer, Gerald,' he ordered, taking the great bludgeon in both hands as the officer passed it up to him.
`Now, you guys, brace yourselves against the side away from the aircraft, and try to keep this thing as steady as you can. That glass isn't going to give first whack, and I don't want to wind up in the drink!'
He took a deep breath and tried a practice swing, working out the best way to attack the window. Eventually he was ready. Remembering the principles of karate, he focused on the point where the energy of the blow would be delivered, and swung.
The huge
'Clang!'
echoed across the water. Even with Legge and the Lieutenant holding the boat steady by bracing their feet against the fuselage, Skinner still swayed back. He almost lost his balance as the armoured window threw his own force back at him, but saved himself by dropping into a half-crouch, lowering his centre of gravity.
As soon as the boat was absolutely steady once more, he stood up and swung again, ready this time for the strength of the reaction. Still the window remained intact, but on the third blow a hairline crack appeared. As fast as he could do so safely, he rained huge hammer blows upon the glass, hitting the same spot every time, until at last the section split in two, and swung inwards, loosened from its frame.
He crouched in the front of the boat, breathing as hard from the effort as from his customary morning run, and still holding the huge hammer. His heart was pounding and his pulse roared in his ears, but still, the unexpected sound broke through.
A cry, a plaintive fearful cry. Not quite hysterical, but close to it. A child's sound, a mixture of relief, shock and fear. It came from inside the cockpit.
Skinner dropped the hammer and stood bolt upright. He stared at Gabriel Legge. The Major's eyes were wide and glistening.
The cry came again. Louder this time.
`Major, to this end of the boat! I'm going in.'
The policeman reached across and took the empty frame of the window in both hands.
The metal dug sharply into his palms, but he ignored it, straightening his arms, taking his weight on his shoulders and swinging his right leg up and into the opening.
Straddled across his makeshift doorway he looked down into the half-submerged cockpit.
One of the officers was slumped in his seat. His shoulders were clear of the water, but from the angle of his lolling head, Skinner knew at once that he was dead.
Beyond the body, the blond child crouched against the curve of the window. His eyes were wide with fear and shock, and his mouth was set in a rictus, a grotesque parody of a smile. For a second the policeman's mind swam as he looked at the miracle of the living boy, seeming to stand on the surface of the water.
In fact he was perched on the aircraft controls. His hair was wet and his clothes, blue trousers and a red polo shirt, were sodden and clung to him. He looked to be around five or six years old.
Skinner tried to speak, but only a croak came out. He coughed to clear his throat.
'What's your name, son?' he asked at last.
`Mark,' said the little boy. There was a shudder in his voice as he stared, stricken with terror, at the intruder.
`Well, Mark, my man, my name's Bob. You don't need to be frightened any more. I'm going to get you out of here. You'll have to help me, mind. D'you think you can do that?'
‘Yesss; he whispered. 'I think so.'
`First of all, do you know if anyone else is in here?'
The child nodded his wet, blond head. 'There's Mr Shipley, the pilot, and there's April, the stewardess. They're both down there.' He flicked out a finger, pointing down towards the water beneath his feet. He nodded again, towards the body in the flight seat. 'That's Mr Garrett. He's the first officer. They were showing me how they fly the plane.'
Skinner took a deep breath. 'Okay, Mark. Now let's see how we're going to get you out of here. Can you swim?'
The boy shook his head. The two, man and boy, were only two or three yards apart, but the water in the cockpit was black, silted, cold and deep. The policeman knew that if the child fell below the surface his chances of recovering him quickly enough, if at all, would not be great.
The control console rose out of the water between them. Skinner looked over his shoulder.
'Major,' he called, 'I want you to stand up behind me and be ready to take a package.'
He reached into the cockpit, towards the co-pilot and felt below the water-line. Eventually he found the catch of the safety belt. Something was wrapped around it. Without allowing himself to speculate as to what it might be, he flicked up the lever. The belt came undone, and the body of First Officer Garrett rolled from its seat and disappeared below the black surface, to join his dead crew-mates.
Skinner swung his other leg across the window frame, then slid his body into the cockpit, perching on the back of the co-pilot’s recently vacated seat, inching around until his position was secure.
Òkay, Mark,' he said to the boy, who was watching him, still wide-eyed but seeming to tremble less violently. 'I want you to stay crouched down and walk up the control panel towards me, as far as you can. D'you understand?'
The child nodded and began to inch along the console.
'Watch you don't fall in, now,' Skinner cautioned. When the boy had gone as far as he could, he and the policeman were still four feet apart. Taking care not to lose his own balance, Skinner held out his hands. 'Very good so far, wee man. Now if you jump I'll catch you'
Taking a deep breath, as if he was in a play-school game, the blond boy leapt forward.
Skinner caught him in mid-air and held him close. 'There's a clever lad,' he said, words as heartfelt as any he had ever spoken.
He sat the child in the crook of his left arm. 'Now for the next bit. If I stand you across on the window frame, d'you think you'll be able to jump again, to another man this time? He's a soldier. A real one, in uniform.' The boy's eyes widened still more. 'His name's Major Legge. He's a good catcher as well, so you'll be all right. D'you want to do that?'
‘Yess!' said Mark, eagerly now.
Skinner smiled at his enthusiasm, and at his child's courage. He looked across. Through the window, he could just see the top of Legge's head. 'Okay, Major,' he called. 'Mark's going to jump when you tell him and you're going to catch him. You won't drop him, will you?'
Òf course not!' said the soldier, deprecatingly. 'Sure, didn't I tell you? I caught for Ireland!'
`There you are then,' said Skinner to the child. 'Ready?'
‘Yess!'
Slowly, gripping the flight seat with his legs as hard as he could, he lifted the child under the armpits and set him carefully on the window frame, holding him with his arms at full stretch.
`Ready, Mark?'
Tess!'
`Ready, Major?'
`To be sure!'
`Right. You give the word.'
Òn three,' Legge called. 'One! Two! Three!'
Skinner gave the child a gentle shove, throwing him outwards and away from the fuselage.
In the same motion he grabbed hold of the window frame and pulled his head and shoulders through, leaving his legs trailing in the water. Just beneath him, Major Legge stood upright in the boat, holding the boy.
Their eyes met. 'Just one,' said Skinner, knowing that little Mark was too young to understand him, 'but from them all, it was him. You know, every so often something happens to make me think that there is a Fella up there after all, and that He knows what He's doing!'
The soldier smiled. 'In my line of work, my friend, we never have a moment's doubt about that.'
TWELVE
Where's my Daddy?'
Little Mark McGrath, the only survivor from the Lammermuirs disaster, as it had been christened already by the electronic media, sat on the edge of a table in the mobile Police Headquarters. As Skinner, Legge and the Lieutenant had found and rescued the Scottish Office Minister's son, the articulated office on wheels had been established on a site around half a mile beyond the scene of the crash, where it could tap into telephone cables.
The child was wrapped in a blanket. Sarah Grace Skinner sat behind him on the table, squeezing his ribcage gently in search of any hidden fractures, as she completed her medical examination. If the boy had looked over his shoulder he would have seen that she was in tears.
`Doctors don't believe in miracles,' she said quietly to her husband, 'but this is one. There isn't a scratch on him. Down there, people are—' She shuddered, and stopped herself just in time.
`The water, the angle of descent, and the stewardess's cradling, must have cushioned him against the impact. From your description, I'd guess that the cabin crew all suffered fatal whiplash-type injuries. But Mark must have been curled up like a ball, and held safe. He's completely unscathed.'
`Let's hope he stays that way, mentally,' said Skinner fervently.
`Where's my Daddy?' asked the child again, more insistent this time, with more than an edge of fear in his voice. The last of his trembling had gone, but as the adults looked at him, each was torn by the haunted look in his eyes.
`Your Daddy's had to go away,' said Maggie Rose gently. 'You know that happens sometimes, don't you?'
The child nodded sagely. Even at his age he must have known the demands of a politician's life, for the answer seemed to satisfy him.
`Mark,' asked the red-haired Inspector, 'do you know where your Mummy is today?'
Àt the dentist in London.' The boy screwed up his face with distaste.
`Do you know if she was coming up to join you later on?' `Yes. We're on holiday. From school,' he added, with emphasis.
Ìs this your first year at school?'
‘Yess! Mummy teaches there. We're both on holiday. We have to go back on Monday morning, though. Daddy's going to take me to football tomorrow.'
`Which team do you support?'
`Celtic' The boy stuck out his chest, proudly. In spite of himself, and for the first time that morning, Skinner laughed. Suddenly he felt Sarah tug at his sleeve.
`Bob. I have to go back' He looked down at her. The tears had stopped, but her face was ghostly white and drawn. He guessed at the images which were before her eyes, and his heart went out to her.
`No love, you don't,' he said quietly. 'There are other doctors on the scene now.'
`But no one else to organise. There's no one else here who's been involved in the contingency planning for this sort of thing.'
Òthers have. I'll get one of them.'
She shook her head. 'No special treatment for the DCC's wife. I signed up for this sort of thing, and I'm here. I have to go back.' She pulled her hand away from his and left the office, almost at a run.
Through the window he watched her, as she climbed into her car. He had never seen this Sarah before, and he was frightened by her; even more frightened for her.
`Sir,' Maggie Rose broke into his thoughts. He turned round towards her, and the boy, who was concentrating on liberating a four-finger KitKat biscuit from its wrapper.
`We should ask him now — about what happened.'
He looked at his assistant. 'You're trained in interviewing kids, Mags. But are you sure it's safe? Couldn't we damage him?'
Òbviously he doesn't understand what's happened. There's trauma, but he isn't able to comprehend the scale or the consequences. It's probably better that we help him to talk about it now, rather than later . . . if you know what I mean.' Skinner winced at the thought of the child's pain to come when he learned of his father's death. His mind went back almost twenty years, to a young Police Sergeant breaking the news to his daughter, even younger then than Mark, that her mother was gone for ever. He remembered her initial disbelief, then her refusal to understand him, and finally her confusion as she struggled to come to terms with a concept which was beyond her ability to comprehend. The picture was as clear in his mind as a video recording, and with it was his recollection of his struggle to keep the tears from his own eyes as he explained, as best he could, life, death and the cruelty of fate to four-year-old Alex.
Àll right. You can talk to him,' he said at last, in a voice not much above a whisper. 'But stop at the first sign of distress.'
Unnoticed by the child, he switched on a black tape recorder which lay upon the table.
`Mark,' said Maggie, 'why were you in the cockpit?'
He looked up at her. 'April took me in,' he said through a mouthful of KitKat. 'Mr Shipley wanted to show me how to fly the plane, she said.'
Was that good? Did you enjoy it?'
He nodded vigorously, chewing and swallowing.
`Do you want to be a pilot when you grow up?'
He shook his head. 'Can't.'
`Why not?' said Rose, intrigued by his earnest answer. "Cos I'm going to be Prime Minister. Daddy says.'
The Inspector suppressed a smile.
`When you were in the cockpit: do you remember what happened?'
The child screwed up his eyes, as if to emphasise that he was concentrating. 'There was a huge Bang!' He squealed the word, for extra effect, and the listeners started slightly. 'From behind the door.' Rose glanced at Skinner.
`Then what?' she went on quickly.
`Mr Shipley said to put our seat-belts on. I didn't have one, but April sat down and put hers on, then put an extension thing around. Then she cuddled me. It was nice. She gave me a sweet.'
`What else did Mr Shipley say?'
`He said "We're going to do an Emergency Routine now, Mark. You have to sit with April." Emergency Routine.' He stuck out his chest once more, as if pleased by his pronunciation of the phrase.
`Then Mr Shipley started saying "Madie!" into his microphone. He told me that you have to shout "Madie!" in an Emergency Routine.'
`Then what happened?'
He looked at her, puzzled.
`What did you see?'
`Nothing. Because April was cuddling me. She was holding my head. In there.' A small hand emerged from the folds of the blanket and pointed to Maggie's bosom. 'I could hardly breathe.'
`She was cuddling you tight, in there?'