by M. R. Hall
She waited while he gathered himself to continue.
‘He said she called him a couple of weeks ago – on a Wednesday. They usually skyped every couple of weeks on a Sunday, so it took him by surprise. Anyway, she said she was going to New York at the weekend – Saturday, he thinks she said – and might not be able to make their usual time. He asked was it another one of her free flights she got through the airline. She said, no, it was “sort of a work thing”. He thought she was hinting she might have been going for a job out there – she’d often talked about leaving Ransome – but she didn’t really want to discuss it.’ Michael glanced out through the window at the passers-by, his thoughts turning inwards once again. ‘She could be like that. If there was something she didn’t want to talk about, there was no way you’d prise her open.’
‘That all sounds perfectly plausible.’
Michael nodded distractedly.
‘Was there anything else?’
‘I called one of her old friends – I used to know her when Nuala and I were together. Her name’s Sandra, calls herself Sandy. Sandy Belling. She’s chief stewardess on the London– Dubai route. She said Nuala had stepped up from short-haul to the Middle East destinations two months ago and was loving it. She’d been due to fly to Dubai the Thursday before she set off for New York, but had called in sick on the Wednesday. She was going to be out of action for a week is what Sandy heard.’
‘She called in sick then booked herself onto a Ransome flight? That doesn’t make a lot of sense.’
‘Sick for a pilot can mean just a little under the weather. I wouldn’t draw too many conclusions.’
Jenny was dubious. ‘What is it, Michael? There’s something you’re not telling me.’
‘The text she sent me – Tyax. I keep picturing her in that plane. Have you any idea what that must have been like? You’d have people screaming, stuff flying through the air. Once she realized they were in a deep stall she’d have known exactly what was coming next. It’s the nightmare descent people like her train for on the simulator and pray never happens . . .’ He took a long pull on his beer.
‘There are huge resources being thrown into finding out what brought that plane down,’ Jenny said. ‘The military, the security services – I’ve heard it from the horse’s mouth.’
‘I’ve been in the military. Believe me, the truth doesn’t come into it.’ She saw the deep anger in his eyes. ‘When someone fouled up, bombs went astray, innocent civilians got killed, our officers weren’t interested in the truth, only in working out the lie.’
‘My inquiry doesn’t extend to the causes of the plane crash, Michael. I’m not being allowed to go there.’
‘You’re not curious?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘According to Sandy, Nuala’s entire life was on her smart-phone. Her contacts, diary, all her computer passwords and pins. She was never without it. I asked for access to her effects at the D-Mort, but was told the coroner had to give permission. Apparently he’s not releasing anything, not for anyone.’
‘Did she have a computer?’
‘Maybe it was with her, maybe it was at her flat. I’m guessing she had her house keys with her. She used to keep them in her pocket. She never carried a handbag.’
‘Someone else might have a key.’
‘Not that I know of. I’m not sure she would have trusted anyone.’
‘What are you trying to find? Why not let the inquiry run its course?’
He tapped both sets of fingers on the edge of the table, as if seeking reassurance from its solidity. Jenny could see that his thoughts were taking him to a place where he felt disconnected from whatever version of reality it was he normally inhabited. ‘I don’t believe in conspiracies, Jenny – not even the British Army can organize them properly. But I have seen cover-ups. In my experience there’s never been a military plane crash that’s been reported straight. There’s invariably a spin on it. The technology’s never allowed to fail, somehow or another it’s always pilot error.’
‘You said it was the text message that was troubling you – that word. If it had the kind of significance I think you’re implying, then it must have been related to something she already knew; something before the plane went down. Be straight with me – is that what you’re thinking?’
He gave an uncomfortable shrug. ‘She knew lots of things. She made it her business to.’
‘Such as?’
‘It was all on Airbuzz. Ill-maintained planes taking to the air, planes with faulty parts. Ground staff told not to record faults in the tech log. Pilot errors, computer errors, air traffic control errors. Pilots forced to fly dog-tired or unfit. Most of this stuff’s down to natural human error and the pressures of business, but a 380 . . .’ He shook his head. ‘This is a machine that is meant to fly itself. It’s the pinnacle of a hundred years of innovation, millions of man hours, billions of dollars of R and D. It should not have dropped out of the sky like that.
‘And I’ve been thinking about the air traffic control data you showed me. That’s not a lightning strike. The plane was levelling off at 31,000 feet – that’s above most of the weather. But think about it. Bam! Lightning strikes the hull. Even if it’s the most powerful bolt there’s ever been, the worst it can do is short out some of the electrics. There are back-up computers, back-up generators, and if the worst comes to the worst, a propeller flips out beneath the aircraft which we call a ram air turbine. The air makes it spin. It generates enough electrical power for the pilot to operate the basic controls – rudder, stabilizer, some of the ailerons, throttles – and to maintain his primary flight display. You’d expect to see a controlled descent, not a stall.’
Jenny said, ‘Let’s say the AAIB are right and there was a giant lightning strike, couldn’t it have so disrupted the electrical systems that nothing worked correctly? There are no mechanical controls between the pilot and flying surfaces, are there?’
‘I’m not a physicist, I don’t know what massive electrical fields can do, but everything I do know about planes tells me that lightning would have to have blown a hole in the fuselage and damaged the avionics to bring it down. But there are five avionics bays in a 380 – I still can’t see it. A missile literally blowing them apart maybe, or a bomb . . .’
Jenny pictured the diagram of the 380 she had retrieved from the internet. The avionics bays were right beneath the cockpit, accessed from above through a trapdoor, and from outside the aircraft via a door beneath the nose cone.
‘The avionics bays are pressurized,’ Jenny said. ‘If the hull was breached anywhere close to them, surely the passenger cabin would have depressurized, too?’
‘Of course,’ Michael said.
‘That didn’t happen. As far as I know, none of the bodies show any signs of depressurization. And the little girl who phoned her father as the plane was going down said nothing about a bang.’
‘That’s my point. If it wasn’t lightning, and if it wasn’t a bomb, then the only explanation is a catastrophic technical failure. That aircraft’s computers monitor every aspect of flight; the pilots are being constantly reminded and warned. If they were in danger of stalling, an electronic voice would have called out a warning to them, and if they didn’t respond the plane’s computers would have adjusted the speed and attitude.’
‘And if anyone would have known about a weakness in that aircraft—’
Michael met her gaze. ‘It would have been Nuala. You’ve got it.’
Alarm bells sounded in her head. It was human nature to want a neat explanation for disturbing and unexpected events, and to search for causes and connections where none existed. But there was also a time to acknowledge that the circumstantial evidence had mounted to an extent that couldn’t be ignored. And it wasn’t so much Nuala’s text that troubled her – it might have been nothing more than a message of affection – but Brogan’s lifejacket. The severed straps, the seemingly deliberate puncture. The niggling suspicion that something that Sir James Ke
ndall already knew was being hidden from her.
Jenny said, ‘I don’t hold out any hope of getting access to Nuala’s personal effects, and I’m not even sure it would help to attempt it. I’ve no legitimate grounds to make a request and, even if I did, it’s a sure-fire way of getting it looked at by Kendall’s people first.’
‘So, that’s it? You’re not even going to try?’
Jenny said, ‘I have to be careful. Let me think about it overnight.’
‘Up to you.’ He finished his beer. ‘I can always go it alone.’
Jenny made it back to Jamaica Street just in time to catch Professor Colin Dacre before he left his office on the pretty outskirts of north Oxford. Forenox was the most expensive of the laboratories she employed to conduct forensic investigations, but their links with the university made them one of the best in the country. When he wasn’t busy with his day job, the former chemistry don was lecturing postgraduate students and overseeing numerous research programmes. He was renowned as one of the world’s leading experts in the rapidly evolving field of the portable detection of explosives. Thanks to Dacre and his team, soldiers on active service would shortly be receiving a hand-held device able to sniff out buried landmines from up to twenty yards away. The equipment would also be employed at airports: any passenger, item of luggage or cargo that had been in contact with explosives could be detected immediately.
She told him about the lifejacket that would be arriving by courier within the hour, and that she needed to know as much about its history as his team could tell her.
Dacre’s curiosity was aroused by the challenge. He replied that the chances of learning anything about the provenance of the implement that cut the straps were slim, but that if Brogan had indeed fired a gun in the proximity of the jacket they were likely to find some telltale molecules embedded in its fabric.
Then the awkward question: could he make it his top priority?
‘How soon do you need it?’ Dacre asked.
‘Yesterday?’
‘I won’t be able to conduct the tests personally, but I’ve a team of eager young technicians who are always grateful for the overtime. Would you like them to burn the midnight oil?’
‘I’d appreciate it. Thank you.’
Setting down the phone, Jenny glanced at her email inbox and saw at least half a dozen messages from Mrs Patterson, each pointing out what she had convinced herself were anomalies in the evidence. There was also one from her solicitor apologizing for the missive he assumed she would have sent in defiance of his express instructions. His client was overwrought and underslept, he explained, and he promised to do his best to rein her in. Jenny sent all the messages to the recycle bin and switched the machine off. She needed some uninterrupted time to plot her way forward.
Instead the phone rang, making her start. She grabbed the receiver.
‘Jenny Cooper.’
‘Oh,’ a man’s voice said, in mild surprise. ‘I was trying to get hold of Mrs Trent.’
‘Hold on.’
Jenny called through the door to Alison and heard her step out from the kitchenette, where she was tidying up, their meagre office budget not stretching to a cleaner.
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Paul,’ he answered hesitantly.
Alison came to the doorway.
‘It’s Paul for you.’
Alison reddened, staring panic-stricken at the receiver. ‘I’ll take it at my desk.’ She hurriedly pulled the door closed behind her.
Jenny detected the signs of another minor romantic drama and tried not to eavesdrop. But the snatches of Alison’s stage whisper that carried through to her were too enticing to ignore. Paul, it seemed, was an unwelcome admirer, or at least one who seemed to be placing her in a dilemma. Jenny heard her say, ‘I don’t know . . . I just don’t know if I should—’
It was a childish stab of envy that prompted her to remind Alison on the way out that she had yet to deal with the dead photographer’s camera, which, along with his other possessions, was still sitting in a box at the side of her desk.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cooper. I’ve hardly had a moment.’
Jenny looked at her dubiously.
‘I’ll see to it, I promise,’ she snapped.
Jenny felt a twinge of shame as she left the office, realizing at once what had provoked her fit of pique. She resolved to take hold of herself. If she was lonely, she must do something about it, just not now.
‘Is this Mrs Cooper, the coroner?’ The voice was that of a young and very precise man.
‘It is.’ Barely awake, Jenny struggled to focus on the small digital clock that sat on the windowsill by her desk. It was two forty-five a.m.
‘My name is Ravi Achari. I’m calling from Forenox. Professor Dacre informed me that you wished to receive information on the lifejacket as soon as it became available.’
‘Oh . . . yes. Please.’ She struggled to sound alert.
‘Regarding the strap and the puncture wound, we can confirm they were caused by the same sharp object – we have detected minute traces of steel swarf on each of the severed surfaces. It had two cutting edges, suggesting a bayonet-type knife. Some preliminary research suggests there are various military-style knives of this nature, all commercially available, with self-sharpening sheaths. We suggest this may be the most fruitful line of inquiry.’
‘Interesting. I’m grateful.’
‘There is more, Mrs Cooper.’ She heard him tap on a keyboard. ‘Microscopic examination of the front surface of the jacket revealed evidence of flash burns to the left-hand front face of the jacket, suggesting brief exposure to intense heat.’
‘That makes sense. He came close to an aircraft engine.’
‘Ah.’ He hesitated. ‘That may be the case,’ he said guardedly, ‘but we have tested some of the affected area using terahertz spectroscopy and found minute traces of PBX embedded in the same surface of the fabric. This is currently being confirmed by two separate chromatography techniques. We suggest this is post-blast residue, or, if you prefer, unreacted material. Not all of the explosive is fully combusted, you understand. Judging by the very limited damage, we suggest the jacket was some distance from the blast.’
‘Hold on. PBX – ?’
‘Plastic bonded explosive,’ Achari said, as if it were common knowledge. ‘Though, interestingly, the traces we have detected don’t appear to contain the chemical marker indicating its provenance as required by the Montreal Treaty.’
Jenny’s tiredness vanished. She felt the blood pulsing through her veins. ‘The lifejacket has been in the presence of an explosion?’
‘Undoubtedly, Mrs Cooper.’
ELEVEN
JENNY COULDN’T SLEEP. For three restless hours her mind buzzed with possibilities, each more outlandish than the last. At six a.m. a now weary-sounding Achari telephoned a second time. The two further tests had confirmed the presence of unmarked PBX on the lifejacket and detailed thermal testing of the fabric indicated that the wearer had been at least fifty yards from the centre of the explosion. Jenny quizzed him hard about where the explosion had taken place. In the air? On the water? Underwater? Definitely not underwater was all he could confirm.
By six-thirty she was at her desk in the study drinking strong coffee and struggling with the weight of responsibility the new evidence had heaped on her shoulders. Strictly speaking, the ethical course would have been to release it to all the interested parties immediately, including to Sir James Kendall. If she were to do that, she felt sure that the Secretary of State for Justice would invoke his powers under the Coroners and Justice Act to suspend her inquest immediately, citing issues of national security. It would be a neat and certain way of washing her hands of the case, but each time she contemplated the prospect, her conscience pulled her back from the brink.
She tried to predict how events would unfold at the reconvened inquest were she to produce a surprise witness from Forenox. If she wasn’t silenced immediately, she could guarant
ee that there would be a huge effort to uncouple the evidence of an explosion from the scene of the air crash. And therein lay a problem: as things stood, there was nothing in the forensic evidence to link the two. She made a note to ask Dr Kerr to forward swabs from Brogan’s body to the Forenox team. If there was explosive residue on his skin, there could be no argument.
She dreaded Mrs Patterson’s reaction. She would inevitably seize on evidence of an explosion as irrefutable proof of terrorism and demand that Jenny carry out inquiries that no amount of explanation would convince her were beyond Jenny’s remit. And then there was the media firestorm that would undoubtedly follow. The moment she released this evidence she would find herself the centre of global news and responsible for even greater numbers of passengers staying away from beleaguered airlines. The potential consequences were limitless.
Whichever way she looked at it, she was faced with a straight choice: to share her evidence such as it was with the official crash inquiry, or to reinforce it further by digging deeper into what, if anything, Nuala Casey knew.
She prayed that it wasn’t just her ego making the decision as she lifted the telephone.
‘Michael? It’s Jenny.’
‘Hi,’ came his non-committal reply. In the background, she heard the sound of a small plane sputtering into life, its engine rising to a dragonfly hum.
‘I’ve thought about what you said, and there is no way I can get Nuala’s property from the D-Mort.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He sounded unsurprised and unimpressed.
‘But what if I were to come with you to her flat? It’s stretching the boundaries of my inquiry rather, but I’m sure I could persuade a friendly locksmith to let us in.’
He was silent for a moment. She sensed his wariness. ‘Why the sudden change of heart?’
‘I’ll tell you when we meet. How soon can you do it?’
‘I’m giving flying lessons over at the Cotswold airport this morning. I finish around one.’
‘I’ll meet you there.’