B006U13W The Flight (Jenny Cooper 4) nodrm
Page 19
CAM:
(sound of interphone buzzer)
09.20.22
FO:
Coffee time already? They could have sent the pretty one
09.20.27
PIL:
Who’s that?
09.20.27
CAM:
(sound of seat belt unbuckling, footsteps across the cockpit)
09.20.29
FO:
You know – the little blonde one, Kathy, with the . . .
09.20.31
PIL:
Oh, yeah – her
09.20.31
CAM:
(sound of laughter from PIL and FO)
09.20.35
PIL:
You are definitely on your own tonight. Not my responsibility
09.20.41
CAM:
(synthesized voice) Speed. Speed
09.20.42
PIL:
What the hell is that?
09.20.43
CAM:
(sound of footsteps then belt buckle being fastened)
09.20.43
PIL:
We’re at four-seventy
09.20.44
CAM:
(synthesized voice) Speed. Speed
09.20.46
PIL:
Jesus
09.20.47
FO:
No ECAM actions listed
09.20.49
CAM:
(synthesized voice) Speed. Speed
09.20.50
PIL:
What does it mean?
09.20.51
FO:
Nose down. Nose down
09.20.53
PIL:
What—
09.20.55
CAM:
(sound of objects clattering) (synthesized voice) Stall. Stall
09.20.58
PIL:
It can’t . . .
09.21.01
FO:
Disengage AP (autopilot)
09.21.03
CAM:
(sound similar to a grunt)
09.21.06
FO:
There’s no, there’s no—
09.21.08
PIL:
(shouts) Alternate law
09.21.09
FO:
No ECAM actions
09.21.12
PIL:
Direct law
09.21.13
CAM:
(sound similar to a grunt)
09.21.15
FO:
No ECAM. No ******* ECAM . . . Radio’s dead. We’re flying blind
09.21.17
CAM:
(sound of objects including heavy object clattering)
09.21.19
FO:
Dan. Dan
09.21.20
CAM:
(sound of objects clattering. Sound similar to grant)
09.22.23
FO:
Dan
(no further conversation or discernible words)
09.26.57
Recording ends
When Jenny looked up, Mrs Patterson said, ‘It manages to be both rather clinical and rather banal, don’t you think?’
‘It certainly looks as if they were taken by surprise. Has there been any analysis of this that you know of?’
‘I’m sure it’ll come,’ Galbraith said. ‘It’s clear the speed warning came out of the blue. They seem to have slowed to stall speed without realizing. I’m told that simply shouldn’t happen.’
‘I noticed that they had a bump – about three minutes before. Here we are – nine sixteen and five seconds: sound similar to objects moving in the cockpit. The first officer seems to react in surprise and ask if they should engage the seat-belt signs. According to what I heard on the radio, that’s when the ACARS stopped transmitting flight data. I suppose it could have been a jolt of turbulence.’
‘That wouldn’t disable all the aircraft’s electrical systems,’ Mrs Patterson said. ‘And you’ll notice there’s no mention of lightning. Surely they would have seen it?’
‘I imagine that depends,’ Jenny said. ‘From what I’ve read, lightning can strike an aircraft from any angle.’
‘I’m sure something happened at the moment you suggest, Mrs Cooper.’ Gailbraith frowned. ‘But I think we can safely exclude the possibility of a lightning strike. They weren’t flying through a storm; there was turbulence, yes, but nothing untoward.’
Jenny said, ‘I’m glad to have read this, Mrs Patterson, but I’m really not in a position to comment. This is a matter for aeronautical engineers.’
‘I have to say I agree with Mrs Cooper,’ Galbraith said.
His client wasn’t ready to defer. ‘The problem is not even the greatest so-called experts in civil aviation may know the real answer, even if they were permitted to give it.’
Galbraith shot Jenny another apologetic look. Whatever was coming, he was telling her, was not to be taken seriously.
‘You won’t necessarily know about this, Mrs Cooper,’ she began, ‘but private defence companies around the world have developed weapons more than capable of destroying an aircraft’s avionics. One such device is mounted on a surface-to-air missile. It detonates close to an aircraft, releasing a blast of microwave radiation that could quite literally fry the plane’s circuitry. You’ve just read the transcript – all their instruments failed. They lost their ECAM display – they had no idea what had malfunctioned or why. You saw what the first officer said: “We’re flying blind”.’
Jenny tried to respond patiently. ‘I understand that the need for an explanation is overwhelming, honestly I do, but perhaps we all ought to accept that this will take some time to unravel.’
‘The longer the truth remains untold, the deeper it gets buried,’ Mrs Patterson replied. ‘Let me share a few facts with you. One: any terrorist group with sufficient funds can obtain such a weapon. Two: Brogan could have launched such a weapon from his yacht. Three: Brogan had a history with Irish Republican terrorists – your evidence. Four: terrorists have a history of subcontracting their atrocities to other terrorists. Brogan could have been working for the Real IRA or for al-Qaeda, it’s all business. Five: the British government has a long and ignoble history of covering up the reasons for air crashes. We still don’t know for certain who planted the Lockerbie bomb in ’88, for goodness’ sake. And lastly, not just my daughter, but lots of passengers were moved onto that flight at the last minute, and many were moved off. I’ve been in constant communication with other relatives. No one believes it’s a coincidence – modern computerized booking systems simply don’t do that.’ She sat back in her seat with a look of grim triumph.
‘I understand your suspicions, but the other day you sought to convince me that Ransome Airways had a history of inadequate maintenance and that that was the reason for the crash.’
‘They do. But I’ve discovered so much more since then.’
Jenny glanced at Galbraith. ‘And there is still far more to know, I’ve no doubt. But as I have explained to you, for reasons outside my control, my inquiry only extends to the cause of Mr Brogan’s death.’
Mrs Patterson fell silent for a moment, as if weighing whether any more words would be wasted, and then with quiet certainty said, ‘It wasn’t just any flight. There were passengers on board someone wanted eliminated. If you are unwilling or unable to inquire further, then I will.’ She stood up from her chair. ‘Good day, Mrs Cooper.’ She addressed Galbraith: ‘I’ll see you at the Marriott,’ and marched from the room.
‘I do apologize—’ Galbraith began.
‘Apologies accepted, but please don’t bring her here again.’
‘Not the easiest, is she?’ Alison said, passing Jenny the messages she had managed to dodge the day before. ‘I don’t think she quite understands the process. Apparently the coroner’s officer at the D-Mort simply refers to her as “that effing woman”.’ She pointed to a document she had flagged. ‘Dr Kerr
had some test results for you. I told him you were incommunicado. And Mr Moreton and Sir Oliver Prentice’s office called as well, and all the lawyers at the inquest. In fact, I’m not sure that there’s anyone who wasn’t desperate to talk to you yesterday.’
Jenny should have apologized, but Alison’s sarcasm was too much to swallow. ‘I noticed the photographer’s things are still sitting in that box next to your desk. Perhaps you might deal with them today.’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t have a moment to leave my desk, Mrs Cooper, the phone didn’t stop ringing. Oh, and of course there’s a slew of new death reports to deal with. I’ll bring those through now, shall I, or will you be away “researching” again?’
Jenny fought to contain the barbed insults she would have gladly hurled in her officer’s direction.
Emboldened by her silence, Alison continued, ‘I don’t like to point out the obvious, but this wouldn’t happen if you didn’t let people take such advantage of you, Mrs Cooper. Anyone can tell that woman’s paranoid. You shouldn’t be dancing to her tune.’
‘I am not dancing to anybody’s tune,’ Jenny snapped.
‘If you’ll pardon me for saying so, you could have fooled me.’ Alison turned to go.
‘While we are on the subject of inappropriate behaviour, do you think we can try to keep our personal relationships out of the office. I think we may have crossed the line a little recently.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cooper?’
‘I don’t mind you talking to boyfriends, just try to keep it within sensible limits.’
Alison looked at her incredulously.
‘I’ve had one call – from a man I’ve hardly spoken to in twenty years.’
‘That’s not quite true—’ Jenny halted mid-sentence. Alison’s eyes had flooded with tears. It was a reaction that startled them both.
She turned and fled through the door to her desk.
Jenny waited a moment, then followed. ‘I’m sorry—’
‘It’s all right, Mrs Cooper.’ Alison swabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, but the tears were refusing to stop.
His name was Paul, Alison explained, when her sobbing had subsided sufficiently for her to talk. Along with her husband, Terry, he had been one of the young officers she had worked with when she first joined the police force. Not long after they met she and Paul had had a brief but very passionate affair. It might have led to other things, except that he was newly married to a woman with whom he wasn’t truly in love. Not long after, Alison fell into a relationship with Terry, and six months later they were married. He had definitely been second choice, she admitted, a situation made even more uncomfortable by the fact that he and Paul had remained friends. But time and parenthood gradually healed the wounds. Paul transferred to the Met and eventually lost touch. Alison never forgot him, but his memory dimmed and life moved on.
She had heard nothing from him in fifteen years, until quite unexpectedly she received an email, then a phone call – the one that Jenny had picked up. Already divorced for five years, he had learned about Alison and Terry’s split through a mutual friend. He wanted to see her again, but so did her husband. After nearly three decades of marriage, she had found herself right back where she started.
‘What does he want from you?’ Jenny asked.
‘To pick up where we left off,’ Alison said. ‘I could feel it the moment he started talking – all the old feelings came flooding back.’
‘So—?’
‘Terry . . . He’d never get over it. He still doesn’t know what happened between us.’
‘He left you for some woman in Spain. I think he’s forfeited the right to feel jealous, don’t you?’
‘That’s not how feelings work though, is it? I knew it wasn’t serious between them. This is completely different . . . I’m not sure he could take it.’
Jenny said, ‘Would you say your marriage was happy? Were you in love with Terry?’
‘I was always very fond of him.’
‘Is that enough?’
Alison buried her face in her hands.
Jenny said, ‘Sometimes it’s easier to avoid your one chance of happiness than to seize it. Believe me, I should know.’
Alison’s confusion seemed to add to Jenny’s own. Nothing seemed simple or straightforward. She was in a world of false perspectives and crooked angles. Dr Kerr’s lab results confirmed that Brogan had been exposed to a brief burst of intense heat. There was evidence of singeing to his hair and beard on the left side of his face and head, and microscopic examination of exposed areas of skin showed evidence of flash burns, also exclusively on the left side. It gave some credence to Mrs Patterson’s wild theories about him launching missiles from his yacht, but a phone call to Forenox swiftly established that the rocket propellant used in missiles was of an entirely different composition to plastic explosive.
Confronted by the bewildering array of disjointed and implausible evidence mounting on her desk, Jenny had to admit that she was dealing with a conspiracy theorist’s dream, and the weaker part of her wanted to be seduced. She reminded herself that nearly all such theories were merely an emotional avoidance mechanism. Anything was easier to believe than that your innocent loved one had been singled out for destruction by an arbitrary and unforgiving universe.
And it wasn’t just Mrs Patterson who had been infected with improbable ideas. It seemed increasingly likely to Jenny that, having felt unloved and betrayed by men, Nuala Casey had transferred her sense of injustice to the impersonal forces upon which she relied to keep the planes she flew in the sky. Her meticulous files stood as a testament to a mounting paranoia that bordered on an obsession.
Surrounded by madness, Jenny craved a dose of cold, hard reality. It came just as she was about to call Sir Oliver Prentice to reassure him that her inquiry would be concluded by the end of the week.
The call was from Michael. He was at Bristol airport. ‘I just saw the CVR transcript. One of the pilots here managed to download a copy.’
‘I’ve read it.’
‘You know those things are worse than useless.’
Jenny let out a silent sigh. Not him, too.
‘You can’t tell a thing without knowing what the pilots were seeing on their instruments. You’ve got to re-create the precise conditions. Are you interested?’
‘In what, exactly?’
‘I just spoke to a man called Glen Francis. Nuala was his first officer when she started on the Airbus. These days he works for a training company based outside Gatwick. They’ve got an A380 simulator. He’s prepared to re-create the flight for me. I thought you might want to come along.’
‘Michael, I’m up to my eyes.’
‘This evening. He can see us at eight. I can fly you down.’
‘In the dark? No thanks. I think I’ll drive.’
FOURTEEN
IT WAS OFFICIAL. Jenny had a gun to her head. Sir Oliver Prentice had made it plain that unless she recommenced her inquest by the end of the week, steps would be taken to abort it. The accumulating lists of grievances filed by the various lawyers were in danger of leading to the unavoidable conclusion that she was proving herself unfit. What he had really been fishing for by issuing such blatant threats was an explanation of the evidence which had caused her to suspend proceedings, but Jenny had blustered, claiming the delay was purely due to the forensic lab examining the lifejacket. He had remained unpersuaded. The inquest was too important to be mishandled he told her; either proceedings were to resume first thing on Friday morning or she would be relieved of her responsibilities.
It left thirty-six hours for her to keep looking. But for what? Like the pilots of Flight 189 she was flying blind.
It was some time past eight o’clock when she found Michael waiting outside the entrance to the industrial unit set among the cargo depots and cheap hotels in the netherworld between Gatwick airport and the Sussex countryside. He looked fresh, relaxed and more than a little smug after his solo night-flight from Bristol.
‘How was the traffic?’ he asked.
‘Safely on the ground,’ Jenny said.
‘You haven’t missed anything – Glen’s been setting up. He managed to extract a copy of 189’s flight plan from Sky Route. Pilots like to re-enact the events leading up to real-life disasters when they check in for their six-monthlies. Apparently you can’t call yourself an Airbus pilot these days unless you’ve successfully landed on the Hudson.’
The reference, which a week previously Jenny would not have understood, was to United Airlines Flight 1549. The Airbus 320-214 lost all engine power shortly after take-off from New York La Guardia when it struck a flock of migrating geese. The pilot, fifty-seven-year-old Chesley ‘Sully’ Sullenberger, managed to glide the stricken plane to a safe landing on the Hudson River. Many experts thought that this miraculous feat – the only occasion on which a fully laden passenger jet had ever successfully ditched on water – was in no small part due to the contribution made by the Airbus’s flight computers, which, powered by the aircraft’s back-up generator, continued to augment the pilot’s input all the way down. No lives were lost. In fact, there were barely any injuries. In aviation circles and far beyond, Sullenberger had become a legend.
Glen Francis came to meet them in the deserted reception area. A tall, imposing man in late middle age, he had the calm, unflappable demeanour one expected in a commercial pilot.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Cooper. Michael tells me you’re particularly interested in how 189 landed.’
She saw the two men exchange a glance and played along. ‘Yes. My inquest concerns a man whose yacht appears to have been struck by one of its engines.’
‘I’m not sure how much I can help you, but I can’t see that it’ll do any harm.’ He swiped his security tag across a reader and led them inside. ‘Now I’ve got the route programmed in, every 380 pilot who comes through here will have to fly it. That’s how we learn best – by our mistakes.’