by M. R. Hall
Chen looked at her with an expression she couldn’t fathom. ‘Talk to Mrs Patterson.’
‘With all due respect to Mrs Patterson, I’m not sure—’
‘She has all the information.’ Chen waited for a group of fellow reporters to pass out of earshot. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I’ve got kids, responsibilities – you understand?’
Jenny struggled to reconcile the timid man in front of her with the aggressive journalist she had witnessed only a few moments before. ‘Has something happened since you asked those questions, Mr Chen?’
‘Speak to Mrs Patterson.’ He handed back her business card. ‘Good luck.’ He turned and walked hurriedly away.
The strange shift in Chen’s demeanour continued to play on Jenny’s mind as she led Moreton on a tour of the D-Mort. She kept up a steady flow of chatter even as they were touring the mortuary and examining the banks of refrigerators which would continue to hold the bodies of the victims in a state of limbo for months to come, but her thoughts were preoccupied with what had caused the journalist to clam up.
In the company of Simon Moreton it was possible to believe that everyone in authority was as fair and benevolent as he appeared to be. She wanted to believe Marsham and Kendall’s version of events – nothing was more appealing than a neat, logical explanation leaving no one to blame – but the inner voice she had tried so hard to silence was crying out to her that she couldn’t.
‘Are you all right, Jenny – too much for you?’
‘Sorry, I was miles away.’
‘I could tell. It doesn’t say much for my conversation.’
They were walking back along the covered walkway from the mortuary, passing a stack of portable offices signed Evidence and Effects.
‘I was thinking about the little girl on board – Amy Patterson.’
‘What about her?’
‘The fact that she so nearly survived . . . Did you know she called her father on the way down? He told her to put on a lifejacket. According to the pathologists, she was the only one in the whole craft to have been wearing one.’
Moreton paled. ‘Oh? Did she say anything that might be of use to us?’
‘Us?’
‘To the inquiry, I mean,’ he added hurriedly.
‘There was no explosion, no bang.’
‘Well, we know it wasn’t a bomb.’ He seemed relieved.
‘You’d think a billion-volt bolt of lightning would be every bit as loud as a bomb, though, wouldn’t you?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Moreton said.
‘No,’ Jenny lied. ‘Nor do I.’
Lunch was aboard the Glassboat restaurant in Bristol docks. Moreton was a weekend sailor and had a fondness for dining on boats, he explained. On a wet Thursday afternoon in January customers were thin on the ground; they had nearly one half of the restaurant to themselves and an unobstructed view through picture windows. Lights twinkled in the trees along the quayside and reflected off the water, giving the dark afternoon a cosy, almost magical feel.
Jenny surrendered to Moreton’s cajoling and joined him in a glass of wildly expensive Rioja Gran Reserva. She couldn’t deny that he had exquisite taste in wine and after a few mouthfuls amusing and indiscreet conversation to match it. She counted him saying, ‘I really shouldn’t tell you this . . .’ at least half a dozen times, but each time he did.
He waited until their plates were cleared and coffee ordered before reluctantly switching to the subject that he had travelled from London to discuss.
‘I can assure my superiors that you’re reconvening tomorrow, can I?’
‘That’s the plan,’ Jenny said, now beginning to wish she hadn’t weakened into accepting a refill.
‘And would it be too much to expect a speedy and uncontroversial conclusion?’
Jenny smiled. ‘I’m afraid I can’t second-guess my jury, Simon. We’ll just have to wait and see.’
He toyed with the stem of his glass, giving her an enigmatic look that she felt she was meant to understand.
‘You might as well get it over with. You didn’t prise yourself out of Whitehall just for lunch.’
‘Lunch with you is always worth travelling for, Jenny, but I must confess there is one issue I feel obliged to raise. I suppose you could call it a matter of national security.’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s come to my attention that a lifejacket was recovered believed to have belonged to Mr Brogan.’
‘Yes—?’
‘And that the lab testing it detected traces of plastic explosive.’
Jenny nearly choked on her wine. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Let’s just say there are certain understandings between the security services and forensic laboratories such as Forenox.’
‘They handed over my evidence? They had no right—’
‘They had no choice, Jenny. It was requested from them. I’m sorry, but some things are just too important—’
‘To be left in the hands of a provincial coroner?’
‘No—’
‘Don’t treat me like a fool, Simon. I should go to the press with this.’
‘There’d be a D-Notice.’
‘Then I’d go to the American papers, and the internet. You couldn’t gag me if you wanted to.’
‘Please don’t overreact. It’s simply a question of acting in the national interest. You said it yourself – it wasn’t a bomb that brought 189 down. Brogan, however, appears to have had historic links to Irish paramilitaries. We know that bizarre coincidences happen, but we also know what the press do with them. The last thing we want is another Lockerbie, with conspiracy theorists polluting the public consciousness for the next thirty years.’
‘What precisely are you asking me to do?’
‘We know what brought down the plane and we know that Brogan died of hypothermia. It doesn’t take a genius to suppose that he might have detonated whatever illicit cargo he had on board to prevent detection, but your job isn’t to rake over all that. It’s a police matter. All the law asks of you is to determine the immediate cause of death.’
‘You want me to suppress the evidence of the explosives.’
‘It would be rather helpful.’
‘And if I were to refuse?’
‘We’ll just have to manage the situation the best we can, but I can assure you, once that particular genie’s out of the bottle, forces will be unleashed that none of us will be able to control. And, fairly or unfairly, it will be you who gets the blame.’
Jenny considered his words for a long moment. The fairy lights along the quayside shone like stars in a childhood dream. No, nothing seemed to fit together as it should. ‘Could you be rather helpful and pour me the last of the wine,’ she said.
Moreton looked at her uncertainly. ‘Of course.’
He filled her glass beyond halfway with the last of the plum-red Rioja.
‘Your very good health, Jenny.’
‘And yours.’ She picked it up in a trembling hand and threw the contents into his astonished face.
SIXTEEN
JENNY WALKED OUT OF THE RESTAURANT, leaving Moreton staring disbelievingly after her. To hell with him. Let him do his worst. To think that he could ever have believed that she would assist him in a sordid cover-up. She would gladly have tipped the coffee over his lap too. He was a worm; a worm crawling through the bodies of the dead.
She marched past the waiting Jaguar, ignoring the driver, and walked the half-mile through the drizzle back to the office, her elegant shoes squeezing her feet until they were raw. But all she could feel was anger. Outrage. How dare he.
She slammed through the front door at Jamaica Street and resolved to get her inquest firmly back on track. She would hear all the evidence, no matter how inconvenient or bizarre.
‘Tell me everything’s set up for tomorrow morning,’ Jenny barked, as she arrived in the office.
‘Yes, Mrs Cooper,’ Alison replied warily. ‘Has something happened?’
‘Only
Simon Moreton trying to pervert the course of justice.’ Jenny was in no mood to offer lengthy explanations. ‘Is that box still there? We’re meant to be running a public service.’
‘I’m dealing with it this afternoon, Mrs Cooper, I promise you. I think I know who the woman in the photographs is now.’
Jenny sighed and made for her room.
‘Actually, I’ve spent the last hour dealing with Mrs Patterson and her lawyers. They haven’t left me alone,’ Alison called after her.
‘What do they want now?’
‘What don’t they want? They’ve got evidence they want to submit ahead of the inquest, inquiries they want you to pursue, and they want to know what was said at the press conference – the “secret bits” that didn’t make the news.’
‘What sort of evidence?’ Jenny said.
‘They won’t discuss it over the phone. She’s got it into her head that all her calls are being listened to. I think the poor woman’s lost her grip, I really do.’
‘I’ll speak to Galbraith.’
‘Oh, and the detective from Chepstow left a message asking for you to call when you got back.’
‘He’s probably been warned off as well.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing. Please deal with that bag, Alison. I don’t know why, but it’s really starting to bother me.’
She yanked open the heavy oak door to her room and banged it shut behind her.
The untended heap of papers on her desk would have to wait for the weekend. She had what was left of the afternoon to finalize her preparations for tomorrow. There were witnesses to contact and several formal statements still to be taken, not least from Ravi Achari and his team at Forenox.
She called Achari first, but reached a lab technician who couldn’t locate him and promised her call would be returned shortly. It was the same story with DI Williams, except that the dopey-sounding sergeant said he was on a rest break. Down at the betting shop on the corner, Jenny guessed, or more likely watching the racing in the snug bar of the George with a beer in his hand. Nick Galbraith, however, answered his phone smartly.
‘Mrs Cooper. Thank goodness.’
‘My officer mentioned something about new evidence.’
‘Yes. I don’t suppose you’d be able to pop down to Mrs Patterson’s hotel?’
‘If you insist on meeting, I’d rather it was my office. I’m very busy this afternoon.’
‘Of course, but . . .’ He hesitated, as if embarrassed by what he was about to say. ‘The thing is she’s become rather suspicious.’
‘You mean paranoid?’
‘That would be an unkind way of putting it, but yes. She’s had the hotel meeting room swept, you see. She considers it the only safe place.’
‘And you expect me to play along with this?’
‘I’m not the sort to believe in ghosts if you get my drift, but I have to admit, were this an inquiry into the supernatural, I would reluctantly be on my way to becoming a believer.’
‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. She can have half an hour more, but I’d prefer it if you did the talking.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
The mini function room on the second floor of the College Green Marriott had been converted into a full-scale office. There were phones, a photocopier, desk-top computer, printer and two carousels stacked with carefully labelled box files. A young woman sat at the head of the table next to Mrs Patterson, who introduced her as Alix, her PA, who would be keeping a shorthand note of the meeting.
Jenny fixed Galbraith with a look that demanded an on-the-record explanation for why she had been summoned to this less than conventional meeting.
‘Thank you for accepting our request to receive additional evidence which may be of assistance to your inquest, Mrs Cooper,’ he said formally, choosing each word with care. ‘Mrs Patterson and I are most grateful that you agreed to meet here in the College Green Marriott in a conference room which Mrs Patterson is satisfied is free of covert surveillance devices.’
‘I emphasize that I am here only to receive your evidence,’ Jenny said, ‘not to discuss the inquest into Mr Brogan’s death.’
‘Understood,’ Galbraith said. He turned to Mrs Patterson, who wasn’t enjoying her forced silence. ‘Do remind me if I miss something out, Mrs Patterson. I would be grateful if you would direct any remarks to Mrs Cooper through me.’
She gave him a terse nod.
Galbraith reached for a small pile of loose papers and pushed them across to Jenny.
‘I’m handing you a batch of email correspondence between my client and various members of the deceaseds’ families. As you may know, the relatives have been corresponding with each other on a dedicated internet forum in which Mrs Patterson has taken a leading role. One issue of particular interest is the fact that more than twenty passengers on Flight 189 had initially been booked onto the flight that left twenty-fours earlier, on Saturday morning. They were each contacted by the airline and told their reservations were being transferred to Sunday’s flight due to over-booking. Mrs Patterson’s husband and daughter had both been booked onto the Saturday flight. His employers requested that he stay in London to attend to urgent business and he was forced to send Amy as an unaccompanied minor on the Sunday flight.’
Jenny flicked through the pile of emails in front of her as she listened and saw a number of identical messages sent from Ransome Airways’ reservations department apologizing to passengers and offering them alternative seats on Flight 189.
‘We accept this occasionally happens,’ Galbraith continued, ‘but a little research has revealed that it’s far rarer these days than you might assume. Ransome Airways operates a system using dedicated software hosted on its own servers. In theory, tickets should not be sold for flights that are already full. What’s more, a request for comments from frequent fliers on Ransome Airways elicited numerous responses from passengers who say they have never previously known their reservation to be transferred. Mrs Patterson has sought clarification from the airline, but so far they have refused to comment.’
Jenny said, ‘This is all very interesting information, Mr Galbraith. I’ve no doubt it merits proper inquiry, but I don’t see its relevance to my inquest into Mr Brogan’s death.’
‘If you’ll hear me out, Mrs Cooper, you may conclude otherwise.’
Jenny glanced at her watch. The precious minutes before the end of office hours were ticking away fast.
‘Mrs Patterson has also succeeded in contacting a number of people who were on board the Saturday flight. They were able to confirm that the plane wasn’t in fact full, but contained a number of empty seats. Again, we have sought an explanation from the airline, but with no success.’ He pushed another small stack of papers towards her. ‘More significant perhaps are the identities of some of those whose reservations were moved onto Flight 189.’
Jenny held up her hand to bring proceedings to a halt and gestured to Alix to put down her pencil. ‘Could I please ask you a question off the record, Mrs Patterson?’
‘You can try,’ she answered guardedly.
Alix’s pencil hovered in mid-air as she looked from one woman to the other.
‘All right,’ Mrs Patterson said. She turned to Alix. ‘Don’t write anything down until I tell you.’ She looked back at Jenny. ‘Go ahead.’
‘At the news conference this morning I spoke briefly to a journalist named Wen Chen. He was from Taiwan Television. He asked a question about “notable” passengers on the flight. It went pretty much unanswered. I caught up with him afterwards and he said that the two of you had been in contact.’
‘He’s been very helpful, quite possibly invaluable.’
‘He seemed reluctant to talk to me.’
Mrs Patterson nodded, ruminating on a private thought. ‘I’m surprised he was brave enough to ask questions at all. With six hundred lives taken, another wouldn’t cost much.’
Jenny saw Galbraith’s eyes moving apprehensively between t
hem.
‘Shall I continue?’ he said. ‘And it might be better for all concerned if we were on the record from now on.’
‘Agreed,’ Jenny said. ‘Tell me what you’ve heard.’
Alix resumed her note-taking.
‘Mrs Patterson’s research amongst the relatives disclosed that among those whose seats were moved from Saturday to Sunday were two New York detectives – Lieutentants Arnold Berners and Leonard Halpern. Their wives say they were on a trip to the UK to liaise with anti-terrorist officers. Their inquiries related to suspected Islamist militants based in London. They were travelling under their own identities and their passports stated their occupation as police officers. A twenty-five-year-old passenger named Dr Ali Mathar, an academic from the School of Oriental and African Studies, was booked onto the Sunday flight all along, but a US sky marshal named Curtis Stevens was booked on at the last minute – his wife says she only got a call on Saturday evening from him with Sunday’s ETA. This could be a pure coincidence, but Dr Mathar has published papers sympathetic to various anti-Western clerics. He’s certainly someone whom the US law enforcement authorities would be expected to look at very closely.’
‘I don’t mean to interrupt,’ Jenny said, ‘but as far as I know, a lot of flights have marshals on board, and I don’t believe there is any evidence of there having been a disturbance on the plane—’
‘We appreciate that, Mrs Cooper,’ Galbraith answered. ‘The presence of those people on one aircraft can indeed be explained as coincidental, but we have to cover all possibilities. What’s far more interesting is the presence of Mr Alan Towers.’
Galbraith handed her a brief biography which looked as if it had been downloaded from a company website.
‘Aged fifty-five, Mr Towers is the founder and managing director of a Surrey-based defence contractor, Winchester Systems Ltd. He was booked onto the Saturday flight with an onward connection to Washington, but was bounced off it on the Friday. That’s most unusual in first class.’
An alarm bell rang in Jenny’s head. Nuala Casey had been going on to Washington.
‘What was he doing in Washington?’ Jenny asked.