by M. R. Hall
They sat in silence for a moment, both contemplating what might have been.
‘I feel stupid,’ Jenny said. ‘Anyone knows you don’t open messages like that.’
Michael sat, shoulders hunched, pale and exhausted. All the energy seemed to have drained from his body.
It was up to Jenny to make the running. ‘I need to speak to Mick Dalton. Where do I get his number?’
‘David Cambourne?’
‘No. I don’t want them talking.’ She got out her phone and handed it to Michael. ‘You know how airports work – there must be someone you can call at Heathrow.’
Jenny waited on tenterhooks while he first dialled a main switchboard for the British Airports Authority, then slowly worked his way through three other offices before finally being patched through to the chief engineer on duty for Ransome Airways. Michael placed a hand over the receiver. ‘Who shall I say I am?’
‘Tell him you’re with the coroner’s office.’
Moments later he was writing down Dalton’s number on the motel menu card and Jenny was simultaneously entering the digits into her phone. She had pressed dial even before Michael had rung off.
She waited nearly half a minute for the phone to be answered. A male voice said a cautious hello.
‘Mick Dalton?’ Jenny enquired.
‘Who is this?’
‘Jenny Cooper, Severn Vale District Coroner. I need to meet with you, Mr Dalton – this evening if possible.’
Dalton was silent for a moment. ‘It’s past ten o’clock—’
‘Would you prefer me to call on you at work?’
‘No—’ He hesitated. ‘I thought I’d already dealt with the coroner’s office.’
‘It was you who left Miss Casey’s flight bag in the Heathrow car park, wasn’t it? Mr Cambourne must have mentioned my name.’
Silence.
He was frightened. She would have to leave him no choice. ‘I’m quite certain you’ve been contacted by Sir James Kendall’s office since then, and that you have been asked not to speak to anyone else, but they can’t stop you from talking to another coroner, nor are they entitled to. I’m dealing with the death of a man killed on the water. I’ve also seen Nuala Casey’s diary and a number of her papers. You met with her five times last December and I’ve seen your initials on sensitive documents in her possession.’
Now she had terrified him.
‘Mr Dalton? . . . Mr Dalton, are you there?’
‘I can’t . . . I can’t afford to lose my . . . I . . .’ He ran out of words. Jenny sensed that she had brought the sky crashing down on his head.
‘Do you think the truth about something this huge can be concealed for ever? Six hundred people died, Mr Dalton. You can’t afford not to talk to me.’
TWENTY
DALTON PICKED THE RENDEZVOUS: a lay-by off a country lane named Drift Road, a short distance from the motorway and halfway between the motel and Heathrow. Tired as he was, Michael insisted on coming with her, saying that it wasn’t safe for a woman to drive out to such a remote spot alone. Jenny didn’t know whether to feel grateful or patronized, but as she turned off the M4 onto a winding lane virtually empty of traffic, she was glad not to be by herself.
They pulled into the lay-by shortly before eleven p.m. and waited in silence for Dalton to arrive. Over the course of ten minutes several vehicles passed by but none pulled over.
‘Do you think he’s too scared?’ Jenny said.
‘Given that he’s already driven past three times, I’d say he was a little nervous.’
‘How do you know it was him?’
‘I memorized the number plate.’ A headlight beam clipped over the top of the hedge ahead of them. ‘What’s the betting this is him again? Fourth time lucky.’
The headlights’ rate of progress appeared to slow. A left-hand indicator blinked and Jenny made out the outline of an estate car pulling in to face them head-on.
She reached for the door handle.
‘Stay here,’ Michael said. ‘Let him come to you.’
They waited, letting Dalton sweat. In less than a minute he had switched off his headlights and stepped outside.
Jenny wound down her window. ‘Jump in the back, Mr Dalton – it’s cold out there.’
‘Who’s with you?’
‘Michael Sherman. He’s a pilot, a friend of Nuala’s.’
Dalton stalled, confused by the information. It was what Jenny had feared.
‘Is this an official conversation?’ he asked.
She had to make a snap decision and decided to follow her instinct. ‘This one’s strictly unofficial. Off the record. Never happened.’
Still standing next to his car, Dalton peered warily through the windscreen of Jenny’s Land Rover, showing no sign of coming closer. Before she could stop him, Michael opened the passenger door and climbed out.
‘I’m sure we’ve met, Mr Dalton – one of those company parties. Nuala took me to a couple. I met Dan and Diane Murray, too. We were over talking to her the other day – poor woman’s left with teenage kids.’
Jenny saw Dalton nod. Michael stepped forward, extending a hand and Dalton reluctantly shook it.
‘Don’t worry about a thing. I’m sure Mrs Cooper won’t keep you long.’
He shepherded him towards the Land Rover.
Dalton climbed into the back seat but refused to close the door, leaving it open a crack and sending a cold breeze onto Jenny’s neck. Insisting on inspecting her ID, he examined it closely by the light of a miniature torch attached to his key chain. His every tic and movement confirmed Jenny’s impression of his cautious, fastidious nature.
‘I’ve no reason to think you’re not who you say you are, Mrs Cooper,’ he said finally, handing her wallet back between the front seats, ‘but before you tell me what you’d like to know, perhaps you could explain exactly why I should talk to you?’
‘Nuala Casey was interested in aircraft defects, and if I understand correctly, overall responsibility for the safety and maintenance of Ransome’s Heathrow fleet lies with you.’
‘Everyone in aviation is interested in safety.’ He paused, then qualified his statement: ‘Nearly everybody. But you’ll forgive me – you still haven’t answered my question.’
Jenny decided on a subtler course than the one she’d originally had in mind. ‘You were a friend or colleague of many of the people who died on Flight 189. I’m assuming you don’t want it to happen again.’
‘No,’ he replied sombrely.
Jenny waited a moment, letting the tension between them dissolve. Her gut told her that he was a decent man who would talk just as soon as he felt he could trust her.
‘The fact is I’m interested in finding out what brought that plane down and letting it be known,’ Jenny said. ‘And although it saddens me to say it, I don’t believe that the other agencies investigating this incident necessarily share that ambition.’
There was silence in the back seat.
‘I’m going to ask you some questions. I have no recording equipment, this isn’t a formal interview, I’m just anxious to cast a little more light, that’s all.’ She glanced in the rear-view mirror and made out the outline of his face. He was staring intently through the window at the road. ‘Nuala had written your initials, MD, on a copy of a US Federal Aviation Authority directive issued after Air France 447 went down in the Pacific. Can you explain why that was?’
‘Perhaps she wanted to ask me about it. She was very interested in aircraft safety issues.’
‘You didn’t give it to her.’
‘No. I did not.’
Jenny didn’t believe him, but left it alone.
‘I’ve heard about a couple of incidents involving Ransome aircraft last year. One was a flight to Zagreb that overshot its destination. I understand that it was in danger of running out of fuel.’
‘That’s no secret. It was reported to the AAIB. It was a navigational error. I’m afraid no one’s got to the bottom of that yet. For wh
at’s it worth, I believe the first officer made an error when he programmed in the route which he subsequently sought to disguise.’
‘Was that first officer David Cambourne?’
‘I believe so. Look, that was one of our oldest Boeings.’ A note of impatience entered his voice. ‘Most of our fleet is brand new, but that aircraft is over twenty-five years old. There’s insufficient memory in the on-board computer to program in the whole route. The first officer has to program the second half of a journey as they’re flying. It’s most likely to have been a human error.’
Jenny glanced at Michael. He seemed happy enough with Dalton’s answer.
‘There was an incident on a 380 last summer. Dan Murray was in his first month captaining the aircraft. His wife described it as a glitch with the thrust levers as he was coming in to land. I think I remember this correctly – autothrust should automatically have disengaged, but it didn’t. They were lucky not to have shot off the end of the runway.’
‘I remember,’ Dalton said. ‘It happened here at Heathrow. The equipment was tested a total of fifty times and the fault never repeated itself, nor was there anything in the flight data commensurate with such a fault. It was clearly a case of human error. The most likely cause of overrun is landing too far along the runway. Captain Murray was relatively new to piloting the 380 at the time.’
Jenny was dubious. ‘Forgive me for saying so, but that sounds like the party line, Mr Dalton. You don’t really think that Captain Murray would have invented a fictitious fault to cover up his own error.’
‘Pilots invariably don’t know they are committing an error, and after the event – quite naturally – their memories remain false. Flight data is a far more reliable source of information than a pilot’s recollection.’
‘Spoken like a true engineer,’ Michael said.
‘I can assure you, an aircraft built and maintained by intuition rather than logic would not be a safe one.’
Jenny touched Michael’s arm, urging him to leave this to her.
‘We’ve seen an addendum to his contract of employment that Dan Murray was asked to sign shortly after that incident. It obliged him not to report any such incident to the authorities directly, but to go through the airline.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t comment on that,’ Dalton said.
‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘We all have contracts of employment. Many contain things we find objectionable. Can we move on, please?’
‘All right, Mr Dalton, perhaps you can help with this: there are references to an AF in Nuala’s diary. She met this person at Heathrow early last November. Do you know who that might have been?’
‘It might have been Alan Farraday. He was another 380 pilot.’
‘For Ransome?’
‘Yes.’ Dalton shifted uneasily in his seat. ‘I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this any longer.’
‘Please, I’m sure this is a matter I can clarify elsewhere, but it would be very helpful if you could save me the effort.’
Dalton gave a frustrated sigh. ‘I doubt that very much – there’s no official record, but if you can guarantee I won’t be quoted as the source—’
Jenny and Michael exchanged a glance.
‘You have my word.’
Dalton hesitated before answering. ‘Farraday was a very experienced pilot. There was an incident last October. He was flying a 380 between Los Angeles and Sydney when he suffered multiple computer failure. He ended up flying on direct law – effectively manually, insofar as that’s possible on an Airbus – for twenty minutes, and with no communications. He and the first officer obeyed all the prescribed protocols and the incident passed off safely. They successfully rebooted the primary flight computer, which continued to function perfectly.’
‘You say there’s no official record.’
‘Not that I’m aware of, but there was a small article in the Australian press. I’m only repeating what you might have found on the internet.’
‘How can that be? Surely a major incident like that has to be reported by law.’
‘I heard about it anecdotally, Mrs Cooper, several weeks after the event. It was never reported to me in the usual manner, and no one from the AAIB has questioned me about it. After I had heard, I carried out tests on the aircraft’s avionics independently and detected no faults.’
‘How common is this sort of thing? Could that incident have been due to human error?’
‘In my opinion, human error is possible but unlikely. As for the rate of occurrence, I can only say that such incidents are rare but not unknown. In the early years of my career my time was spent almost entirely with mechanical faults traceable to worn or defective components. Now I’m concerned chiefly with electrical faults and computer anomalies.’
‘I’ve heard that phrase a lot recently,’ Jenny said.
‘They happen,’ Dalton answered. ‘Thirty years isn’t long enough to have perfected such a complex technology. We’re still learning to walk, and sometimes we fall over.’
‘What you’re saying is that Ransome hushed this thing up,’ Michael said.
‘One might draw that inference,’ Dalton answered, ‘though I’m not saying that I have.’
‘What do you think caused the failure?’ Jenny asked.
‘A software error, I expect. Even the best-written programs are bound to contain a few. Or possibly an electronic fault. The good news is that, unlike earlier Airbus models, the 380 has modular avionics. It means the on-board computers aren’t closed and entire units, but made up of integrated modules which can be periodically updated or replaced. In theory, at least, it’s a system that makes it easier to correct faults once they become apparent.’
‘But not if they’re not reported.’
‘I’m sure the people who ought to know do,’ Dalton said. ‘This is a business after all.’
As he spoke, his gaze turned to follow a car that was driving past. It was moving more slowly than the handful of vehicles that had gone by during their conversation, and it seemed to agitate him.
‘Will we be much longer?’
‘If you don’t mind, I need to ask you about your meetings with Nuala in December.’
‘What about them?’ he said impatiently.
‘What did you discuss?’
He didn’t answer. Jenny checked the mirror and saw him craning his neck to watch the progress of the car’s headlights along the road behind them.
‘Mr Dalton?’
‘They were private conversations.’
‘I appreciate that, but there was clearly something in particular she was asking you about.’
‘Yes—’
‘What was it?’
‘I think that vehicle’s turning around.’
Jenny checked her mirrors. ‘I don’t see anything. Please, this is very important. We know Nuala ran an anonymous forum for pilots online to discuss their concerns. We also know that it was shut down almost immediately after 189 was lost.’
‘Very prudent. Journalists would only have used it to whip up hysteria.’ He had turned right round in his seat and was looking apprehensively out of the back window.
Jenny told herself to keep patient. She was making progress, albeit slowly.
‘You don’t strike me as a frivolous man, yet you met with her five times in various locations. You also assisted Mr Cambourne in getting Nuala’s flight case to us. You can understand that I might conclude that, firstly, you were discussing something important and, secondly, there was something you wanted me to know.’
‘The GPS—’ Michael interrupted. ‘You wanted us to see the GPS in her flight case. Did the navigation go down on Farraday’s flight, too?’
‘I did hear that both navigation displays were behaving erratically.’
‘So she had her own GPS when she flew – is that what was going on?’
‘She did take that precaution, though whether the GPS signal would penetrate the hull of a modern aircraft, I couldn’t say.’
/> ‘Did you speak to Farraday?’
‘Not personally.’
‘Did Nuala?’
‘They had been in communication. What form that took precisely, I don’t know.’
Jenny was starting to lose patience. ‘Can we just cut to the chase – was Nuala trying to get you to get to the bottom of what happened on Farraday’s flight?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you?’
‘No.’
Michael cut in. ‘Had she discovered other incidents?’
Jenny turned her head at the sound of a car drawing up alongside them in the road. It was a dark saloon; its headlights were off and the occupants invisible.
‘I told you—’ Dalton said, panicked.
‘Sit tight,’ Michael said calmly.
Dalton started to push open his door.
‘Stay there, I said.’
Dalton froze, silent save for his anxious, laboured breathing. They waited, but the car didn’t move. It stood fewer than ten feet away from them, its engine idling.
‘Who is that?’ Jenny said.
‘I don’t know, but I’ve seen the car before,’ Dalton said. ‘Someone’s been watching my house—’
‘Ignore it,’ Michael said. ‘Keep talking.’
Jenny said, ‘Perhaps I should be talking to Farraday.’
‘You don’t know?’ Dalton replied.
‘Know what?’
‘Farraday died in a motorcycle accident in November. His first officer was Dan Murray’s co-pilot, Ed Stevens.’
Jenny felt her heart thud so hard she thought it might burst. ‘You’re sure it was an accident?’
‘How could I be sure?’ Dalton said.
Michael opened the glove box. Jenny saw him close his fist around the locking wheel nut she kept in there, but before she could work out why he might want to change a wheel, he threw open his door and jumped out.
‘Michael!’
He ran at the idling car and hurled the nut straight through the windscreen. She heard glass smashing, a man shout from inside and the squeal of tyres as the car took off, the headlights lighting up as it cleared the lay-by.
Michael ran back to the passenger door. ‘Get after it. He’ll freeze to death before he gets half a mile.’