by M. R. Hall
‘Very well. Please take a seat, Brigadier.’
Jenny spotted him glance briefly at Moreton, whose forehead was creased in a frown. Moreton then gave a hint of a nod and the brigadier did as Jenny had bidden, following Alison’s direction to a vacant seat.
‘We’ll hear from Dr Ravi Achari, please.’
The forensic scientist was younger than Jenny had pictured him – only twenty-six – and with his delicate features could have passed for eighteen. Quietly spoken and slightly built, he didn’t look a match for Giles Hartley, but Jenny didn’t need him to impress, she just wanted the facts about what he had found. He told the court that he held a doctorate in analytical chemistry and had worked as a chemical analyst at Forenox for nearly two years. He didn’t have experience on his side, but he certainly gave the impression of being at the cutting edge of his field.
Jenny directed Alison to hand him Brogan’s lifejacket and watched the lawyers’ reaction as Achari methodically described the processes of spectrometry and chromatography which had yielded his results. As she suspected, the three men on the advocates’ bench appeared unsurprised at the revelation that minute traces of plastic bonded explosive had been discovered embedded in the fabric of Brogan’s lifejacket, but the evidence caused a sensation in the Patterson camp. Jenny, the jury and all the people sitting around her heard Amy’s mother excitedly whispering about terrorists and the sophisticated weaponry she supposed they possessed.
But her reaction turned to one of puzzlement as Achari described the recent severing of the lifejacket’s webbing and the tiny traces of metal swarf found both on the strap and at the site of the puncture. She didn’t have a ready narrative for this twist and, nor yet, did Jenny.
‘Tell me, Dr Achari, in your opinion, was the explosion that caused this residue one that took place above or below the water?’
‘Above, I’m fairly sure. My recent conversation with Dr Kerr substantiates that – I understand Mr Brogan had flash burns on exposed areas of his skin.’
‘I see. And are you able to say how far from the explosion Mr Brogan might have been?’
‘Of course it all depends on the size of the blast,’ Achari said, ‘but these particles were not deeply embedded in the fabric, and as far as I can ascertain, the flash burns were not intense. All I can offer is an educated opinion that the subject was at least fifty yards away from the blast, possibly much further – perhaps as far as two hundred yards.’
Hartley and Bannerman glanced at one another. Jenny intuited that this was a fact they hadn’t fully grasped from whatever information Moreton had managed to extract from Achari’s superiors at Forenox.
‘Let’s put that in context, shall we?’ Jenny said. ‘According to a witness we heard from last week, Mr Corton, a marine accidents investigator, Mr Brogan’s yacht would have gone down literally seconds after being struck by the descending aircraft. That being the case, if the explosion emanated from his boat, it’s hard to see how he could have got more than fifty yards away from it in only a few seconds.’
‘I agree,’ Achari said.
Hartley couldn’t contain himself. ‘Ma’am, no one could say how quickly Mr Brogan’s yacht went down apart from Mr Brogan. It’s a complete unknown.’
‘I accept it’s uncertain, Mr Hartley, but I have a note of Mr Corton’s testimony in front of me.’ She read aloud. ‘“Given the extent of the damage to the yacht, I would say it went down almost immediately.” Do tell me if you have a different recollection.’
Hartley looked to the attractive young junior counsel sitting obediently at his side. She flipped through her verbatim notes, then shook her head.
‘Those may be his words, but I remain unsatisfied as to their meaning. I would caution against too literal an interpretation, ma’am.’
‘I thank you for your advice,’ Jenny replied, straining to remain courteous. She turned her attention back to Dr Achari.
‘I understand that Dr Kerr asked you to carry out another set of tests over the course of the weekend that has just passed.’
‘That’s correct.’
Jenny glanced over at Moreton and the lawyers and saw that the revelation had caused the ripple of alarm she had expected. This was information they didn’t have and their faces showed traces of panic. Moreton was already reaching for his phone.
‘What did he ask you to examine?’
‘He sent a hair and a tissue sample. I understand that both were taken from the rear of the skull of a child who was a passenger in the aircraft – Amy Patterson.’
Hartley shot to his feet. ‘Ma’am, not only have we not been put on notice of this evidence, it appears to relate to a person who is not the subject of this inquest.’
Jenny couldn’t resist a dose of sarcasm. ‘I’m surprised this evidence is news to you, Mr Hartley. I understand you were fully briefed on Dr Achari’s findings relating to Mr Brogan’s lifejacket.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about, ma’am,’ Hartley replied, daring her to raise the stakes and accuse him of dishonesty – a charge that would send him immediately scurrying to the High Court to accuse her of bias.
‘Sit down please, Mr Hartley. I wish to hear the evidence. You were saying, Dr Achari?’
Achari opened the folder he had brought with him to the witness box and produced a number of photographs of small sealed Petri dishes containing labelled samples. Alison passed them around the jury.
‘I examined both samples microscopically, using the same techniques I had applied to the lifejacket samples. In each I detected minute traces of uncombusted plastic bonded explosive. This, too, lacked the chemical marker required by the Montreal Treaty, making its origin impossible to trace. In addition, the hair sample showed definite signs of heat exposure: there was evidence of singeing, particularly at the tips. This is consistent with the girl having been briefly subjected to a high temperature such as that caused by an explosion.’
Moreton was now making his way along the row towards the aisle, a phone pressed to his ear. The legal teams behind Hartley, Bannerman and Crowthorne were in frantic consultation, but for once Mrs Patterson was still and silent. She looked at Achari with wide staring eyes; the shock of hearing something truly revelatory knocking her completely off her axis.
Jenny said, ‘Is there any particular significance relating to the part of the skull from which the samples were taken?’
‘Dr Kerr carried out microscopic examination of both the front and back of the skull and found evidence of heat exposure only at the back.’
‘Amy Patterson was facing away from the explosion?’
‘She was.’
‘Are you able to say at what distance she was from it?’
‘She was closer to the blast than Mr Brogan. You’ll see from the photographs that, viewed under the microscope, her tissue sample showed at least a 20 per cent greater concentration of PBX particles than the sample taken from his lifejacket.’
It took a moment for the full implications of Achari’s finding to register.
‘Tell me if you think this assumption is correct,’ Jenny said. ‘If Mr Brogan’s yacht sank approximately three hundred yards upstream from where the wreckage of the plane was recovered, and the tide was coming in, then Amy Patterson, who was wearing a lifejacket, would have been swept towards the yacht. She was closer to the explosion than Brogan, which in my understanding suggests that the explosion was more likely to have come from the direction of the aircraft than from the yacht.’
‘I would draw the same conclusion.’
‘And would you also conclude that Brogan must have been swimming against the tide towards Amy Patterson?’
‘I am certain that he was much closer to the blast than three hundred yards.’
They were rare moments in court proceedings when even the most determined and resilient advocates felt their cases explode and scatter in fragments around them. The looks of utter dismay that spread across the faces of Hartley, Bannerman and Crowthorne testified th
at this was just such an occasion.
‘One final question, Dr Achari,’ Jenny said. ‘In your opinion, was Mr Brogan’s lifejacket cut before or after the explosion?’
‘Afterwards. Definitely. The explosive residue was present on nearly the entire left face of the jacket. If punctured, a much greater portion would have been submerged.’
Jenny looked up at the sound of someone entering at the back of the hall. It was Moreton, and he was moving purposefully towards Hartley and his team. She knew full well what was coming next and that she had only a few seconds left in which to play her final card. Turning to Bannerman, though intending her remarks chiefly to be heard by the watching reporters, she said: ‘The evidence we have just heard is as relevant to Sir James Kendall’s inquiry into the deaths of the aircraft’s passengers as it is to mine, suggesting as it does that there was a chain of events leading to Mr Brogan’s death, one of which included an explosion on or near the downed aircraft. I am therefore making formal request that Dr Achari and his colleagues be allowed to test the aircraft for explosive residue. I expect access to be granted immediately.’
Hartley was already on his feet. ‘Ma’am, counsel cannot be expected to cross-examine on such –’ he groped for an appropriate word – ‘incendiary evidence without time properly to consult.’
Jenny aimed her answer at Moreton, who was now right in the middle of the crisis talks that were centred around Hartley’s back-up team.
‘Well, I have to say, Mr Hartley, I don’t intend to delay a verdict a moment more than I have to. If it’ll make it any easier, I have no objection to your clients having their own experts examine the aircraft alongside Dr Achari.’
‘Take it,’ she heard Moreton hiss.
Rachel Hemmings interjected: ‘My clients would also like a representative present.’
‘I see no problem. Mr Bannerman – does your client wish to do the same?’
‘I’m sure he does, ma’am.’
‘Mr Crowthorne?’
He nodded.
‘Then when can we inspect? I’m happy to wait for your solicitor to make the necessary phone calls.’
Moreton leaned over the shoulder of Bannerman’s instructing solicitor as he put a call through to Sir James Kendall in his office at the D-Mort. Jenny pretended to be absorbed in the copies of Achari’s lab photos which had been handed to her, but her mind was racing ahead to what might happen next. Journalists were already hurriedly leaving the room to file their copy. The rolling news would soon be filled with accounts of phantom helicopters and explosions. Events were running out of Moreton’s control. There was a chance, albeit vanishingly slender, that in spite of all their efforts, the truth might just force itself to the surface.
Bannerman finished consulting with those behind him and turned back to Jenny. ‘Sir James Kendall is happy for you to inspect the wreckage at your earliest convenience.’
Jenny could hardly believe her ears. ‘Thank you, Mr Bannerman,’ she said, failing to conceal her surprise. ‘Dr Achari and others will be there at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’
It was the presence of so many reporters that must have tipped the balance, Jenny concluded, as she headed for the sanctuary of the office while the proceedings adjourned in a babble of excited chatter. Until only a few years before, the first instinct of an authority with something to hide was to keep it from ever reaching the light; now that strategy was more and more unlikely to work. The emphasis was on managing the story and pumping out information and misinformation until no one could untangle truth from fiction, safe in the knowledge that twenty-four-hour news programmes didn’t have the time or patience even to try.
Closing the door behind her, Jenny saw that her hands were shaking. She had spent the entire morning in a drug-induced calm that was fast disintegrating. She had made more progress than she had dreamed possible, but she was bjust one woman alone. It wouldn’t take much ingenuity on the part of the Ministry to put her out of action.
Stop it, stop it, she told herself. You’re letting yourself get paranoid again. Keep calm. Just do the right thing. It’ll be fine. Soothing words were all very well but they were doing little to dampen her physical symptoms of anxiety. Breaking Dr Allen’s rules, she delved into her handbag and rooted around until she found the single pill that she kept for dire emergencies. Her relief as the temazepam worked its almost instant magic was like that of arriving safely on the ground after a turbulent flight. The adrenalin drained from her blood and after only a few short moments she was herself again.
A sharp knock at the door sent another unwelcome jolt through her fragile nerves. Alison entered without waiting to be asked. She had lost none of the attitude with which she had greeted her earlier that morning.
‘Mr Galbraith is insistent on having a meeting with you,’ she announced.
‘What about?’
‘Apparently he has something he would like you to see.’
‘He knows I shouldn’t be seeing one set of lawyers in the absence of the others.’
‘I’m sure he does, Mrs Cooper. I’m just telling you.’
Jenny glanced out of the window and saw the car Bannerman had arrived in pulling away. Hartley’s and Crowthorne’s had left even earlier. Only a handful of news crews remained loitering outside the hall.
‘He can have a couple of minutes – just him. And I’d like you to remain present.’
‘Perhaps you could make do with the tape recorder? I ought to get back to the office.’ She turned to the door. ‘I’ll fetch it for you.’
She returned a short while later with an excited-looking Nick Galbraith.
‘Thank you, Mrs Cooper – I really do appreciate this, and I think you will too.’ He opened the lid of a laptop and set it on the desk.
Alison placed the aged Dictaphone she used to record court proceeds next to the computer and switched it on. ‘I’ll see you back at the office, Mrs Cooper,’ she said tartly, and exited the room, leaving the two of them alone.
‘I won’t discuss the proceedings, Mr Galbraith—’
‘I’m not asking for that, Mrs Cooper. I merely wish to make you aware of some evidence that might be of use to you. It’s news footage that was aired on Taiwan Television during the last hour. A journalist we both know, Mr Wen Chen, emailed me the link just minutes ago. I’ve forwarded it to you.’
He tapped on a link in an email which brought up a video of a news segment. The newsreader was speaking in Taiwanese. The screen behind her contained three images: an A380 in flight; a good-looking Chinese man in a black polo-neck, and a woman Jenny recognized as the fashion model Lily Tate.
‘The man’s Jimmy Han,’ Galbraith said.
Unfairly handsome as well as rich, Jenny thought, but as dead as everyone else on board.
The image on screen changed to time-coded closed-circuit television footage of what appeared to be the lounge of an expensive modern hotel.
‘It’s the Ransome VIP lounge at Heathrow,’ Galbraith explained. ‘There’s Han.’ He pointed to a figure sitting on a leather sofa in the lower left portion of the screen. Lily Tate wandered into shot – Jenny heard the newsreader speak her name – then settled in a chair at a right angle to Han, who appeared to look up and engage her in conversation.
‘I think the story is about whether Han and Lily Tate had something going on,’ Galbraith said, ‘you know the sort of thing.’ The footage was now on a continual loop, replaying a moment during which Lily Tate appeared to reach out with her toe and touch Han’s leg. ‘But look up here—’ He pointed to the top right-hand corner of the screen, where two male figures could be seen entering through a door and making their way in Han’s direction. One was a middle-aged man, the other younger, around thirty, and they appeared to be deep in discussion. ‘The one on the left is Alan Towers, MD of Winchester Systems. I told you his business – high-tech weapons systems. The one on the right is young Dr Ian Duffy, a man at the cutting edge of light-based computing technology. Only Towers had been transf
erred onto this flight from Saturday’s, but don’t forget – they’re both travelling on to Washington.’
‘They certainly appear friendly.’
‘Now watch what happens—’
Galbraith moved the slider along the bottom of the screen a touch. Han and Lily Tate were still in conversation when Han looked round as if in response to someone speaking his name. He said something to the model, which Jenny inferred were probably words to the effect of ‘Be right back’, and got up from his seat. He crossed to his left and Alan Towers stepped into frame, hand outstretched. They shook hands warmly, then Towers turned to his right as if to introduce Duffy. The footage ended with an abrupt freeze-frame which then zoomed into a close-up of Lily Tate’s face: she was frowning at the two new arrivals, seemingly annoyed at their interruption.
‘That’s all there is,’ Galbraith says, ‘but it couldn’t be any clearer. You’ve got a weapons manufacturer, a computer giant and a research scientist whose published aim was to design the hardware for the next big thing – computers incapable of being hacked.’ He flipped to a page on the internet: a precis of a scientific paper entitled Light-Chip Technology and the Future of Quantum Computing.
‘I’m sure it’s fascinating,’ Jenny said, though doubting it very much.
‘Computers that use lasers instead of electrical current run on a fraction of the power and with billions of times the capacity of conventional ones. If you want a satellite-controlled weapons system to keep an eye on the entire surface of the globe and one which is also incapable of being penetrated by the opposition, that’s the technology you’re going to need.’
‘Is there anything else that links them together?’
‘Not that I can find. Their PAs both claim not to have heard the other’s names being mentioned.’
‘Do you know where were they going in Washington?’ Jenny said.
‘Another blank,’ Galbraith replied. ‘“Business meetings” was all I could get out of them. Had even less luck with Han’s people. He’s often over there apparently, retains some lobbyists and waves the flag for Chinese democracy. The Communists loathe him.’