by M. R. Hall
Jenny detected uncertainty in her voice. There was something on her mind that she wasn’t articulating; a connection that she was beginning to make.
‘Do you think Michael knows something about the crash?’ the girl asked. It was more than an idle question. There was a history of suspicion in the way she delivered it.
Jenny didn’t have time to tease it out of her gently, she needed answers now.
‘What’s your name?’ Jenny asked.
‘Jemma. Jemma Reynolds.’
‘And your position here?’
‘Bookings and secretarial.’
‘So you see everyone who comes through here and take all the calls.’
She nodded. ‘Nearly all.’
‘Tell me, has anyone apart from me come to see Michael or been trying to contact him since the plane went down in the Severn?’
‘He is in trouble, isn’t he?’ She shook her head. ‘I knew it.’
‘There has been someone, hasn’t there?’
Jemma looked guiltily up at her. ‘My boss told me not to talk to . . . Michael’s our best pilot—’
Jenny gave her a look that told her that no excuse was going to be good enough. It worked.
‘There was a man who came in twice a day or two after the accident looking for him. He said he was with the investigation . . . I think his name was Sanders – that’s it, Wing Commander Sanders.’
Sanders. She’d heard the name before – it was the man Sandy Belling had mentioned. He had been calling her asking about Nuala. But what would an RAF officer be doing as part of the investigation? Could he have been with the AAIB?
‘Did he leave any details?’
‘A number. I’ve got it here somewhere.’ She searched through the files on her computer desktop.
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Fifties. Fit-looking. An officer type. He didn’t say it, but I got the impression he might have known Michael from the RAF.’
‘Did Michael say who he was?’
‘No. I gave him his number, that’s all. Here it is.’ She reached for a message pad and jotted down a number.
‘Thanks. If Michael calls, tell him I’m looking for him. And tell him to switch his phone on.’
Jenny walked quickly out of the office and dialled Sanders’s number as she clattered down the stairs. Damn. His phone was switched off too. Why did men have such a problem with communication? At least she had a lead. She dialled her office number and found Alison at her desk.
‘You are on your way, Mrs Cooper? You know it’s nearly half-past nine.’
‘I’m nearly there. There’s something I need you to do for me.’
She shouldered through the doors and out into the car park as a passenger jet was taking off from the main runway. Deafened by the noise, she ducked back inside.
‘You sound like you’re at the airport,’ Alison said.
Ignoring the comment, Jenny said, ‘Don’t worry, I’m just leaving. There’s someone I need you to track down – Wing Commander Sanders. He’s something to do with the main inquiry. I need to speak to him urgently.’
‘What about?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Just find out who he is, what he does and where I can get hold of him.’ She dictated his number, eager to end the call before Alison could object.
‘Mrs Cooper—’
‘Yes?’
‘I had a call from the photographer’s widow this morning – she’d seen the press reports of the inquest . . .’ Alison hesitated, as if not quite believing what she was saying. ‘The helicopters . . . Before Christmas her husband had taken pictures of some odd-looking helicopters flying over Herefordshire. They had no markings. Apparently he posted them on the internet to see if anyone could identify them. Other people contacted him to say they’d seen them too. In the week before the accident he’d had anonymous phone calls, all from the same person, telling him to take the photos down. She hadn’t made any connection between the calls and what happened to him until she read about the evidence—’
Jenny felt her heart pressing hard against her ribs. She remembered the second set of tyre marks on the road caused by a vehicle following the photographer’s. ‘Did she take any of these calls?’
‘No, but he described the caller’s voice to her – he said he sounded military, like a senior officer.’
‘Where are the pictures now?’
‘That’s another thing – the day he died, his office was burgled. He kept all his pictures on two hard drives locked in a cupboard. They were both taken.’
‘I see,’ Jenny said. ‘On second thoughts don’t call Mr Sanders yet. I think this is one development I might discuss with the police.’
Hurrying back towards her car, Jenny tried to fit what she had just learned with what she already knew about the events leading up to the crash. Sanders, it was clear, was part of a concerted attempt to suppress the truth of what had happened to 189. But just who he was and who he worked for wasn’t something she yet had enough information to work out. All that she could be certain of was that he had proved himself an extremely dangerous and determined individual. She suspected him of being the man who had disrupted her roadside meeting with Dalton and, given his possibly fatal harassment of an innocent photographer, it didn’t seem incredible to think that his shadow might even stretch over Captain Farraday’s death.
As for Michael, her instincts told her that he hadn’t been lying about his relationship with Nuala having ended, but he certainly hadn’t told her the whole truth. Given the meetings she had been having with Dalton, it was hard not to conclude that Nuala had come to Michael on the 28th with information that she was unable to cope with alone. She had turned to the one person she thought she could trust. Had her trust been misplaced? Had Michael decided not to mention their meeting on the 28th because he felt he had failed her in some way? On the 29th he had continued with his work and Nuala had gone to the Cavendish Hotel. Her actions struck Jenny as odd. Given the post-mortem findings it was possible that she hadn’t been feeling well, but would her response have been to travel thirty miles from London to visit a spa? Somehow, it didn’t seem in character.
Jenny reached her car and, with her head still buzzing, made one final phone call.
She counted a full ten rings before Sandy Belling answered.
‘Hello?’ Sandy sounded fraught. Her baby was crying noisily.
‘Sandy, it’s Jenny Cooper – the coroner.’
‘Can I call you back?’
‘Just one thing – the Cavendish Hotel in Fleetcombe, do you know it?’
‘Yeah.’ The crying ratcheted up to a full-blown scream. ‘Look, I have to go—’
‘Nuala went to the spa there on 29 December. Does that seem like something she would have done?’
‘I don’t know . . . it’s normally just management that go there.’
‘The Ransome management?’
‘I think Guy Ransome owns shares in the place. He holds all his board meetings there. Sorry—’
She hung up.
It was nine-thirty. If the traffic was heavy she would be late for her appointment with Fuller. As she drove towards the exit barrier, Jenny dialled directories, and asked to be connected to the Cavendish Hotel. Pretending to be an accounts clerk at Ransome Airways, she asked the receptionist to confirm which meeting rooms Ransome had booked out for 29 December. The receptionist put her through to a young man in the back office who consulted his records and came up with a blank.
‘Sorry, there were no meeting rooms booked that day.’
Jenny continued to fish. ‘You’re sure? I’m certain we had some of our personnel there that day.’
‘All the meeting rooms were clear,’ the young man said. ‘The only item charged to Ransome Airways on that date was Mr Ransome’s suite.’
‘Oh,’ Jenny said, playing dumb. ‘Which days was that for?’
‘The 27th to 1 January. You won’t receive an invoice until the end of this month.’
‘Oh
, of course. Sorry to have troubled you.’
The clerk said an impatient goodbye and rang off.
She had her answer. Nuala had gone to see Ransome. It made perfect sense. A month of ever more frightening meetings with Dalton, then a trip to consult Michael, who would have given her the only sensible advice: if what she had learned was truly serious, she had a duty to take it up with the boss. And being the cheapskate he was, Ransome had made her pay for her own spa session while she waited for an audience.
She needed to make a call that would demand her full attention. She pulled into a lay-by and dialled the number.
The receptionist was as obstructive as Jenny had anticipated: Mr Ransome was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed; no, she didn’t know when he would be finished.
Jenny took a deep breath and tried not to yell. ‘Listen to me – this isn’t optional. I’m a coroner investigating deaths caused by one of his aircraft. I don’t care if he’s with the Pope and the President of the United States, you’re going to call through to him and tell him that Mrs Cooper wants to talk about the meeting he had with Captain Nuala Casey on 29 December last year. And if he still won’t speak to me, you can tell him it won’t just be one plane, it’ll be his whole airline that’ll come crashing to the ground. Have you got that?’
‘Hold, please.’
Jenny held, gritting her teeth against the inane muzak that was intended to soothe impatient callers. She had twenty minutes to make it to New Bridewell and the traffic heading into Bristol was slow and heavy. She would be lucky to arrive before ten-thirty. Fuller could add failing to answer bail to the list of charges she would have cajoled a more amenable CPS lawyer into drawing up.
A minute ticked by. She was nearing the end of her tether when the receptionist’s voice abruptly returned. ‘Putting you through now.’
‘Guy Ransome speaking.’ He was as prickly as his staff.
‘Jenny Cooper, Severn Vale District Coroner. I’m investigating the death—’
‘I know what you’re investigating. What can I do for you?’
‘You met with Captain Nuala Casey on 29 December. She and your chief engineer, Mick Dalton, met several times during December to discuss recurring and unexplained faults on your aircraft.’
He remained silent. It was time to scare him. ‘I have spoken with Mr Dalton and I have seen Miss Casey’s personal computer. I know all about the illegal conditions you inserted into your pilots’ contracts of employment following Captain Dan Murray’s overrun on landing a 380 at Heathrow last summer, and I’m also aware of Captain Farraday’s incident over the Pacific. If that’s not enough to ground your entire fleet instantly, I don’t know what is.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Ransome said, striking a conciliatory tone. ‘Is this some sort of threat, Mrs Cooper?’
‘My job is to determine the truth, Mr Ransome. You declined to appear at my inquest, but I think it’s only right that you now make a statement recording everything you know.’
He paused before responding.
‘What’s this about a bomb on the water?’
‘I’m sure your lawyers have told you – explosives residue was found on the bodies of both Mr Brogan and Amy Patterson. There was an explosion close to your plane that appears to have been connected with two Apache helicopters which arrived on the scene very soon after it went down. They were gone some time before the search and rescue Sea Kings arrived.’
‘My lawyers also told me you had been arrested for stealing evidence.’
‘Seizing, not stealing – there’s a difference. And you’re right to point out that what I’ve discovered hasn’t exactly been welcomed. But the way I see it, you’re better off owning up to a fault and fixing it than being responsible for another six hundred or more deaths.’
‘I’m not responsible.’
‘You knew your aircraft had a problem, Mr Ransome.’
‘No. I did not.’ He was emphatic. ‘Where are you, Mrs Cooper?’
‘A short distance from Bristol airport – why?’
‘If I sent a helicopter for you, would you agree to come and meet me?’
‘Now?’
‘Now would be perfect.’
TWENTY-FIVE
IT WAS TEN THIRTY-FIVE when the Bell JetRanger painted in full Ransome livery swung in a tight arc over the landing pad at Bristol Flight Centre in the south-east corner of the airport, and settled on the ground. Jenny had ignored the repeated calls from Alison, keeping her phone switched on only in the frustrated hope that Michael might still break his silence. Detective Sergeant Karen Fuller hadn’t wasted a moment. She had phoned at two minutes past ten to inform Jenny that she was officially in breach of bail and was liable to be arrested on sight. Jenny thanked her for the heads-up, but told her not to waste her day waiting: she wouldn’t be in a position to talk to her until at least the close of business.
The pilot jumped down from the cockpit and waved her over. He was evidently in a big hurry. Bracing herself against the downdraught from the idling rotors, she made her way towards the waiting machine.
‘Mrs Cooper?’ the pilot shouted over the noise of the engine.
‘Yes.’
‘Brendan Murphy. Welcome aboard.’
He opened the passenger door and helped her inside.
Jenny guessed that Brendan was a pilot whom Guy Ransome trusted for his experience. Silver-haired, but still an imposing physical presence, he exuded confidence and authority.
In moments they were airborne and leaving the airport behind. Skimming over the treetops and into a clear sky, Jenny felt like a fugitive making a jailbreak. Then it dawned on her: a fugitive was precisely what she was, and right now Karen Fuller would be emailing her photograph to every police station and patrol car in the country.
They tracked the M4 motorway eastwards, and in a little under thirty minutes were shearing off to the south and homing in on a grand Georgian estate surrounded by parkland. An ornamental lake shimmered silver in the winter sun. She had become used to the shuddering motion of the helicopter as it snatched at rather than glided through the air, but the sudden downwards swoop towards their destination had her forcing herself back into her seat.
Brendon threw her a friendly smile. ‘Just imagine you’re a bird.’
Guy Ransome’s personal assistant was waiting on the lawn at the rear of the hotel where the helicopter landed. She led Jenny along the gravel path towards a balustraded terrace than ran the entire length of the building, explaining that Mr Ransome was currently concluding a meeting and would be with her shortly.
The Cavendish was a hotel of the kind that would have impressed her ex-husband: loaded with chandeliers and ostentatious antiques. Jenny had never felt comfortable in such places, suspecting that in opulent surroundings men too often perceived women as part of the decoration.
She was shown into a large suite on the first floor and left alone to wait for Ransome. The view from the large windows took in the full sweep of the surrounding parkland. Sitting in the centre of a large table was a complex scale model of an Airbus A380 with the top half of the hull removed. Curious, Jenny took a closer look and saw that the seats in the cabin could be arranged in different configurations. Someone had left notes scribbled on a pad which appeared to show profit margins according to passenger numbers. Five hundred, six hundred, even eight hundred passengers were envisaged per flight. Amidst the tangle of figures the writer had circled the figure 800 and written: ‘Insurance? Safety?’ It was reassuring to know there were limits.
She had been waiting less than five minutes when Guy Ransome entered. For all his impressive height and immaculate tailoring, he showed every sign of having endured a very testing two weeks.
‘Mrs Cooper.’ He shook her hand and gestured her to sit on one of the suite’s two sofas. ‘Have you been offered coffee?’
‘I’m fine,’ Jenny said, anxious to get down to business, though suddenly unsure of her angle of attack.
Seizing on her uncertaint
y, Ransome took the initiative. ‘We both clearly have information the other would like to possess. The only problem remains what we each do with it.’
‘I’m not in the business of keeping secrets, Mr Ransome.’
‘You’re not in business at all – that’s what concerns me. But on the other hand, if my lawyers inform me correctly, you’re not in much of a position to be believed even if you were to go public with anything I might choose to share with you.’
Jenny paused to consider her next move. Ransome was prepared to trade, but wanted to control the flow of information to protect his airline. If she were to pursue a strictly ethical line she would have to refuse all attempts to gag her, but if she had learned one thing during the previous fortnight, it was that it doesn’t always pay to play by the rules. Getting justice wasn’t that different from getting ahead in business: in this fallen world, sometimes you have to play dirty.
‘I’ll be honest with you, Mr Ransome,’ Jenny said, preparing to be anything but. ‘What concerns me most is that whatever brought your plane down doesn’t happen again. Everyone wants that, I know. Until yesterday I would have said I was prepared to do whatever it takes, but faced with the prospect of losing my career I’m not sure I feel quite so bullish.’ She met his gaze, trying to signal that she was vulnerable. ‘In a way, you’re the passport out of my predicament. You see, if I know what happened to your aircraft I’m in a position to negotiate to keep my job. And if you have all the information I have, you’re in a position to save your business.’
Ransome stared at her for a long moment. She could tell he was trying to read her like he would a rival proposing a deal.
‘You want me to help you keep your job—’
‘And I help you to make your aircraft safe.’
‘You don’t make money killing your customers, Mrs Cooper.’
‘Then I think we understand each other. Who goes first?’
‘I will,’ Ransome said. He had decided to trust her. ‘You say you know about Dan Murray’s overrun and the problem with the autothrust failing to disengage?’
‘Mick Dalton told me it could have been pilot error, but I don’t think he believes that.’