Skinner's ordeal bs-5

by Quintin Jardine

  Their eyes met. 'Just one,' said Skinner, knowing that little Mark was too young to understand him, 'but from them all, it was him. You know, every so often something happens to make me think that there is a Fella up there after all, and that He knows what He's doing!'

  The soldier smiled. 'In my line of work, my friend, we never have a moment's doubt about that.'

  TWELVE

  Where's my Daddy?'

  Little Mark McGrath, the only survivor from the Lammermuirs disaster, as it had been christened already by the electronic media, sat on the edge of a table in the mobile Police Headquarters. As Skinner, Legge and the Lieutenant had found and rescued the Scottish Office Minister's son, the articulated office on wheels had been established on a site around half a mile beyond the scene of the crash, where it could tap into telephone cables.

  The child was wrapped in a blanket. Sarah Grace Skinner sat behind him on the table, squeezing his ribcage gently in search of any hidden fractures, as she completed her medical examination. If the boy had looked over his shoulder he would have seen that she was in tears.

  `Doctors don't believe in miracles,' she said quietly to her husband, 'but this is one. There isn't a scratch on him. Down there, people are-' She shuddered, and stopped herself just in time.

  `The water, the angle of descent, and the stewardess's cradling, must have cushioned him against the impact. From your description, I'd guess that the cabin crew all suffered fatal whiplash-type injuries. But Mark must have been curled up like a ball, and held safe. He's completely unscathed.'

  `Let's hope he stays that way, mentally,' said Skinner fervently.

  `Where's my Daddy?' asked the child again, more insistent this time, with more than an edge of fear in his voice. The last of his trembling had gone, but as the adults looked at him, each was torn by the haunted look in his eyes.

  `Your Daddy's had to go away,' said Maggie Rose gently. 'You know that happens sometimes, don't you?'

  The child nodded sagely. Even at his age he must have known the demands of a politician's life, for the answer seemed to satisfy him.

  `Mark,' asked the red-haired Inspector, 'do you know where your Mummy is today?'

  At the dentist in London.' The boy screwed up his face with distaste.

  `Do you know if she was coming up to join you later on?' `Yes. We're on holiday. From school,' he added, with emphasis.

  Is this your first year at school?'

  ‘Yess! Mummy teaches there. We're both on holiday. We have to go back on Monday morning, though. Daddy's going to take me to football tomorrow.'

  `Which team do you support?'

  `Celtic' The boy stuck out his chest, proudly. In spite of himself, and for the first time that morning, Skinner laughed. Suddenly he felt Sarah tug at his sleeve.

  `Bob. I have to go back' He looked down at her. The tears had stopped, but her face was ghostly white and drawn. He guessed at the images which were before her eyes, and his heart went out to her.

  `No love, you don't,' he said quietly. 'There are other doctors on the scene now.'

  `But no one else to organise. There's no one else here who's been involved in the contingency planning for this sort of thing.'

  Others have. I'll get one of them.'

  She shook her head. 'No special treatment for the DCC's wife. I signed up for this sort of thing, and I'm here. I have to go back.' She pulled her hand away from his and left the office, almost at a run.

  Through the window he watched her, as she climbed into her car. He had never seen this Sarah before, and he was frightened by her; even more frightened for her.

  `Sir,' Maggie Rose broke into his thoughts. He turned round towards her, and the boy, who was concentrating on liberating a four-finger KitKat biscuit from its wrapper.

  `We should ask him now — about what happened.'

  He looked at his assistant. 'You're trained in interviewing kids, Mags. But are you sure it's safe? Couldn't we damage him?'

  Obviously he doesn't understand what's happened. There's trauma, but he isn't able to comprehend the scale or the consequences. It's probably better that we help him to talk about it now, rather than later… if you know what I mean.' Skinner winced at the thought of the child's pain to come when he learned of his father's death. His mind went back almost twenty years, to a young Police Sergeant breaking the news to his daughter, even younger then than Mark, that her mother was gone for ever. He remembered her initial disbelief, then her refusal to understand him, and finally her confusion as she struggled to come to terms with a concept which was beyond her ability to comprehend. The picture was as clear in his mind as a video recording, and with it was his recollection of his struggle to keep the tears from his own eyes as he explained, as best he could, life, death and the cruelty of fate to four-year-old Alex.

  All right. You can talk to him,' he said at last, in a voice not much above a whisper. 'But stop at the first sign of distress.'

  Unnoticed by the child, he switched on a black tape recorder which lay upon the table.

  `Mark,' said Maggie, 'why were you in the cockpit?'

  He looked up at her. 'April took me in,' he said through a mouthful of KitKat. 'Mr Shipley wanted to show me how to fly the plane, she said.'

  Was that good? Did you enjoy it?'

  He nodded vigorously, chewing and swallowing.

  `Do you want to be a pilot when you grow up?'

  He shook his head. 'Can't.'

  `Why not?' said Rose, intrigued by his earnest answer. "Cos I'm going to be Prime Minister. Daddy says.'

  The Inspector suppressed a smile.

  `When you were in the cockpit: do you remember what happened?'

  The child screwed up his eyes, as if to emphasise that he was concentrating. 'There was a huge Bang!' He squealed the word, for extra effect, and the listeners started slightly. 'From behind the door.' Rose glanced at Skinner.

  `Then what?' she went on quickly.

  `Mr Shipley said to put our seat-belts on. I didn't have one, but April sat down and put hers on, then put an extension thing around. Then she cuddled me. It was nice. She gave me a sweet.'

  `What else did Mr Shipley say?'

  `He said "We're going to do an Emergency Routine now, Mark. You have to sit with April." Emergency Routine.' He stuck out his chest once more, as if pleased by his pronunciation of the phrase.

  `Then Mr Shipley started saying "Madie!" into his microphone. He told me that you have to shout "Madie!" in an Emergency Routine.'

  `Then what happened?'

  He looked at her, puzzled.

  `What did you see?'

  `Nothing. Because April was cuddling me. She was holding my head. In there.' A small hand emerged from the folds of the blanket and pointed to Maggie's bosom. 'I could hardly breathe.'

  `She was cuddling you tight, in there?'

  `Mmm.' He spoke through another finger of KitKat. Did you hear anything, apart from Mr Shipley?'

  The child munched and knitted his brows. 'Nothing.' He paused. 'No noise. No engines.'

  `Then what happened?'

  Listening and watching, Skinner realised suddenly that he was holding his breath. He filled his lungs.

  `The plane went "Boinng!" and bounced. There was a huge big splash, and it went

  "Boinng!". My tummy went all funny. Daddy and Mummy took me to Alton Towers, on the great big ride there. It was just like that, only my tummy went a lot more funny this time.' Mark's eyes were shining — with the memory of his terror, Skinner imagined.

  `Then it went "Boinng!" again, and again.'

  And all this time April was still cuddling you?'

  Until she made a funny noise and let me go.'

  `When was that?'

  I think it was just before the plane stopped.'

  After the water came in?'

  Mark creased his brows again, his special concentration sign. `No. Before.'

  Did the water come in all of a sudden?'

  `No. Slowly.'

  `Did
Mr Shipley say anything else? Or April, or Mr Garrett?' `No. I asked Mr Shipley, "Is this still Emergency Routine?" but he didn't say anything.

  `Were you frightened when the water came in?'

  Not really,' said the boy slowly. He was an unconvincing liar. `What did you do?'

  I undid my belt, and climbed up, till it stopped.'

  `Were you frightened at all?'

  Mark turned his head and looked up at Skinner, shyly embarrassed. 'Yes,' he said, reluctantly and quietly. 'Most of all when Mr Bob banged on the window and broke it.'

  `Why were you especially frightened then?' asked Maggie. "Cos I thought he was a big thing come to eat me, like in Power Rangers.'

  Again, Skinner laughed aloud. 'No chance of that, Mark. I don't eat wee boys. Just policemen!'

  THIRTEEN

  They sat in the small private area at the far end of the mobile office, a few feet away from the child survivor, who crouched in his blanket, still unconcerned, drinking Coca-Cola from a can, through a straw, and now devastating a Tunnock's Caramel wafer.

  `Tell you something, Mags,' said Skinner. I'm going to make sure that flight crew, and especially April the stewardess, get some sort of posthumous award. I don't think I'll have too much trouble persuading the Secretary of State to recommend it.

  I saw the co-pilot. His neck was snapped by the whiplash of the first impact, and I think his seat-belt had cut right into him. That girl must have kept calm and held on to wee Mark with the last breath in her body.'

  Maggie Rose looked at the boy. 'I can't get over it, sir. The only child on board, and the only survivor.'

  `Don't dwell on it. Like I said, million to one shots do come up. Someone wins the lottery every week.'

  `What about the mother?'

  `Jim Elder phoned, while you were getting the wee chap his Coke. The Scottish Office people in London were going to break the news to her, and arrange for her to be brought up. Roland McGrath's father is on his way out here to pick up Mark. He's collecting some clothes for him on the way. D'you hear that, Mark?' he called out to the boy. 'Your grandpa's coming to get you. He'll take you to meet your mum.'

  The child looked up and grinned. 'Can we go to UCI?' In the afternoon? That would be a treat, wouldn't it.' `Can I come and see your police station?'

  Skinner smiled, and knelt down by the boy's perch on the table. 'Very soon, you can come and spend a whole day with Maggie and me. You can be a police cadet. We'll show you all over our headquarters. You'll even meet the Chief Constable in his big silver uniform.'

  `Honest?'

  `Dead cert, cross my heart honest.'

  He ruffled the child's blond hair, dried now but streaked with mud, and left him to his Coke. As he did so, a phone sounded at the other end of the van, but stopped on the second ring.

  Skinner looked towards the sound. 'That'll be Jim Elder's fax,' he said. 'He told me that they had identified most of the passengers, by address, next-of-kin and job, and that he would send it out here.' He glanced back towards Rose. 'He said it would make our hair stand on end.'

  The Inspector walked across to the fax machine and watched as the last of the five pages rolled silently from its printer. When it had stopped, she picked them up, checked the page order and handed them to Skinner.

  The DCC glanced through the list, then re-read it, more slowly. He looked through it a third time, as if to confirm what he had seen.

  The final page was a summary of the list. 'Jesus, Maggie,' he muttered, 'would you look at this! In that plane, we had a member of the House of Lords, two Directors of the Bank of Scotland, seven senior executives of major insurance companies, five directors of a major brewery, eighty-five administrators of various companies, thirteen civil servants of various grades, and one senior policeman — one of our own. On top of that, we had twenty-seven foreign businessmen — eight Japanese, five Americans, four Germans, six French, two Spanish, one Israeli, and one Czech. Last but not least there were the six MPs we know about — one Nat, one Lib Dem, two Tories and two Labour.'

  He laid the paper on a desk and shook his head. 'Maggie, a disaster like this is a human tragedy on an enormous scale. This one's a corporate tragedy as well. And it's a political tragedy. It strikes at the whole fabric of the Scottish economy. And with the loss of Roy Old, we suffer too.'

  He looked at his assistant. She had gone chalk-white and her hands were covering her face. `Mags, I'm sorry,' he said, realising at once. 'No one told you. Yes, Roy was on the plane. I expected Jim Elder to put an announcement round Fettes. It must have gone out after you left.'

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. 'You see, kid? None of us are special. None of us are immune. None of us are free from blame. I sent him down there, and I won't be able to cut myself loose from that one for a long time. I'll tell you something though, and you remember it. If you want to get to the top in this game, you have to practise being callous.

  Just like you might think I'm going to be now.'

  He picked up a telephone from the desk and dialled, from memory, a mobile number.

  It was answered in seconds. 'Detective Superintendent Martin.'

  Andy, it's Bob here. Are you in mid-session?' He paused. `Well, leave the room and call me back on this number.' He read from a handwritten list on the desk, then replaced the phone, to Pick it up as soon as it rang ten seconds later.

  Andy? Right. I've got some pretty shocking news for you, I'm afraid.' Quickly and with no frills, he told Andy Martin of the crash and of Roy Old's death. There was a silence while the news sank in.

  `Yes, I know. It would have to be Roy. Aye, and with him and Lottie right on the edge of retirement. But, terrible as it is, unfair or not, life goes on. It means my game plan goes into play a year or so early. You'll be Roy's successor as Head of CID. Pull out of the Drugs Liaison thing, right now, and get back up here. I need you.

  `This my friend, will be the biggest investigation that you and I have ever tackled.'

  FOURTEEN

  The Permanent Secretary told me that official attendance at scenes like this was one of the burdens of my office, Mr Skinner. But he couldn't help me to prepare for it.'

  The Rt. Hon. Andrew Hardy MP, Secretary of State for Scotland, and his Security Adviser, walked slowly through the valley amid the wreckage and the heather, and at the heart of a forest of white marker flags. Around them the area was strewn with flight seats, some still in rows, some broken apart and lying individually. By now at least, all of the seats around them were empty.

  Both men were ashen-faced.

  It's your burden, but it's a duty of my job too, Secretary of State,' said Bob Skinner, 'and of every man and woman here. I don't make political comments as a rule, but next time public sector pay, or staffing comes up in Cabinet, I hope you'll remember this morning.

  This is the most horrible task Society could ask any man or woman to perform, yet look around you. You'll see tens and hundreds of people carrying it out without question, although every one of them will be scarred by the experience. They'll carry it with them for the rest of their lives. And so will you. I'm sure it will make you an even better advocate on their behalf.'

  The politician looked at the policeman, and nodded.

  Skinner had got on well with the Secretary of State, ever since he had agreed to continue to act as his Security Adviser. However, he had been careful to deal more formally with Hardy than with his predecessor, having learned from that disastrous relationship that when dealing with Ministers of the Crown it is safest to serve the office rather than the man.

  Or as Sir James Proud had put it in a moment of typical candour: 'Now you know, Bob.

  Never trust the bastards any further than you can throw them.'

  Privately, Skinner felt that he could trust the straightforward, serious Hardy, but hoped that he would never have to put it to the test.

  `Where should we go now?' asked the Secretary of State. Skinner had briefed him earlier, in the command trailer, on the disaster and on the wit
ness accounts of an explosion. Hardy had absorbed the information calmly and without any sign of panic.

  I suppose we'd better look at the mortuary tent.' The policeman nodded upwards. Just beyond the crest of the slope, they could see the ridge of a great grey marquee which had been set up by the Army.

  `Very good. Let's give these chaps a hand.' Two soldiers were walking past them, beginning the trudge up the hill with a laden, blanket-covered stretcher. The Secretary of State took a handle at the front, Skinner at the rear.

  `Doesn't bear thinking about,' said Hardy quietly, as they climbed. 'This could be Colin Davey, or Roly McGrath that we're carrying.

  Skinner glanced down at a small, bare, bloody foot which showed beyond the end of the blanket, and saw red nail-varnish.

  `No,' he said. 'This was a woman.' He saw no point in reminding the Minister that from the accounts of Robert Thacker and the child, Davey and McGrath had been at the heart of an explosion big enough to blow the plane's nose section away from its fuselage.

  There had been no room in the Army transporters for trestle tables, and so, inside the long tent, the victims recovered from the valley had been laid on the ground, in neat, ordered rows. Each one was in a black, zippered body-bag.

  As Skinner, the Secretary of State and the soldiers laid their stretcher on the ground near one of the tied back entrances to the marquee, Sarah rushed across. Bob opened his mouth to introduce her to Hardy, but she ignored him and bent beside the stretcher. Her face was drawn and her eyes were creased. She was just over thirty, but for the first time ever, her husband saw how she would look in middle age.

  Without a word, she drew back the blanket covering the body. Skinner felt the Secretary of State flinch beside him, and heard his gasp as he caught a glimpse of bloody blonde hair, and of a face without recognisable features. 'That's done by the seat in front,' said Sarah, in an emotionless, professional voice, acknowledging their presence without looking up. 'The brace position gives you a chance in a low-level impact, say a crash landing, but in an incident like this, there's no chance at all. All that the doctors here are doing is certifying death' As if to illustrate she placed two fingers against the woman's neck.