The Death Pictures

by Simon Hall

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m Phil Webber, Deputy Director of Wessex Airport. I’ve got a statement for you and then I’ll take questions. Is everyone ready?’

  There was a good-natured chorus of ‘yes’. A big story always cheered the hacks, despite the cool drizzle that was moping from the leaden sky.

  ‘At 1.31 this afternoon, a twin-engined passenger plane en route from the Channel Islands to Plymouth suffered a failure in its undercarriage whilst landing. The structure supporting the left wheel failed to lock and collapsed on contact with the runway. The plane skidded along on one wheel and its wing, which then caught fire. When the plane came to a halt, the cabin crew put the emergency procedures into place and evacuated the aircraft. I’m pleased to say all 24 people on board were unharmed. They were shaken but unhurt. They were taken to hospital for a check up, but all have now been released. The airport’s emergency plan was put into action, with fire engines and ambulances scrambled. The fire was put out, but, I’m happy to say, apart from that they weren’t needed. An investigation into what happened has begun. The airport was closed for a couple of hours this afternoon, but has now fully reopened. I must stress, incidents of this nature are extremely rare and flying remains a very safe form of travel. Thank you.’

  There was a second’s pause for the hacks to digest that, then the questions poured in.

  ‘Did the wet weather have anything to do with it?’

  ‘No. We don’t think so.’

  ‘How long will the investigation take?’

  ‘We don’t know yet.’

  ‘Are any of the passengers or crew available to speak to us?’

  ‘No.’

  Dan signalled the cut throat motion to Nigel to tell him to stop recording. This wasn’t worth taping.

  ‘Mr Webber, Dan Groves, Wessex Tonight. Are you available to be interviewed here live tonight?’

  ‘No.’

  Can’t blame him, Dan thought. The story wouldn’t exactly look good for the airport. It would just be himself appearing then, but that was fine. The report was much more important than any interview. And how sweet to hear that none of the passengers would be interviewed by the other hacks.

  Dan climbed into the outside broadcast van beside Loud.

  ‘Ready in a minute,’ he said. ‘Just got to call the newsdesk for instructions.’

  Lizzie answered the phone. Not unusual that when a big story was unfolding. She liked to know everything first. Dan explained the details. An editor with less of a sharp nose for news might have thought the lack of deaths softened the splash. Not Lizzie. She had an almost supernatural ability to sense an angle.

  Plane crashes were always a big story, but what you could usually guarantee was people being killed. And based on the classical theory that the definition of news is that which is out of the ordinary – not dog bites man, but man bites dog – a crash with everyone surviving ranked even higher in a good editor’s esteem. There was a final blunt but winning point in the debate. Survivors could tell their gripping accounts of what happened. That wasn’t exactly an option in a normal plane crash scenario.

  Dan sensed her thoughts, and just managed to get his words in first. ‘I reckon we go for a miraculous escape-type story.’

  ‘My idea exactly. It’s extraordinary. Great tale. Do it. I want lots. I want people. I want pictures. I want shock. I want power. I want emotion.’

  They started editing. Loud put down a couple of pictures of the wrecked plane, a wide shot first, then a detailed close up of the charred wing. Dan added his commentary, just a few sparse words. He wanted to quickly get to the survivors’ accounts. They were the important part, the drama.

  ’24 people were on board the plane when the undercarriage collapsed on landing,’ he intoned. ‘There was a fire and extensive damage, but all were evacuated safely.’

  Ideal, two lines just to set up what happened and see the damage the crash had caused. The viewers would be in no doubt how lucky the passengers were to escape. Then it was into the interviews, the young man first, then the woman. He used all they had to say. The power of their story needed no embellishment.

  After that, they put down some general shots of the airport. Dan talked about it being closed for a couple of hours and an investigation launched, the reason for the undercarriage failure unknown. Then it was into some clips of the fire service and the airport’s Deputy Director. Lastly came more pictures of the crashed plane and the pay off piece of commentary, not exciting but necessary. The basic details of where the plane was from and going to next.

  They watched it back. Not a bad piece of work, Dan thought. Three minutes worth and it flies by. Time for the live report.

  He squeezed his earpiece in and hopped out of the van. Nigel had set up the camera with a view back onto the runway and the wrecked plane, now covered in a quilt of blue and grey tarpaulins. This time they wouldn’t do an opening live link. The newsreader back in the studio would introduce the report. It was better to get straight onto the pictures and hear from the survivors, not have Dan standing waffling for 30 seconds to set the scene.

  He came in after the report with some details of the normally good safety record of the plane and the airport, important for context. They got the all clear from the broadcast gallery and Dan said goodbye to Nigel and Loud, jumped into a waiting taxi and was away, back to the flat for a quick wash and change. He hadn’t had much time to talk to El in the media scrum, but they’d arranged to meet at eight in the Old Bank for a couple of beers and a debrief. El’s beaming grin said he had something interesting to tell.

  El was in his usual alcove opposite the bar. Like a spider lying in wait, Dan thought. His grin hadn’t dimmed and he had a whisky on the table in front of him next to his pint.

  ‘Another?’ asked Dan.

  ‘The pint’s still OK, but I wouldn’t mind a nice spirit. Surprise me.’

  Dan strolled over to the bar. He ordered himself some ale and was tempted to get El a Campari and soda – that would certainly surprise him – but he opted for vodka instead. Neat.

  ‘What are you grinning about, then?’ Dan asked, taking his coat off and sitting down.

  Outside, the drizzle had turned into persistent rain. He sipped the beer. It tasted good, very good. With El in this sort of mood, it could be a long night. He hadn’t lost the taste for beer after that excellent lunchtime session with Ed. The plane crash had taken his mind off it, but he was pleased to find it lingering. Even more pleased that the excitement of the crash had forced the swamp back, for now at least.

  ‘I got some great snaps of that plane before they covered it over with tarpaulins,’ said El. ‘No one else did. Ta for the tip. They’ll bring me a few quid. The papers are going for it as an extraordinary escape story.’

  ‘Yeah, that was the line I took. It’s a good tale. But you sounded like you were up to something before that. So come on, what is it? McCluskey?’

  El’s grin stayed fixed, but he shook his head. ‘You said you’d found out something. You go first.’

  Dan didn’t bother arguing, told him what he’d learned from Ed about McCluskey’s life and possible hints regarding the solution to the riddle. The photographer’s eyes widened when Dan explained about Joanna and how she could be one of the women in the Death Pictures. El leaned back, joined his hands behind his head and sighed.

  ‘I knew it was my day,’ he said happily.

  ‘Come on then, what have you found?’ asked Dan.

  ‘I’ve found the other one.’

  ‘The other what? The other woman?’ El nodded, beaming. ‘How?’

  ‘Well, it’s like this. You know I went to the Fancy Dress shop?’

  ‘Yeah… I did think it odd for a while, but then knowing you…’

  ‘I got myself a very convincing doctor’s white coat and stethoscope because I
was following a hunch. I reckoned this. Where would McCluskey be more likely to meet a nice young lady who he’d become attached to than in the hospital where he was being treated for his cancer? So I staked out the oncology unit over a few days and guess who I should bump into? A beautiful blonde woman with glasses. A Dr Rebecca Sanders, cancer specialist. I asked her why she looked familiar. Had I seen her in some picture somewhere? She didn’t say anything, just blushed and hurried off. I took that as a yes and after the passage of a couple of bottles of malt whisky to the all-knowing hospital porters, Dirty El discovers it’s the talk of the ward. I’ve got a few lovely snaps of her.’ El’s grin widened. ‘That’s one down and one to go. And we’ve got a good lead on the other one too, so I reckon we’re well on the way.’

  El held up his vodka and downed it in one. ‘Here’s to Joseph McCluskey. Cheers!’

  Chapter Fifteen

  He swallowed to keep the anger down and flinched at the burning in his stomach. No one did this to him. No one. Fellow barristers, solicitors, even judges might try it on. But he could always better them. No dull-headed, fat and ugly woman plod was going to get away with it.

  The police car had followed him to his chambers again this morning and his fellows were starting to notice. Notice, and have a joke at his expense, and no one did that to Edward Munroe. No one. You didn’t become a Law Lord by being a figure of fun on your home circuit. He rubbed his stomach. The humiliation was giving him heartburn.

  ‘Morning Edward! The police recognised your talents need safeguarding, eh? They’ve been told to keep a future Attorney General under close protection no doubt. Don’t want the future of the British legal system imperilled in any way…’

  That, from a fellow barrister, was just about bearable. But from the lowly chambers’ clerk, no more than a jumped-up bloody bookkeeper…

  ‘Good morning sir,’ the obnoxious little man had chirped. ‘Have you become a master criminal over the weekend? What was it, doing 32 in a 30 limit? Or you haven’t been riding a bike without lights again have you? And you, a bastion of the law…’

  He’d had to hide his clenched fists in the pockets of his bespoke suit. This nonsense had been going on quite long enough. It would stop.

  He knew what it was all about. His refusal to give that DNA sample of course. They were trying to intimidate him. Utterly disgraceful and totally unacceptable he would call it, to hound a man because of his beliefs. He swiped away a pile of papers on his polished teak desk and caught a glance of his reflection in the shining wood. He looked jaded he thought, a little sweaty, not his usual clinically composed self, and it was all because of the stupid damned idiot police. It was the kind of behaviour more befitting a tin-pot dictatorship, not a fine and free democracy like the one he was so proud to serve.

  The very words he would use, the very words. And he’d add a little snipe about the dreadful waste of scarce resources too, when such a dangerous criminal as this rapist remained at large.

  He slid some personal headed notepaper out of his drawer and poised his fountain pen above it. Having that dullard of an Assistant Chief Constable as a dining companion was a most useful asset sometimes, even if it meant hours of suffering the man’s stupefying anecdotes. A letter first, then followed up with a phone call.

  ‘Dear Brian,

  I am so sorry to trouble you, but you should be aware of some most unacceptable events which are unfolding within your constabulary. It is my unfortunate duty to have to complain in the strongest of terms...’

  Edward Munroe felt himself relax as he wrote. He bet himself a box of Havana cigars that his escort would be gone by tomorrow.

  He didn’t know whether to rage, be shocked or feel sick. So they thought he was a paedophile.

  Will Godley had seen the neighbours gossiping in the street. Little gangs of two or three chatting, sly and secretive, pointing over to his house, the patrol car outside, the policeman sometimes sitting inside reading a book, sometimes leaning on the bonnet.

  It was the man’s cheerfulness that irritated him most. Always that bloody ‘Good morning, Sir!’ or ‘Good afternoon, Sir!’ or whatever. And it was the sarcasm too. ‘Just doing my rounds, sir…’ his rounds which consisted of Will Godley’s home, or outside the dockyard while he was at work, or even the pub when he fancied a pint.

  He could have handled it if it hadn’t been for the graffiti he’d found sprayed on his wall this morning. Yellow paint, appalling handwriting and even worse spelling, but the message very clear.

  ‘PEEDO’

  He could hardly believe it. He’d had to sit down on the wall to look again. Surely they didn’t think? They couldn’t think..? Him, a devoted Dad to his kids, a man who’d be even more dedicated if the bloody courts and system would give him a chance. Him!

  But he could see how it would add up to the locals. Some here knew he had kids but didn’t get to see them much. He’d moaned about that enough down the boozer. And then there was this police watch on him. Yes, he saw how it could look.

  He knew what it was all about, of course, but he wasn’t giving them that DNA sample. Sod them. He owed the system nothing – it owed him – and he wasn’t going to help them, not in any way whatsoever. Why should he? He’d done nothing wrong. Quite the opposite. Sod them.

  He wasn’t putting up with this. It was harassment and he knew just what to do about that. No point in complaining to the cops, they were all in this together. But he knew a better way, to embarrass them and force them to leave him alone.

  He took a can of lager from the fridge, lit a cigarette and opened the packet of writing paper he’d bought from the corner shop. Letters of protest to The Wessex Standard, the Western Daily News and the TV. They’d love a story about a waste of police resources at a time when they should be devoting their efforts to catching the rapist. That would do it.

  Steven Freeman scarcely bothered checking his mirror for the police car. He was content it would be with him, like the guardian angel it had become. And yes, there it was, a couple of cars back in the traffic.

  He’d relaxed now, worked out they had nothing on him, nothing at all. Otherwise they would have arrested him, wouldn’t they? They were just trying to push him into a mistake. Well, they were out of luck.

  They were taking the piss out of him, so he’d decided to turn their little game around and take the piss out of them. Night shifts were always the most lucrative in taxiing. The turnout from the pubs and clubs left the city awash with fares. Working ten at night to four in the morning could make you a pretty penny, but there was a price.

  He’d stopped doing them, got sick of the aggro. The rows about the fares, the threats and fights, the people who sprinted off without paying. But now he was back on nights and raking in the cash without any hassle at all. He turned the radio up as the guitar of T. Rex’s ‘Get it On’ rang out. Good driving music. It was amazing how well your passengers behaved with a police escort right behind you.

  One of the modern wonders of the world it was often called, and Dan couldn’t disagree.

  He hadn’t been to the Advent Project for more than a year and was amazed how it had grown. As Environment Correspondent, he’d seen it rise from a sludge-filled china clay pit in an overlooked part of Cornwall to become one of Britain’s finest attractions. Every time he visited he wondered at the huge bubble domes, their plastic skin and the lightweight silver metal web that anchored them together. Inside thrived a living and ever-changing theatre, the bursting trees and plants, towering into the air, a spectrum of dizzying colour in leaves and blossoms and blooms.

  Dan hardly noticed the jungle of the tropical zone crowding around him. His interest wasn’t what was on show, but what could be hidden. The answer to McCluskey’s riddle. He sat down on one of the tyres – part of the rubber display – and looked around, wondering if the solution could really be here.

  To hi
s side, a waterfall cascaded and crashed from the rock face fifty feet up at the peak of the dome. Its cooling spray split the sunlight into floating rainbows and wafted a welcome relief from the cloying humidity of the air. Wax-leaved plants waved contentedly and spots of vibrant red and yellow flowers crept up the cliff. A slow snake of people trundled past, pointing, touching and talking, all struggling to take in the spectacle.

  So McCluskey was a big advocate of Advent. It meant a lot to him. So what? Was there something here that would help? Was the answer here? Dan leafed through the prints of the pictures and his notes, more covered with question marks than anything else.

  The grid references he thought might have existed in the pictures didn’t mean anything in Advent, or anywhere near it. Nowhere at all in fact. He’d wondered if the PIN numbers might have something to do with the range of interactive exhibits they had in the visitor centre, but nothing tallied. On a whim he’d even checked the pay phones for numbers containing 225, but found nothing. So he sat, stumped again. Still, it was a beautiful place to be baffled in. He wiped some of the waterfall’s drifting spray from his face and tried to force his mind to find the elusive inspiration.

  What about symbolism in the pictures? Was he taking them too literally, looking for grid references and PIN numbers? Possibly, but he’d always had the feeling the answer was in the numbers and he’d learned never to ignore his hunches.

  Hang on, picture four. What was picture four? Dan fumbled it out. The drooping clock in the desert landscape. The next dome was the Mediterranean zone. And that looked like a desert. It was worth a try. It had to be. He picked up his papers and made his way towards it.

  A very different feel to this dome, he thought. The air was drier and the plants less lush, built to survive, not flourish as they had in the tropical zone. Spidery fronds against the sandy earth, bare rock faces with only splashes of dry green clinging on grimly. He checked picture four again. It did look similar. He felt another growing excitement and checked himself. Don’t get too enthused. OK, it looked similar, but it was still a huge area he was facing here. Where to start? Where to look? And what for? Did he expect the answer to be here, or just another clue? Or anything at all?