B006U13W The Flight (Jenny Cooper 4) nodrm (27 page)

The marquee was momentarily lit up by a barrage of camera flashes capturing the moment of admission. The reporters had their story: the world’s largest airliner humbled by the forces of nature.

The image on the screen flicked back to the animation of the aircraft in flight. In a deadpan voice, Marsham explained the final movements of the aircraft through the air as it pitched upwards, then began its erratic, see-sawing descent. The journalists fell silent as professional objectivity was temporarily replaced by raw, human horror at what nearly six hundred passengers on board must have endured throughout those six tortuous minutes.

The precise sequence of stalls was a matter of educated guesswork based on the air traffic control data, Marsham emphasized, but what was known from the condition of the wreckage was that the aircraft struck the water belly first, snapping cleanly in two places due to the force of impact combined with the stresses it had endured in the air. The animation on the screen showed the final break-up: the hull hit the water tail-first and broke into three pieces; the fore section tipped forwards and torpedoed down to the seabed, where it lodged in the silt; the mid- and tail sections flooded with water in a matter of seconds and sank.

‘Again, this remains a matter of speculation, but we are of the opinion that, given perhaps only a few hundred feet more, the aircraft might have slowed sufficiently to have avoided break-up on impact. We are of the view that Captain Murray had succeeded in gaining at least partial control. At this early stage it remains impossible to say what precise effect pilot actions had on the final outcome of the flight, but we are as certain as we can be that neither Captain Murray nor First Officer Stevens was responsible for initiating the fatal chain of events.’

Jenny wondered why Marsham hadn’t seized on the conclusion that Glen Francis had reached in the simulator – that Murray had reacted out of fear and contrary to correct protocols, in effect causing the sequence of stalls – but then realized that his preliminary findings had left the door open just enough to allow that possibility through at a later date. The lightning theory was convincing enough for now. The news media would be kept amused for the next few days trawling universities for experts on freak weather to fill their schedules. The blame could yet be switched to Murray if circumstances demanded.

Sir James Kendall stepped forward to chair the brief question-and-answer session that followed. For the most part, the press made only predictable enquiries. Could Marsham be certain a bomb hadn’t been detonated inside the plane? Had the possibility of hijack been ruled out? Could he discount the rumour that an RAF jet had been scrambled to shoot the aircraft out of the sky when communications with the ground failed? All of these Marsham dealt with easily. It was only when discussing Captain Murray that he displayed signs of anxiety.

‘Is it true that Captain Murray was called in as a last-minute replacement for the pilot scheduled to fly the plane?’ a journalist from the Spanish newspaper
El País
enquired.

‘Yes, I understand Captain Murray took the place of Captain Finlay, who was unable to fly through illness,’ Marsham said, ‘but there are often changes to flight crew late in the day, especially in the wintertime, when pilots come down with colds and flu like the rest of us.’

The journalist persisted. ‘Is it true that Murray hadn’t taken leave for over seven months?’

‘I must confess I haven’t examined his flying records in detail.’

Sir James Kendall pointed to a young female reporter from CNN. If he had hoped she would prove more sympathetic, he was to be disappointed.

‘Why didn’t Captain Murray switch on the seat-belt signs when First Officer Stevens suggested it? It leaves the impression that he wasn’t overly concerned with the safety of his passengers.’

‘Captains make these judgements every day,’ Marsham stalled. ‘I’m sure he would have done nothing to jeopardize the safety of those on board.’

The young woman shot back. ‘You had a captain who was clearly overworked, and an under-slept first officer who was planning a wild night out in New York. Is this responsible behaviour for men with hundreds of lives in their hands?’

‘We will of course be checking that flight crew were abiding by all the appropriate regulations.’ Marsham’s voice held steady, although it was clear from the sweat now trickling from his temples that he had been caught off his guard.

‘This is all about money, isn’t it?’ the reporter countered. ‘When you have two tired men flying six hundred passengers you know too many corners are being cut. Does Ransome Airways skimp on its maintenance engineers too?’

Sir James Kendall eased Marsham aside. ‘The purpose of this news conference is to share with you what we already know, not to speculate on things about which we have incomplete knowledge. The practices of the airline involved will of course be examined closely. We’ve time for one final question. The man in the brown jacket—’

A reporter with a pronounced Chinese accent spoke up, announcing that he was from Taiwan Television news. ‘Can you please tell us, are you investigating the theory that this aircraft was targeted because it was carrying several important and noteworthy passengers?’

Sir James Kendall looked uncomfortable. ‘The evidence all points to this aircraft having been brought down by a freak natural event, and every transatlantic flight invariably carries important and noteworthy people.’

‘So you have closed your mind to this possibility?’

‘My task as coroner is to deal with the evidence as it presents itself, not to indulge in theorizing. Thank you, everybody.’

Kendall gathered his papers and, ignoring the clamour to answer further questions, ushered Marsham from the platform.

‘There’s always one, isn’t there?’ Moreton said. ‘Why can’t people be content to believe that there’s such a thing as an accident?’

‘Perhaps if they trusted the messenger they would.’

‘Kendall’s as straight as they come,’ Moreton protested.

‘I’m sure he is.’ Jenny changed the subject. ‘Well, if you’re still feeling strong enough, I’ll give you a tour of the sights, shall I?’

‘Excellent.’ He glanced beyond her to one of the dignitaries sitting further along the front row. ‘I’ll catch up with you outside in just a moment. It’s the Permanent Secretary from the Department for Transport – I ought to say hello.’

‘No problem.’

Leaving Moreton to grease the wheels of government, Jenny seized the chance to disappear into the crowd of departing journalists and catch up with the Taiwanese reporter whose question had prompted Kendall to bring proceedings to a halt. Dodging between news crews busy sending live pictures out across the world, she collared him just inside the entrance to the marquee.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, tapping his shoulder.

He turned, a little startled by her unannounced approach. ‘Yes?’

Her eyes dipped to the press pass all journalists were obliged to wear around their necks and she saw that his name was Wen Chen.

‘Jenny Cooper, Severn District Coroner.’ She fished into her jacket pocket and brought out a business card. ‘I’m inquiring into the death of the man who was sailing a yacht—’

‘I know about your investigation, Mrs Cooper.’

‘Oh –’

‘I’ve spoken to Mrs Patterson, or rather she has spoken to me.’

‘I see.’ She glanced back through the crowd and saw that Moreton was deep in conversation with his colleague. ‘Would you have a moment, Mr Chen?’

His eyes flitted left and right and he motioned towards the exit.

They stepped out of the marquee and sheltered from the steady drizzle under the canvas awning.

‘What can I do for you, Mrs Cooper?’ Chen asked cagily.

‘I was interested in your question. I know about Jimmy Han, but you seemed to imply there were other passengers on board with significant enemies.’

‘Yes—’

‘I’d be interested to know who you think they are.’

Chen looked at her with an expression she couldn’t fathom. ‘Talk to Mrs Patterson.’

‘With all due respect to Mrs Patterson, I’m not sure—’

‘She has all the information.’ Chen waited for a group of fellow reporters to pass out of earshot. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I’ve got kids, responsibilities – you understand?’

Jenny struggled to reconcile the timid man in front of her with the aggressive journalist she had witnessed only a few moments before. ‘Has something happened since you asked those questions, Mr Chen?’

‘Speak to Mrs Patterson.’ He handed back her business card. ‘Good luck.’ He turned and walked hurriedly away.

The strange shift in Chen’s demeanour continued to play on Jenny’s mind as she led Moreton on a tour of the D-Mort. She kept up a steady flow of chatter even as they were touring the mortuary and examining the banks of refrigerators which would continue to hold the bodies of the victims in a state of limbo for months to come, but her thoughts were preoccupied with what had caused the journalist to clam up.

In the company of Simon Moreton it was possible to believe that everyone in authority was as fair and benevolent as he appeared to be. She wanted to believe Marsham and Kendall’s version of events – nothing was more appealing than a neat, logical explanation leaving no one to blame – but the inner voice she had tried so hard to silence was crying out to her that she couldn’t.

‘Are you all right, Jenny – too much for you?’

‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

‘I could tell. It doesn’t say much for my conversation.’

They were walking back along the covered walkway from the mortuary, passing a stack of portable offices signed Evidence and Effects.

‘I was thinking about the little girl on board – Amy Patterson.’

‘What about her?’

‘The fact that she so nearly survived . . . Did you know she called her father on the way down? He told her to put on a lifejacket. According to the pathologists, she was the only one in the whole craft to have been wearing one.’

Moreton paled. ‘Oh? Did she say anything that might be of use to us?’

‘Us?’

‘To the inquiry, I mean,’ he added hurriedly.

‘There was no explosion, no bang.’

‘Well, we know it wasn’t a bomb.’ He seemed relieved.

‘You’d think a billion-volt bolt of lightning would be every bit as loud as a bomb, though, wouldn’t you?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Moreton said.

‘No,’ Jenny lied. ‘Nor do I.’

Lunch was aboard the Glassboat restaurant in Bristol docks. Moreton was a weekend sailor and had a fondness for dining on boats, he explained. On a wet Thursday afternoon in January customers were thin on the ground; they had nearly one half of the restaurant to themselves and an unobstructed view through picture windows. Lights twinkled in the trees along the quayside and reflected off the water, giving the dark afternoon a cosy, almost magical feel.

Jenny surrendered to Moreton’s cajoling and joined him in a glass of wildly expensive Rioja Gran Reserva. She couldn’t deny that he had exquisite taste in wine and after a few mouthfuls amusing and indiscreet conversation to match it. She counted him saying, ‘I really shouldn’t tell you this . . .’ at least half a dozen times, but each time he did.

He waited until their plates were cleared and coffee ordered before reluctantly switching to the subject that he had travelled from London to discuss.

‘I can assure my superiors that you’re reconvening tomorrow, can I?’

‘That’s the plan,’ Jenny said, now beginning to wish she hadn’t weakened into accepting a refill.

‘And would it be too much to expect a speedy and uncontroversial conclusion?’

Jenny smiled. ‘I’m afraid I can’t second-guess my jury, Simon. We’ll just have to wait and see.’

He toyed with the stem of his glass, giving her an enigmatic look that she felt she was meant to understand.

‘You might as well get it over with. You didn’t prise yourself out of Whitehall just for lunch.’

‘Lunch with you is always worth travelling for, Jenny, but I must confess there is one issue I feel obliged to raise. I suppose you could call it a matter of national security.’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s come to my attention that a lifejacket was recovered believed to have belonged to Mr Brogan.’

‘Yes—?’

‘And that the lab testing it detected traces of plastic explosive.’

Jenny nearly choked on her wine. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Let’s just say there are certain understandings between the security services and forensic laboratories such as Forenox.’

‘They handed over my evidence? They had no right—’

‘They had no choice, Jenny. It was requested from them. I’m sorry, but some things are just too important—’

‘To be left in the hands of a provincial coroner?’

‘No—’

‘Don’t treat me like a fool, Simon. I should go to the press with this.’

‘There’d be a D-Notice.’

‘Then I’d go to the American papers, and the internet. You couldn’t gag me if you wanted to.’

‘Please don’t overreact. It’s simply a question of acting in the national interest. You said it yourself – it wasn’t a bomb that brought 189 down. Brogan, however, appears to have had historic links to Irish paramilitaries. We know that bizarre coincidences happen, but we also know what the press do with them. The last thing we want is another Lockerbie, with conspiracy theorists polluting the public consciousness for the next thirty years.’

‘What precisely are you asking me to do?’

‘We know what brought down the plane and we know that Brogan died of hypothermia. It doesn’t take a genius to suppose that he might have detonated whatever illicit cargo he had on board to prevent detection, but your job isn’t to rake over all that. It’s a police matter. All the law asks of you is to determine the immediate cause of death.’

‘You want me to suppress the evidence of the explosives.’

‘It would be rather helpful.’

‘And if I were to refuse?’

‘We’ll just have to manage the situation the best we can, but I can assure you, once that particular genie’s out of the bottle, forces will be unleashed that none of us will be able to control. And, fairly or unfairly, it will be you who gets the blame.’