The Survivor

  ‘Of course it is,’ Slater told him gruffly, then added to Keller, more kindly: ‘Please go next door, Mr Keller. There’s an adjoining bathroom and a bed if you feel you want to lie down for a while. If not, rest up in one of the armchairs in there. You probably need a good stiff drink – or some tea if that’s your preference. I’ll ring down for some.’

  ‘Oh, not to worry, Chief. I’ve already fixed that.’ Tewson smiled bleakly at his superior who merely frowned back.

  ‘If you should need anything else, Mr Keller, please let me know,’ he said to the co-pilot.

  Keller nodded gratefully and walked through into the next room. As Tewson was about to follow, Slater held up a restraining hand and said quietly so that the co-pilot could not hear: ‘I know Keller is a personal friend of yours, Tewson, but I think it would be as well if you kept away from him until the investigation is complete.’

  Tewson paused at the doorway. ‘Right,’ he said, and disappeared into the room, closing the door behind him.

  He heard running water coming from the bathroom and found Keller inside washing blood from his hands. He waited patiently while the co-pilot scrubbed vigorously with a nailbrush even after his hands appeared to be perfectly clean.

  ‘Dave,’ Tewson said, ‘you know I shouldn’t really be associating with you while the inquiry is still going on.’

  Keller returned the nailbrush to the small glass shelf above the sink. He reached for some toilet tissues, dampened them, and began to rub away at the blood on his shoe.

  ‘I don’t want to get you into trouble, Harry,’ he said, ‘but I can’t just sit around doing nothing. I was involved in the crash: I want to be involved in the investigation.’

  ‘You are involved . . .’

  ‘Only as a victim! I want to help find out what caused the crash.’

  ‘But you can’t. You can’t even remember what happened that night.’

  Keller had no answer. He dabbed away with more tissues at his bloodstained trousers. Just as Tewson was about to say more, there was a polite tapping on the door that led into the hallway. Tewson opened it and was confronted by a waiter bearing two large brandies on a tray. He signed for them and took them from the waiter who didn’t wait for a tip. These Air Ministry people were tight bastards. Tewson placed the drinks on a small coffee table and as he settled into an easy chair he called for Keller to join him. The co-pilot came out of the bathroom, his jacket draped over his arm. He sat opposite the investigating officer and reached for the brandy. In two swallows it was gone.

  Tewson sipped at his more leisurely. ‘Would you like some lunch, Dave?’ he asked. ‘We could use the restaurant here. I’ve just remembered I was halfway through lunch down at Eton when that couple fell from the window.’ He wondered briefly what had happened to the journalist with whom he’d been lunching. Perhaps it was just as well they’d been interrupted for the reporter’s probing questions had been difficult to evade and he had a guilty feeling of having said a bit too much. ‘No? Well, I guess I’m not so hungry myself now.’

  Keller drew out the folded passenger list from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Tewson. ‘Do you think your bomb theory could have anything to do with anybody on this list?’ he asked.

  Tewson pushed his glasses more firmly on to the bridge of his nose and quickly scanned through the long list of names. After a few concentrated minutes he slowly shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘There’s a few names I recognize, no political figures, though. There’s Sir James Barrett, one of the directors of your own airline; Susie Colbert, the novelist – her young daughter was travelling with her; Philippe Laforgue, the pianist. Then there’s a couple of oil men – both American – Howard Reed and Eugene Moyniham, who you’ve probably heard of. Let’s see, er . . . yes, Ivor Russell, the photographer, and his girlfriend; a small party of Japanese businessmen on a world tour, drumming up business for their country; a couple more names that are familiar but I wouldn’t have said important; and, oh yes – Leonard Goswell.’ He tapped thoughtfully at the name with his finger. ‘Now that’s interesting,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s – who was – Goswell?’

  ‘Well, he was a man who had plenty of enemies. Yes, there might be something there, you know.’ He sipped at the brandy, ignoring Keller’s impatience. ‘Of course, the bomb idea hasn’t been proved yet, but when it is, this bloke’s a likely candidate for it.’

  ‘Why, Harry?’

  ‘Goswell? You must have heard of him, Dave. He was one of Sir Oswald Mosley’s henchmen during the last World War. You remember the stories of Mosley and his Blackshirts during the War, don’t you? He was branded a traitor here because he preached Nazism to the masses; had a lot of supporters, too, until they broke up his nasty gang of thugs and threw him into prison. He agreed with Hitler and wanted to welcome him into the country with open arms. It’s said his greatest delight would have been to help the Nazis put away all the Jews in this country. Well, Goswell was even more evil: he actually began to do the job!’

  It struck a chord in Keller’s memory. Yes, he had heard of Goswell, but not for many, many years. He’d assumed the English ex-Nazi had died in exile long ago.

  Tewson continued: ‘Mysterious fires spread in and around London’s East End – fires that had nothing to do with the bombings that were going on at the time – and whole families of Jews were wiped out at a stroke. Even Mosley got scared at that and threw Goswell out of the Party; then Goswell formed his own, but their activities were so outrageous, so brutal, he was slung out of the country. They had no proof, of course, otherwise they’d have hung him.’

  ‘Didn’t he come back years ago and stir up trouble over coloured immigrants?’

  ‘That’s right. And from what I hear, he was involved in worse things than that. But for the last ten or fifteen years he’s been fairly quiet; people have forgotten about him. I thought he’d retired from troublemaking, but I wonder what he was doing back here? And why was he flying off to the States? Anyway, as I said, he seems to be the most likely candidate for assassination.’

  ‘Have you any idea how a bomb could have been smuggled on board?’

  Tewson’s shoulders slumped visibly. ‘That’s the problem. That’s where my theory falls down. Security is so stringent nowadays; it’s difficult enough for a gun to be taken on board, let alone a bomb. Wires, timers, explosives – it’s practically impossible.’

  ‘But it happens, doesn’t it? Bombs are still found planted on aircraft.’

  ‘Yes, but as you say – found. There hasn’t been a case of a bomb explosion on an aeroplane for some time.’

  ‘What if it were amongst luggage?’

  ‘Luggage on Consul flights is checked, X-rayed; you know that.’

  ‘It could have been stowed away in the holds before that.’

  ‘Both front and rear holds are searched beforehand.’

  ‘Could a passenger have carried it on board?’

  ‘Everyone is frisked, hand baggage, too. Any wiring on the body would show up on the metal detector.’

  ‘Then your idea must be wrong!’

  ‘Christ, you’re beginning to sound like Slater! All I know – and sheer bloody gut-feel tells me – is that everything points towards an explosion and not a malfunction. There must have been a bomb on board!’

  Both men stared glumly down at the floor. Keller because the theory he’d hoped to be proved correct was not plausible any more and Tewson because he could not resolve the weakest point in his own notion.

  Finally, Keller asked: ‘Any other names you recognize?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. There were other first-class passengers, of course, but nobody of any real significance. As for the second class – well, they were mostly tourists and businessmen.’ He glanced sharply up at Keller. ‘Dave, you don’t still think that somehow you’re responsible?’

  ‘I don’t know, Harry. If only I could remember.’

  ‘But even if my theory is proved wrong
, there are hundreds of things that could have caused the crash.’

  ‘Like pilot error.’

  ‘Rogan was one of the best flyers around. He never made mistakes.’

  ‘What if he wasn’t his normal self? What if his concentration had gone? What if, after all those years, something had happened that had caused him to crack?’

  ‘You were his back-up man. That’s the whole point of having a co-pilot. If the captain is taken ill, or is unable to function for any reason, the co-pilot takes over.’

  ‘And what if the pilot and the co-pilot are not working in unison? What if they’ve had a dispute and it erupts again during the flight?’

  ‘You were both much too professional for that sort of thing.’

  ‘Were we?’

  Tewson stared at Keller. ‘Don’t tell me any more, Dave. Let’s wait until my theory – and others – have been disproved before we go into pilot error.’

  The co-pilot stood up. He needed to think. What was it Hobbs had said? The spirits might be bound to this earth to fulfil a desire for revenge. It was something like that. Was Captain Rogan seeking revenge? Were the other victims? It was impossible. Ridiculous. The beliefs, or more accurately, the non-beliefs, of a lifetime were being shattered so easily. How could he bring himself to believe in ghosts? Was it out of sheer desperation for an answer, for relief from his guilt? Or had the crash shaken the very foundation of reason within him? After all, even the papers had voiced his own feeling: it was a miracle that he had survived.

  He reached for his jacket lying over the arm of the chair and slipped it on. Tewson watched him with surprise as he walked to the door. The co-pilot heard the investigator call out to him but he didn’t reply. He closed the door and walked towards the lift. Maybe he could help find the answer. Maybe he would find the answer from Captain Rogan himself. He had to return to his apartment and find that crumpled piece of paper. He needed to know Hobbs’s address.

  10

  Colin Thatcher, like most fat boys, hated school. When your body is round and your limbs merely shapeless extensions of flesh, life in a boys’ school can be a torment. If he’d had the brains or the wit to distract attention from his obesity perhaps life wouldn’t have been so bad. But he hadn’t; he wasn’t clever and he wasn’t funny. In fact, it was hard even for him to think of some saving quality he might have. He wasn’t tough and he wasn’t brave; he wasn’t generous and he wasn’t affable. He was lonely.

  And, also like most fat boys, he detested games. PT, cricket, football, rowing, rugby, badminton, basketball, swimming – exercise of any sort – he loathed. Which was why he was walking away from the College playing fields instead of towards them. Which was why that cold, November afternoon would be his last.

  He made his way across Colenorton Brook, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his striped dark trousers, and left the path for the wide, open fields that lay to the right. He often did this when it was time for sports and he knew, as usual, he would be missed and have to face disciplinary action from the captain of the house. How he hated the system at Eton College whereby punishment was meted out by other, more senior boys. Apart from the captain of the house, there were five other seniors who collaborated with the house master, spying and prying into the activities of the younger pupils. The Library, as they were known, had caught him dodging games four times this term and he knew if he were caught or missed this time, he could expect a call from a Praeposter summoning him to the headmaster or lower master to answer for his offences in the ‘Bill’, the daily court of justice.

  But Thatcher didn’t care very much. He despised their silly systems, their Collegers and Oppidans, their Praeposters, their Eton society known as ‘Pop’, their drab black tail-coated uniform, their stupid traditional Field Game and Wall Game, racquets, fencing, boxing, squash, athletics and beagling. He resented their societies – music, drawing, mechanics, essay, archaeological, aeronautical, railway and many others just as silly – resented them because he had neither the interest nor inclination to join them. His disinterest lay not in the subjects themselves, but in the unpleasantness of mingling with the other boys. If there had been an eating society, he probably would not have joined. He felt safer, more secure, during lessons when the others had no chance to taunt him, to torment him because of his physique, and he actually dreaded the sound of the bell for break, for it signified victimization time.

  Apart from the physical exertion, he hated games more than anything else because he was forced to reveal his grossness to the other boys in all its nakedness. They would poke him, laughing as their fingers disappeared into mounds of flesh. They would tweak his breasts painfully for they hung down like a woman’s (some of the boys touched him with a more serious intent than mere mischievousness). The showers were a special torture chamber of their own.

  He kicked at an ant hill and watched the ants swarm out in terror. He squatted and contemplated their panic-stricken scurrying over the exposed earth, then he stood up and aimed his shoe at the undulating mass. He kicked at them several more times before resuming his brooding journey. He didn’t care if he was expelled: he wanted to be expelled. Father would be thunderous – he was afraid of that – but Mother would forgive him. He knew she missed him for she had never wanted him to be sent away to school anyway. No, it had been Father who had insisted. Get some discipline into the boy, he had said, some backbone. Too much mollycoddling, that’s his trouble. Needs to be among other boys of his own age. Needs some tradition behind him. Well, at fourteen he’d had all the tradition he could take. Tradition, as far as he could see, was that fat boys were to be regarded as freaks, to be chastised, tormented and scorned by the mob. He had to blink as his eyes filmed over with self-pity.

  Lying down on the grass, not caring about its cold dampness, he looked up at the grey sky, his stomach rising like a distant hillock before him. ‘I don’t care if I’m sent home,’ he said aloud. ‘Sod them all!’ He pushed his hands deeper into his trouser pockets and lay there, flat on his back, ankles crossed, mind drifting from thought to thought.

  He suddenly shivered at the cold. He had a whole afternoon to kill. Perhaps he would sneak off to the cinema in Windsor. Call in at the bank in the High Street first, draw out a couple of quid, buy some tuck, then sneak off to the flicks. Trouble was, it was so difficult to sneak off anywhere in this godawful conspicuous uniform. Still, he would catch a chill if he hung around here too long, so the cinema it would have to be.

  He wasn’t sure if he’d heard or imagined the weeping at first, for it seemed to originate from inside his own head. He lay there for a few moments, eyes still staring blankly at the sky, then he raised himself on one elbow and looked around. He could see nothing but grass, trees and the distant railway embankment. The sound came again just as he was about to dismiss it as a figment of his own imagination; tiny, childlike sobs coming from somewhere behind him. He swung over on to his stomach so that he was facing in the direction of the noise and he saw the small figure about a hundred yards away.

  She wore a pale blue dress and clutched something tightly in her arms. Her long, blonde hair hung loosely about her shoulders and partially covered her face which was bowed towards her chest. The girl’s small frame shook gently with each quiet sob.

  The boy raised himself to his knees and called out to her. ‘What’s the matter? Are you lost?’

  The girl’s weeping stopped momentarily, as she looked up at him, but then she buried her face in her hands again and continued.

  He couldn’t tell how old she was from this distance, but she appeared to be somewhere between five and ten. Colin stood up and began to walk towards her: stopping midway to ask again: ‘What’s wrong?’ He saw now that the object she was clutching was a doll; he could see its tiny pink legs protruding from beneath the girl’s arms.

  This time she did not look up but her sobs became more anguished. He approached her slowly, not wanting to frighten or upset her any more, and stopped again when he was only two yards
from her. The boy felt embarrassed: he didn’t know how to handle girls, especially ones of this age.

  ‘Can’t you tell me what’s wrong?’ he asked awkwardly.

  The girl looked up and he saw that she could only have been seven or eight. Her weeping stopped briefly but she sniffed as she regarded him with large, brown eyes, clutching the doll more tightly than ever to her chest.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked again. ‘Have you lost your mother – your mummy?’

  She did not reply at first, then she slowly nodded her head and said in a barely audible voice: ‘Mummy.’

  Silly little thing, he thought to himself, wandering off on her own like this. Goodness, she must be freezing in just that thin dress. He looked around in the hope that he would find an anxious mother approaching, but the field was deserted except for the girl and himself.

  ‘Where – where did you lose your mummy?’ he asked desperately, and when she continued to cry he moved in closer. ‘Hello, what’s your dolly’s name?’ he asked, feeling foolish as he waggled the doll’s exposed foot with his fingers.

  She pulled it tighter in to her, but the boy thought he saw a blemish on its plastic cheek.

  ‘Have you hurt dolly’s head? Let me have a look.’

  She suddenly backed away from him, taking the doll out of his reach. ‘I want Mummy,’ she finally blurted out and began to cry more loudly.

  ‘All right, all right,’ he said nervously, ‘we’ll find her. Now, where did you see her last?’

  The girl looked around her, undecided at first. Then she pointed a trembling finger in the direction of the Eton Wick main road. His eyes followed her outstretched hand. ‘Come on, then, you take me to the spot where you saw her last.’

  She hesitated and he thought he saw the barest flicker of a smile on her sad little face. Then, with a skip, she set off in the direction in which she had been pointing. He followed at a more leisurely pace. The child scooted ahead of him, occasionally stopping to look back, as if making sure he was still following her. She would wait until he had almost reached her then bound off again ahead of him. They reached a small path and he began to puff at the exertion of keeping up with her skipping figure. The girl disappeared through a narrow gateway and he followed without realizing where it led. He halted abruptly when he saw the gravestones.