‘It wasn’t nerves, Harry. It was me – I just couldn’t fly. I couldn’t think straight.’
‘It’s the shock, Dave. It’ll wear off.’
Keller shrugged. ‘Can we talk?’
‘Yes, of course. Look, I can get away in about ten minutes. I’ll meet you in the High Street, in The George. It’s about time for a spot of lunch anyway.’ He clapped a hand on Keller’s shoulder, then turned and walked back towards the wreckage, a worried expression on his face.
Keller returned to his car, locked it and began to walk back to the High Street.
The policeman watched him and scratched his cheek thoughtfully. Keller. Yes, David Keller. Thought I recognized him. He was the co-pilot of the plane – the Jumbo. This one. And he was the only one who walked away from it. Without a scratch on him. The only survivor.
Keller ordered a beer and found himself a table in a quiet corner. The barman had barely given him a second glance, and for this he was grateful. The past four weeks had been a nightmare of questions, innuendoes, staring faces and abrupt silences. His colleagues and bosses at Consul, the airline company he flew for, had been mostly kind and considerate apart from the few who had viewed him with strange suspicion. And then, the newspapers had played up the story; the crash, dramatic and catastrophic though it had been, wasn’t enough for them. That a man could walk from the terrible carnage, unscathed, even his uniform unmarked, was proclaimed a miracle. Intensive medical examination found no internal injuries; there were no burns; his nerves appeared to be stable. Physically, he seemed to be perfect except for one thing – amnesia. Indeed, he experienced total amnesia as far as the crash and the events leading up to it were concerned. It was the shock, of course, the doctors told him and, in time, when his mind had healed enough to remember – to allow him to remember – then it would all come back. But there was always the possibility his mind would never heal.
The ‘miracle’ story had persisted, though gradually he had become aware of a resentment against him, not just from the public, from some of his own colleagues. Not many, but enough to cause a feeling of guilt within himself. In the eyes of the public, he should never have lived; he was a pilot, he represented the airline – it was his duty to die with the passengers! Incredibly, he sensed the same feeling amongst some of his fellow pilots. He had no right to live when innocent men, women and children – three hundred and thirty-two of them – had died so tragically. As a member of the crew, as part of the airline, he was to blame. Until the cause of the crash could be discovered the pilot must take the blame. And he was co-pilot; he had to share the responsibility.
He had taken a test flight in a private aircraft less than two weeks after the accident, but it had been hopeless. He froze as soon as his hands touched the controls. His pilot, the veteran who had played such a large part in his training, had taken the aircraft up in the hope that, once in the air, Keller’s natural instinct would take over. But it hadn’t happened; his mind just would not concentrate, wouldn’t apply itself. He just didn’t know how to fly any more.
His company, very sensitive to public opinion and aware they had a pilot on their hands who, in their view, was liable to crack at any moment, decided to send him on ‘leave’ for a long period. Dismissal, apart from being unjust, would only stir up more public clamour, arouse more publicity, which could only damage their reputation as a national airline. His record was excellent and they took great pains to emphasize this in every public statement, but it was felt he deserved a long rest after such a shocking and traumatic experience.
His brooding was interrupted by Harry Tewson’s smiling face appearing before him. ‘What’ll you have, Dave?’
‘No, let me . . .’
Tewson stopped him with an upraised hand. ‘I’ll get some food, too,’ he said, and disappeared through the crowd in the direction of the bar.
Food, mused Keller. I’ve hardly eaten since the accident; just enough to keep going. He doubted whether he’d ever have an appetite again. Tewson laid a mound of sandwiches down on the table, disappeared again, then returned with the drinks.
‘It’s good to see you again, Dave,’ he said, as he settled into a chair. He, too, had been a pilot and gone through basic training at the same time as Keller, but suddenly, and inexplicably, his vision had begun to fail and resulted in his need to wear glasses full time. His experience and above-average technical knowledge had been too valuable to be wasted, so he had been drafted into the Board of Trade Accidents Investigation Branch (AIB), a body of pilots and engineers set up to probe all serious civil flying accidents in Britain, as well as overseas crashes involving British aircraft. He had soon proved his worth by uncanny insight into the causes of crashes; by making skilful guesses, then working backwards to prove them correct, a method not wholly approved of by his peers. So far, however, he had not often been wrong.
He took a huge bite from a sandwich, then a gulp of his light ale. ‘How can I help you?’ he asked, having swallowed both the food and the drink.
Keller smiled. No messing about with Harry. Straight to the point.
‘I want to know what you’ve found out about the crash,’ he said.
‘Oh, come on, Dave. You know it’s all got to be collated then submitted to the official inquiry. And you know everything comes under the Official Secrets Act until then.’
‘I need to know, Harry.’
‘Look,’ Tewson began, not unkindly, ‘it’s nothing to do with you now, Dave . . .’
‘Nothing to do with me?’ Keller’s voice was calm, but he fixed Tewson with a stare that chilled the investigator. ‘D’you know how I feel, Harry? I feel like a freak. An outcast. People resent the fact that I lived and all those others died. I feel like a captain who’s deserted a sinking ship, left his passengers to drown. They’re blaming me, Harry. The public, the airline, and . . .’ He broke off and stared at his drink.
After a brief, stunned silence, Tewson spoke. ‘What’s the matter with you, Dave? Nobody’s blaming you for this. Certainly not the airline. And the public will know the cause of the crash just as soon as we publish our findings – not that I think you’re correct in your morbid assumption that they resent you being alive! As for anything . . .’ he paused, ‘or anyone else – well, you’re just suffering from an overdose of misguided guilt and melancholia. Now, get a grip on yourself and drink your bloody beer!’
‘Finished?’ Keller asked mildly.
Tewson lowered the glass again just before it reached his lips. ‘No, I’m not bloody finished. I’ve known you a long time, Dave. You were a good pilot and you will be again – just as soon as you forget about all this and start to think of the future.’ His voice softened. ‘I know you had your own personal loss in the crash, Dave, but she wouldn’t have wanted you to go on like this.’
Keller looked at him in surprise. ‘You knew about Cathy?’
‘Yes, of course I knew. It was no big secret was it? It’s not unusual for a pilot to have a stewardess as a girlfriend.’
‘It was a bit more than that.’
‘I don’t doubt it, Dave. Look, mate, I don’t mean to be rough on you, but the word is going around that you’re finished, you’ll never be a good flyer now, and the way I’ve heard you’ve been moping around, I’m not surprised. But I know you better. You’ve got a lot in you, Dave, more than most, and I think within a few weeks you’ll be back to normal. Now, do you mind if I get on with my drink?’
Keller sipped at his own beer, feeling Tewson’s eyes studying him from over the rim of his glass.
‘I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Harry, but it’s not necessary. It’s true I feel sad, but it’s got nothing to do with nervous depression; it’s more like a great weariness at the back of my mind. It might sound crazy to you, but I feel there’s something I’ve got to do, something I’ve got to find out, and the answer lies here in Eton. I can’t explain it and I can’t resist it – not if I’m ever going to be all right again. There’s something more that I ca
n’t put my finger on. Maybe it’s a memory, I don’t know. But sooner or later, it’ll come through, and then perhaps I will be helping you. For the moment though, I’m asking you.’
Tewson sighed heavily and laid his glass back on the table. For a few moments he was deep in thought, his chin almost resting on his chest. Abruptly, he straightened, his decision made.
‘Okay, Dave,’ he said, ‘this is strictly between you and me – off the record. If Slater ever found out I’d told you anything, he’d get rid of me like a shot. We don’t get along at the best of times.’
Keller nodded. Slater was the investigator in charge of the air crash and responsible for the organization, conduct and control of the investigation. It was his job to establish the working groups covering the various phases of the inquiry. A dour, methodical man, Keller knew he had little time for Tewson’s rash and cart-before-the-horse method of working.
‘Right,’ Tewson began, taking a huge swallow of beer as though to fortify himself. ‘As you know, the first thing we look for in a disaster of this kind is the Flight Recorder. We found it all right, but the entire outer metal case showed signs of melting. The main damage was in the front, and the aluminium foil strip, on which all the information from the different flight instruments is recorded in code, was exposed.
‘It was covered in soot, but not too badly damaged. We removed it from its outer covering and sent it off to the labs for decoding. Well, although the recording of your take-off was mostly destroyed, we can assume that you, as co-pilot, went through the normal check list with the flight engineer as soon as the Control Tower gave Captain Rogan permission to start engines at the apron.’
‘I just don’t remember, Harry,’ Keller said worriedly.
‘No, I know that. But as switching on the recorder was part of the check list, it’s a fair assumption you went through the lot.’
Keller nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘The recorder keeps a note of five aircraft parameters: the positive or negative gravitational forces as read by one of the aircraft’s gyroscopes; the magnetic heading from the compass; the indicated air speed; the altitude at which the aircraft is flying taken from the pressure altimeter dials; and the time in seconds, not related to the time of day on a clock. This was all graphed and then compared with a chart of another 747 that had taken off in similar conditions – time, weather, load, that sort of thing – a few days before. From that, we learnt everything had been normal except for one detail: the HDG – the magnetic heading – had begun to differ from the other 747’s before it had even reached cruising speed. In other words, Captain Rogan had changed direction. Possibly he was turning back for Heathrow. There’s no way of knowing because that’s when the instruments began to malfunction.’
‘But he must have called Control to let them know of his change of course,’ Keller said, leaning forward across the table, his eyes fixed on Tewson’s face.
‘He tried to, but whatever happened, happened fast. He had no time to relay the message.’
Keller was silent for a moment, desperately trying to remember. But his mind was a blank. He sat back in his seat again.
Tewson continued: ‘Our systems people had already begun an examination of the cockpit which had been nearly completely destroyed, but they were still able to establish the positions of quite a number of the aircraft’s controls and switches and, although some of them were burnt completely away, they were still able to determine whether they were “on” or “off” according to the positions . . .’
‘Were the bodies of the crew still in the cockpit?’ Keller interrupted.
‘Er, yes, they were. Impossible to identify absolutely, of course, but . . .’
‘Then how did I get out? Why wasn’t my body there? Why wasn’t I killed?’
‘It’s obvious you must have left the cabin before the crash, Dave.’
‘Why? Why should I leave the cabin so soon after take-off? I . . .’
A sudden flash. A memory almost breaking through. A picture. A frozen picture of the skipper’s face, his mouth open, shouting something at him, alarm in his eyes. Fear.
And then it was gone. As his mind had rushed to meet it, the memory had evaded him, hiding itself away in some dark recess.
‘What’s up, Dave? You look ghastly – have you remembered something?’ Tewson’s voice broke through the emptiness that remained.
Keller ran a trembling hand across his eyes. ‘No, it’s okay. For a moment, I thought I was going to remember. But it’s gone. I can’t . . .’
‘It’ll come, Dave,’ said Tewson softly. ‘Give it time. It’ll come back.’
‘Perhaps I don’t want to remember, Harry. Perhaps it’s better that I don’t.’
Tewson shrugged. ‘Maybe. D’you want me to go on?’
Keller nodded.
‘It took five days to trace and note all the available cockpit instruments. Fortunately, many indication dials are designed to retain an imprint of what was being displayed at the time of impact and, once it had all been plotted, nothing was found to be in an incorrect position, nor was there any evidence of any major electrical fault that could have contributed to the cause of the accident.
‘All the aircraft’s maintenance records have been impounded and they’re being sifted through at this moment. So far they’ve found nothing of any importance except for a strut bolt on the bogie trim cycling unit that was found to be missing on the last check, and that was immediately replaced, of course, before the Jumbo was released again for flight.
‘The technical entries up to the day before the accident, and dating back to the previous year, reported no serious problems with the aircraft. The engines have been recovered and stripped and, as yet, nothing has been found that indicates any were malfunctioning prior to the crash. In fact, if my theory is correct, it was the engines that prevented the Jumbo from dropping like a stone.’
‘Your theory?’ asked Keller, well aware that Tewson’s ‘theories’ often and uncannily proved to be correct.
‘Well, I’ll get to that in a moment. Nothing’s been proved yet.’ He took another long swallow from his glass, and pulled a face at the beer which had begun to lose its bite. ‘It was a cold night, so the anti-ice system had been checked. Again no fault. The remains of the fuel systems are still being checked. So far: no fault.
‘Now, the “human factor”. You, as the only survivor, have been of no help at all.’ It was typical of Tewson that there was no hint of apology in his bluntness; he was too absorbed in technicalities at the moment to concern himself with human sensitivity. ‘Flight-training records of all the crew and their complete medical history have been inspected. You, yourself, were subjected to a complete medical examination immedia-tately after the crash. This wasn’t just to see if you’d sustained any internal injuries. Blood and urine tests were included in the examination. Just how much work the captain and yourself had been doing over the past few months was also ascertained, and whether you’d both had sufficient rest prior to the fight. The remains of your flight bags were retrieved from the cockpit and enough was left of them to establish that neither contained any drugs or medicines. No problem. All your proficiency tests – both your own and Captain Rogan’s – had been excellent over the past year. Everything, so far, has checked. Except you couldn’t have been in the place you were supposed to have been at the time of the crash.
‘Right. Let me go on. Positions of the dead bodies, both inside and outside the aircraft, have been charted. We even found some poor souls at the bottom of the river that runs near the field. The interesting thing is that a large concentration of overlapping bodies was found inside the aircraft: burnt beyond recognition and, because of their mutilated condition, they had obviously been subjected to a tremendous blast of some kind.’
Keller shuddered and wondered at his companion’s lack of feeling for the unfortunate victims but, by now, Tewson was too carried away by his own intense interest in the investigation to concern himself with the human elemen
t.
Tewson went on: ‘Now, I’ve been involved on the Structures Group side. We’ve mapped out the whole area, using aerial photography and charts, and have exact positions of the wreckage site as well as the crash path. It shows which parts of the aircraft broke away first from the fuselage and the positions they were found in. This roughly determines the order in which the 747 broke up, and we can tell which area or areas played a part in the cause of the accident. The initial area of damage was somewhere towards the front of the aircraft.’
He was smiling now, and Keller had to avert his eyes; the urge to wipe the smile from the investigator’s face was becoming too strong.
Oblivious, Tewson continued. ‘I was examining the port wing when I discovered some barely visible scratches running down its full length. Under a microscope, I saw that in the grooves were bits of blue and yellow paint.’ He sat back smugly.
‘So?’ said Keller.
‘So what colour is your airline’s logo?’
‘Blue and yellow.’
‘Right. And it’s painted on the fuselage, beginning near the nose and ending quite near the wing-span. The paint is being chemically analysed right now, just to confirm, but I know I’m right.’
‘But what does it mean?’ asked Keller impatiently.
‘It means, old chum, that the cabin wall had been blown out with terrific force. An explosion. And the kind, because of its strength, that could have only been caused by a bomb.’
He grinned perversely at Keller’s pallid face.
2
The little black car bumped to a rough stop as close to the hedge as Ken Paynter could get it.
‘It won’t get stuck in the mud, will it?’ the girl sitting beside him asked, nervously peering out of the side window into the dark night.
‘No, it’s all right,’ Ken reassured her, jerking up the handbrake which he knew to be useless anyway. ‘The path’s wide and solid enough. We won’t get stuck.’
He turned off his headlights and the sudden, complete darkness startled them both. They were silent for a few moments while their eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Ken was pleased with his little Mini, a second-hand car he’d had in his possession for just over three months now. In his job at the garage, you had to keep your eyes open for the bargains that now and then came along, and this little job came along just at the right time. He didn’t earn much as an apprentice mechanic – not yet, anyway – but his governor had agreed to take a slice off his wages eack week to pay the couple of hundred the car had cost. Yes, he was pleased with the car; it could take him down nice little dark lanes like this and if you didn’t have your own place, a car and a dark lane was the next best thing.