The Survivor

The house was in Shepperton, quite near the yachting lake, a recreation he knew Captain Rogan had enjoyed immensely. It wasn’t a particularly large house nor was it small, but it had the air of casual and unpretentious elegance. As he brought the Stag to a halt, he saw the front door open and Beth Rogan appear.

  The last time he’d seen her, at the mass burial of the passengers and crew, she had looked pale and, somehow, crushed. He’d found her looking at him several times during the long service, but her face was expressionless, and he had still been too dazed with events himself to reach out for any mutual sympathy. Now she looked as beautiful and alive as she’d ever been, the whiteness of her blouse and trousers contrasting with the black funeral garb he’d last seen her in. Her long brown hair was clipped to one side, giving her a young, almost schoolgirl appearance. She raised her hand in a small gesture of hello, and he noticed the glass of dark liquid in her other hand.

  As he got out of the car he said, ‘Hello, Beth.’

  ‘Dave,’ she replied.

  They looked at one another in silence for a few moments and, now he was close, he noticed the tiny tell-tale lines beginning to appear around her eyes, the faint creases in her neck that hadn’t been there before. But she was still a beautiful woman. Her dark brown eyes, deep – worldly – fixed his with a fierce intensity.

  ‘Why haven’t you been to see me?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry, Beth. I thought it better not to,’ he replied.

  There was a flicker of anger in her eyes now, a tiny reflection at the bottom of a deep well. She moved away from him, back into the house. She led him through into the lounge and walked over to the drinks’ cabinet. ‘Would you like a drink, Dave?’ she asked, as she refilled her own with sherry.

  ‘Not just yet, Beth. A coffee, maybe?’

  She disappeared briefly into the kitchen, giving him the chance to settle into the flower-patterned settee and look around the room. The last time he’d seen this room, it had been filled with people, alive with talk, grey with smoke. He remembered sitting in this very place, bleary-eyed, drunk, alone. He remembered Beth looking at him through the crowd, a meaningful and not too devious smile on her face. It was a look just meant for him; for him to interpret as he pleased. And there she was again, coming towards him, her arm outstretched proffering the coffee, an almost identical smile on her face.

  He took the cup from her gratefully and placed it on the floor beside his feet. She sat in an armchair opposite, one finger constantly running up and down the thin stem of her sherry glass, studying him closely, waiting for him to speak.

  ‘How’ve you been, Beth?’ he said finally.

  ‘Okay.’ The amusement left her eyes.

  ‘It must have been a terrible shock . . .’

  ‘You know we were about to split up?’ she interrupted sharply.

  He looked at her in surprise. ‘I knew there were problems, but . . .’

  This time, she interrupted him with a short, scoffing laugh.

  ‘Problems! Well, you should know, Dave. You were one of them!’

  ‘Beth, that was months ago. And there was nothing to it.’

  ‘Five months to be exact. And Peter didn’t believe there was nothing to it.’

  ‘How did he find out?’

  ‘I told him, of course.’

  ‘Why? Why did you tell him?’ His voice had a hard edge to it now. ‘It was a casual thing. I was just . . .’ He broke off and averted his eyes from hers.

  ‘One of many. Is that what you were going to say, Dave?’

  He remained silent.

  ‘Yes, you were one of . . . a few.’ She took a swift, angry sip of her sherry. She sat stiffly for a few moments, then the anger seemed to leave her and her shoulders sagged. She stared at the floor between them. When she spoke, her voice was weary. ‘I gave him a list of my lovers a few nights before the flight.’

  ‘Oh God. Why, Beth?’

  She straightened up and her eyes focused on his. There was bitterness in her voice now. ‘To get back at him. Our marriage has – had – been unsteady for years. You know me, Dave. I’m not the sort of woman to sit around waiting while her husband flies off all round the world.’ She stood up and walked over to the window, her arms folded, but one hand still clutching the glass in delicate fingers. Her back to him, she gazed out on to the lawn, and said, ‘Everybody knew about me except him. I think you realized it the first time you met me.’

  It was true. He remembered when he’d first set eyes on her two years before: her cool appraisal of him, the almost mocking smile, her hand holding on to his for just that second too long. She’d laid down the challenge at their introduction. At the airline, there had been a few insinuations about her from people that knew Rogan and his wife, a few snide remarks, but other pilots’ wives were a subject generally avoided by him and his colleagues – the married ones knew they were all open to the same danger because of their constant absence from home. Besides, Rogan was highly respected by his colleagues, and held slightly in awe by the younger pilots. Never popular, for he had a hard, brusque manner, he was known to be a man one could rely on in a crisis. He’d survived two crashes that could have easily resulted in major disasters had it not been for his skill and iron cool nerve. The first, eight years before, had been when the undercarriage of his Viscount had refused to descend, and he had brought the plane down to an almost perfect landing on its belly. Not one person had been injured. The second, only a year later, had been when two engines of his Argonaut failed within twenty seconds of each other due to a faulty cross-feed lever causing an inadvertent fuel transfer at flight. Again, he’d managed to bring the aircraft down safely on his two remaining engines.

  As a senior captain with Consul, he’d proved to be an excellent, if critical, teacher, and Keller had benefited greatly from his experience and technical knowledge. Their relationship had been something more personal than just student and mentor: Captain Rogan had recognized a natural ability in Keller, an instinct for flying that no amount of flying experience could ever instil in a trainee. It was an instinct many of the most veteran captains did not possess; they compensated for it by sheer technical skill. At just thirty years of age, Keller was in his last year as co-pilot; Rogan had already recommended that he be promoted to captain, and his last few tests towards that goal had been successful. The captain had, in fact, recognized a younger – perhaps better – facsimile of himself and had taken a special interest in the co-pilot’s career because of it, often treating him a little harsher than he would the younger man’s contemporaries, driving him to his limits, but always ready to back off easily at breaking point. Fortunately, Keller understood his skipper’s intentions and, although sometimes open hostility seemed to exist between the two men, both respected and liked one another.

  Until Beth had told the captain of their indiscretion.

  The Rogans had arranged one of their rare parties – the captain had never been a socialite – but the airline had assigned Rogan to take a flight out to Washington Dulles in place of a colleague who had fallen sick. The skipper had been secretly relieved at the request because of his dislike of social gatherings – especially his own – and had accepted the flight, much to Beth’s displeasure. Cathy had also been booked on to the flight as stewardess, leaving Keller to go to the party on his own. A combination of circumstances had led to his going to bed with Beth: a heated argument with Rogan that same day over some vague technical point to do with aerodynamics (Rogan’s argument had later been proved to be correct); a resentment towards Cathy for having to be away that night; and an excess of alcohol (unusual for him). And, of course, Beth Rogan’s determination to seduce him.

  She had made advances towards him all evening, subtle at first, and as the evening wore on, more blatant. He had managed to keep her at arm’s length for most of the party, but the more he had to drink, the more forced his rejections became. Maybe he had been drinking purposely to allow himself the excuse for dropping his guard, for becoming irresponsible; ma
ybe it was his former self, having been kept willingly on a leash for so long, who was now rebelling. Or maybe it was just sheer lust.

  Whatever excuses he had made for himself after the event, the damage had been done and he’d known eventually the price would have to be paid. What he needed to know now was just how high had that price been?

  Keller remembered how, at the party, he had suddenly felt unsteady on his feet. He’d made his way upstairs, not quite sure whether he was going to be sick or was just going to urinate. He’d doused his face with cold water and, as he’d opened the bathroom door, he’d found her waiting for him. Beth had led him to one of the spare bedrooms and told him to lie there until his head had cleared. She’d left him, closing the door quietly behind her, and he had fallen into a semi-drunken slumber, the noise of the party below filtering through as though from a long way off. When he’d woken, the room was in complete darkness and there were no more sounds from below. He was beneath a bedcover, his shoes were off, and cool hands were touching his body. He turned with a start towards the figure lying next to him, his hand finding a smooth, naked body. He knew instantly who it was. She had pulled herself close to him, her leg going between his, her thigh pressed tight against his body. He hadn’t even tried to resist – what normal man would have? – and he had made love to her with an angry passion which, rather than subduing her, had sent her into a rage of excitement that equalled, then overtook, his own.

  After, he had fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep, and when he awoke the following morning, he found himself naked beneath the bedclothes with Beth lying snug against him. That had been the moment of truth for him: he was sober, he was satiated. He had no excuse. He could have got up without disturbing her, left the house, and tried to pretend it had never happened. Instead, he had woken her gently with soft kisses and a probing tongue, and they had made long, leisurely love again, she enjoying his young, hard body, he relishing her undoubted experience.

  And it was only after their second lovemaking that the truth of his betrayal had hit him: betrayal of the girl he loved and betrayal of a man he admired. He had dressed and told Beth it would never happen again; he had not been unkind to her – he wasn’t that sort of man – but she had smiled bitterly, and a little scornfully at him. She had watched him dress without saying a word, sitting up in bed, not bothering to cover herself, and that had been his last memory of her: her cynical smile, her beautiful body. And, as he regarded her now, that last sight of her was etched sharply in his memory. The smile was the same, but she was just a little older.

  ‘You could have got in touch with me, Dave,’ she said. ‘If not before, at least after the crash.’

  He stared guiltily at her. ‘I’m sorry, Beth. I really am. Things have been difficult for me. The shock, the publicity. My mind’s been in a daze, and it’s only now beginning to clear a little.’

  She was back at the drinks’ cabinet now, this time pouring herself a Scotch. ‘Will you join me now?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’ He reached for the coffee at his feet and sipped at it.

  ‘Beth, I’m trying to find out what caused the crash.’

  She turned sharply towards him. ‘That’s a job for the AIB, isn’t it? Why should you concern yourself?’

  ‘I – I don’t know exactly. It’s just, somehow, I feel guilty. I don’t know why, but I believe the cause of the crash may have something to do with me.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. Why blame yourself?’

  ‘Peter and I had a fight before the flight. It was over you. I couldn’t remember exactly when that fight took place, but if, as you said, you told him about us a few days before the crash, then we must have fought some time during those few days before.’

  ‘But why is that so important?’

  ‘I keep seeing a picture of the captain. It’s in the cockpit of the Jumbo, we’re in flight, and he’s looking up at me, shouting. Don’t you see? If that fight continued as we took off – the most crucial time in any flight – and it caused some negligence on our part, some error of judgement, then your husband and I are responsible for the deaths of all those people.’

  There was sympathy in her eyes now as she came over and sat beside him. ‘Dave, I know you, and I knew my husband – at least one part of him. You were both too professional to allow emotion to get in the way of your jobs. Peter would never let his temper get the better of his logical mind. He was much too experienced for that.’

  ‘But you didn’t see him before the flight when we had the argument. I’d never seen him lose control before, but he was like a madman that night.’

  ‘I was to blame for that; I was so cruel to him. He hit me, you know. Not when I told him about the others, but when I told him about you. He was a proud man – and he was proud of you.’

  Keller placed his coffee cup back on its saucer and pushed it away from him. He turned to face her, his eyes not angry, but uncomprehending.

  ‘Why did you do it, Beth?’

  ‘To hurt him, to get through that hard, cold exterior. To make him feel something, even if it were only hate.’

  Yes, Keller remembered the hate in those eyes. The angry, seething hate. It wasn’t just the hurt pride: it was the betrayal by his protégé, someone he’d coached, someone he’d taught all he knew. Someone he regarded as an extension of himself. And with the memory came another glimpse of their confrontation.

  Keller remembered the angry words, the vehemence behind them, echoing after him as he’d walked away from Rogan in the empty hangar. ‘Does Cathy know about it, Keller? Does she? She will now, you bastard! She’ll find out from me!’ And then he had begun to hate the captain, the man he’d looked up to, tried to emulate, the man he had wanted to be. A man who had now lost his dignity. A man who lay sprawled on the concrete floor, hurling abuse. A god who had become mortal.

  How far had that hate between them continued? Could that cool professional mind have finally cracked beneath the emotional stress? Could his own younger, less experienced mind have succumbed to intolerant rage? The whole picture was slowly drawing together. But was it the true picture?

  ‘Dave, are you all right? You look so strange.’ Beth’s voice brought him back to the present.

  He took a deep breath. ‘Maybe a Scotch would help,’ he said.

  She poured him a large measure and sat next to him again, handing him the glass. He took a long swallow and allowed the whisky to make its fiery passage down his throat to his stomach before he spoke again. ‘Beth, what happened before that flight? Did he say anything when he left you that night?’

  Her voice was soft but even. ‘He said he wouldn’t be back.’

  Keller stiffened, and the hand holding the glass trembled slightly. ‘What did he mean?’

  She was staring at him now. ‘No,’ she said, ‘not what you think. I’m sure he didn’t . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘No,’ she said again. ‘He was upset, but not that upset. We’d spoken of divorce before and I think he was resigned to it. My telling him about you tipped the balance, I know, but I’m positive that he only meant he wouldn’t come back to me. He wasn’t crazy, Dave!’

  Keller shook his head, but it was in agreement with her. And yet . . . Pilots were under constant pressure and he knew of many good men who had suddenly cracked under the strain. That’s why both physical and mental check-ups were essential: once a year for regular flyers, twice for those over forty.

  Keller felt a greater sense of dread than ever now. So much seemed to be pointing in one direction and he felt the responsibility resting even more heavily upon his shoulders. If only he could break through this barrier that clouded his mind, allowing him only tiny, occasional glimpses, tormenting him with elusory visions. Psychiatric treatment, he had been told, could possibly help, but it would take time. Anyway, psychiatrists could only help the mind to cure itself, could not effect that cure themselves.

  He needed to know more about the air crash. Perhaps some detail – technical or human – had been discovered
by the AIB by now, something that would trigger off his memory. Perhaps Harry Tewson had more proof of his theory. Anything – whether it absolved him from blame or incriminated him further – would be better than having his mind stay in this limbo. The compulsion was there again. He had to return to Eton.

  He left the remains of the Scotch in the glass and stood up. ‘I’ve got to go, Beth.’

  She was startled and disappointment showed clearly in those deep eyes.

  ‘Stay a little longer, Dave. Please, I need someone.’ She reached up for his hand and clasped it tightly. ‘Just to talk, Dave, nothing else. Please.’

  He shook his hand free and said, not unkindly, ‘I can’t stay now, Beth. Maybe I’ll come back later, but now I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Will you? Promise me, Dave.’

  ‘Yes.’ Perhaps. Probably not.

  He left her sitting there, a different memory of her imprinted on his mind this time: the white blouse, the hands clutching the glass, the face that had suddenly begun to show its approaching age. And strangely, the same bitter, scornful smile.

  The car threw up gravel as it lunged away from the house, the tiny stones rattling against the wall. He drew cautiously out of the drive and headed in the direction of Windsor and Eton, a new nervousness beginning to rise in him.

  8

  Emily Platt was slowly poisoning her husband to death. She was taking her time deliberately, not just to allay suspicion when his death finally came, but because she wanted him to suffer for as long as possible.

  Over the past three weeks she had kept the doses of Gramoxone small so that his health would break down gradually and undramatically, but she had been surprised at how soon he had become bedridden. The paraquat contained in the weedkiller was much more potent than she had imagined, and the first dose Emily had administered to his morning coffee had frightened her with its suddenness of attack. Allowing him a couple of days to recover his strength, she had cut down on the doses drastically so that his suffering had become less acute, and more protracted. Naturally their doctor had had to be called in at the first, most violent, attack, but he was totally mystified by the illness; he was an unimaginative man. He had told Emily if her husband got any worse within the next few days he would have to be admitted into hospital for proper care and tests to discover the nature of the illness. However, as she had eased up on the doses of the poison and her husband’s condition had appeared to improve, the doctor had seen no cause for alarm. He had merely left instructions to be called in promptly if the illness did not disappear completely within the next few days. Of course, Emily had not bothered to get in touch with him again and her unfortunate husband had been too weak to do so himself.