Skinner's Ordeal (9 page)

`Taken care of, sir. We have six photographers here. Every body is being photographed where it's found, and is given a number as it's bagged. Then it's being photographed again inside the tent.'

`That's good work, Maggie. With about two hundred or so bodies lying about, we have to move them as fast as possible. But this is looking like a murder investigation, so we have to cover every detail. When this thing gets to court, we don't want to wind up in the witness box with our shirt-tails flapping in the breeze.'

He peered at the list again, and pointed to Roy Old's name. There was no dot next to it. As he looked the door opened, and a Constable entered, a young man whom Skinner recognised. His face was drawn, but his expression was determined and composed. He carried a clipboard with a sheaf of papers. The top sheet was a copy of the mortuary plan.

The DCC guessed that the boy had aged three years in three hours. 'Afternoon, PC Pye,'

he said. It was twelve minutes past noon.

The young officer stood to attention. 'Sir!'

Skinner smiled. 'Stand easy, boy. You volunteered for this duty, did you?'

`Yes, sir.'

`Well, good for you. I'll remember that. You have more details to enter?'

`Yes, sir.'

He stood back, allowing PC Pye to approach the pinboard. The Constable looked at his notes and placed six blue stickers on the master plan of the mortuary. On four of them, he wrote numbers. Skinner read the first number and tensed. It was 28A. Silently he watched as Pye unpeeled a yellow dot from its sheet and placed it beside Roy Old's name.

The young man placed yellow dots against two more passenger names and a red against the fourth, then turned, and with a final salute to Skinner, left the Command vehicle.

The DCC looked after him as the door closed. 'That boy, Maggie — I want him on my team. Andy will have CID officers on his personal staff. He'll want McIlhenney, I know.

Make sure that Pye's another. Anyone his age who volunteers for that task deserves looking after.'

Rose smiled and nodded. 'Very good, sir. Will you tell Mr Radcliffe or will I?'

`No, you leave that to me. It's only courtesy for me to tell him that I'm pinching one of his bright lads. But for now, I'm off to make a formal identification of Roy Old. I owe that much to Lottie. What am I talking about! I owe her more than I'll ever be able to say.'

`Steady on, boss. Think back to what you told Alison Higgins.'

Skinner took his right hand from the door handle. 'What I said to Ali about guilt and recrimination, I said to make her feel better. What I feel in here,' he tapped his chest, 'I can't change.'

SEVENTEEN

To outward appearances, Death seemed to have dealt relatively gently with Roy Old.

Skinner held his breath as he unzipped the body bag, but sighed loudly, with something which on another day would have been classed as relief when he saw that his colleague's features had survived the impact intact. Eyes closed, he looked almost serene.

`He could be asleep,' said Bob to Sarah, who was standing behind him. 'What would be the cause of death, d'you think?'

The death certificate will say multiple fractures and shock. The soldiers who brought him in said that he had been thrown clear of his flight seat on impact, and landed face up on a rock. His spine and his pelvis were shattered, and the back of his head was smashed in.'

Skinner sighed. 'But he'll look all right for Lottie, and that's the main thing. I'll arrange for an undertaker to come for him as soon as I can.' He zipped up the bag and stood up.

`What are we going to do with the bodies once they're all recovered?' asked Sarah. 'We have to move them somewhere more, more . .

He laid his hands on her shoulders. 'That's taken care of. Charlie Radcliffe has commandeered the Aubigny Centre in Haddington. As soon as recovery is complete we'll move them down there for identification by relatives.'

She was barely listening to him. 'And undertakers,' she went on. 'What will we do about undertakers?' She sounded increasingly distressed. Bob put an arm around her shoulders.

`There are specialists,' he said quietly. 'People who are able to cope with something on this scale. They go from disaster to disaster, around the world. The airline is bringing them in.

They're on their way here now, and they'll take care of the first part of it. All that the family undertakers have to do is make their local funeral arrangements. The specialists will ensure that the victims from London and the South, and the foreign nationals, are all ready to be shipped home, wherever that may be, as soon as they're identified.'

Her shoulders shivered under his touch. 'God, Bob,' she whispered, 'that someone could make a business out of that. It all sounds so cold and regimented.'

Ìt is — but it's necessary. You don't think the Co-op undertaker in Tranent could handle this, do you? The families need to know that their people are being looked after properly and as quickly as possible.'

He led her out of the tent. It was almost full now, of black bags in still rows. He squeezed her shoulder. 'Are you holding up all right?'

Òf course,' she snapped defensively. 'There's still work to be done. There are another eighteen bodies to be recovered.'

`Make that sixteen,' said Bob, nodding towards two laden stretchers, as their soldier bearers made their way carefully towards them.

`Right,' said Sarah, freeing herself of his encircling arm and disappearing back into the tent.

He watched her go, frowning with his concern for her.

EIGHTEEN

‘Bloody 'ell, Bob. Every time I see you it's in the midst of chaos.

Skinner turned, his frown disappearing at the sound of a familiar voice. The newcomer had a friendly, inquisitive smile, and receding, gingery, close-cropped hair. He was dressed in a comfortable well-worn Harris Tweed jacket, a check shirt, and navy slacks.

His black shoes shone even in the watery light.

He stood only five feet four inches, not far from a foot shorter than Skinner, yet he was powerfully built, and even in his loose-fitting clothes, the width of his shoulders gave him a chunky, almost round appearance.

Ìt's the life we lead, Adam. It's good to see you again. I'm only sorry it's here.

The two men shook hands. They made an odd and incongruous couple, stood there on the moorland. Mutt and Jeff, Little and Large, Bootsie and Snudge, likely to raise a laugh from any unknowing passer-by. Yet Bob Skinner and Adam Arrow were well-matched, and they had a bond between them that would have wiped such a smile away quickly.

Occasionally, in dangerous places, dangerous people would laugh at the idea of Captain Arrow as a figure of menace. No one had ever laughed twice. No one at all had ever laughed at Bob Skinner.

Just over a year before, the policeman and the soldier had been together as Skinner had played out some of the most dangerous scenes of his life, leading to a climax in which Arrow had stopped a bullet. The nature of their jobs was such that they had not seen each other since the second day after that event, and now as they stood together, each knew that the other was thinking back to that night.

`So, my friend,' said Skinner at last. 'You're in MOD Security now, are you?'

Ànother bloody contradiction in terms,' said the little round man, smiling.

`Had you finally run out of terrorists, then?'

`That'll be the day. I was past my sell-by date where I was, though. I knew that. The opposition knew that. Fortunately, so did my senior officers.'

`You were all right after . . . ?' The question went unfinished.

Arrow shrugged his disproportionate shoulders. 'Sure. I had a cracked rib, but that were all. The jacket did its stuff all right. First time I'd ever been shot, that were; and it's my ambition never to get shot again, I'll tell you.'

Skinner smiled, remembering old pain. 'Mine too.' He paused. 'Still, we're both driving desks now, so it's one we've got a good chance of achieving.'

`Hope you're right,' said Arrow, sounding unconvinced. `Trouble is, there are times when it's difficult to stay behind the desk. Know what I mean? From what I heard, it even follows you on to t' golf course!'

`Hah!' said Skinner sharply. 'That's another story. Some time I'll tell you all about it. But for now, we've got our hands full here.'

`Too right. What's the picture, then?'

Skinner pointed towards the mortuary tent. 'There are one hundred and eighty-eight bodies in there.'

And our Secretary of State?'

`Not yet. Not as far as I know.' Skinner grimaced. 'I have a feeling we won't find him on this site . . . if we find him anywhere, that is.'

`What d'you mean?'

Ì mean, my friend, that there was an explosion on the plane, and that from witness statements, from the seat plan and from the condition of the wreckage, your Secretary of State was right in the middle of it.'

`Shit!' Arrow whispered.

`Major Legge and his boys are up in their chopper right now, checking around the moor for other wreckage. So far there's been no word, but let's go back to the Command vehicle and check again.'

As they walked to the mobile headquarters, Skinner briefed his soldier friend on the disaster morning as it had developed. `Your colleagues from Scottish HQ at Craigiehall have been a great help,' he said. 'If it hadn't been for them we'd still have bodies lying uncovered on open ground.'

They had reached the van. The policeman held the door open for Arrow to jump up inside.

`Hello, Sergeant Rose,' said the little man, showing the ability to put a name to a face instantly that is the mark of those in the security business.

'Inspector Rose now,' said the red-head. 'Captain ... is it, still?'

"Fraid so. Our promotion system's slower than yours!'

Skinner looked at the lists on the pinboard. He counted fourteen names unmarked with a dot of either colour: eleven passengers from the two front rows, two from the rear, and one member of the flight crew.

`What have you recovered yet, apart from bodies?'

`Nothing,' said Rose. 'Victims first, effects second.' She paused, her eyebrows rising slightly. 'We think we've found the Black Box flight recorder, though. The divers have spotted an object that answers the description.'

'Bugger the Black Box, Maggie . . . Pardon the French. It's the Red one I need.'

Èh?'

Skinner smiled. The Secretary of State's Red Box, Mags. All Ministerial papers are carried in steel boxes covered in red leather, and everywhere the Minister goes, so do they. They weigh a ton and they're fireproof.'

Àye,' said Arrow, 'and now we're going to find out if they're bombproof.'

`Would they have been in the baggage hold, sir?' asked Rose. `No, they'll have been in the cabin. The Minister's Private Secretaries don't let them out of their sight.'

Skinner slapped his thigh in a gesture of annoyance — a habit picked up unconsciously from someone he had met not long before. 'I'm sorry, Adam,' he said. 'I should have thought before about those bloody boxes. I'd imagine that you'll be desperate to recover Davey's as quickly as possible.'

Aye. I've no idea what's in it, but God alone knows what might be. Weapons specifications, Intelligence reports, details of troop deployments where they ain't supposed to be deployed . . . There could be all sorts of secure stuff, and some of it could even be life-threatening in the wrong hands.'

`Right,' barked Skinner, suddenly and sharply. Arrow and Rose looked up at him, startled.

'My mind's been running in second gear all bloody day. I've been standing around just looking at things, not doing my job by thinking about them. I've been preoccupied by the scale of it all, but that doesn't change the basics. There was an explosion on that plane —

an explosion that was too big to have been any sort of accident. This is a murder investigation, and it's going to be run like any other . . . flat out until we get a result!

Christ,' he said, shaking his head, 'and I've just sent my Area Head of CID off to nursemaid her pal.

`Switch the priorities, Mags. Now! Leave a couple of soldiers to bring in the last few victims, but otherwise, call everyone in here for a briefing. I want every able body looking for wreckage, and in particular for anything that looks as if it could be debris from a bomb.'

He snapped out orders. Try to raise Major Legge on our communications, and find out how he's getting on with his helicopter search!

`Tell the divers to get their fingers out and bring up that flight recorder!

`Find out what's keeping the CAA investigation team!

`We're going to need somewhere to examine the wreckage as it comes in. Ask the Army to give us another tent up here, at least as big as that one over there. And some tables this time. Generators too, to power lighting.

`We may be in the back of beyond, but this operation's going to be run according to the rules: Skinner's rules!'

NINETEEN

The Deputy Chief Constable's briefing had just broken up. Seventy police officers and thirty soldiers were winding their way back towards the valley to begin the painstaking search that Skinner had ordered.

He and Arrow were standing just outside the Command vehicle, watching them disperse, when he heard the heavy sound of the Army helicopter once more, heading up from the south.

They watched as it lumbered over the horizon, swept over the crash-site, then swung round towards the area where the Headquarters van was parked. As it headed towards them, close to the ground, Skinner caught sight of Major Legge, in the co-pilots’ seat, waving and pointing, indicating that they were about to land.

No sooner had the big green aircraft settled on a flat stretch of heather than Legge jumped out and ran towards them, crouched over although the slowing rotors were well above his head height.

`We've found something, Bob. I thought you'd want to be with us when we went down to take a look at it.'

Skinner nodded. 'Aye, sure, Major — if I can borrow that flight gear again. The heather knocks hell out of the wool worsted!'

Òf course. It's still in the chopper.' The Major seemed to notice the policeman's companion for the first time. 'Hello,' he said, in recognition. 'It's Arrow, isn't it? SAS?'