‘It’s standard protocol,’ Nina had lied to those passengers who had asked why they had to wait. The truth was she had no idea.
Eventually they were told they could depart and as each slid down the yellow and red inflatables, they were met by uniformed men who promptly escorted them to one of two elongated buses. It seemed there was one for the men and one for the women. There were fewer than twenty people on Nina’s bus. As the bus departed, all that Nina could see of the wreckage of their craft was blue and white police tape and flashing sirens. The buses drove them back to the airport terminal building where they were asked to wait in two separate secluded lounges; again, one for the male and one for the female passengers. After half an hour of hanging around waiting for some kind of announcement, one of the dark suits appeared and told them they were witnesses to a potentially serious incident. He advised that each would be required to give a witness account of what happened. Every twenty minutes or so, a dark suit would appear at the door and call out a passenger’s name and lead them from the room. Nina assumed the passengers were being released after giving their statements as none had returned.
The room was dimly lit and no magazines or refreshments were offered to stem the inevitable boredom. Nina was growing increasingly frustrated and was determined to challenge the next dark suit that appeared when she heard her own name called out. She picked up her handbag and followed him through the door. He led her down a corridor to a secured door at its end. He waved a security pass at the door and it opened, leading to a second corridor, this one much narrower, and lacking any sort of décor. At the end of this corridor was another secured door that, when opened, led into a box room about eight foot square. A small rectangular table with two empty chairs either side of it and a further chair with a grey suit seated in it was what greeted Nina.
‘Take a seat, Miss Johnstone,’ said the dark suit who had led her to the room.
Nina obliged, placing her hand bag between her feet. Something about the situation felt a bit strange.
‘Would you like a drink?’ the same suit asked.
‘A vodka and tonic would go down a treat right now,’ she smiled, but was met with blank faces.
‘Bring in a glass of water,’ barked the suit into a small microphone hidden under his lapel.
Within seconds, a plastic beaker of water was brought in by a third suit, this time a blue one, and placed in front of Nina. She was about to acknowledge her gratitude but, when she turned, he was gone.
‘Crazy day, huh?’ remarked the grey suit, his accent Southern but with no obvious tie to a specific region.
‘Certainly not a usual day,’ Nina replied, shrugging her shoulders.
‘You weren’t injured in the landing at all?’ continued the grey suit, still no trace of a smile.
‘No, I’m fine,’ Nina replied cautiously, still not quite sure why she felt so uneasy.
‘Ok, why don’t you begin by telling us what you observed aboard Flight BZ-1209 this afternoon? Remember, try and tell us everything you saw or heard, no matter how remote,’ grey suit urged.
Nina proceeded to recount the last several hours of her life from the moment she boarded the plane to the moment she slid down the inflatable slide. During her account, each suit scribbled notes into small pads of paper they had removed from inside their jackets. When she was done, grey suit said, ‘Thank you, Miss Johnstone for your vivid account. It seems you really were in the thick of things. By and large your account matched that of our colleague Scott Aldridge and we thank you for your candour.’
Nina was about to stand to leave when grey suit continued, ‘we do have just a few questions to ask to clarify some of the things you said, if that’s okay. I’m sure it won’t take much longer.’
Nina glanced at her wrist watch. It had been half an hour since her name had been called by the dark suit.
‘Firstly,’ he continued, not waiting for an acknowledgement, ‘what made you pick up the intercom to speak with Captain Adams?’
‘As I said,’ Nina began, ‘I wanted to thank him for agreeing to give me a lift back to the U.K.’
‘But that’s standard practice, surely,’ interrupted dark suit. ‘It wasn’t like he was going out of his way.’
Nina didn’t like his tone of voice.
‘It’s just courtesy,’ Nina reasoned. ‘I find its good to say thank you to the pilots when they agree to give me a free ride, it means next time I ask they will be just as willing to oblige.’
‘Did you know Captain Adams before today? Have you ever met him before?’ he countered.
‘Actually I still haven’t met him today,’ she retorted.
‘Let me re-phrase, have you ever travelled with Captain Adams before?’
‘No, not that I am aware of,’ sighed Nina.
‘Was there anything else that made you pick up the phone at that time?’ grey suit asked. ‘A noise, perhaps?’
‘No,’ said Nina, closing her eyes.
‘Is everything okay, Miss Johnstone?’ grey suit asked.
‘Yes!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m just tired of answering the same questions over and over. I told you already, I don’t know him!’
‘Calm down, Miss Johnstone, we’re just trying to establish what happened.’
‘I’ve told you what happened!’
‘We just want to make sure we have understood your version of events, Miss Johnstone,’ grey suit responded. ‘I understand your frustration.’
He paused to allow Nina to calm herself down before continuing, ‘Can you confirm again what you heard when you phoned the cockpit?’
Nina sighed but her voice was calmer when she spoke, ‘I heard a scuffle of some sort, possibly a banging and then a male voice said the captain was attacking him.’
‘And those were the words you heard? ‘The captain is attacking me,’?’ he clarified.
‘Yes…I think so…I can’t remember the exact words…but pretty much that…yes.’
‘Thank you once again for your time, Miss Johnstone,’ grey suit said, passing her a business card. ‘You are free to leave now. My colleague will escort you to the exit. Please call if you remember anything else about today’s incident. You should also know there is a chance that you will be contacted by the media, and we would ask you not to disclose any of what you have witnessed today, as it could affect any future criminal prosecution. Do you understand?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ said Nina standing, eager to leave this room, go home and pour herself a long chilled glass of wine.
FRIDAY
6
Daniel Simpson cursed under his breath as the pedestrian crossing signal changed from green man to red. It was typical of the morning he was having. He had lost every 50-50 decision. But therein was an apt summary of the last six months of his life.
He had set his alarm for quarter to six that morning, which should have left him plenty of time to wake, wash, dress and leisurely enjoy a crumpet or two over a steaming mug of tea. His luck being what it was, however, a power cut during the night had reset the display. He had woken by chance at six thirty and had casually glanced at the clock, nearly having a panic attack when he realised he had over slept. He had leapt from the bed, thrown on his clothes while trying not to disturb her beauty sleep and run down the stairs, taking them two at a time. The bus he was to catch that morning was due at seven a.m. but the bus stop was a good twenty minute stroll from his house, which was why he decided to skip the tea and crumpets and race out the door.
As he scurried along the pavement, briefcase in hand, he was jumpy. Every dog walker or slowly passing car set off warnings in his head. His sixth sense was working overtime. Were they watching him right now? To make sure he went through with it? Any of the strangers with dogs, could have been a decoy, an undercover operative reporting back on his movements. A car would pull out with its lights off; was it a sleepy driver, or something more suspicious? He tried to keep his head down, to avoid eye contact, and just kept heading towards the bus stop.
He arrived at the stop with a minute to spare and, as he glanced at his wrist watch, he dared to believe that his luck might finally be changing. When the bus had still not arrived twenty minutes later, any such belief had long since diminished. ‘Of all the days for the sodding bus to be cancelled,’ he had thought to himself. He had been forced to wait for the next bus as his destination was simply too far to walk to and he certainly couldn’t afford to call for a taxi. As it was, he had had to break into his son’s piggy bank late last night just to scrape together the cash he would need for this morning’s bus ride.
Daniel had tried to cure the boredom of waiting at the bus stop by singing, by humming, by pacing and eventually by trying to recall the winners of the F.A. Cup for the last fifteen years. He was happy to think of anything that would keep his mind from what was due to happen today. He tried his best, but every few minutes he would be reminded and his stomach would turn.
Finally a bus eventually arrived, some forty minutes later. Daniel was of a mind to confront this driver about the appalling and unreliable service that this bus company offered, but, not wishing to draw any undue attention to himself, he had simply asked for a single fare to the city centre and had taken a seat near the rear of the vehicle. He was clutching the briefcase in his hand tightly, its contents far too precious to allow him to lose the case. The bus, as would be expected was packed full of miscreants on their way to some school or another. They were full of youthful enthusiasm, not for school of course, but just to be out and away from their parents. Some were listening to music, some were chatting, most swearing and being rude to more senior passengers. He did what he could to ignore the comments and ‘old man’ jibes hurled in his direction.
On the bus he had tried to work out at what point his life had become such a mess; there had to have been a moment when he had reached a crossroads and ultimately chosen the wrong path, but no matter how hard he soul-searched, he just could not recall when it was. His quality of life had certainly been poor for at least the last half year. It had even become so bad that he was now forced to travel on public transport to the job he had once loved. Gone were the days when he would wake, kiss his wife and son goodbye in the morning before sliding into his BMW and drive to the office. In fairness, it hadn’t all been his fault. The company’s decision to downgrade some of the managerial roles had certainly not been his doing. After twenty years at the company, he had been called into his manager’s office to be told that he had two options: redundancy or a downgrade. Having recently taken out a personal loan for a conservatory extension on the house, there had been no way he could afford to be unemployed for any period of time. His wife had given up work when their son Jasper had been born four years ago and now he was the sole breadwinner. He had accepted the downgrade, even though he had been advised it would impact his final salary pension in later years. Ever the optimist, he had retorted to his manager that the company would improve its fortunes one day, and he would soon be back up in the managerial echelons. Only now, did he realise how naïve he had been.
The bus had eventually arrived at the train station in the centre of Southampton at twenty minutes past eight. He had barged his way off the bus and headed along the pavement adjacent to the BBC building, towards his place of work. The lampposts along the narrow incline had pink glowing letters cut out of them, pointing the way to the city centre. He was about halfway along the walkway when he spotted the yellow high visibility vest of a police constable and he had thought at that point that the game was up, after all, why would a policeman be waiting at that particular spot? Daniel slowed, his eyes darting from the policeman to the top of the hill and back. He was nearly past him when the officer had moved out and said, ‘Excuse me, sir?’
Daniel had frozen and slowly turned to seethe officer issuing a cyclist with a fine for cycling along the walkway, he had never been so relieved. Daniel could even see him pointing up at signs attached to the lampposts warning cyclists that they could be subject to an on-the-spot fine for riding a bicycle along the path. He didn’t wait around to find out the outcome of the exchange, and continued hurriedly on his way up the hill.
IPSA was a Scandinavian insurance company with offices in Stockholm, Wolverhampton, Copenhagen and Southampton. He had joined the company in his early twenties when he had grown bored with visiting the Job Centre. He had taken a role as a telephone sales representative, responsible for upselling life assurance and sickness benefits to customers phoning to check the balance of their portfolio. It had not sounded like an exciting role, but mid-recession, he had been willing to do anything. As it turned out, he had been a natural salesman, his deep-sounding voice disguising his lack of life experience well. He found that older ladies were his bread and butter: He could spend just twenty minutes on the phone with one and she would agree to take everything he was offering, and would then convince her husband to follow suit. He got so good at his job that he had raked in bonuses worth hundreds of pounds, back in a day when he was only making ten thousand pounds a year.
His success on the phone as a sales representative had eventually led to promotion to Team Leader and, after ten years doing that, he had been promoted to Team Manager. Understandably the bonus pay-outs reduced, but the salary and pension benefits more than made up for this. He had bought a semi-detached three bedroom house in North Baddesley, on the outskirts of the city centre and they had lived there ever since.
The office was at the top of the walkway, right on the edge of the retail centre; there was even a large supermarket fifty yards away from the office and a small shopping centre across the street. As he reached the top of the walkway he came to a run of four pedestrian crossings, each controlled by a different set of traffic lights. If timed right, it was possible to hit the lights and walk straight across as each green man appeared in sequence. However, if timed wrong, it would be necessary to stop at each set of lights. This was where Daniel now found himself. He cursed for a second time as the red man appeared. He could see his office and was frustrated that his arrival was being further delayed beyond his control.
Worry was causing him to sweat heavily by the time he reached the rotating doors that led to the reception area of the IPSA building. A security guard with white hair and a white bushy moustache was at the reception desk to his right, watching the muted news on the LCD television hanging from the wall. Daniel knew him well enough to nod to, but had no idea what his name was. The guard offered a warm smile as he recognised Daniel and mouthed the word ‘Morning.’ Daniel avoided eye contact, even more conscious of what was in his briefcase, and headed towards the security turnstile. He pulled the security pass that hung from his neck on a lanyard and waved it over the pass reader. The LED light switched from red to green, indicating that he could proceed, but as he tried to walk through, the barrier caught and did not move. ‘Oh God,’ he thought to himself, sensing that it was all over.
Spotting that Daniel was having difficulty getting through the barrier, the security guard stood and moved over to try to help.
‘Back up a minute, sir,’ he said calmly, while Daniel’s brain was completing somersaults trying to work out how to get out of this situation. He complied with the request, not noticing the guard fiddle with the barrier.
‘Why don’t you give it another go,’ the guard then said.
A wave of relief washed over him, as he moved forward once more and showed his pass to the sensor. As the LED turned green he pushed the barrier and it turned first time allowing him entrance through the turnstile.
‘Hope your boss, doesn’t have a go at you for being late,’ the guard said warmly.
‘What? What do you mean?’ asked Daniel, unhappy with the intrusive nature of the statement.
The guard pointed at Daniel’s forehead, before replying, ‘You seem a bit stressed out that’s all. I assume you are running late?’
The security guard would later remark that he heard Daniel mutter something back under his breath as he headed for the elevator
lobby, but he was not sure what it was. The lobby in question was banked by four lift shafts; he pressed the call button on the wall, and waited. He checked his watch again. It was eight thirty already, meaning there would be more people in the building, which was the last thing he needed.
He pressed the lift call button again. ‘Why is it taking so bloody long?’ he asked himself. A beeping noise indicated that his carriage had arrived. He hurried into the elevator and walked in, quickly pressing for floor-4, followed by several jabs at the button to close the doors quicker, before anyone else could enter. The doors began to close and for the first time that day he breathed a sigh of relief. This was short lived when the doors began to re-open and a woman jumped in.
‘Sorry,’ she offered, pressing the button for floor-3.
‘Get out of the fucking lift!’ he wanted to shout at her but, when he looked up, he recognised who she was and he became a quivering mess and he averted his eyes.. Her name was Hannah and she worked in one of the risk teams downstairs. That was as much as he knew about her. They had never formally been introduced but he had often made eye contact with her and smiled, deep down fantasising about seducing her and commencing a sordid affair. Not that he ever would of course. He had always been a bag of nerves around women he fancied. He used to joke that the only reason he had ever married was because his future wife had made the first move.
The lift crawled from the ground floor to the first and then the second and eventually the third floor. The whole time his sweat glands continued to drain all the fluid from his body. He continued to stare down at the floor. When the lift doors eventually opened and she left, he again jabbed at the button to ensure the doors closed before anybody else could climb in. Satisfied that he was not going to be disturbed, he placed the briefcase he had been carrying all morning flat against the floor and opened it. He removed the SIG Pro semi-automatic pistol along with the additional magazine they had provided. He pocketed the magazine and held the gun in his hands. It was heavier than he had expected but this was the first time he had handled it since it had been dropped off at his house late yesterday afternoon. A typed scrap of paper read, ‘Weapon loaded. Release the safety, point and squeeze the trigger.’
Shadow Line Page 4
