Then the phone rang.
Chapter 56
It was Karen Swinney, calling to let us know that Brian’s funeral would be tomorrow. I jotted the name of the church and time of the service. I’d no sooner hung up than it rang again. I got it halfway through the first ring, assuming Karen had forgotten to tell me something.
“Ms. Parker?” The male voice sounded official. I knew I should have let the machine start screening the calls. I reluctantly acknowledged him.
“Charlotte L. Parker?”
“Yes. Who is this please?”
“I’m Hugo Fitzwater with the Civil Aviation Authority. I’ll need to meet with you and get a statement about yesterday’s incident. At your convenience, of course.”
Of course. Unfailing British politeness.
“Would this afternoon be all right?” Polite but firm.
I agreed and, given the choice between his downtown office and the Air-Sea offices at the airport, chose my own turf.
“One o’clock, then?”
It was nearly ten already and I decided it was about time I got dressed for the day. Back upstairs, Drake was just emerging from the shower.
“Guess the distillery tour’s off,” I called out. “CAA wants to see me at one. You’ll come with me, won’t you?”
He stood in the bathroom doorway, towel poised halfway to his face. “Think you’re ready?”
“No. But then I can only tell him the truth, relate the experience. They’ll investigate, won’t they? Find out whether the ship was sabotaged or this was just incredibly coincidental timing?”
“Hard to say just what they’ll do. You know how I feel about bureaucratic jerks with power. I tell em only what they need to know.” He pointed his index finger skyward. “Remember, a bureaucrat is not your friend.”
I chuckled while I rummaged through the closet for some clean khakis.
“You know, I think I’ll wander over to the castle for a few minutes. I should check in and see how everything’s turning out with them.”
“Let me know what time you want to head for the airport,” he said. “Remember, we’re down to one vehicle this morning.”
“Why don’t you catch a little nap, hon? We can leave about twelve.”
I ran a brush through my hair and gave my lips a smear of color.
Sarah grabbed my hand, leading me into the entry. “Oh, Charlie, I’m so glad you’ve come. What on earth happened out there, dear? I tell you, I about went into shock when the story came on.”
“On? It’s on the news?” I should have figured. Whether I talked or not, those reporters were determined to say something.
“Oh, my, yes. There’s a film of Drake leading you through a crowd of people. Well, I wouldn’t have known it was you because you didn’t look so great, but they said an American woman pilot so I knew it must have been.”
I quickly recapped the basics, making light of the terror I’d felt as the aircraft sunk under my feet and skipping over the part where I’d been convinced I would freeze to death on the black ocean.
“Well, let me give you some tea,” she said, bustling me toward the kitchen. “I’ve just put the kettle on.”
“How are things going with Richie?” I asked, as we settled at the counter with tea in delicate china cups and slices of angel food cake.
Sarah raised her eyes, as if some god on the ceiling might give answers. “They’ll get no punishment, I’m sure, those boys. Robert doesn’t think we should press charges for the fire at the crofter’s hut. Said they were just smoking and it was an accident.” She took a tentative sip of her tea. “Already Alasdair’s parents have paid some kind of money to the family of the dead person whose finger was cut off, and kept the thing very hushed publicly. That young man is going to be trouble, you watch. They’ve been covering for him and getting him out of his little jams all his life. One day . . .”
“And Richie?”
“His cut’s healing, so well you’d hardly know it’s there, Elizabeth tells me. I worry for the boy, Charlie. It’s another case of discipline too little and too late. Edward simply won’t allow ‘the child’ to end up with a criminal record. ‘Child’ –hah! I tell them he’d better start learning some lessons the hard way. But they don’t listen to me. Think I’m just an old idiot.”
I laughed and patted her hand. “You’re no old idiot,” I said. “I think you’ve got the most sense of the entire bunch.”
“Oh! I nearly forgot, dear. I found a little something for you.” She hurried out of the kitchen and returned with one hand behind her back. “Since you refused payment for your services in locating Richie—”
“I really didn’t—”
“Since you won’t take money, I wanted you to have a permanent memento of Scotland. Something positive, that is.” She held out a flat box about twelve inches square, wrapped in an attractive blue and green plaid paper and tied with a fluffy red bow. “Go on, open it.”
I preserved the bow and the paper and lifted the lid. Inside was a wooden plaque with an intricate crest in pewter.
“It’s the family crest of the Clan Davidson,” she explained. “And on the back . . .”
I turned it over.
“. . . that’s a short history of the origins of your family name.”
I swallowed a lump. “It’s just beautiful, Sarah. Thank you very much.”
We finished our tea and I realized it was time for me to face the music. With a vague plan for dinner one night soon, several more ‘thank yous’ on both sides, and a firm hug, I left Dunworthy.
Chapter 57
I sneaked a peek at my watch, under the edge of the desk. Two hours of questioning by the CAA man, Hugo Fitzwater, and my energy was flagging. We’d not covered any new ground after the first thirty minutes.
“And so, you don’t know whether it’s possible that someone might have tampered with your aircraft during the time you were at Rig 6,” he asked for the fourth time. His small blue eyes stared at the notepad on his lap.
“No, I don’t know it for a fact. It might have simply been a mechanical failure,” I said for the fourth time. Everything about the man, from his jowly round face to his white shirt that stretched to the bursting point over his round gut, was beginning to irk me.
“Had there been any unusual occurrences in the past few days?”
Unusual occurrences. Well, that might include a man dashing in front of Drake as he came in for a landing. It might include someone following me into the bathroom and whispering threats through the door. It could also include somebody luring Drake down a corridor, punching him in the face, and locking him in a closet. But we’d been over all that.
“Other than the things I’ve already told you about, I can’t think—” My breath caught and Fitzwater looked up at me. Oh my god, there certainly was something.
“Ms. Parker?”
“The flight manual.” I took a deep breath. “The JetRanger’s flight manual was missing one day. I had to wait while Meggie brought up the current weight and balance on the computer and printed me a new one. We never did find the original.”
Fitzwater sat up straighter and scratched notes furiously on his pad.
“The flight manual contains instructions specific to each aircraft,” I said, more to myself than to him. “The warning notices, the procedures . . .”
I felt a rush of adrenaline, the kind of excitement I get when a case-breaking idea hits. “We have get out to the rig,” I told him. “Now. Drake will fly us out there. We have to search the crew’s quarters.”
Even as I said it I realized how hopeless an idea it was. Brankin surely wouldn’t keep anything so incriminating in his room. Where was Drake? He’d dismissed Meggie for the day then discreetly vacated the office so Fitzwater could talk to me. I grabbed the phone and punched in his cell phone number.
“Now, wait a min—” Fitzwater sputtered.
“Get the Astar ready,” I said. “We have to get out to the rig. No, first, call the police. Tell them
it’s urgent to get a warrant to search Brankin’s home. He must live in town somewhere. It’s the flight manual, Drake, that’s the evidence we need.”
Bless him, he didn’t question me.
“Don’t you see?” I pleaded with Fitzwater. “With the flight manual, somebody like Brankin or his buddies would have the information they needed to disable the aircraft. If we can find it, that’s proof.”
“I just don’t know that we need—”
It hit me that the man was looking for a way out of going on the flight. He was afraid, of something.
“If you don’t want to go, that’s fine. Drake’s already calling the police. He’ll fly them out there, they’ll search the place, and wrap it up. The CAA isn’t going to care who gets credit, as long as they establish guilt, right?” I knew good and well that any bureaucrat worth his salt cares more about getting credit than just about anything else on earth. I’m sure he couldn’t give a damn who was guilty, as long as his name was on the final paperwork. I stood up. “We’re finished with questions here, aren’t we?”
“For my report . . .” he began. “Well, I suppose I should take a look at that manual.”
I crossed the ramp to the waiting Astar, knowing that the odds of those union thugs keeping any incriminating evidence was extremely slim. They’d probably looked through the book, found the information they wanted, and ditched the thing into the sea. But I had to know. There was no way I could simply accept an accident on my record, chalk it up to a mechanical failure and let them get away with it. A man was dead, his widow probably bankrupt, and I’d nearly gone to meet the Great Kahuna. Someone was responsible.
Alex and Duncan stood by the nose of the Astar, while Drake circled, performing his preflight inspection.
“How’d you get them here so fast?” I asked, catching up with him near the tail rotor.
“Fancy footwork,” he said with a smile. “Actually, they were already here. Next in line for questions. You just barked out your orders and hung up so fast I didn’t have time to tell you.”
Oh.
He squeezed my hand. “It’s okay. If we can pin down these crooks nothing would make me happier. Unless we could do it without another ride out to that platform.”
“I know. Think I have any desire to fly across that open water again?”
“You gotta get back on the horse sometime. You’re taking this one.”
Dread welled inside me but I made myself do it. We packed Fitzwater into the two center seats in back, with Alex and Duncan flanking him. I climbed into the pilot’s seat and Drake took the front jump seat.
“Take a deep breath. You can do this,” Drake said after switching the intercom so only we two could communicate. “If you’re unsure of anything, I’m right here.”
“Don’t let that CAA guy hear you.”
My insides fluttered as the turbine engine spun up and I guided the craft into the air. By the time I set her gently onto the pad at Rig 6 my confidence level had soared. A new set of nerves took over once we landed. Colin Finnie greeted us, a puzzled look on his face.
Alex pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Warrant to search the crew quarters,” he said, shoving it back into his jacket.
I thanked him silently for being willing to bluff his way in because I knew there was no way he could have gotten a legal warrant that quickly. Somehow I knew he’d have one by this afternoon though. Leaving Duncan to keep an eye on the aircraft, the rest of us turned toward the building.
Finnie showed us through the door and down a hallway lined with bunk rooms.
“Brankin’s?” Alex asked. Finnie pointed to one corner.
The room was set up in quarters, bunks two-high in each corner with lockers beside them. Each locker had some form of identification on it, most just a piece of masking tape with a last name penned on it. Eight beds to a room, eight lockers. Presumably, toilets and showers were communal and somewhere else along the hallway.
“We need to cut that lock,” Alex ordered, pointing at Brankin’s locker. Colin Finnie left to find a bolt cutter.
“The other names in here,” I said. “I recognize most of them. Robson, Barrie, and Ewing are all buddies of his. And I think Tolliver was another.”
Drake quickly circled the room, giving each bed a cursory search—running his hands over the blankets and under the pillows, flipping the mattress up. He unearthed a decent collection of girly magazines but no flight manual. By the time Colin returned we were standing near Brankin’s locker again.
The brawny Alex nipped the lock in one motion and cast it aside. He quickly patted down the clothing and upended the boots and shoes. A shelf above the row of hangers held books and papers, and Alex put them out en masse and threw them onto the bed. He went through each item, but I knew at a glance there was no flight manual among them.
Chapter 58
“Wait, what’s this?” I asked, noticing that each lower bunk had things stuffed under it.
“Trunks.” Finnie answered. “Each man has a trunk for his larger gear—survival suits, diving gear, stuff he doesn’t want to pack and take home between shifts”
Alex pulled Brankin’s trunk out and quickly did away with the lock. It contained just what Colin had said it would. No flight manual.
Fitzwater was beginning to look impatient, thinking no doubt that he’d had to endure two flights for nothing. Alex, though, wasn’t ready to give up yet.
“Which of these other men are part of Brankin’s boat union,” Alex asked Colin.
“Everyone in this room,” Colin answered.
Three lockers later we hit paydirt. The manual with my aircraft’s tail number sat right there in Tolliver’s locker.
Tolliver, the quiet one who’d always hung at the fringes of Brankin’s group. The one who wouldn’t be nearly as suspect if he quietly mosied toward the ship. Probably the one with enough brains to read the manual and figure out what to do.
“Look at this,” Drake said, flipping through the manual.
He’d opened it to the page of preflight cautions, those little warnings that come with everything from hair dryers to ladders to aircraft. The warnings that show up after fatalities. He pointed to a passage underlined in blue ink.
“This warns that the B-nut on the fuel control line has to be tightened to exact specs. If it’s only finger-tight it can vibrate loose during flight.”
“What does that mean?” Alex asked, saving me from the embarrassment of admitting that I didn’t know either.
“The engine starts okay, can even fly perfectly well. But if that nut works its way loose, fuel pressure drops, engine speed falls off. Pilot suddenly has no power. The low-rotor horn is usually your first warning.”
As I’d discovered. Fitzwater was nodding.
Drake continued, “Tolliver could have loosened the B-nut with a wrench, then tightened it just finger-tight. If he didn’t give it much of a twist, he could have been pretty sure it would come loose before the aircraft completed its flight.”
Alex took charge. “Are these men on duty today—Brankin, Tolliver, Ewing, Barrie and Robson?” he asked Colin. With a positive response, he turned to me. “Charlie, Drake, you might as well go out and guard your helicopter. I need Duncan in here with me.”
Fitzwater followed us, saying something about the police being able to handle the apprehension quite well. He made directly for his seat in the back of the Astar, ready to take the load off and get going. Drake and I stood by the ship’s rounded nose, wondering aloud just how the two police inspectors intended to get themselves and five suspects back to shore. Our seven-place aircraft certainly wasn’t going to handle all ten of us, especially since Fitzwater counted as two.
“Either have to take em by boat,” Drake said, “which, under the circumstances, I doubt they’ll want to do, or call in the RAF again. The Sea King will hold nineteen.”
“So, maybe we can leave soon?” I suddenly felt tired, ready to stay home awhile. Drake’s eyes showed his lack of sleep too.
The vision of pulling the drapes closed and sleeping the afternoon away in each other’s arms held a lot of appeal.
“Let’s at least preflight this thing,” he said.
We began making the rounds of the aircraft, looking it over, checking the tightness of hatch covers. I was at the tail when a door slammed. I glanced around the side of the aircraft and spotted Brankin, his eyes wild and aggressive. He stared at me.
Chapter 59
Before my brain registered what was happening, he launched himself across the landing pad and grabbed my arm. He wrenched it upward behind my back.
“Filthy bitch!” he growled into my ear. “Ain’t gettin me arrested.”
I flailed at him with my other fist, but each time he merely yanked harder on the captive one. It felt like my shoulder was coming out of its socket.
“Drake!” I screamed. I didn’t see him.
Brankin shoved me ahead of him, muttering curses and grabbing at me until he held both my arms firmly.
“Drake!”
“Shut up!” He moved as if to hit me in the face but thought better of it as he’d have to let one of my arms go.
I kicked at his shins and tried to twist out of his grip but the man was unbelievably strong. He kept shoving me across the concrete pad and I realized what he was doing.
We were headed right toward the edge of the platform. A sickening feeling rose in my throat as I remembered the straight plunge, a hundred fifty feet into the sea.
“Brankin! Stop!” Drake’s shout rang across the open expanse.
It was a nice try, but Brankin only shoved harder. We were no more than six feet from the drop-off. I planted my heels against the concrete, trying to push against Brankin as hard as he was pushing me, but he was clearly stronger. My boot heels formed twin black skid marks as the distance narrowed.
I couldn’t see Drake but his voice sounded closer this time. “Brankin, wait, let’s talk about this,” he said. “Charlie didn’t do anything to you.”
Competition Can Be Murder Page 23
