He folded himself back behind the wheel of the white saloon and headed off down the narrow roadway, towards the four columns of smoke. They were beginning to spiral on a light morning breeze, which Skinner guessed would have been triggered by the turning of the tide in the estuary a few miles distant. On either side of him, the heather was thicker than ever. The Longformacus Road was steep and twisting as it plunged and climbed in and out of a succession of featureless gullies. At first the smoke beacons were dead ahead of him but as he grew ever nearer, they veered round to his left with the curving of the road.
As he drove he was concentrating more on the smoke signals than on the road, and so, when his eye was caught at last by the shapeless, mangled body he had to brake hard, throwing himself painfully against the restraining seat-belt.
The thing lay across the roadway, blocking most of it, only a few yards short of the crest of a steep climb. At first, Skinner registered only a red, torn mass beyond the bonnet of the BMW. Breathing heavily, he squeezed his eyes shut as he composed himself. Then, running his fingers through his steel-grey hair, he braced himself and stepped out of the car.
SIX
It was a sheep.
As Skinner stared at it, shuddering in spite of himself, he could see, protruding from the carcass, the long, jagged piece of metal which had caught the animal as it plunged from the sky, eviscerating it and hurling it, in a trail of gore and entrails, from the heather in which it had been grazing across the road. It was almost wholly red, looking for all the world as if science had produced a new strain of pre-dyed wool. His nostrils were filled with the smell of it, the almost palpable reek of blood and guts and faeces, and he turned his head away, staring back down the slope where the rest of the flock had gathered together as if for security, against the terror which had seized one of their number.
Suddenly his senses were caught by another odour, one which overcame even the stench of the sheep. It was an acrid smell of burning, of the reek of ignited aircraft fuel which still hung over the fields. He looked up the slope, to its crest; his dread returned as he realised that he was very close to the disaster scene. As he stared, a faint voice reached his ears, borne on the breeze.
With an effort of will, he switched off his revulsion. Seizing the dead sheep by its bloody forehooves, he dragged it from the roadway into the heather, ignoring the slithering sound it made as more of its innards were loosed into the light of day.
Wet tendrils of vegetation tugged at his calves, soaking his woollen trousers, and he swore softly. Leaving the animal to the attention of the huge black crows which were circling above, he jumped back out on to the tarmac and opened the BMW's boot. Rummaging inside he found his trusty old black Wellingtons and pulled them on, discarding his black Loakes. He had carried his rubber boots, and their predecessors for as long as he could remember, all year long in successive motor cars.
The pedals were awkward under the heavy, ridged rubber soles, and so he eased the car slowly up the last few feet of the climb, pulling it off at the summit into a flat grassy area, beside a navy blue police personnel carrier which had been parked there. Inside sat a man, his face buried in his hands. Skinner looked at him and decided, quickly, that he could wait.
The long shallow valley spread out before him, like a subdivision of Hell. The closest of the four smoking columns was perhaps thirty yards away. The heather around it was burning and its heat reached out to him, yet not even the high octane fuel could make much progress through its thick growth, saturated as it had been by the heavy, almost continuous rain of one of the wettest Scottish autumns on record. Beyond the fire, as if contained by it and the other three main blazes, hundreds of yards away in the far slopes, a great black slash, perhaps half a mile long and fifty yards wide, had been scorched into the valley floor. Here and there, isolated flickers of flame and tendrils of smoke drifted upwards. At the head of the valley, lay the plane's twin engines.
Skinner closed his eyes. As vividly as if he had been there, he saw the plane's belly crash into the ground, exploding in a white-hot blast. He saw the engines cartwheeling on. He saw the deadly rain of jagged metal plunging from the sky.
He opened his eyes to escape the vision, and felt a renewed trembling wrack his body. The sheer scale of the disaster seemed almost too much to take in. As he looked down into the valley, he thought of his own recent flights, and felt the guilt as an involuntary surge of relief swept through him, that others were lying there, not him nor his own.
Standing out against the dark scar, and around it, against the purple of the heather that remained untouched, Skinner saw a sea of myriad spots of colour. There were reds, blues, greens, yellows, whites, hundreds of them, scattered in a great circle all over the walls and floor of the valley. Some lay still on the dark ground, others flapped on the breeze.
Skinner knew what many of these coloured markers represented, and his eyes moistened at the realisation. Among them were more than a few Day-Glo splashes. He guessed that they might be life-jackets donned in some last faint hope.
The aircraft had blown apart on impact. All around Skinner, and all around the crest of the site, pieces of shrapnel, like the one that had slaughtered the sheep, were tangled in the undergrowth, or sticking into the ground. The only part of it that remained more or less intact was the tail section. It lay, recognisable but upside down, at the top of the southern slope.
For a second the DCC felt that he would be overwhelmed by the immensity of the thing, but suddenly looking down, he saw five small figures moving among the wreckage. They were all in uniform, and all wore Wellingtons. The officer closest to him, who was perhaps 300 yards away, wore a cap heavy with silver braid.
`Charlie!' Skinner shouted. The man looked up, and the two headed towards each other through the heather, one down the slope and one back up, each of them looking not at the other, but at their feet, as they walked.
They were fifty yards apart when Skinner's eye was caught by something away to his left.
A grey line showed just above the stubby, thigh-high shrubs. He veered towards it, motioning Radcliffe to follow, but not looking at him. As he drew closer, he saw that the grey shape was at the centre of a deep circular depression in the ground-covering plant. A fist of apprehension grasped at his stomach.
He was still almost ten yards away when he knew for certain that it was an aircraft seat. It was lying on its side, its back towards him and it was impacted into the ground. As he closed the distance, he realised that the seat was still occupied. He stepped around to the other side.
The body strapped into the chair was that of a man. It was intact, but the head hung at a grotesque angle, and the legs were broken and bent back under the chair. The face was bloody and unrecognisable, and the blue business suit was torn to shreds. Skinner guessed that while the heather might have cushioned the impact as the seat hit the ground, it had taken its toll too.
Chief Superintendent Radcliffe's footsteps sounded behind him and then stopped. Skinner heard his colleague's heavy breathing interrupted by a sudden sharp gasp as he caught sight of the victim.
`God, sir,' he said. 'We've all rehearsed this often enough, but it doesn't really prepare you, does it?'
Skinner turned to face him. 'No, Charlie. Nothing ever could.' He nodded towards the valley. 'What's it like down there?'
`Carnage, Bob. Sheer bloody carnage. Bodies all over the place, and not all of them in one piece. My lads are being thorough, but there's not a cat's chance of finding anyone alive.'
Ì know, Charlie, but we've got to look. We owe it to them: to them and their families.'
Suddenly in the distance, they heard the sound of sirens. `That'll be the reinforcements.
Let's get back up the hill and set up some sort of a command point.' Skinner turned and retraced his steps through the thick heather, leading the way. 'Who's the bloke in the van?'
he asked Radcliffe as they walked.
Àn eye-witness. A shepherd. He was up the hill there when th
e plane came down. We found him shambling along the road. We'll get nae sense out of him for a while though.'
Radcliffe winced as they trudged up the hill. 'Are you up to this terrain, my friend?' asked Skinner solicitously. 'I mean, it's not that long since your operation. And you're not as young as your men.'
Ì'm fine, sir,' said the uniformed officer, although his pale face belied him. He was in his late fifties, and earlier that year he had undergone major surgery. 'It just gives me a twinge every now and again.'
Àye, well; just you look after yourself.' The DCC paused. `You made good time getting here.'
Radcliffe nodded. 'Just luck, sir. I happened to be in at Haddington early this morning.
When HQ put through the message from Air Traffic Control, I grabbed five of the six people in the station, piled them into the bus and came up here. But you've made pretty fair time yourself.'
Skinner glanced at his watch. It was a minute after nine a.m. `Right enough. Mind you, I was stopped for speeding on the way.' Radcliffe smiled tensely, not suspecting for a second that the other man was speaking the truth.
They stood together on the brow of the hill, looking to the north, where two red fire tenders were winding steadily onwards. Just behind them came an ambulance with a police car in its trail.
À drop in the ocean, sir, that's all they are,' said Radcliffe grimly.
`Don't I know it, Charlie. Let's find out what's been done.' He took his mobile phone from his pocket, switched it on and dialled the number of Police Headquarters in Edinburgh's Fettes Avenue. The call was answered as quickly as ever.
`DCC Skinner here. Get me ACC Ops, wherever he is.' `Very good, sir,' said the telephonist. 'I think he's in the Command Room.'
When Jim Elder, his colleague in charge of force operations, came on the line Skinner could hear the babel of sound behind him. At first the Yorkshireman had to shout above the din, until after a few seconds it subsided.
`Bob, it's good to hear from you. Where are you?'
Ì'm at the crash site, Jim. I was south of Edinburgh when the Chief called me, and I burned rubber getting here. Tell me, how were we alerted to it?'
Àir Traffic Control,' said Elder. 'They called us to say that the seven a.m. Edinburgh shuttle had vanished from their screens at eight minutes past eight, over the Lammermuirs, at a height of eight thousand feet. It just turned into a shower of sparks on the VDU, so they said.'
`What's been done so far?'
Às you know, the disaster plan puts me in charge at HQ. The Chief's on his way out to you. When I got in, I found that your Maggie had started things moving. She's got units from all services heading out to the scene.'
Àye,' said Skinner. 'Some of them are here already. But it's not fire engines we'll need, Jim. The flames will go out of their own accord. And it's not ambulances either. You can stand down the emergency centres; they won't be having any patients from here.'
He felt his voice crack, and paused.
`No hope, Bob?' asked Elder, quietly.
`No, Jim, none. What we'll need up here are experienced people with the stomach for what has to be done. I'll send the fire and ambulance people away. They'll have other calls, where they can do some good.'
`What d'you need then, mate?'
Skinner paused again, gathering his thoughts.
`First of all,' he said eventually, 'I'll need stretchers, blankets and bearers. And I'll need some sort of a field mortuary. This place is the middle of nowhere. We'll try to find a hall as close as we can to here that'll be big enough to take all the bodies. But God, man, I doubt that Meadowbank Stadium would be big enough!
`No, I need tents, large ones, and the people who can get them here in a hurry and have them operational. I need the Army, Jim. Will you get on to Craigiehall and ask Scottish Command if they can help us. Ask them if they can get choppers up here with a full battlefield set-up, and as many men as they can spare to help our lads with the dirty work.'
Òkay, Bob, I'll do all that. What about the Civil Aviation Authority — should we tell them?'
Skinner thought for a second. 'The airline will have done that, for certain. But you might want to ask them what they'll be doing and whether the people they send up here'll need assistance.'
`Right. Speaking of the airline, I've already asked them for a list of all the passengers on board, seat by seat, and all the information they have on each of them. Once you confirm that there are no survivors, I'll get the next-of-kin operation geared up. Mind you, we're getting calls already. The switchboard's lit up. Royston's people have acquired an emergency number, but it hasn't been flashed up on telly or radio yet.'
ACC Elder gulped. 'God, I almost forgot — there was a call for you a couple of minutes ago. Your other office in London. They said they wanted you, urgently.'
Skinner scowled. In addition to being Edinburgh's second most senior policeman, the big DCC was Security Adviser to the Secretary of State for Scotland. As such, he was a member of the MI5 network. Scotland, with one notable exception, did not have an extensive history of terrorism, and so the job was not onerous, but by its nature it could thrust its way unplanned into the busiest of working days. And this one promised to be one of the most hectic of his career.
`Bugger it,' he said. 'This overrides them. If they come back on, tell them what's happened, then put them on to Special Branch, and ask Brian Mackie to speak to them.'
Ì'll try,' said Elder, 'but they might not like it.'
`Tough shit. Right, what else do we require? For a start, although one of our mobile HQ
units will be coming up here under the plan, we're going to need two. There are no buildings for miles around, and Alan Royston will want somewhere separate to handle the media.
Ì'd like you to send Maggie Rose up, too. In our rehearsals, she's played the part of co-ordinator at the disaster site, so it makes sense that she does it here. Normally it might fall to Charlie Radcliffe, who's standing beside me, but I need him out in the valley directing the troops.' He paused, as Elder grunted agreement on the other end of the line. 'Anyway, I can think of no one better than Mags. She's rock steady under pressure.
Ì'll stay here until everything is in place, and the recovery operation's under way. Then it's over to you, Assistant Chief Constable Ops. I don't mind telling you, Jim, I wish it had been you who was closest to the scene this morning. Times like this,' he said, grim and earnest, 'I'm glad I'm just a simple thief-catcher!'
Still gripped with tension, he looked back once more down the hill and to the north. There, several police vehicles were making their steady way towards him. And behind them he saw a blue Vauxhall Frontera.
`Jim,' he said sharply. 'Which medics have been called in on this?'
`Didn't the Chief tell you?' replied Elder. 'He called Sarah, straight away. Then he called the Health Board and asked them to implement the disaster plan.'
Charlie Radcliffe, standing nearby, caught the change in Skinner's tone. He saw his eyes narrow and his jaw clench. Involuntarily, he backed away.
`The daft old sod!' Skinner shouted. 'Surely to Christ one of us up here's enough for him.
Surely there are enough doctors in Edinburgh. Surely he could have spared her this!'
At the other end of the line, Elder flinched also. 'Come on, Bob. Who else would he ask?'
`Just about anyone! Anyone but my wife!'
SEVEN
He punched the 'end' button and put the phone back in his pocket. He stood framed against the sky and watched the Frontera as it wound its way up the hill, pulled off the road and drew up beside him.
Sarah looked at him uncertainly through her big, dark-hazel eyes as she reached her foot down from the driver's seat. She was around five feet six inches tall, but the car rode high off the ground. She wore a long Barbour jacket over her university suit, and blue rubber boots, tied at the top. In her right hand she carried her medical bag.
She ran a hand over her auburn hair, in an unconscious gesture. 'Bob?' I
t was a question.
`What are you doing here?' he said softly. He was unaware of Charlie Radcliffe sidling off towards the valley.
An edge to match his own crept into her voice. 'You're asking me that?'
`Too right I am.'
Ìt's my job, remember!'
`No, it isn't. Not any more. Your job is in the University. There are other people to do this.'
Ì'm still on the strength as a Force ME. You know that.' `Sure, as holiday cover, and for police emergencies. Not for this!'
Ànd what the hell is this if not an emergency?' It was the first time in her life that she had ever raised her voice to him in real anger.
His eyes flared at her shout, but his voice dropped to a whisper. 'This is a disaster. There's nothing you can do for anyone down there.'
Òh yeah — and which Med. School did you graduate from? Can you say for sure that there's no one alive down there? Can you say for sure when someone's dead?'
Ì can when his head is thirty yards away from his arse. Look, go back to University, go home. Go anywhere, just don't go down there.' His desperation broke through his anger, and she was touched, seeing how much he cared for her.
Ì'm sorry, Bob, but I took an oath that says I have to.' She turned away from him and strode towards the valley. He started after her, stretching out a hand to hold her back . . .
and then his telephone sounded.
EIGHT
‘Dammit!' He kicked a stone in frustration and tore the instrument from his pocket. He jerked out the aerial and pushed the receive button. 'Yes!' he snapped.
`Bob?' The man on the other end of the call sounded taken aback. 'Z'at you?'
The DCC was so surprised that for a moment he forgot his argument with Sarah. 'Adam?
What the bloody hell do you want?'
It had been over a year since Skinner had seen Captain Adam Arrow, although the two were close friends. The little soldier had stood by his side during some of the most dangerous moments of his life, and the very sound of his Derbyshire tones was enough to lift the policeman's spirits.
Skinner's Ordeal Page 2
