Without a Trace

by Mari Hannah

  As the Senior Identification Manager or Gold Commander – ‘Gold’ as he was known to his Met colleagues – Waverley was in overall charge, the linchpin of the Casualty Bureau. It was his job to assess the level of assistance required from outside of his home force. Even so, Hank was a bonus Kate wasn’t expecting.

  ‘Thank you, sir. DS Gormley is a fine detective, the very best—’

  ‘Don’t thank me,’ Waverley bit. ‘If it were up to me, you’d both be facing Professional Standards for neglect of duty. You may have Bright tied around your little finger, but we do things differently down here.’

  ‘You’ve never met my guv’nor, sir.’

  ‘And I have no wish to. From here on in, you play by my rules. Is that clear enough for you, Daniels?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  The use of her surname and not the rank that went with it was designed to put her in her place. It hadn’t worked. Kate was lucky to have Bright as a guv’nor; he was tough but fair. Some senior officers were cowards who ruled by fear and testosterone-fuelled intimidation. Kate had been handling guys like him since she was nineteen years old. If ‘Gold’ turned out to be one of them, he’d need careful handling, but then so did she.

  She was almost beside herself, desperate to ask him for an update on the fate of the stricken flight. In the end, she held off; far better she make her way to the Casualty Bureau and ask someone less prone to tension than Waverley. Maybe Blue would give it to her straight. Whether she was ready to hear the confirmation voiced was another matter entirely.

  ‘You go rogue on me, Daniels, and you’ll be heading out under police escort. We have a difficult task ahead. There’s no room for prima donnas here. And …’ Waverley paused for effect. ‘When you’ve found what you’re really looking for, you can take your DS and piss off north.’

  The call was ended abruptly. Kate blew out her cheeks. Texting her thanks to Bright, promising to call him soon, she set off to find Hank.

  13

  Adriana Esposito, the woman whose job it was to count passengers into the tunnel for Flight 0113, was off duty. A part-time worker, she wasn’t due at Heathrow for another three days, a frustrating delay the detectives could ill afford. Securing her number, the DCI called her immediately. Esposito didn’t answer. Leaving a message, Kate hung up, slipped her mobile in her pocket and left the airport bound for the Casualty Bureau, this time allowing Hank to take the wheel.

  As they drove through street after unfamiliar street, the radio was dominated by reports of the crash. Every commentator was speculating on cause. Though the cause might be in doubt, the result was indisputable: a catastrophic loss of life.

  Kate listened carefully. In the US, the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) were pursuing every possible line of enquiry. Actions had been raised to establish when the aircraft was last serviced and by whom, how much fuel it might have on board when it disappeared from the radar. The list went on. Every tiny detail would be picked over and analysed, starting now. It would appear that the press had already made up its mind: this was no tragic accident, but terrorism.

  ‘No group has claimed responsibility,’ the BBC World Service presenter said. ‘We will update you as soon as we can …’

  Kate turned off the radio.

  A big sigh.

  She wondered how her depleted team was coping without a Senior Investigating Officer at the helm. The incident room would be like a rudderless ship, but that cut both ways. She needed them as much as they needed her. Every one of them would now be aware that she was in deep shit with senior officers at either end of the country and totally spent; that she was dealing with a personal drama and was not where she ought to be – at her father’s bedside – or wandering down the cobbled streets of Crail with Jo as she’d planned. More was the pity. Instead, she was in denial, heartbroken, committing one transgression after another, risking everything she’d worked for on a long shot.

  Never in her life had the stakes been so high.

  Bright may have given in to her demands earlier than expected, paving the way for her to assist the Casualty Bureau, but that didn’t mean he’d forgiven her for interfering in another force’s major incident or putting Jo before her job, just once.

  It had been a long time coming.

  Kate owed her guv’nor and he’d be sure to collect with interest. She’d kicked aside the rule book without a thought for the consequences. There would be some. She could count on it. Bright would try to impose his will on her. Jo was gone. Move on. No point living in the past. That was the philosophy he lived by, the one he’d expect her to follow. In the past, his advice had taken her far. Now she found herself resenting it. Rejecting it. Her drive to be the very best detective – to live up to his rigorous standards – had robbed her of a home and social life.

  Her choice, but now she wanted those things …

  She wanted Jo.

  Kate was being unfair. It wasn’t all Bright’s fault. Yes, he’d championed her, sharing his considerable experience in order to prove that good detectives didn’t come ready-made like TV dinners. Anyone who rose to the top had to do the hard yards and work their way up the greasy pole. Before Jo blew into her life, Kate had sucked up his praise, swept along in his wake, keen to prove her worth. She was the chosen one – the golden girl – the officer tipped to succeed him one day. If she could change her present situation, she’d hand over every last commendation and Chief Constable’s compliment she’d ever earned. They were nothing compared to the day she met Jo at that party, the split-second realisation that she’d found her soulmate.

  14

  The Casualty Bureau’s function was administrative: to collect, disseminate and process information to aid the investigative process; to manage misinformation, too. Parallels could be drawn between a major incident and a major disaster; the latter being run without a criminal offence at its heart. The aim was to trace, log and ID the individuals involved. To reconcile, in this case, missing passengers and crew of Flight 0113 with casualty survivor records.

  Leaving Hank to introduce himself to the troops, Kate went to find Gold. Waverley wasn’t in his ops room so she sought out DS Blue instead. She wanted to thank him for covering her arse. Like any good detective, he’d been in touch with the MIT in Newcastle in order to get the low-down on her and to establish her interest in what was, technically, none of her business. Robbo had filled him with enough detail to keep him happy, but not before contacting her.

  So far, the Northumbria DS was playing a blinder.

  Blue stood up as she entered. He was surprisingly relaxed given the mayhem he was dealing with. Someone had to stay cool. Kate was glad that he was a man not easily rattled. She felt surprisingly at ease in his company, as much as she was able, given that Jo’s name was on his list of casualties. Some coppers were like that, but something about him didn’t ring true and she decided to reserve judgement until she got to know him better.

  ‘The name is Fraser, guv.’ He proffered a hand. ‘Welcome to the madhouse.’

  It was a firm handshake. ‘What exactly is your role here?’

  It was important to establish who was who.

  ‘Casualty Bureau Manager.’

  ‘That’s quite a responsibility. Good to meet you properly.’

  Arms crossed, sleeves rolled up, Blue reminded her of Bright: immaculately dressed, good aftershave, strong jawline and deep-set eyes. He gestured to a chair, waited for her to sit, then did the same.

  Nice manners – if trying a little too hard.

  Kate crossed her legs, eyeing him across the desk. ‘What do we know?’

  ‘The plane was a Boeing 777. It took off half an hour later than scheduled at 16.33 hours BST. Due to land JFK at 18.55 hours. Routine flight. Radar tracking was normal. Ditto cruising speed. The last radio communication with the pilot raised no concerns. Then it simply disappeared off the screen.’

  Kate couldn’t make sense of why it should matter, but she needed to know exactly where and when the
passengers, crew and on-board security personnel met their fate. In time, families of the bereaved might wish to visit the spot where their loved ones died. The middle of the Atlantic Ocean would make it difficult – but not impossible. If Jo was on that flight, Kate would be among them.

  ‘Forgive my ignorance, but did 0113 go down in US airspace?’

  A shake of the head.

  ‘When did the radar lose it?’

  ‘17.52 local time.’

  ‘So, dark?’

  ‘Not when it went down, but by the time the US Navy responded I would have thought so.’

  ‘How many fatalities?’

  ‘Twelve crew, two security staff and three hundred and two passengers – men, women and children – three hundred and sixteen in total, the majority British and American, plus citizens of eleven other countries.’

  Kate managed to contain her reaction. She didn’t verbalise her horror or argue with the number of casualties quoted. It would make her sound like a fantasist, rather than a detective whose watchword was realism. Her plan was to persuade Blue to feed her the information she required. If he refused to come across, she’d switch to plan B.

  ‘Could’ve been worse,’ he said.

  Kate couldn’t imagine how.

  ‘The flight was nowhere near capacity,’ he added.

  He wasn’t to know that she had a friend in the Air Accidents Investigation Branch who dealt with civil aircraft accidents and serious incidents within the UK, its overseas territories and crown dependencies. Although the plane had gone down outside of that geographical airspace, the department would automatically have offered assistance and expertise to their counterparts in the US. Rob Clark would be keyed up and able to help her. Now she came to think of it, he might be able to do even more than that.

  She parked that thought. ‘What are we doing for the families?’

  ‘Not our remit, ma’am.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was, but someone needs to take care of them. I gather the press are all over them.’

  ‘Airport administrators are prioritising a safe place in a hotel where relatives can wait, with counsellors and, if required, ministers to help them cope with the unfolding situation.’

  ‘Good. Lack of information is a killer at times like these. No pun intended. The families are facing a long wait.’

  ‘You were close to Jo Soulsby?’

  Kate wasn’t expecting that. Blue didn’t know the half of it. Every time Jo’s name was mentioned, Kate’s heart broke a little more. Blue was searching her face, waiting for an answer that came as a nod.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss. Does she have family?’

  ‘Two sons, Thomas and James.’

  ‘They’ve been informed?’

  Another nod. Kate wanted him to stop digging. She couldn’t countenance the idea that Jo was among the casualties. If she did she’d fold for sure. Quickly, she changed the subject: ‘Are we talking technical fault or terrorism?’

  ‘Too early to say.’

  ‘Can’t they tell from the data log?’

  The Met detective said nothing.

  ‘C’mon, Fraser. I need to know.’ And still he hesitated. ‘Look, I won’t quote you to Waverley or anyone else. Just tell me what the ACARS system transmitted prior to the plane falling off the radar.’

  ‘You’re well informed.’

  ‘I read the newspapers.’

  The ACARS acronym stood for Aircraft Communications Addressing and Reporting System, a digital data link for transmitting messages between aircraft and ground stations via satellite or airband radio. It had many functions: picking up faults or abnormal events during flight, inexplicable loss of altitude being one.

  Kate sifted all the possibilities of what might have happened to Jo’s flight: pilot error; disastrous technical problem; act of terrorism – bomb or surface-to-air missile strike; sabotage – a timed detonator on board – or, God forbid, a suicidal pilot. At this stage nothing would or could be ruled in or out.

  All options were open.

  Earlier in the year, a Malaysia Airlines flight (MH370) had gone down somewhere over the Southern Indian Ocean, west of Australia. No wreckage had yet been found and the search had been called off, but the mystery remained. And in July, another Malaysian airliner was shot down over eastern Ukraine killing everyone on board. Those two events aside, the Triple Seven was considered to be one of the safest aircrafts in the sky, having notched up eighteen million hours of flying.

  Right now, it didn’t feel like that to Kate.

  She inhaled, bit down hard, eyes on Fraser. ‘No SOS or emergency signal code?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, but at thirty-seven thousand feet it’s unlikely to have been a surface-to-air missile, according to those I’ve spoken to.’

  ‘Any loss of speed or altitude?’

  ‘No. I gather the plane was on automatic pilot at the time.’

  ‘So, the crew and presumably the passengers weren’t aware of a problem?’

  Blue shook his head.

  ‘That’s a blessing, I suppose.’ Kate imagined an underwater beacon sending out the location of the black box, a major search underway. She looked Fraser in the eye, a plea on her lips. ‘Any emergency squawk code or distress call to the military?’

  ‘Look, I’m aware that you have a staff member on board. I’d like to put you out of your misery, but—’

  ‘Let’s get one thing straight – my involvement isn’t personal.’ Like hell it wasn’t. ‘How can I help unless I’m fully up to speed on what’s happening?’

  Blue apologised for overstepping the mark. ‘Aviation experts suspect a bomb. It went down in an area where there was radar coverage – military and civil. The plane just stopped transmitting. US air traffic control tried but couldn’t raise the captain or first officer. The US Navy was all over it by dawn. The wreckage – such as it is – has yet to be identified but there are no other reports of aircraft missing within a thousand miles of the coordinates the Ministry of Defence received from American Intelligence, confirmed by Homeland Security.’

  Kate walked to the window and looked out, her resolve fading. Aviate. Navigate. Communicate. That was a pilot’s mantra. It seemed that, in this case, they could do none of that in order to get themselves out of trouble. On autopilot herself, Kate was trying to process what she’d been told and yet hang onto the last dregs of hope. DS Blue gave her a moment to gather her thoughts. He thought she’d lost a colleague. Any copper knew what that felt like. Jo may not have been police ‘family’ but she was still one of them, a team player, as good as any.

  Better.

  Unwilling to give up on her, Kate swung round to face Blue. ‘The HOLMES Casualty Bureau was activated immediately?’

  ‘Standard procedure. All units fully deployed as soon as we heard. There’s less of a risk at your end of the country. Down here we have to be ready 24/7.’ He didn’t need to tell her this major incident could go on for months. And they still might not find out what had happened.

  15

  The Premier Inn close to Heathrow and Junction 4 of the M4 motorway was basic but convenient, a place for Kate to shower and lay her head – no more, no less – but she had slept badly. Over dinner last night, she’d picked at her food in a restaurant Blue had recommended. She hadn’t asked him to join her. Hank was the only company she required, the only one who understood where she was at right now. He could eat for England but had barely touched his jalfrezi. The onion bhaji he’d eaten would have sufficed.

  A bad sign.

  Kate had looked across the room to where other diners were enjoying themselves. Jo would have liked it there, the instrumental music floating in the air transporting her to a land far away, one full of colour, heat and energy: Mumbai’s Marine Drive, a Goan beach, the Taj Mahal; a land of tigers and peacocks – all places she’d put on their bucket list.

  For ten minutes, Kate had watched Hank push another piece of chicken around his plate. He wasn’t often stuck for words, but t
hen she hadn’t been very good company. She was numb, drained and unresponsive, her mind in disarray, the events of the day too overwhelming to keep track of.

  She loved Hank like a brother. There wasn’t a man alive she loved more, and that included her father. Although Hank had never ever let her down, it had been easier to talk to Fraser Blue about the investigation than to him; Hank felt her pain, he was too close to her, and more importantly, to Jo. Close meant emotional. Emotional sapped strength and rendered people ineffective. No-brainer. They needed to focus, not crack up. But when she’d queried his mood, he’d launched a verbal attack, telling her that Jo was on that plane because Kate had put her there, because she wouldn’t know a good thing if it ran up and bit her. Kate couldn’t remember paying the bill or leaving the restaurant. All she could think of was what he’d said and the expression in his eyes as he said it.

  Across the room, her abandoned suitcase seemed to poke fun at her. It had sat on the floor of her bedroom at home for days waiting to be filled. Jo had asked several times if she’d packed for their trip to Scotland’s east coast. On the eve of their holiday, stressing about a murder enquiry, not to mention her father’s medical condition, Kate had telephoned her, for no other reason than to hear the sound of her voice.

  Talking well into the night, Jo had taken her by surprise by bringing up the subject of Ed Daniels, prepared to forgo the holiday so that Kate could spend time with him during his recuperation. Initially, Kate was horrified by the suggestion. Why should she lift a finger to help? But Jo being Jo had managed to talk some sense into her. Next morning, difficult though her relationship with her father was, Kate had offered to cancel her holiday and look after him, only to find that she was surplus to requirements. A nurse was on standby to spring into action the minute he was discharged – someone he could stand the sight of, most probably.

  The olive branch she’d offered had been pushed aside.

  Kate had buried herself in work instead.