The Death Pictures (27 page)

It’s a matter for us what we show, Dan had tried to explain, not you. We won’t broadcast any distressing pictures, but we need something to explain to the viewers what happened. We’ll use less intrusive wide shots of the wreckage and an interview with some of the eyewitnesses. How’s that for a compromise?

The officer didn’t seem to understand the concept and had tried to confiscate the camera tape. Dan stopped him and they’d been arrested. They were released an hour later after Lizzie scrambled a solicitor to Police Headquarters with a writ citing the Chief Constable for wrongful arrest. A written apology had followed. Dan kept a copy of it in his bag for occasions such as today.

‘Do you want to see where you’re acting outside of your authority?’ he asked the constable, offering the sheets. ‘It’s right here.’

‘Shut up, please, sir,’ the man snapped. ‘Sit there.’ He pointed to a line of seats. ‘I’m going to book you in with the Inspector.’

Dan and Nigel watched as he walked over to a police van and disappeared inside.

‘Two minutes it’ll take,’ whispered Dan.

‘Five,’ said Nigel. ‘Shall I see if anyone’s about in the canteen and get us a coffee?’

The constable emerged from the van. Dan checked his watch. 95 seconds. He thought the man looked paler. He tried not to smile as the officer walked back over to them.

‘You’re free to go, sir,’ he said heavily. ‘But please keep behind the cordon we’re going to set up.’

They walked out of the front of the airport to the gathering media scrum. The journalists and photographers were standing behind some newly strung out blue-and-white police tape. Dan and Nigel ducked under it and joined them. Loud was there, moaning to a radio reporter about the cost of a dentist’s appointment. He was wearing a shirt which boasted parading peacocks. Not great for a plane crash thought Dan, but better than it might have been. He seemed to have a memory that Loud owned at least one shirt patterned with aircraft taking off into a sunny sky.

‘They want loads,’ he grunted. ‘A big report and lots of live stuff. I guess we’ll be busy. And I was supposed to be going to a wrestling match tonight.’

Dan didn’t know what to say to that. He couldn’t quite see Loud screaming and shouting as a couple of half-naked men twisted each other’s bodies into submission.

A man in a black suit strode out of the airport and made for the pack. Cameras were hoisted onto shoulders and microphones offered. He stood in the middle and faced them.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m Phil Webber, Deputy Director of Wessex Airport. I’ve got a statement for you and then I’ll take questions. Is everyone ready?’

There was a good-natured chorus of ‘yes’. A big story always cheered the hacks, despite the cool drizzle that was moping from the leaden sky.

‘At 1.31 this afternoon, a twin-engined passenger plane en route from the Channel Islands to Plymouth suffered a failure in its undercarriage whilst landing. The structure supporting the left wheel failed to lock and collapsed on contact with the runway. The plane skidded along on one wheel and its wing, which then caught fire. When the plane came to a halt, the cabin crew put the emergency procedures into place and evacuated the aircraft. I’m pleased to say all 24 people on board were unharmed. They were shaken but unhurt. They were taken to hospital for a check up, but all have now been released. The airport’s emergency plan was put into action, with fire engines and ambulances scrambled. The fire was put out, but, I’m happy to say, apart from that they weren’t needed. An investigation into what happened has begun. The airport was closed for a couple of hours this afternoon, but has now fully reopened. I must stress, incidents of this nature are extremely rare and flying remains a very safe form of travel. Thank you.’

There was a second’s pause for the hacks to digest that, then the questions poured in.

‘Did the wet weather have anything to do with it?’

‘No. We don’t think so.’

‘How long will the investigation take?’

‘We don’t know yet.’

‘Are any of the passengers or crew available to speak to us?’

‘No.’

Dan signalled the cut throat motion to Nigel to tell him to stop recording. This wasn’t worth taping.

‘Mr Webber, Dan Groves,
Wessex Tonight
. Are you available to be interviewed here live tonight?’

‘No.’

Can’t blame him, Dan thought. The story wouldn’t exactly look good for the airport. It would just be himself appearing then, but that was fine. The report was much more important than any interview. And how sweet to hear that none of the passengers would be interviewed by the other hacks.

Dan climbed into the outside broadcast van beside Loud.

‘Ready in a minute,’ he said. ‘Just got to call the newsdesk for instructions.’

Lizzie answered the phone. Not unusual that when a big story was unfolding. She liked to know everything first. Dan explained the details. An editor with less of a sharp nose for news might have thought the lack of deaths softened the splash. Not Lizzie. She had an almost supernatural ability to sense an angle.

Plane crashes were always a big story, but what you could usually guarantee was people being killed. And based on the classical theory that the definition of news is that which is out of the ordinary – not dog bites man, but man bites dog – a crash with everyone surviving ranked even higher in a good editor’s esteem. There was a final blunt but winning point in the debate. Survivors could tell their gripping accounts of what happened. That wasn’t exactly an option in a normal plane crash scenario.

Dan sensed her thoughts, and just managed to get his words in first. ‘I reckon we go for a miraculous escape-type story.’

‘My idea exactly. It’s extraordinary. Great tale. Do it. I want lots. I want people. I want pictures. I want shock. I want power. I want emotion.’

They started editing. Loud put down a couple of pictures of the wrecked plane, a wide shot first, then a detailed close up of the charred wing. Dan added his commentary, just a few sparse words. He wanted to quickly get to the survivors’ accounts. They were the important part, the drama.

’24 people were on board the plane when the undercarriage collapsed on landing,’ he intoned. ‘There was a fire and extensive damage, but all were evacuated safely.’

Ideal, two lines just to set up what happened and see the damage the crash had caused. The viewers would be in no doubt how lucky the passengers were to escape. Then it was into the interviews, the young man first, then the woman. He used all they had to say. The power of their story needed no embellishment.

After that, they put down some general shots of the airport. Dan talked about it being closed for a couple of hours and an investigation launched, the reason for the undercarriage failure unknown. Then it was into some clips of the fire service and the airport’s Deputy Director. Lastly came more pictures of the crashed plane and the pay off piece of commentary, not exciting but necessary. The basic details of where the plane was from and going to next.

They watched it back. Not a bad piece of work, Dan thought. Three minutes worth and it flies by. Time for the live report.

He squeezed his earpiece in and hopped out of the van. Nigel had set up the camera with a view back onto the runway and the wrecked plane, now covered in a quilt of blue and grey tarpaulins. This time they wouldn’t do an opening live link. The newsreader back in the studio would introduce the report. It was better to get straight onto the pictures and hear from the survivors, not have Dan standing waffling for 30 seconds to set the scene.

He came in after the report with some details of the normally good safety record of the plane and the airport, important for context. They got the all clear from the broadcast gallery and Dan said goodbye to Nigel and Loud, jumped into a waiting taxi and was away, back to the flat for a quick wash and change. He hadn’t had much time to talk to El in the media scrum, but they’d arranged to meet at eight in the Old Bank for a couple of beers and a debrief. El’s beaming grin said he had something interesting to tell.

El was in his usual alcove opposite the bar. Like a spider lying in wait, Dan thought. His grin hadn’t dimmed and he had a whisky on the table in front of him next to his pint.

‘Another?’ asked Dan.

‘The pint’s still OK, but I wouldn’t mind a nice spirit. Surprise me.’

Dan strolled over to the bar. He ordered himself some ale and was tempted to get El a Campari and soda – that would certainly surprise him – but he opted for vodka instead. Neat.

‘What are you grinning about, then?’ Dan asked, taking his coat off and sitting down.

Outside, the drizzle had turned into persistent rain. He sipped the beer. It tasted good, very good. With El in this sort of mood, it could be a long night. He hadn’t lost the taste for beer after that excellent lunchtime session with Ed. The plane crash had taken his mind off it, but he was pleased to find it lingering. Even more pleased that the excitement of the crash had forced the swamp back, for now at least.

‘I got some great snaps of that plane before they covered it over with tarpaulins,’ said El. ‘No one else did. Ta for the tip. They’ll bring me a few quid. The papers are going for it as an extraordinary escape story.’

‘Yeah, that was the line I took. It’s a good tale. But you sounded like you were up to something before that. So come on, what is it? McCluskey?’

El’s grin stayed fixed, but he shook his head. ‘You said you’d found out something. You go first.’

Dan didn’t bother arguing, told him what he’d learned from Ed about McCluskey’s life and possible hints regarding the solution to the riddle. The photographer’s eyes widened when Dan explained about Joanna and how she could be one of the women in the Death Pictures. El leaned back, joined his hands behind his head and sighed.

‘I knew it was my day,’ he said happily.

‘Come on then, what have you found?’ asked Dan.

‘I’ve found the other one.’

‘The other what? The other woman?’ El nodded, beaming. ‘How?’

‘Well, it’s like this. You know I went to the Fancy Dress shop?’

‘Yeah… I did think it odd for a while, but then knowing you…’

‘I got myself a very convincing doctor’s white coat and stethoscope because I was following a hunch. I reckoned this. Where would McCluskey be more likely to meet a nice young lady who he’d become attached to than in the hospital where he was being treated for his cancer? So I staked out the oncology unit over a few days and guess who I should bump into? A beautiful blonde woman with glasses. A Dr Rebecca Sanders, cancer specialist. I asked her why she looked familiar. Had I seen her in some picture somewhere? She didn’t say anything, just blushed and hurried off. I took that as a yes and after the passage of a couple of bottles of malt whisky to the all-knowing hospital porters, Dirty El discovers it’s the talk of the ward. I’ve got a few lovely snaps of her.’ El’s grin widened. ‘That’s one down and one to go. And we’ve got a good lead on the other one too, so I reckon we’re well on the way.’

El held up his vodka and downed it in one. ‘Here’s to Joseph McCluskey. Cheers!’

Chapter Fifteen

He swallowed to keep the anger down and flinched at the burning in his stomach. No one did this to him. No one. Fellow barristers, solicitors, even judges might try it on. But he could always better them. No dull-headed, fat and ugly woman plod was going to get away with it.

The police car had followed him to his chambers again this morning and his fellows were starting to notice. Notice, and have a joke at his expense, and no one did that to Edward Munroe. No one. You didn’t become a Law Lord by being a figure of fun on your home circuit. He rubbed his stomach. The humiliation was giving him heartburn.

‘Morning Edward! The police recognised your talents need safeguarding, eh? They’ve been told to keep a future Attorney General under close protection no doubt. Don’t want the future of the British legal system imperilled in any way…’

That, from a fellow barrister, was just about bearable. But from the lowly chambers’ clerk, no more than a jumped-up bloody bookkeeper…

‘Good morning sir,’ the obnoxious little man had chirped. ‘Have you become a master criminal over the weekend? What was it, doing 32 in a 30 limit? Or you haven’t been riding a bike without lights again have you? And you, a bastion of the law…’

He’d had to hide his clenched fists in the pockets of his bespoke suit. This nonsense had been going on quite long enough. It would stop.

He knew what it was all about. His refusal to give that DNA sample of course. They were trying to intimidate him. Utterly disgraceful and totally unacceptable he would call it, to hound a man because of his beliefs. He swiped away a pile of papers on his polished teak desk and caught a glance of his reflection in the shining wood. He looked jaded he thought, a little sweaty, not his usual clinically composed self, and it was all because of the stupid damned idiot police. It was the kind of behaviour more befitting a tin-pot dictatorship, not a fine and free democracy like the one he was so proud to serve.

The very words he would use, the very words. And he’d add a little snipe about the dreadful waste of scarce resources too, when such a dangerous criminal as this rapist remained at large.

He slid some personal headed notepaper out of his drawer and poised his fountain pen above it. Having that dullard of an Assistant Chief Constable as a dining companion was a most useful asset sometimes, even if it meant hours of suffering the man’s stupefying anecdotes. A letter first, then followed up with a phone call.