B006U13W The Flight (Jenny Cooper 4) nodrm (28 page)

Jenny considered his words for a long moment. The fairy lights along the quayside shone like stars in a childhood dream. No, nothing seemed to fit together as it should. ‘Could
you
be rather helpful and pour me the last of the wine,’ she said.

Moreton looked at her uncertainly. ‘Of course.’

He filled her glass beyond halfway with the last of the plum-red Rioja.

‘Your very good health, Jenny.’

‘And yours.’ She picked it up in a trembling hand and threw the contents into his astonished face.

J
ENNY WALKED OUT OF THE RESTAURANT
, leaving Moreton staring disbelievingly after her. To hell with him. Let him do his worst. To think that he could ever have believed that she would assist him in a sordid cover-up. She would gladly have tipped the coffee over his lap too. He was a worm; a worm crawling through the bodies of the dead.

She marched past the waiting Jaguar, ignoring the driver, and walked the half-mile through the drizzle back to the office, her elegant shoes squeezing her feet until they were raw. But all she could feel was anger. Outrage. How
dare
he.

She slammed through the front door at Jamaica Street and resolved to get her inquest firmly back on track. She would hear all the evidence, no matter how inconvenient or bizarre.

‘Tell me everything’s set up for tomorrow morning,’ Jenny barked, as she arrived in the office.

‘Yes, Mrs Cooper,’ Alison replied warily. ‘Has something happened?’

‘Only Simon Moreton trying to pervert the course of justice.’ Jenny was in no mood to offer lengthy explanations. ‘Is that box still there? We’re meant to be running a public service.’

‘I’m dealing with it this afternoon, Mrs Cooper, I promise you. I think I know who the woman in the photographs is now.’

Jenny sighed and made for her room.

‘Actually, I’ve spent the last hour dealing with Mrs Patterson and her lawyers. They haven’t left me alone,’ Alison called after her.

‘What do they want now?’

‘What don’t they want? They’ve got evidence they want to submit ahead of the inquest, inquiries they want you to pursue, and they want to know what was said at the press conference – the “secret bits” that didn’t make the news.’

‘What sort of evidence?’ Jenny said.

‘They won’t discuss it over the phone. She’s got it into her head that all her calls are being listened to. I think the poor woman’s lost her grip, I really do.’

‘I’ll speak to Galbraith.’

‘Oh, and the detective from Chepstow left a message asking for you to call when you got back.’

‘He’s probably been warned off as well.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Nothing. Please deal with that bag, Alison. I don’t know why, but it’s really starting to bother me.’

She yanked open the heavy oak door to her room and banged it shut behind her.

The untended heap of papers on her desk would have to wait for the weekend. She had what was left of the afternoon to finalize her preparations for tomorrow. There were witnesses to contact and several formal statements still to be taken, not least from Ravi Achari and his team at Forenox.

She called Achari first, but reached a lab technician who couldn’t locate him and promised her call would be returned shortly. It was the same story with DI Williams, except that the dopey-sounding sergeant said he was on a rest break. Down at the betting shop on the corner, Jenny guessed, or more likely watching the racing in the snug bar of the George with a beer in his hand. Nick Galbraith, however, answered his phone smartly.

‘Mrs Cooper. Thank goodness.’

‘My officer mentioned something about new evidence.’

‘Yes. I don’t suppose you’d be able to pop down to Mrs Patterson’s hotel?’

‘If you insist on meeting, I’d rather it was my office. I’m very busy this afternoon.’

‘Of course, but . . .’ He hesitated, as if embarrassed by what he was about to say. ‘The thing is she’s become rather suspicious.’

‘You mean paranoid?’

‘That would be an unkind way of putting it, but yes. She’s had the hotel meeting room swept, you see. She considers it the only safe place.’

‘And you expect me to play along with this?’

‘I’m not the sort to believe in ghosts if you get my drift, but I have to admit, were this an inquiry into the supernatural, I would reluctantly be on my way to becoming a believer.’

‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. She can have half an hour more, but I’d prefer it if you did the talking.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

The mini function room on the second floor of the College Green Marriott had been converted into a full-scale office. There were phones, a photocopier, desk-top computer, printer and two carousels stacked with carefully labelled box files. A young woman sat at the head of the table next to Mrs Patterson, who introduced her as Alix, her PA, who would be keeping a shorthand note of the meeting.

Jenny fixed Galbraith with a look that demanded an on-the-record explanation for why she had been summoned to this less than conventional meeting.

‘Thank you for accepting our request to receive additional evidence which may be of assistance to your inquest, Mrs Cooper,’ he said formally, choosing each word with care. ‘Mrs Patterson and I are most grateful that you agreed to meet here in the College Green Marriott in a conference room which Mrs Patterson is satisfied is free of covert surveillance devices.’

‘I emphasize that I am here only to receive your evidence,’ Jenny said, ‘not to discuss the inquest into Mr Brogan’s death.’

‘Understood,’ Galbraith said. He turned to Mrs Patterson, who wasn’t enjoying her forced silence. ‘Do remind me if I miss something out, Mrs Patterson. I would be grateful if you would direct any remarks to Mrs Cooper through me.’

She gave him a terse nod.

Galbraith reached for a small pile of loose papers and pushed them across to Jenny.

‘I’m handing you a batch of email correspondence between my client and various members of the deceaseds’ families. As you may know, the relatives have been corresponding with each other on a dedicated internet forum in which Mrs Patterson has taken a leading role. One issue of particular interest is the fact that more than twenty passengers on Flight 189 had initially been booked onto the flight that left twenty-fours earlier, on Saturday morning. They were each contacted by the airline and told their reservations were being transferred to Sunday’s flight due to over-booking. Mrs Patterson’s husband and daughter had both been booked onto the Saturday flight. His employers requested that he stay in London to attend to urgent business and he was forced to send Amy as an unaccompanied minor on the Sunday flight.’

Jenny flicked through the pile of emails in front of her as she listened and saw a number of identical messages sent from Ransome Airways’ reservations department apologizing to passengers and offering them alternative seats on Flight 189.

‘We accept this occasionally happens,’ Galbraith continued, ‘but a little research has revealed that it’s far rarer these days than you might assume. Ransome Airways operates a system using dedicated software hosted on its own servers. In theory, tickets should not be sold for flights that are already full. What’s more, a request for comments from frequent fliers on Ransome Airways elicited numerous responses from passengers who say they have never previously known their reservation to be transferred. Mrs Patterson has sought clarification from the airline, but so far they have refused to comment.’

Jenny said, ‘This is all very interesting information, Mr Galbraith. I’ve no doubt it merits proper inquiry, but I don’t see its relevance to my inquest into Mr Brogan’s death.’

‘If you’ll hear me out, Mrs Cooper, you may conclude otherwise.’

Jenny glanced at her watch. The precious minutes before the end of office hours were ticking away fast.

‘Mrs Patterson has also succeeded in contacting a number of people who were on board the Saturday flight. They were able to confirm that the plane wasn’t in fact full, but contained a number of empty seats. Again, we have sought an explanation from the airline, but with no success.’ He pushed another small stack of papers towards her. ‘More significant perhaps are the identities of some of those whose reservations were moved onto Flight 189.’

Jenny held up her hand to bring proceedings to a halt and gestured to Alix to put down her pencil. ‘Could I please ask you a question off the record, Mrs Patterson?’

‘You can try,’ she answered guardedly.

Alix’s pencil hovered in mid-air as she looked from one woman to the other.

‘All right,’ Mrs Patterson said. She turned to Alix. ‘Don’t write anything down until I tell you.’ She looked back at Jenny. ‘Go ahead.’

‘At the news conference this morning I spoke briefly to a journalist named Wen Chen. He was from Taiwan Television. He asked a question about “notable” passengers on the flight. It went pretty much unanswered. I caught up with him afterwards and he said that the two of you had been in contact.’

‘He’s been very helpful, quite possibly invaluable.’

‘He seemed reluctant to talk to me.’

Mrs Patterson nodded, ruminating on a private thought. ‘I’m surprised he was brave enough to ask questions at all. With six hundred lives taken, another wouldn’t cost much.’

Jenny saw Galbraith’s eyes moving apprehensively between them.

‘Shall I continue?’ he said. ‘And it might be better for all concerned if we were on the record from now on.’

‘Agreed,’ Jenny said. ‘Tell me what you’ve heard.’

Alix resumed her note-taking.

‘Mrs Patterson’s research amongst the relatives disclosed that among those whose seats were moved from Saturday to Sunday were two New York detectives – Lieutentants Arnold Berners and Leonard Halpern. Their wives say they were on a trip to the UK to liaise with anti-terrorist officers. Their inquiries related to suspected Islamist militants based in London. They were travelling under their own identities and their passports stated their occupation as police officers. A twenty-five-year-old passenger named Dr Ali Mathar, an academic from the School of Oriental and African Studies, was booked onto the Sunday flight all along, but a US sky marshal named Curtis Stevens was booked on at the last minute – his wife says she only got a call on Saturday evening from him with Sunday’s ETA. This could be a pure coincidence, but Dr Mathar has published papers sympathetic to various anti-Western clerics. He’s certainly someone whom the US law enforcement authorities would be expected to look at very closely.’

‘I don’t mean to interrupt,’ Jenny said, ‘but as far as I know, a lot of flights have marshals on board, and I don’t believe there is any evidence of there having been a disturbance on the plane—’

‘We appreciate that, Mrs Cooper,’ Galbraith answered. ‘The presence of those people on one aircraft can indeed be explained as coincidental, but we have to cover all possibilities. What’s far more interesting is the presence of Mr Alan Towers.’

Galbraith handed her a brief biography which looked as if it had been downloaded from a company website.

‘Aged fifty-five, Mr Towers is the founder and managing director of a Surrey-based defence contractor, Winchester Systems Ltd. He was booked onto the Saturday flight with an onward connection to Washington, but was bounced off it on the Friday. That’s most unusual in first class.’

An alarm bell rang in Jenny’s head. Nuala Casey had been going on to Washington.

‘What was he doing in Washington?’ Jenny asked.

‘His wife can’t tell us. He travelled all the time and she didn’t keep track. His company is refusing to answer our inquiries. What we do know is that Winchester Systems are involved in the development of high-tech weaponry. Needless to say, their website is a little cagy, but all their staff seem to have backgrounds in either computing, aerospace or satellite technology. We appreciate that’s not particularly remarkable, but there is an interesting coincidence. In business class was a twenty-eight-year-old physicist named Dr Ian Duffy. His seat had not been reallocated, but he did have an onward ticket to Washington on the same flight as Towers. Duffy was a leader in his field. His lab at Cambridge University is sponsored by a consortium of British defence contractors including Winchester Systems. We’re trying to get a fix on his research, but so far we’ve established that he was involved with computers that work using pulses of light instead of electrical connections – this is really futuristic stuff, the sort of technology that if you were to have it first could make the interception of your data close to impossible.’

‘Were they travelling together?’

‘Not that Mrs Towers knew. Duffy was single and his parents are an ordinary middle-aged couple who are quite frankly baffled to have produced a leading physicist. They haven’t a clue what he was doing. Their best guess is that he was attending a conference of some sort.’

‘I have to add something here,’ Mrs Patterson interjected. ‘The company my husband works for leads the world in encryption software. Information is power. If you can keep it secret, it’s even more potent. He and my daughter were moved onto the Sunday flight.’

Jenny felt herself begin to disengage. Another conspiracy theory was on the way.

‘And if he and Duffy and Towers had all been killed, that would have been three men whose careers revolve around cyber security.’

‘And where does Chen come into this?’ Jenny asked.

‘He was the one who told us about Dr Duffy. He had been looking for passengers with links to Jimmy Han. Apparently Han and Duffy sat on the same panel of experts at a symposium in Frankfurt last year.’

Jenny said, ‘I’m grateful for what you have told me, but I do feel that it’s evidence that will be far more relevant to Sir James Kendall’s inquest than to mine.’

‘He won’t listen to any of this,’ Mrs Patterson said. ‘You were at his news conference, you’ve heard the party line. As far as he’s concerned it was lightning. Why would he trouble himself to dig any deeper than he has to?’

Jenny felt the urge to explain what to Mrs Patterson as a mathematician should have been blindingly obvious: that the class of people who regularly travelled the globe was a vanishingly small sliver of the population, and that among any group of five hundred of them there would be all manner of coincidental links and associations that could be moulded to fit any number of sinister theories. But that would have been callous. She reminded herself that Mrs Patterson was coping with the only tools she possessed. Other relatives would be numbing themselves with drugs or making pilgrimages to places they had once visited with their loved ones; she had set up an office and given herself an almighty problem to solve. What good would it do to tell her that the pain would slowly pass, and that what at this moment seemed like unanswerable logic would eventually resemble nothing more than wishful thinking? That was a journey she would have to take alone.