The Snow Tiger

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Jesse Rusch was going towards the church but turned aside sharply as someone yelled, ‘I’ve found someone.’ He ran towards the group of men who had broken their line, put aside the probes, and taken up spades. He stood on one side and watched them dig carefully, and had to smile as someone else said disgustedly, ‘It’s a flaming cow.’

Flaming it certainly was not. One of the men pushed at a hoof and the leg was seen to be as stiff as a rod. Rusch stepped forward. ‘Dig it out, anyway.’

A man turned around. ‘Why? It’s a waste of time.’

‘Because there might be someone under the cow,’ said Rusch patiently. ‘That’s why.’ It was a possibility but privately he thought it unlikely, so he said, ‘Three men to the cow — the rest can carry on probing.’

The men dropped their spades and picked up the probes with alacrity, leaving the man who had queried the utility of digging out the cow alone with his spade. He stared at his mates in disgust, and said, ‘Hey, the man said three.’

He turned and saw a group of men standing twenty yards away, their hands in their pockets. ‘You lot,’ he called. ‘Come and give me a hand.’

They stared at him with blank eyes, then turned their backs on him and shuffled away slowly. The man flung down his shovel. ‘God Almighty!’ he said passionately. ‘I’ve flown four hundred miles to help these bastards, and the bloody lead-swingers won’t even help themselves.’

‘Leave them be,’ said Rusch quietly. ‘They’re not themselves. Regard them as dead men, if that’s any help. Pick up your spade and get on with it. If you want help, ask your team leader.’

The man blew out his cheeks expressively, then picked up his spade and dug it viciously into the snow. Rusch watched him for ten seconds, then turned aside and went on his way.

Just outside the church he encountered a helicopter pilot from VXE-6 called Harry Baker, and he saw at once that Baker was angry, so steamed up that he should have melted the snow for yards around. He cut in before Baker opened his mouth and said quietly, ‘When you tell me what’s bugging you keep it soft.’

Baker jerked his thumb at the sky. ‘Some goddamn maniac buzzed me up there as I was coming in. He was taking photographs.’ His voice was choked with rage.

Rucsh shrugged philosophically. ‘I guess those are the Press boys. They’ll be chartering planes and coming in like locusts from here on in.’

‘Jesse, up there it’s already becoming more crowded than Times Square,’ said Baker earnestly. ‘If it gets any worse there’ll be trouble.’

Rucsh nodded. ‘All right, Harry. I’ll see the Civil Defence people here and see what we can do about tightening up air control. If necessary, I’ll insist on grounding all unauthorized flights. In the meantime keep your cool.’

He went into the church, where he nodded to Ballard who was talking to a woman lying on a bench, and went up to the altar to speak to the Civil Defence Local Co-ordinator.

Ballard said, ‘I’m sorry, Liz. I know I promised you an early flight out but there are people in worse shape than you. Mrs Haslam, for instance, needs hospital attention badly — and there are some kids, too.’

‘That’s all right. I’m feeling much better now. Is Charlie still up there with Mike?’

‘Yes.’

She looked worried. ‘I hope they’re safe. I don’t like them being up there.’

‘Mike knows what he’s doing,’ said Ballard.

The stretcher bearing Mrs Haslam was being loaded into the helicopter by Arthur Pye and Bill Quentin. She moaned, and said feebly, ‘Where’s Jack? I want my Jack.’

Pye said, ‘You’ll be seeing him soon, Mrs Haslam,’ not knowing whether he was a liar or not.

Harry Baker adjusted his helmet and said to the ground controller, ‘When I take off I want this crowd to stand back. They were pushing a bit too close last time.’ He jerked his thumb at the sky. ‘It’s bad enough being crowded up there.’

The ground controller nodded. ‘I’ll shoo them away.’ He looked towards the helicopter and saw Pye and Quentin walking away and, beyond them, the loadmaster closing the sliding door. The loadmaster waved, and he said, ‘That’s the last one. You can take off now.’ Baker climbed up into the cockpit, and the ground controller shouted, ‘All right, stand back, everybody. Get well away. Come on, now.’

Baker said to his co-pilot. ‘Let’s get this thing off the ground. We have time for three more trips before nightfall.’

Pye and Quentin walked with the rest, shepherded by the ground controller. The engine of the helicopter fired and the rotors began to move. It looked ungainly as it rose from the ground, gathering vertical speed. Quentin was not watching when the crash happened, but Pye saw it. The helicopter rose directly into the path of a low flying light plane which appeared from nowhere and struck it in the rear. There was a splintering crash and, locked together, the two machines dropped straight into the snow.

Everyone began to run and Pye and Quentin were in the lead. Pye heaved on the sliding door of the helicopter but it had warped and would not budge. ‘Give me a hand, Bill,’ he panted, and Quentin also heaved at the door which slid half open creakingly and then jammed.

Immediately inside was the loadmaster whose helmet had saved him from being knocked totally unconscious. He was shaking his head groggily as Pye grabbed him by the arm and hauled him out bodily. Pye then climbed inside with Quentin just behind him.

Two children were strapped into a seat, their bodies lolling forward and supported only by the straps. Pye did not know whether they were living or dead as he fumbled at the straps, and he had no time to find out. He freed the first and passed her back to Quentin, and then tackled the second, a boy. From far away he heard a bellow from the ground controller — ‘You guys in there had better be quick. She might go up.’

He freed the boy who was passed out to fall into waiting hands, then he said to Quentin, ‘I’ll have to go back there to get behind the stretcher. You take this end.’

There were two stretchers and when Pye looked at one of them he saw there was no use in doing anything about that one. The man lying in it had his head at a totally impossible angle and Pye judged, in that hasty glance, that his neck was broken. He turned to the other stretcher and heard Mrs Haslam say, ‘Is that you, Jack?’ Her eyes stared at him unwinkingly.

‘Yes, that’s right. I’ve come to take you home.’ His finger nails tore and his fingers bled as he worked frantically at the straps which secured the stretcher. He got one loose and turned to find that Quentin had released the other. ‘Right. Take it gently.’ He bent forward and said to Mrs Haslam reassuringly, ‘We’ll soon have you out of here.’

It was at that moment the petrol ignited. He saw a white flash and felt searing heat, and when he inhaled his next breath he drew flaming petrol vapour into his lungs. He felt no pain and was dead before he knew it, and so was Bill Quentin, Mrs Haslam, Harry Baker and his co-pilot, whom nobody had seen on the ground in Hukahoronui.

There was no sound in the inquiry room other than the creaking of the old kauri floor. Harrison said into the silence, ‘A public inquiry has already been held into the reasons for this air crash. It was held by the inspector of Air Accidents as was his statutory duty. Its findings will be incorporated into the findings of this inquiry. However I propose to say a few words on the subject now.’

His voice was even and his demeanour grave. ‘Lieutenant-Commander Rusch has already given evidence that the dead helicopter pilot had complained of the hazardous nature of the flying conditions and the reasons for the hazards. Even at the moment of the crash Lieutenant-Commander Rusch was talking to the authorities at Harewood Airport and you have heard, from his evidence and that of others, that he was most forthright, and indeed, aggressive in reinforcing the strictures of his fellow officer.

‘At the time of the crash it was assumed that the aircraft which was the cause of this accident bad been chartered by a newspaper. In actual fact, it turned out to be an official flight made by a junior minister of the Government who was intent on finding the extent of the disaster area at Hukahoronui. Regardless of whether the flight was official or unofficial, it is evident that there was a grave breakdown of communication between the Ministry of Civil Defence and the civil and military air authorities, leading to what might be construed as criminal negligence.’

He looked up at the Press gallery with cold eyes, and Dan Edwards twitched in his seat. ‘I might add that the Press acted most irresponsibly in their flights over the disaster area. While a reporter may think he has a duty to get at the facts, he has a higher duty to the community than to the newspaper which employs him. While I understand that certain civil air pilots have been reprimanded and suitably punished by the withdrawal of their flying licences, I regret that a similar punishment cannot legally be meted out to those who so irresponsibly chartered the aircraft and gave the orders.’

He switched his attention to Smithers. ‘And I hope the Ministry of Civil Defence is reviewing its procedures immediately and not waiting for the findings of this Commission to be published. There could be a similar disaster tomorrow, Mr Smithers.’

He did not wait to hear anything Smithers might have to say, but tapped with his gavel. ‘We stand adjourned until ten a.m. tomorrow.’

Thirty

As Ballard left the hall he saw McGill talking to a bespectacled, middle-aged man whom he had previously noticed in the front rank of the Press gallery. When he approached he heard McGill say, ‘I’d be much obliged if you could get them for me.’

Dan Edwards scratched the side of his jaw. ‘Tit for tat,’ he said. ‘If there’s a story in it I want an exclusive.’ He smiled. ‘It’s all right for old Harrison to act pontifical, but I’m still a newspaperman.’

‘If there’s a story you’ll have it first,’ promised McGill. ‘Even Harrison would agree that this is in the public interest.’

‘When do you want them?’

‘Yesterday — but today will have to do. Can I meet you in your office in half an hour?’

Edwards grimaced. ‘I was looking forward to a beer, but I suppose that can wait.’

‘If I find what I’m looking for I’ll buy you a case of beer.’

Edwards said, ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ and went away.

Ballard said, ‘What’s all that about, Mike?’

‘Just checking on something — professional stuff. Seen Liz yet?’

‘No. I’m meeting her later.’

‘Don’t waste time,’ advised McGill. ‘The balloon goes up tomorrow. If Harrison knew I was sitting on this he’d ream me out for sure.’ He looked past Ballard. ‘Ah, there’s the guy I want to see.’ He walked away with Flying Officer Hatry, talking fast and making gestures with his hands. Ballard looked after him curiously, then shrugged and went to get his car.

He had missed Liz at lunch-time — she had left quickly with Eric and Charlie — and she had not appeared for the afternoon session. During the mid-afternoon recess he had telephoned her at her hotel and asked to see her. ‘You’d better not come here,’ she had said. ‘Charlie wouldn’t like it. I’ll come to your hotel after dinner. What about nine o’clock?’

At the hotel he avoided Stenning by the simple expedient of staying in his room. In view of what had happened the previous night he had no wish for further conversation with Stenning. He whiled away the time by reading a novel which bored him, and his thoughts went skittering away from the narrative which should have held his attention.

He wondered where McGill was and what he was doing. He thought of how he was going to break the news to Liz — that was going to be damned difficult. How do you tell the woman you love that her brother is — to all intents and purposes — a multiple murderer?

He had dinner in his room. At nine-fifteen he was pacing the floor and, at nine-thirty, when Liz still had not shown up, he contemplated telephoning her again. At nine-forty the telephone rang and he grabbed it.

‘Ballard.’

‘A guest for you, Mr Ballard.’

‘I’ll be right there.’

He went to the reception desk where the clerk said, ‘In the lounge, Mr Ballard.’

Ballard walked into the hotel lounge and looked about. In a corner he saw Stenning reading a newspaper but there was no sign of Liz. From behind him a voice said, ‘I’ll bet you didn’t expect me, Ballard.’

He turned and saw Charlie Peterson. ‘Where’s Liz?’ he demanded.

Charlie swayed slightly on his feet. His face was reddened and covered with a film of sweat, and a tic worked convulsively under his left eye. ‘She won’t be here,’ he said. ‘I’ve made sure of that. I’ve told you before — stay away from my sister, you bastard.’

‘What have you done with her?’

‘She’s got nothing to do with you — now or at any other time. You must be either stupid or deaf. Didn’t McGill pass on my message?’

‘He did.’ Ballard contemplated Charlie for a long moment, then said, ‘I asked Liz to come here because I had something important to tell her. Since she isn’t here I’ll tell you.’

‘I have no interest in anything you have to say.’ Charlie looked about the lounge. ‘If we were anywhere else I’d break your bloody back. You’re always careful never to be alone, aren’t you?’

‘You’d better listen, Charlie; it’s for your own good. And you’d better sit down while you hear it, before you fall down.’

Something in Ballard’s tone of voice caught Charlie’s attention. He narrowed his eyes, and said, ‘All right, say your piece.’ He flopped down heavily on to a settee.

As Ballard sat down he saw Stenning looking across at them wearing a puzzled expression. He ignored Stenning and turned to Charlie. ‘You’re in trouble — bad trouble.’

Charlie grinned humourlessly. ‘I’m in trouble! Wait until you hear what’s in store for you.’

‘We know what went on on top of the west slope before the avalanche. We know what you did, Charlie.’

The grin disappeared from Charlie’s face. ‘I wasn’t on the west slope and no one can say I was. Who says I was?’

‘Miller says so,’ said Charlie quietly. ‘We have a letter.’

‘He’s a liar,’ said Charlie tautly.

Ballard shrugged. ‘What reason has he for lying? What reason has he for sending ten thousand dollars to the Disaster Fund? You tell me.’

‘Where is this letter? I want to see it.’

‘You’ll see it. It will be given to Harrison tomorrow morning.’

Charlie swallowed. ‘And what the hell am I supposed to have done? Tell me because I don’t know.’

Ballard looked at him steadily. ‘He says you deliberately started the avalanche.’

The tic on Charlie’s face twitched. ‘Lies!’ he shouted. ‘He’s a bloody liar!’

‘Keep your voice down,’ said Ballard.

‘Keep my voice down!’ said Charlie in suppressed fury. ‘I’m accused of murder and you tell me to keep my voice down!’ All the same he spoke more softly and looked quickly about the lounge.

‘Now listen to me. I asked Liz here so I could break it to her gently so she wouldn’t hear it for the first time in open court tomorrow. I don’t know how you’ve prevented her from coming here, but since you’re here I decided to tell you. I’m giving you a chance, Charlie.’

‘What chance?’ he asked in a grating voice.

‘Miller may be a liar or he may not. But whichever he is I’m giving you the chance to get on your hind legs tomorrow as soon as the session starts and get in your version to Harrison before the letter is produced. And don’t think I’m doing it for you. I’m doing this for Liz.’

‘Some chance,’ sneered Charlie. ‘You cooked up this, Ballard; you and McGill between you.’

‘I know the truth of that,’ said Ballard quietly. ‘And so, I think, do you. And another thing — I don’t know how you stopped Liz coming here but if you’ve hurt her you’ll be responsible to me.’

Charlie stood up suddenly. ‘You bloody bastard, no one is responsible for Liz except me, and no pommy son of a bitch is going to get near her least of all anyone called Ballard.’ He looked around the crowded lounge and then jabbed out his finger. ‘I tell you, if I catch you anywhere I can get at you, you’ll wish you’d never heard of the Peterson family.’ He turned on his heel abruptly and walked from the lounge.

‘I almost wish that now,’ said Ballard softly, and turned his head to look across at Stenning who looked back at him with an expressionless face.

McGill worked late that night, mostly in a photographic darkroom at Deep Freeze Advanced Headquarters. It was finicky and exacting work, involving fine measurement, but he was greatly helped by a US Navy photographer. Even so, it was long after midnight before he finished and all he had to show was an envelope containing some eight by ten glossies and a few transparencies.

He drove back to the hotel and parked his car in its slot next to Ballard’s car and got out, taking the envelope with him.

He turned to go into the hotel, and then hesitated before walking around to look at Ballard’s car. It was empty and the door was locked. He shrugged and was about to turn away again when he heard a thread of a sound so weak it would have been obscured had he moved his feet on the gravel. He stood very still and listened, straining his ears, but heard no more.

He walked to the other side of Ballard’s car and stepped on something soft and yielding in the darkness. He stepped back and flicked on his cigarette lighter and peered downwards, then he drew in his breath sharply and, turning on his heel, he ran to the hotel entrance as fast as he could.

The night porter looked up in alarm as McGill burst into the foyer and skidded to a halt. ‘Phone for a doctor and an ambulance,’ said McGill breathlessly. ‘There’s a seriously injured man in the car park.’ The porter was immobile with early morning stupidity, and McGill yelled, ‘Move, man!’

The porter jerked and reached for the telephone and a minute later McGill was hammering on Stenning’s door. ‘Who is it?’ Stenning’s voice was muffled and sleepy.

‘McGill. Open up.’

Presently Stenning opened the door. His white hair was tousled and his eyes still sleep-filled, and he was knotting the cord of a dressing-gown about his waist. ‘What is it?’

McGill was curt. ‘You’d better come with me and see the result of your goddamn meddling.’

‘And what do you mean by that?’ Stenning was coming awake quickly.

‘You’ll see. Come on. It’s not far so you needn’t dress.’

‘Slippers,’ said Stenning. ‘I’ll need slippers.’ He went back into the room and reappeared seconds later.

As they went through the foyer McGill called out, ‘What about that doctor?’

‘On his way with the ambulance,’ said the porter.

‘Can you turn on the lights in the car park?’

‘Yes, sir.’ He turned and opened a door behind him and snapped switches. ‘A car accident?’

McGill didn’t answer that one. ‘You’d better rouse the manager. Come on, Stenning.’

They hastened across the car park which was now brightly lit. Stenning said, ‘Someone hurt?’

‘Ian — and he’s hurt bad. Over here.’

A startled exclamation was torn from Stenning as he looked down at the bloody body of Ballard. ‘Oh my God! What happened?’

‘It was no car accident, that’s for sure.’ McGill took Ballard’s wrist, ignoring the blood. ‘I think he’s still alive — I’m not sure. Where’s that goddamn doctor?’

‘What do you mean — it isn’t a car accident? It looks bad enough to be one.’

‘How in hell could he be hit by a car here?’ McGill waved. ‘The space between these cars is only three feet.’

‘He could have crawled in here.’

‘Then where’s the trail of blood he left?’ McGill stood up. ‘What you’re looking at, Stenning, is a man who has almost been beaten to death — and I’m not sure about almost. It’s what happens when a man gets walked over, Stenning.’ His voice was harsh and accusing.

Stenning’s face was white. McGill said in a shaky voice, ‘You sit in your plush offices in the City of London and you manipulate men, and you set up what you call experiments, for God’s sake, and you talk of people being walked over.’ His finger stabbed down at Ballard’s body. ‘This is the reality, Stenning. Look at it, damn you!’

Stenning swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his skinny throat. ‘There was no intention of...’

‘No intention of murder?’ McGill laughed and it was an ugly sound in the quiet night. ‘What the hell else do you expect to happen when you interfere with a maniac like Charlie Peterson?’

Stenning was a lawyer and his mind worked on tracks as precise as a railway engine. ‘I saw Charlie Peterson and Ballard in the hotel tonight. They had a long conversation and it wasn’t amiable — but that’s not proof of anything.’ He turned his head and looked at McGill. ‘Do you know it was Peterson?’

‘Yes,’ said McGill bluntly.

‘How do you know?’

McGill paused. He suddenly realized he was still holding the envelope of photographs. He looked at it for a moment and his mind worked fast. ‘I know,’ he said, lying deliberately. ‘I know because Ian told me before he passed out.’

In the distance a siren wailed as the ambulance approached.