Experiment With Destiny (6 page)

* * *

That was how they found it, shortly after a police helicopter spotted the van on the banks of the Llwyn Onn reservoir on the edge of the Brecon Beacons.

The basket, the food untouched and the clothes neatly folded on the rug at the centre of the lake.

The old record player still turned, its needle wearing into the grooves of the disc. There was no sign of Marcus Smith, or the missing mannequin.

             
All they found was a hole in the ice, a short distance away, and no sign of a body in the dark waters beneath. As they gazed into the murky blackness, the record played on. “Tap tap on my window, could it be that you are still in love with me. Here we go again…” sang the crisp, crackly tenor.

* * *

Part 2

On The Way To Abamae

IV

HE found it on the roadside amid the sea of broken glass – a glimpse of bronze on a background of shards that reflected the flashing blue chaos of the scene. In the noise and confusion he picked it up and shoved it into the depths of his pocket. He could not explain this action…not now…nor later that night when he considered the matter at length, far away from this carnage. Steven Elan put it down to journalistic instinct.

             
The roadside was a mess. Glass and blood mingled on the cold, unforgiving tarmac. Men in uniform, their faces sombre, lifted the last of the bodies and carried it away from the wreckage of twisted steel and melted plastic. Their luminous arm and wastebands caught the glare of the neon streetlights and pulsing blue beacons as they moved the corpse to the rear of a waiting ambulance. They lowered the anonymous shape to the ground, placing it neatly alongside three other bodies before affording it the meagre dignity of a blanket. Soon enough they would be loaded and driven away to the mortuary but, for now, the vehicle and its specialist equipment was needed for those still able to benefit.

             
Steven waited until the paramedics had returned to the scrambled frame of the bus to help with the injured passengers. Glancing around he spotted three policemen, their backs turned to him. They were directing traffic – queues of buses and service vehicles – around the debris-filled carriageway. A fourth officer was busy scribbling into a pocket notebook, moving from one witness to another, their faces ashen with shock. The police were too occupied to pay him any attention.

             
He moved toward the row of corpses, checking the rear of the ambulance to ensure he was not observed. As he reached the bodies he pulled the digital pocket camera from his coat and checked the battery reading. It would suffice for another dozen shots. Sliding its switch to on, he stepped alongside the first body and bent low, lifting the corner of the bloodied blanket until the face was uncovered. It was unrecognisable, mashed to a pulp of blood and bone with no features resembling eyes, nose or a mouth. The victim wore a dark uniform, polished silver buttons spattered with crimson and the heavy material marked by hundreds of pin-pint fragments of glass. Steven wondered if there was any point taking this victim’s picture. It was too shocking for his newspaper to publish, nevertheless the uniform and its insignia may provide some clue. Fighting back the urge to vomit he clicked the button on the camera and the image was digitally stored for later retrieval. He set aside a tinge of conscience with the knowledge that the registration plate clinging to the remains of the twisted black Jaguar saloon was a Eurostate Government plate, and a military one at that. The registration was already stored away in the camera and his instinct told him there was a story behind this tragic accident.

             
Steven dropped the fold of the blanket across the faceless head and moved on to the next body. It was a man, features still intact though pale and swollen, with traces of blood where the glass had punctured the skin. The lids of his eyes had partially closed and, to Steven, it seemed the lips had twisted into a final smirk. Pulling the blanket a little further back he could see this victim did not wear a uniform but a dark jacket, a white shirt – expensive cotton weave – and a navy blue tie. Again he activated the camera, storing the image. He reached the third body and lifted away the damp cover. This one was a woman, her eyes fixed straight at him in a look of terror and a thin line of blood congealing down her cheek. Her blazer was torn away, along with the chiffon blouse beneath, to reveal a breast that had been partially sheared from her torso and splinters of ribs puncturing her shredded, bloodied skin. He pressed the button and looked away as he dropped the blanket back into place.

             
He had just drawn back the blanket on the final body to reveal another faceless mess and a uniform he recognised instantly as that of the bus company when he heard a shout.

             
“Hey!” He looked up to see one of the paramedics returning to the back of the ambulance, leading a young boy who clutched a bandage to his bleeding scalp. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The tone was a mixture of alarm and fury.

             
“Just wanted to see who they were.” Steven tucked the camera back into his coat pocket. There was no need to photograph the dead bus driver. “I’m a reporter…for the Echo.” He carefully pulled the blanket back over the bloodied stump that was once a head and stepped away from the corpse.

             
“You’re a sick bastard!” snapped the paramedic, urging the boy to climb into the back of the vehicle. “Get the hell away from here!”

Steven did not need telling twice. Glancing around in a final sweep for clues, he walked briskly back toward his car, five or six vehicles back along the blocked inside lane behind the crumpled bus, exactly where it had skidded to a sudden halt. His relief had been immense when the car pulled up inches short of the bread van in front. A fraction of a second later it had doubled when the lorry behind screeched loudly, its locked tyres fighting the rain-sodden tarmac, but narrowly avoided compacting his boot. He had never yet pranged a Western Mail & Echo pool car but he remembered that the last unfortunate reporter who did had been banned from using company vehicles and forced to make do with feet, bicycles and public transport for three months, even though the crash was later proved to be the other driver’s fault. The days when reporters, and even editors for that matter, owned their own cars were long gone.

              He pulled open the door. In his haste to find out what had happened he had not bothered to lock it. At least he had the sense to switch off the engine before clambering out to investigate. The batteries in these Micro-Metros were only good for an hour or so before they needed recharging. A quick assessment of the three-lane carriageway told him he would be stuck here for a while yet. The police had only just managed to get the outside lane moving, probably to allow other emergency vehicles access to the scene. The middle lane and his were completely stationary. Steven climbed inside, closing the door against the rain and unclipping his mobile phone.

             
“Newsdesk,” the voice at the other end barked after two short rings.

             
“Jerry?” There was no real need to ask, it was habit. Those sharp distinctive tones always produced a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “It’s Steve…look, I’m stuck behind an RTA on Western Avenue…serious one…doesn’t look like I’ll be mobile again for…maybe an hour. Any chance you can get someone else out to that student demo?”

             
“Fuck! Shit! Bollocks!” The sinking sensation dropped deeper.

             
“I’m real sorry. Hey, at least the car’s okay. It was right in front of me…bus and…” Steven decided not to mention the government car for now. “…it’s a terrible mess. If you can send someone else they’ll have to go round a different way. Nothing’s moving…”

             
“How many dead?” Jerry snapped.

             
“At least four…maybe more.”

“Pictures?”

              “Yeah…couple of general ones, couple of close-ups.”

             
“Great. The Western Mail won’t give a monkey’s over a fatal RTA so it’s pointless e-mailing the pix through. It’ll make an early lead for our first edition tomorrow. Find out what you can from the scene. Names, addresses, usual bullshit. See you later.” The line went dead.

             
“Yes Jerry. Fuck you too Jerry.”

             
The rain began to fall heavily and, through the steamed up windscreen, he could see the flashing lights of another ambulance pulling alongside. It was cold and he was tempted to turn on the heater but he knew it would be touch and go on making it back if he did. There was no telling how long he could be stuck here. He tapped through the mobile’s directory until he found the emergency services section, then clicked autodial.

             
“South Wales Police press office.”

             
“Oh, hi! Steve Elan from the Echo. I’m after some details on the RTA on Western Avenue westbound. Bus and a car.” It would be an hour or two before the press office could tell him any more than he already knew but he had to go through the motions. How much they would eventually reveal about the black Jaguar and its occupants was the key to whether or not he had a run-of-the-mill fatal RTA picture lead or something much bigger.

* * *

              Thomson House, home to the South Wales Echo, The Western Mail and a host of other publications, stood proudly opposite the Millennium Stadium, near the banks of the River Taff. Steven glanced up at its polished glass fascia as he drove the Micro-Metro around the corner to the side lodge where he would begin the ritual of parking that involved signing for the pool car park barrier swipe card, provided security could find it, then a Herculean effort to squeeze the tiny two-door into a gap big enough for a motorbike. Then, and only then, could he sign the card back in and return to his desk on the second floor.

             
Thirty minutes later he was pacing along the corridor toward the massive open plan editorial floor, glad of the warmth of the radiators after two hours sat in the car. Pausing to buy a strong black coffee from the vending machine, he passed the row of subs’ desks where a few equally weary faces stared at screens filled with the early shapes of tomorrow’s feature pages. He could feel the hot liquid burning his numb fingers through the plastic cup and hurried past toward his own workstation. Passing the picture desk he was glad to see that the picture editor had gone home for the night. The lights were off in the editor’s office, there was no sign of Jerry at the newsdesk and the only other inhabitant of the Echo section was a junior reporter whose overnight task was to monitor the broadcast bulletins, Press Association copy and make hourly calls to the police, ambulance and fire brigade control rooms.

             
Steven carefully placed the cup on his ‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down’ mouse-mat and shrugged off his damp coat, extracting the camera and his notebook before hanging it on a peg above the nearest radiator.

             
“Hi,” he offered as the junior, a ginger-haired girl called Menna, smiled up at him.

             
“You’re late back.” She stopped typing.

             
“Yeah…got stuck behind a bus crash for two hours.” He sat down and switched his PC over from hibernate.

             
“I’m just typing in the details into the news queue now. I’ll send you a copy.”

             
“Cheers. Anything else on the go?”

             
“Nah…’s been pretty quiet so far. Early days though.”

             
“Sure,” Steven checked for recent e-mails before logging into his news basket. “Tends to liven up around 11. First week on nights?”

             
“Uh-huh.”

             
“Jerry gone?”

             
“If only. Nah, he’s just popped outside for a fag and a bag of chips. Said he’d stick around ‘til you got back.”

             
“Can’t bare to leave the place, that’s his trouble. He’ll probably die in here, and be quite happy about it too. Old school, Jerry is.”

             
“Doubt they’ll allow him to be buried here as well.” Menna sniggered, typing again.

             
“True…he’s probably got his eye on a spot just over between the newsdesk and the fax machine.” Steve dug around in his drawer for the cable to connect the digital camera to his PC.

“He might get away with an urn of his ashes on the bookshelf above the copier.” He checked the battery level. There was enough power left to download before it needed recharging.

              “How long you been on the Echo?”

             
“Too long.” Steven opened a new set of image files on his PC and began the process of downloading the gory images he had captured on the roadside. “Came off Celtic…Merthyr Express…two years ago…thereabouts. Time to move on again…soon.”

             
“Where to?” Steven glanced away as the gruesome thumbnails slotted into place on his desktop. Menna, he noticed for the first time, had striking features…young clear eyes, a strong straight nose and a determined mouth. Her cheeks and forehead were dappled with a sprinkling of freckles. He made a mental note to ask her out for a sociable drink, get to know her a little better…but not tonight. He did not fancy hanging around until 2am.

             
“INB probably…or maybe further afield. Who knows? Broadcasting anyway, bigger bucks.” He grinned. “How about you?”

             
“I’m still on probation.” She blushed. “Another week and I’ll have done three months. I was on the Newcastle course. Paid my own way. Offered a job here. I never really fancied broadcast much, talking heads, no substance. Always preferred print. Old fashioned kinda gal, I guess.”

             
“You’ll end up like Jerry…if you get the chance. Print’s dying you know…except in the weeklies. Talking heads or not, digital media is most people’s first choice for regional and national news. And one day every street corner will have its own news webpage and every suburb will have some barely trained geek armed with a webcam. The presses will fall silent and dinosaurs like Jerry will no longer roar around the corridors of newsrooms like this,” Steven clicked onto the first image, the twisted wreckage of the Jaguar. “Thank fuck!”