The second photo was of Garvey, the Pinball Kid. He was on his stomach, face twisted sideways, arms bound behind him with barbed wire. Several strands of the wire had also been tightened around his throat. Blood had squeezed out through Garvey’s eyes, and the tip of his tongue poked between his teeth to touch the grey dirt floor of what looked like a barn.
Garvey? Yes. He told.
Tom’s stomach flipped at the memory of Ness’s words.
The final Polaroid was of Bruce Allway. The middle man. The linchpin. The sudden suspect that Tom had been convinced would sing like Doris Day.
Someone else had apparently had exactly the same thought.
Allway had been hanged by the neck from a beam. His face was blue-black and swollen; his neat tan chinos were dark with piss. Close to his swinging feet was the chair to which Tom had once been cuffed.
‘Oh, my God!’
Tom flipped the file shut and looked up at his returning neighbour, who had gone pale.
‘What was that?’ she cried, making other passengers look round, and waking Lucia.
Tom stood up. ‘Ma’am, I apologize for that. I’m a federal officer investigating a case.’ He pulled out his tired ID and she looked at it distractedly as if she could still see the other images. ‘Are you okay? Can I get you some water?’
She nodded, and Tom saw that the threat of full-blown hysterics had been averted. The woman slipped back into her seat and Tom rang for an attendant. When she came, the woman asked tearfully for a double whiskey and the attendant gave Tom a hard stare, as if she knew this must have something to do with him. ‘Would you like to move to another seat, ma’am?’ she asked, but 15B shook her head stoically and said she’d be fine.
Tom paid for her drink, a double for himself and another rum and Coke for Lucia.
‘Okay?’ Lucia was clearly concerned.
He nodded tightly, then stared at the file he’d stuffed into the seat pocket in front of him. His half-hour of pleasure had been sucked up and blown away as if by a twister.
Everything in the documents pointed to Bruce Allway. If the people Ness worked for were setting someone up, they’d done a good job of incriminating Allway with the paperwork. And then they’d killed their fall-guy.
It made no sense. Like the Karoo hospital blow-job, Tom couldn’t see the angle. It was as if Ness had dangled a solution in front of him, then snatched it away, like a schoolyard joke. And if that was the case, then the joke must be on him.
But he still had the paperwork. He still had the Polaroids. He probably still had enough to convince Pete LaBello and the FBI to open a full investigation into the fake parts and at least three obvious murders, let alone the links to organized crime.
Why would Ness give him all that when she knew – when they knew – that the moment he got to DC, their highly profitable business could come under threat?
The answer came so hard and fast it made his breath whine noisily in his throat.
He was never going to make it to NTSB headquarters. Someone would be waiting for him – maybe at the airport, maybe at the taxi stand.
Maybe he wouldn’t even make it to DC.
Tom reached for the file again. From the corner of his eye he saw his neighbour glare, but he couldn’t help it: he had to check.
The bill of lading. The transfer of possession. The bill of sale. The 8130-3 … His hands shook as he ran a finger down the documents, seeking something he was terrified to find.
This was paperwork for a fake fan disc that had been bought by American Airlines and installed three years ago in a 737-400.
Just like the one he was sitting in right now.
The ‘Serviceable’ tag listed the ID of the aircraft in which the disc had been installed.
Tom got up so fast he banged his head on the overhead lockers.
‘You okay?’ said Lucia, suddenly wary.
He put all his reserves of deception into making a smile for her. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right back.’
He strode up the aisle towards the cockpit, suppressing the almost overpowering urge to run. The attendant who didn’t like him came out of the galley and bumped into him. Tom glanced at her tag, which read ‘Shirley Vickery’.
‘I need to speak to the captain,’ he said.
Immediately her eyes became suspicious. ‘What seems to be the problem?’
Tom lowered his voice. ‘There may be a safety issue with this plane.’
‘A life-preserver safety issue?’ she asked, a little sarcastically.
‘No. A we-all-die-screaming safety issue,’ he shot back.
‘That’s not funny, Mr …’
He dragged out his ID for what felt like the millionth time. ‘Patrick. NTSB.’
She took it and peered closely at it, her pretty lips pursed in suspicion that was far from allayed by the fact that there was a streak of blood on the ID. The baggage handler. Tom cursed himself for not wiping it off.
‘Listen, Miss Vickery,’ he said, ‘I haven’t got time to waste here. I need to ask the pilot about this plane’s ID. It may be nothing. But if it’s something, he’ll want to know about it.’
He saw her look past his arm and raise her eyebrows at someone behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see the chief steward heading down the aisle towards them.
In the good old days Tom could have shoved her aside and forced his way into the cockpit. Post 9/11, that wasn’t an option. If he tried it, they’d probably Taser him.
He had to stand and wait, swallowing his anger and his fear.
The chief steward arrived and Shirley handed him Tom’s ID. ‘Mr Patrick has been behaving … erratically, Jim. Now he says he needs to speak to the pilot.’
‘Why?’ said Jim, and Tom almost screamed with frustration.
He kept his voice low with difficulty: ‘There may be a problem with the plane.’
Jim glanced around, just as nervous of alarming other passengers. He ushered them into the galley and gave a concerned frown. At least he’s taking me seriously, Tom thought.
‘Is that a threat, Mr Patrick?’
Tom closed his eyes and swayed. He clenched his fists so hard it hurt, and felt control slipping away from him.
‘It’s not a threat,’ said Lucia, calmly.
Tom opened his eyes. She was standing at the steward’s shoulder, then stepped in beside him. He felt her hand unfurl his own and hold it.
