B006U13W The Flight (Jenny Cooper 4) nodrm by M. R. Hall Page A

with a fatality that may be connected – a boat was hit.’
    He swept her with mistrustful eyes. Then Jenny detected a flicker of recognition.
    ‘I was at the disaster mortuary last night,’ she said, ‘in the identification suite.’
    ‘I know. That’s why I thought . . .’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
    As he turned to go, Jenny said, ‘Are you a pilot?’
    ‘Yes . . .’ He sounded wary.
    She didn’t like to bother a man who was grieving, but something in his demeanour told her it would be all right. There was a toughness about him, a detached quality she had noticed the night before. ‘Maybe you can help me answer a question—’
    He didn’t look too sure.
    ‘It’s just that some helicopters arrived at the crash scene very soon after. I don’t see any helicopters here – do you know where else they might have come from?’
    ‘Within what area?’
    ‘A witness said they headed off to the east.’
    ‘Do you have a description?’
    ‘Not yet.’
    ‘I should try Beachley – the army base. That’d be the closest.’ He half-turned, then hesitated, as if he were reluctant to carry the conversation any further than he had to. ‘I hear they think the plane was brought down by lightning. Is that the official line?’
    ‘As far as I know.’
    ‘As good a story as any, I suppose.’
    ‘Do you know a better one?’
    He met her gaze. She felt something in his attitude towards her slowly shifting.
    ‘I really don’t know very much about planes,’ Jenny said. ‘Would you have a moment to talk?’
    He took her to the unglamorous canteen used by pilots and other airside staff and told her his name was Michael Sherman. There was a gossipy, cliquey feel to the place, pilots sitting with pilots and ground crew keeping to their own. Sherman seemed to pass unacknowledged by any of them as he led her between the crowded tables to one by the window that was free. Not a man to waste time on small talk, Jenny observed.
    He sipped his coffee in silence, waiting for her to make the running.
    ‘What kind of plane do you fly?’ Jenny asked finally.
    ‘A Cessna 208, sometimes a 182. Private charter. Most of my business is flying jockeys between racecourses – the firm’s got a contract with some of the big owners. Helicopters are more convenient, but never as safe.’
    He made himself sound like a glorified taxi driver. It didn’t fit with Jenny’s feeling about him: the history in his features, the way he spoke – as if he was used to operating under pressure.
    ‘You had a friend on 189?’
    He nodded. ‘Nuala. It’s an Irish name. We were together for a while. She was a pilot, too – worked for Ransome as a matter of fact. Flew the Airbus short-haul. They still don’t like female captains crossing the big oceans. Some sort of superstition, I guess.’
    ‘She was what – a co-pilot?’
    ‘No. A passenger, as far as I can tell. They get cheap tickets . . .’ He turned to gaze out of the window as a big airliner came in to land, its tyres sending out puffs of smoke as they touched the runway. ‘I expect she was just taking advantage of the perks, getting a few days away.’
    Jenny sensed there was more. Now she was sitting close to him she could almost feel the shifting layers beneath the surface. There was some anger he was hiding, and a big unanswered question.
    ‘You thought I was a detective. What did you think I wanted?’
    He turned his gaze back from the window, a little startled. Jenny noticed his deep blue eyes. They seemed to tell her they had seen a lot.
    She watched him silently ask himself a question: should I trust her?
    ‘Anything you tell me is entirely confidential, Mr Sherman.’
    He gave a trace of a nod and stared down into his coffee. ‘Nuala and I parted about a year ago, not on the best of terms. We didn’t speak for months; not at all, in fact . . . But she tried to call me three times in the last few days. She left messages on my phone – it’s a personal