The Fourth Friend (DI Jackman & DS Evans #3)
Joy Ellis
DEDICATION
For Snowy
In fond memory of a good friend
Doreen Wells.
Jan 1937 - July 2017
PROLOGUE
Carter McLean stared out of the plane’s tiny window at a vast cumulonimbus. The pilot had assured them they would make it through the storm, and Carter trusted him. He had flown with him before.
The plane dropped suddenly, making his stomach lurch, and then there was nothing but grey cloud, and rain lashing the window. They were in.
Carter enjoyed an adrenalin rush. Throughout his life, he’d never taken the easy route. And now his job as a CID drugs squad detective kept him where he liked to be — on the front line. So with a grim smile, he pulled his safety belt a little tighter and braced himself for a bumpy ride.
In retrospect, maybe he would not have been so cavalier if he had known that the plane was approximately thirty seconds from going down.
The engine noise changed, the steady thrum seemed to break up, cough. Carter peered through the sheets of rain slashing across the cockpit windows. He frowned, not understanding what he was seeing. Trees? He put his hands over his ears, the aircraft lurched drunkenly to one side and it seemed to scream. Carter’s mouth was dry as sandpaper. He looked at his four best friends. Just moments ago they had been discussing Ray’s stag weekend and his forthcoming wedding. Now their faces were masks of horror and disbelief. They knew what was coming.
Carter felt no panic. Instead, he felt cheated. He was thirty-six, fit and healthy. He had all his teeth, a full head of hair. It was too soon.
Sounds inside the cabin became hollow, slow and echoing. When it happened, the impact was not sudden. The six-seater Piper Seneca jerked and slewed, ricocheting across the uneven ground. Then with a scream of tearing metal, one wing ripped away and the plane’s nose dug into the earth, throwing the tail section high into the air and flinging its occupants forward towards the cockpit.
*
Carter couldn’t move. He had no idea why, and no inclination to find out. For a while he seemed to float in the eerie silence. It was a cold, disturbing quiet. The only thing he could hear was a ringing in his ears.
He lay, suspended. It could have been hours, days even. Then, from the remains of the cockpit, a tangle of exposed wiring suddenly fizzed and spat. Carter needed to act.
He moaned. He tried to move and found that something was pinning him to the back of the pilot’s seat. It took a while to realise that it was Jack’s weighty torso, crushing him and forcing the air from his lungs.
He tried to slide from under his friend’s motionless body and cried out at the pain that tore through his chest. The safety belt, before it tore free, must have broken his ribs. He thought of the wire, fizzing like a lit fuse, and knew he had to get out, fast. Groaning, he managed to ease out from beneath Jack.
‘Guys . . . ?’ Was that his voice? He sounded like an eight-year-old. ‘Hey, guys? Are you okay?’ He waited.
‘Oh, sweet Jesus!’ Tom’s Scouse accent filtered across the cabin’s gloom. ‘Carter? Is that you?’
He closed his eyes in relief. Tom was his best mate. Tall, dark, and far from handsome, but all heart. ‘Yeah, it’s me. Are you injured, mate?’
‘I dunno, but my head bloody well hurts.’ There was a pause. ‘Oh my God! The others?’
Carter stared across at Jack’s lifeless body. He had seen many dead bodies. It was his job. But those bodies, although often terribly harmed, were strangers. This was one of his closest friends.
Jack’s throat was split open. His shirt was dark with blood. Something had sliced through his windpipe, severing it, and the creamy white bones of his spinal column were visible through foamy blood. Carter stifled a sob and began to cast around for the others. There was little or no hope for the pilot. He hung, half in, half out of the torn cockpit section of the plane, his head at an impossible angle to his limp body.
At least Matt was still breathing. Thank God! Carter could hear his uneven gasps and see the erratic rise and fall of his chest. One of the seats had ripped from the bulkhead and pinned both his legs to the floor.
Ray. ‘I can’t see Ray,’ said Carter.
‘He’s here. Still trapped in his seat.’ Tom’s heavily accented voice came back quickly. ‘He’s out cold and his arm’s a mess, but he has a pulse and it’s pretty strong.’
The wiring spat and crackled again. Carter fought to quell his rising panic. ‘We have to get out of here. Tom, I think I’m close to the door. If I can open it, we can drag the others out.’
‘The pilot’s dead, isn’t he?’ whispered Tom. ‘And you haven’t mentioned Jack or Matt.’ His voice shook.
‘Matt’s alive, but we can’t deal with their injuries now. We have to get them out and away from this wreck! It could go up at any moment.’ Carter crawled towards the door and struggled with the lock.
‘Ahh! Shit!’ Pain tore through his neck, arm and shoulder. The door remained jammed shut. ‘You have to help me, Tom! The sodding thing is buckled. I can’t budge it.’ He groaned again. ‘I’ve bust some ribs and I think my arm is knackered too. I can’t grip the damn thing!’
Carter heard muffled swearing and then Tom was crawling into the tiny space between Jack, bits of wreckage, and the door.