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‘Who built the house?’
‘My father built it in about 1880, I think. It was built on the site of my grandfather’s house.’
‘And when was that built?’
Turi shrugged. ‘I don’t know. My people have lived here a long time.’
McGill nodded. ‘Did your father give any reason for building on the same site? Under this big rock?’
Turi answered obliquely. ‘He said that anyone building in Hukahoronui must take precautions.’
‘He knew what he was talking about.’ McGill turned to Ballard. ‘I’d like to test those samples pretty quickly. And I’d like to come back to talk to you, Turi, if I may?’
‘You must both come back. Come to supper and meet a couple of my grandchildren.’
As Turi accompanied them to the door Ballard said, ‘You don’t think much of the mine, do you, Turi?’
‘Too many changes,’ he said, and shook his head wryly. ‘We now have a supermarket.’
‘You know I’m in charge of the mine now – and I don’t like it much, either. But I think my reasons are different. You’re going to see more changes, Turi, but these I think you’ll like.’
Turi thumped him gently on the arm. ‘He tamariki koe? You’re a man now, Ian; a real man.’
‘Yes,’ said Ballard. ‘I’ve grown up. Thanks, Turi.’
Turi watched them put on their skis and, as they traversed the slope which led away from the house, he waved and called, ‘Haere ra!’
Ballard looked back over his shoulder. ‘Haere ra!’ They headed back to the mine.
FIVE (#ulink_f386d6f0-b364-55f9-bbeb-67ea387cb666)
The late afternoon sun poured through the windows of the hall, rendered multi-coloured by the stained glass. Patches of colour lay across the tables; the carafe of water in front of Ballard looked as though it was filled with blood.
Dan Edwards loosened his tie and wished he could have a cold beer. ‘They’ll be adjourning pretty soon,’ he said to Dalwood. ‘I wish old Harrison would get a bloody move on. All this talk of snow doesn’t make me feel any cooler.’
Harrison poured himself a glass of water and sipped. He set down the glass, and said, ‘So you took samples of the snow cover on the western slope in the presence of Mr Ballard. What were your findings?’
McGill unzipped the leather satchel and took out a sheaf of papers. ‘I have written an entire report on the events that occurred at Hukahoronui – from the technical side, of course. I submit the report to the Commission.’ He gave the report to Reed who passed it up to Harrison. ‘Part One consists of my findings on the first series of snow profiles which was submitted to the mine management and, later, to the municipal authorities of Hukahoronui.’
Harrison flipped through the pages and frowned, then he passed the papers to Professor Rolandson. They conferred for a moment in low voices, then Harrison said, ‘This is all very well, Dr McGill; but your report appears to be highly technical and contains more mathematical formulae than the majority of us are accustomed to. After all, this is a public hearing. Could you not describe your findings in a language that can be understood by others apart from yourself and Professor Rolandson?’
‘Of course,’ said McGill. ‘Indeed, I did so to the people in Hukahoronui.’
‘You may proceed; and you may expect to be questioned – in the interests of clarity – by Professor Rolandson.’
McGill clasped his hands in front of him. ‘Snow is not so much a substance as a process; it changes in time. It begins with a snowflake falling to earth and becoming part of the general snow cover. It is a six-sided crystal and not very stable, and sublimation begins – a sort of evaporation. Eventually the crystal becomes a small, rounded granule. This is called destructive metamorphism and results in a higher density because the air is squeezed out. At the same time, because of the evaporative process, there is water vapour in the snow mass and, due to the low temperature, the separate granules tend to bond together by freezing.’
‘This bond is not particularly strong, is it?’ asked Rolandson.
‘The bond is not strong, when compared with other materials.’ Rolandson nodded and McGill went on. ‘The next thing to take into account is the temperature through the snow cover. It’s not constant – it’s warmer at the bottom than the top, thus forming a temperature gradient. If you look at Graph One you will find the temperature gradient of those first five samples.’
Rolandson flipped pages. ‘Not a very steep gradient – not more than two degrees.’
‘It’s enough for the next stage in the process. There is still a lot of air in the snow cover and the relatively warm air at the bottom begins to rise carrying water vapour with it. The vapour precipitates on the colder granules above. There is now a building process at work which is called constructive metamorphism, and a new kind of crystal begins to form – a cup crystal.’
‘Could you describe a cup crystal, Dr McGill?’
‘It’s a conical shape with a hollow in the blunt end – the cup.’
‘And how large is a cup crystal?’
‘A well-developed crystal may run to half an inch long, but you can take a quarter-inch as average.’ McGill paused, and when Rolandson remained silent, he said, ‘Graph Two shows the penetrometer readings – that is the resistance of the snow to stress.’
Rolandson studied it. ‘This is the resistance in kilograms plotted against depth?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘There’s a discontinuity half way down on all five samples.’
‘Yes, sir; that’s a layer of surface hoar.’
Harrison interrupted. ‘If it is not on the surface how can it be described as surface hoar?’
‘It was on the surface. When the surface of the snow is colder than the air above it then there is more sublimation of water vapour – something like the condensation on the outside of a glass of cold beer.’ (In the Press gallery Dan Edwards sighed in anguish and licked his lips.) ‘In this case I should imagine it happened on a clear and cloudless night when there would be a lot of outgoing radiation. Then the hoar, or frost, would form on the surface producing flat plates of thin ice.’
Again Harrison brought up the objection. ‘But this discontinuity, as Professor Rolandson calls it, is not on the surface.’
‘No,’ agreed McGill. ‘Normally, when the sun hits it in the morning it disappears. In this case, I imagine that clouds came over before sunrise and it began to snow again quite heavily. The layer of hoar was covered and preserved.’
‘With what significance?’ queried Rolandson.
‘Several things could happen. The layer is quite hard, as you can see from the penetrometer readings. It is also quite smooth and could form a sliding surface for the snow above it.’ McGill extended two fingers. ‘Secondly, a layer of hoar is formed of flat plates of ice fused together – that is, it is relatively impermeable to air. This means that the most likely place for cup crystals to form would be just under the hoar layer.’
‘You emphasize cup crystals. In what way are they dangerous?’
‘They are dangerous because of their rounded shape and because there is very little bonding between one crystal and another.’ McGill tugged at his ear. ‘As a very rough analogy I would suggest that it would be very difficult for a man to walk on a floor loosely packed with billiard balls. It’s that kind of instability.’
‘Was there any evidence of cup crystals forming at this time?’
‘They had begun to form in sample one, the highest up the slope. I had reason to believe that the process would continue which would result in a marked decline in stability.’
‘Go on, Dr McGill.’
McGill put up a third finger. ‘Three, the weather forecast at the time indicated more snow – more weight – on that slope.’ He dropped his hand. ‘All things considered I came to the conclusion that the snow cover on the western slope of the valley of Hukahoronui was relatively unstable and thus formed a potential avalanche hazard. I so informed the mine management.’
‘You mean Mr Ballard?’ asked Harrison.
‘Present at the meeting were Mr Ballard; Mr Dobbs, the mine manager; Mr Cameron, the mine engineer; Mr Quentin, the union representative.’
‘And you were present during the whole of that meeting?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then I think we can take your evidence as best evidence of what occurred at the meeting, subject to later appraisal. However, the time has come to adjourn for today. We will gather here at ten in the morning when you, Dr McGill, will again be a witness. The hearing is adjourned.’
SIX (#ulink_50d60f8a-213a-5e1e-8dcb-417339637c8f)
The participants of the hearing flooded on to the pavement of Armagh Street and began to disperse. Dan Edwards, heading rapidly beerwards, stopped when Dalwood said, ‘Who is the tall redhead talking to Ballard? The girl with the dog.’
Edwards craned his neck. ‘Good God! Now what the hell goes on there?’
‘Who is she?’
‘Liz Peterson, the sister of Charlie and Eric.’
Dalwood watched Ballard pat the Alsatian and smile at the girl warmly. ‘They seem on good terms.’
‘Yes – bloody funny, isn’t it? Charlie has got his knife so deep into Ballard that he’s in blood up to his armpit. I wonder if he knows Liz is fraternizing with the enemy?’
‘We’ll soon know,’ said Dalwood. ‘Here come Charlie and Eric now.’
The two men came out of the building, unsmiling and exchanging monosyllables. Charlie looked up and his face became thunderous. He snapped something at his brother and quickened his pace, elbowing his way through the crowd on the pavement. At that moment a car drew up and Ballard got into it and when Charlie reached his sister Ballard had gone. Charlie spoke to his sister and an argument seemed to develop.
Edwards watched the by-play, and said, ‘If he didn’t know he does now. What’s more, he doesn’t like it.’
‘And the dog doesn’t like Charlie. Look at it.’
The Alsatian’s upper lip was curled back in a snarl and Liz Peterson shortened her grip on the lead and spoke sharply to it.
Edwards sighed. ‘Let’s get that beer. The first one will hiss going down.’
Mike McGill was driving the car. He slanted an eye at Ballard and then returned his attention to the road. ‘Well, what do you think?’
‘Your evidence was good. Very concise.’
‘Rolandson helped; he fed me some good lines. He makes a good straight man to my comedian. You didn’t do too well, though.’
‘I’m doing all right.’
‘Wake up, Ian! That son of a bitch, Rickman, is going to deliver you bound and gagged if you don’t stop him.’
‘Save it, Mike,’ said Ballard shortly. ‘I’m too bloody tired.’
McGill bit his lip and lapsed into silence. After ten minutes he swung off the road and parked in the forecourt of their hotel. ‘You’ll feel better after a cold beer,’ he said. ‘It was goddam hot in that courthouse. Okay?’
‘All right,’ said Ballard listlessly.
They went into the hotel bar and McGill ordered two beers and took them to a discreet table. ‘Here’s mud in your eye.’ He drank and gasped with pleasure. ‘God, how I needed that!’ He replenished his glass. ‘That courthouse is sure some place. Who designed it – Edward the Confessor?’
‘It’s not a courthouse – it’s a sort of provincial House of Parliament. Or it was.’
McGill grinned. ‘The bit I like about it are those pious texts set in the stained glass windows. I wonder who thought those up?’ In the same even tone he said, ‘What did Liz Peterson want?’
‘Just to wish me well.’
‘Did she?’ said McGill sardonically. ‘If she really meant it she’d operate on that brother of hers with a sharp knife.’ He watched the condensation form on the outside of his glass. ‘Come to think of it, a blunt knife might be better. The Peterson lawyer was really sniping at you this morning.’
‘I know.’ Ballard took another draught. It seemed to do him good. ‘It doesn’t matter, Mike. You and I know the evidence is on our side.’
‘You’re wrong,’ said McGill flatly. ‘Evidence is how a lawyer puts it – and talking about lawyers, what about Rickman? You know what he did to you this morning, don’t you? He made it look as though you were trying to renege. Hell, everyone in that hall thought you were trying to slip the country.’
Ballard rubbed his eyes. ‘I said something to Rickman just before the hearing opened, and he got it wrong, that’s all.’
‘That’s all? That’s not all – not by a thousand miles. A smart guy like that doesn’t get things wrong in a courtroom. If he got it wrong then he meant to get it wrong. What did you say to him, anyway?’
Ballard took out his wallet and extracted a piece of paper. ‘I was leaving the hotel this morning when I got this.’ He passed it to McGill. ‘My grandfather’s dead!’
McGill unfolded the cablegram and read it. ‘Ian, I’m sorry; I really am.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘This Harriet – is she your mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘She wants you to go home.’
‘She would,’ said Ballard bitterly.
‘And you showed this to Rickman?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he got up on his hind legs and, by inference, demonstrated that you are a coward. Hell, Ian; he’s not representing you! He’s representing the company.’
‘Six of one and half a dozen of the other.’
McGill regarded Ballard and slowly shook his head. ‘You really believe what the Chairman of the Commission said, don’t you? That all they want is to get at the truth. Well, that may be what Harrison thinks but it’s not what the public want. Fifty-four people died, Ian, and the public want a scapegoat. The President of your company knows …’
‘Chairman.’
McGill waggled his hand. ‘To hell with semantics. The Chairman of your company knows that, too, and he’s making goddam sure the company isn’t the goat. That’s why he’s employed a sharp cookie like Rickman, and if you think Rickman is acting for you then you’re out of your mind. If the company can get out from under by sacrificing you then that’s what they’ll do.’
He thumped the table. ‘I can write the scenario right now. “Mr Ballard is new to the company. Mr Ballard is young and inexperienced. It is only to be expected that so young a man should make unfortunate mistakes. Surely such errors of judgment may be excused in one so inexperienced.”’ McGill leaned back in his chair. ‘By the time Rickman is finished with you he’ll have everyone believing you arranged the goddam avalanche – and the Petersons and that snide lawyer of theirs will fall over themselves to help him.’
Ballard smiled slightly. ‘You have great powers of imagination, Mike.’
‘Oh, what the hell!’ said McGill disgustedly. ‘Let’s have another beer.’
‘My round.’ Ballard got up and went to the bar. When he came back he said, ‘So the old boy’s dead.’ He shook his head. ‘You know, Mike, it hit me harder than I thought it would.’
McGill poured more beer. ‘Judging by the way you talked about him, I’m surprised you feel anything at all.’
