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Not exactly what I meant. She undraped her arms, retrieved her shopping from the floor, and stomped off down the hall.
Chapter Six (#ulink_4ce1764d-e8a2-503a-b361-6f25168abbb5)
On Monday morning, Nicola was easing herself into the week by flicking through the collection of newspaper and magazine cuttings she kept for potential story ideas. She was staring into space when her phone rang, startling her. ‘Bill Truman’ flashed on the screen. She picked up the handset.
‘Hi Bill,’ she said.
‘Nicola. My office, thanks.’
‘Oh, right, okay, thanks, I’ll be there …’
There was a click.
‘… in a sec,’ she finished, but he’d already hung up.
Nicola got up and made her way out into the empty hall. She preferred to get in early on Monday mornings; liked the peace before the other journalists arrived.
‘Have a seat.’ ‘Ta.’
It was a large office. Not by executive standards, but definitely compared to the four-to-a-cubicle squeeze of the Life and Times team. At least he had a window, even if it did look out over a depressing industrial wasteland.
Like the rest of the office it was showing its age; decked out in dark stripy fake woodgrain and the same threadbare and dirty mid-brown carpet that plagued the whole floor. In the corner stood a large round planter pot filled with potting mix but with no sign of plant life.
As usual, there was a lingering mustiness underneath Bill’s fresh morning scent of Brut, Imperial Leather soap, and toothpaste. He always wore a white shirt and conservative tie – this latter article would be shed sometime during the day, depending on which meetings he was booked to attend, and when.
It was a running office joke that Bill often left the place looking like he’d had to physically wrestle the powers-that-be to prevent budget cuts or fight for more airtime. Although he invariably started the day clean-shaven, hair carefully arranged into a sweeping comb-over, by the afternoon his shirt would be wrinkled and half-untucked beneath his pot belly, his hair flopping over his eyes, and a fine grey stubble on his chin.
‘Latte?’ Bill enquired from the bench that ran around the wall under the window behind his desk. His shiny aluminium coffee machine looked to be the only addition since the office’s last refurbishment in the early nineties.
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Right,’ Bill said, after taking a deep slug of coffee and putting his mug down heavily on the desk. ‘How would you like a little trip out to the country?’
‘Are we talking day spa country?’
‘Fussy now we’re hot property, are we? And no, not quite; you’ll be lucky to find a latte.’ Yeah right.
‘I’m offering it to you first. We want a story on the ongoing drought out bush. I’m thinking you’d go out there for a couple of weeks – month tops. I’ll even throw in an airfare for Scott to visit.’
A weekend together in a quaint B&B, fossicking about in art galleries and antique shops – maybe it was just what she and Scott needed. Meanwhile, a change of pace and scenery might be nice for her too. The more Nicola thought about it, the more she liked the idea.
‘All right, so where am I off to?’ she said, sitting up straighter in her chair.
‘So you’ll go?’
‘Sure, why not?’ It was a month, tops, right? Bill looked a bit surprised. ‘Where am I going?’ ‘Nowhere Else. Ever heard of it?’
‘You’ve got to be kidding – someone did not name a town Nowhere Else!’ Nicola cried. ‘Someone did indeed.’ ‘Cute. So, what’s my angle?’ ‘Thought I’d leave that up to you.’ ‘Okay. When do I leave?’ ‘You fly out tomorrow, 6 p.m.’
‘Righto. But what’s the hurry? The drought’s been going on for years, hasn’t it?’
‘It’s the only booking I could get before next week. Oh, and um, there’s one small catch …’
‘Isn’t there always?’ Nicola said, rolling her eyes at him.
‘It’ll probably be a smallish plane. And you’ll be crossing the Gulf – flying to Port Lincoln and hiring a car from there. You’re welcome to drive the whole way around, but it’ll take you best part of seven hours,’ he said with a shrug.
‘Oh.’ Shit. The Gulf – the Spencer Gulf; the same one that had claimed Ruth and Paul. Jesus, just how small a plane was he talking? At least it wouldn’t be operated by SAR Airlines – they’d had their licence suspended after the crash and closed their doors not long after that.
But seven hours in a car? No bloody way. She didn’t even like to do the Clare Valley and back in a day.
No, she’d have to face her fears; get on a small plane, cross the Gulf. Anyway, he did say it was ‘smallish’: the plane her parents perished in was tiny – only an eight seater. A completely different kettle of fish. And he had said ‘probably’, which meant he didn’t know for sure; for all he knew it would be a 737. Yep, it would be okay.
She, Nicola Harvey, Gold Walkley winner, was certainly not going to pass up the chance because of being a pathetic scaredy cat. It was only when Bill cut in again that Nicola realised she’d been silent for ages.
‘Well it’s either that, “How much fat is really in a Big Mac?” or “Does price equal effectiveness in the world of women’s anti-wrinkle cream?”’
‘I’ve said I’ll go.’
‘Good. I’m sure it’ll be a lovely place to chill out. Who knows? Maybe there are day spas,’ he said with a shrug. ‘What would I know; never been there. Go and find me a knockout story, there’s a good girl.’
The words ‘day spas’ and ‘chill out’ rang in Nicola’s head. That was what this was all about – a break, not a story at all. Of course Bill was too cunning to say so; he knew she’d never fall for the ‘take some time off, you deserve it’ line. Also, this way she was still strictly working for the station and Bill could balance his budget and keep everyone happy.
‘Well, Scott’s off to a conference – one of those cushy bonding soirées. I may as well go on holiday too,’ she said brightly, and got up.
‘This isn’t a story for Getaway, Nicola,’ Bill warned. ‘Doesn’t hurt to dream, now does it?’
‘Whatever works,’ Bill said absently, flicking through some papers on his desk. ‘Right, I’ll get the final arrangements sorted. You let me know the angle when you’ve sussed the place out. Not just dead stock and foreclosures …’
‘What?’
‘Remember, Nicola, I’m expecting gritty.’ ‘Yeah, no worries,’ Nicola mumbled. She too was expecting “gritty” – in an expensive jar awaiting her arrival.
Chapter Seven (#ulink_1bdfc224-477a-5b57-98f6-e6a6d2bd533d)
Nicola looked around at the other passengers standing beside the bus on the tarmac, feeling very overdressed in her navy Perri Cutten pantsuit. Everyone else was in trackies and jeans, t-shirts and polo tops.
She always liked to look presentable when flying, in case there was a chance of an upgrade. She’d worn this particular suit – one of her best – rather than risk crushing it in her suitcase.
But if she’d known she’d be traipsing up and down stairs she would have selected more sensible shoes – certainly not the chocolate Ballys with the five inch heels.
Oh well, too late now. Nicola sighed and brushed a few escaped blonde strands from her cheek.
There were a few sidelong glances from her fellow passengers: some admiring her well-turned-out presence; others trying to work out just where they recognised her from. Dark Gucci sunglasses kept her identity a mystery.
She wasn’t trying to be incognito; she still hadn’t sufficiently recovered from last night’s dinner – a fundraiser at the zoo – to contemplate naked eyes. And she certainly did not need crows’ feet spoiling her smooth television face.
After a few moments she was handed her suitcase from where it had been stowed under the bus. It was the only one; everyone else seemed to just have cabin luggage.
‘Now if you’ll just follow me, folks, staying within the yellow lines for safety,’ called the gentle, cheery voice of the baby-faced pilot as he led the way. His name badge read Mark.
Nicola glanced around. The little group made its way around the bus to where a number of aircraft, large and small, were parked. Pairs of yellow lines showed the way to each craft. Nicola looked along their particular set to see where they were heading.
Shit! It was one of the really small ones. Her heart began racing. Her feet stopped short and her mouth dropped open. Someone’s carry-on bumped the back of her right knee and she would have been sent toppling if a man hadn’t grabbed her by the elbow.
The other five passengers pushed past, bumping her like a buoy amongst whitecaps.
‘You okay?’ mumbled the stranger by her side.
Nicola lifted a long, lightly tanned hand and pointed a clear varnished nail. The solitaire diamond on her ring finger sent rainbow arrows across the barren pavement. She tried to speak but it was as though her jaws had locked open.
‘It’s … it’s … a Piper Chieftain.’
‘Could be, I wouldn’t know,’ was the reply.
‘Come on, folks.’
About fifteen feet away, the young, crisp-shirted pilot was efficiently ushering the other passengers up the flimsy foldout steps and into the plane.
Nicola’s four-hundred-dollar heels felt glued to the sweltering tarmac.
‘I know she looks small but, trust me, she’s solid as a rock,’ the pilot urged.
Nicola was damn sure she didn’t like the idea of a small plane being ‘solid as a rock’. The last thing she wanted was to be crossing two shark-infested gulfs strapped to a rock.
The pilot checked his watch. ‘Look, we really have to get going. You’re either coming with me or you’re not.’
Nicola pictured Bill becoming purple with rage upon hearing he’d lost an airfare from his already stretched budget.
‘You’ll be fine. I understand small planes are a lot scarier than big ones, but trust me, I haven’t lost one yet.’
Yes, but I lost both my parents in one just like this – and on the same route.
She felt like sitting down and having a good cry. ‘For Christ’s sake; it was four years ago, get a grip,’ she heard her inner voice say.
On the inside of the tiny bubble windows, the other passengers were twisting in their seats and peering out. They all had places they were trying to get to. And the poor pilot had a schedule to keep.
The coroner’s report on flight 519 had told of the enormous pressure pilot Matt Berkowitz had been under. One of the criticisms of SAR Airlines was their tight turnaround times; schedules which were at times barely possible to make without factoring in delays due to booking problems – another thing pilots were expected to deal with.
While the coroner wasn’t prepared to say these tight turnaround times contributed to the accident, it was stated that the young pilot of flight 519 took off almost eight minutes late.
Having already been raked over the coals for being late the week before, and threatened with losing his job as a result, he was under considerable pressure to make up the time.
Nicola had no desire to put that same burden onto this young man, who was probably the same age.
‘Right,’ she said, gritting her teeth and jerking her large trolley case forward.
She was sweating; soon her suit would be ruined.
‘I’ll take that – it’s too big to go inside,’ the pilot said, nodding at Nicola’s suitcase. Nicola pushed down the handle, left it where it was, and scrambled up the narrow steps. She half-expected him to pat her behind; he seemed that sort of guy.
The interior of the plane was even smaller than it looked from the ground.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered to her fellow passengers, waiting patiently to get to wherever they were going.
Sympathetic smiles followed her to her allocated seat, not the arctic stares and exasperated sighs she expected.
She sat, snapped the heavy ends of her seatbelt together and pulled the strap tight. She then checked under the seat for the life jacket the coroner had insisted be added to these flights since the tragedy. Good. She sat back again.
Outside her tiny perspex window, the first engine spluttered and sneezed and finally the propeller flicked back and forth then became a blur of spinning metal. The second engine went through the same procedure. The whole cabin vibrated as the engines were revved. Talking would be difficult; Nicola could barely hear herself think.
Fighting to ease her gasping breaths, she looked across at her neighbour. The stranger beside her offered a sympathetic smile, then the sick bag, indicating her to put it to her mouth and breathe into it slowly and deeply.
The other passengers were busily inspecting safety cards and complimentary magazines, and seemed not to notice her.
She tried to listen to the safety instructions, but could barely make them out over the sound of the engines.
If she wasn’t so terrified she might have been amused at being told to keep her belt fastened when seated; there was no toilet to visit, and no aisle to stroll.
Sitting there in the same make and model of plane, waiting to fly the same route, and – shit! – at the exact same time, Nicola wondered how Paul and Ruth must have felt. But of course they were off on holidays; would have been chattering excitedly about what they expected to do and see. They wouldn’t have had a clue about their impending demise – thank God.
If only she’d insisted on leaving the office early to take them to the airport. But they hadn’t wanted to burden her; said a taxi was a lot less hassle. They had agreed to let her pick them up on the Sunday night, but of course it wasn’t to be.
Her last words to her parents had been: ‘Have fun, love you!’ She couldn’t imagine how people lived with the guilt of their last exchange with a loved one being a fight.
When Nicola heard about the anonymous letters the ATSB had received regarding SAR Airlines, she knew there was a major story to be told. While nothing would bring back Paul and Ruth and the other six who had perished, she owed it to them to at least learn the truth. If not, what was the point of having a journalist in the family?
She’d been prepared for Bill to refuse her request to lead the investigation, on the grounds that she was too close, too emotional, and not objective enough. Instead he agreed.
Had he seen something in her as a journalist or just understood that the best thing she could do for everyone was be at the heart of the story, no matter how painful? It no longer mattered.
It had taken all of her strength to sit and listen to the pilot’s transmissions, knowing her parents had done the same for a full five minutes before the eerily calm mayday call was issued. For weeks she’d had nightmares about them frantically searching under their seats for life jackets that weren’t there; being plunged into icy, shark-infested water at over two hundred kilometres an hour; and finally, the hopeless struggle to survive while calling to searchers overhead who couldn’t see or hear them.
Four years on, it still made Nicola shudder to think about.
As the plane jerked and rolled forward, she felt her neighbour’s hand give a squeeze, or maybe it was an attempt to regain some blood flow. She offered an embarrassed grimace and released the hand. To her further dismay, Nicola realised her good Samaritan was around her age and decidedly attractive.
Even more frigging embarrassing! Without making it too obvious, she snatched another look at the biggest, brownest eyes and possibly the longest lashes she’d ever seen. Wow, and those strong, tanned arms disappearing into rolled up blue and white striped shirt sleeves … Yum.
Jesus, Nicola, stop it!
She quickly stuffed the sick bag in the seat pocket in front, noting the length of his legs as she did, and set about studying the emergency card again.
Damn it; she could just kill Bill for putting her in this situation.
Maybe he thought she’d dealt with everything and had sufficiently moved on; perhaps he had no idea she was booked on a Piper Chieftain.
Or could it be his fatherly way of shoving her over the cliff to really get on with her life? Bill was perceptive when it came to human emotion – the main reason he’d been an award-winning journalist himself.
