Okay, Mark,' he said to the boy, who was watching him, still wide-eyed but seeming to tremble less violently. 'I want you to stay crouched down and walk up the control panel towards me, as far as you can. D'you understand?'
The child nodded and began to inch along the console.
'Watch you don't fall in, now,' Skinner cautioned. When the boy had gone as far as he could, he and the policeman were still four feet apart. Taking care not to lose his own balance, Skinner held out his hands. 'Very good so far, wee man. Now if you jump I'll catch you'
Taking a deep breath, as if he was in a play-school game, the blond boy leapt forward.
Skinner caught him in mid-air and held him close. 'There's a clever lad,' he said, words as heartfelt as any he had ever spoken.
He sat the child in the crook of his left arm. 'Now for the next bit. If I stand you across on the window frame, d'you think you'll be able to jump again, to another man this time? He's a soldier. A real one, in uniform.' The boy's eyes widened still more. 'His name's Major Legge. He's a good catcher as well, so you'll be all right. D'you want to do that?'
‘Yess!' said Mark, eagerly now.
Skinner smiled at his enthusiasm, and at his child's courage. He looked across. Through the window, he could just see the top of Legge's head. 'Okay, Major,' he called. 'Mark's going to jump when you tell him and you're going to catch him. You won't drop him, will you?'
Of course not!' said the soldier, deprecatingly. 'Sure, didn't I tell you? I caught for Ireland!'
`There you are then,' said Skinner to the child. 'Ready?'
‘Yess!'
Slowly, gripping the flight seat with his legs as hard as he could, he lifted the child under the armpits and set him carefully on the window frame, holding him with his arms at full stretch.
`Ready, Mark?'
Tess!'
`Ready, Major?'
`To be sure!'
`Right. You give the word.'
On three,' Legge called. 'One! Two! Three!'
Skinner gave the child a gentle shove, throwing him outwards and away from the fuselage.
In the same motion he grabbed hold of the window frame and pulled his head and shoulders through, leaving his legs trailing in the water. Just beneath him, Major Legge stood upright in the boat, holding the boy.
Their eyes met. 'Just one,' said Skinner, knowing that little Mark was too young to understand him, 'but from them all, it was him. You know, every so often something happens to make me think that there is a Fella up there after all, and that He knows what He's doing!'
The soldier smiled. 'In my line of work, my friend, we never have a moment's doubt about that.'
TWELVE
Where's my Daddy?'
Little Mark McGrath, the only survivor from the Lammermuirs disaster, as it had been christened already by the electronic media, sat on the edge of a table in the mobile Police Headquarters. As Skinner, Legge and the Lieutenant had found and rescued the Scottish Office Minister's son, the articulated office on wheels had been established on a site around half a mile beyond the scene of the crash, where it could tap into telephone cables.
The child was wrapped in a blanket. Sarah Grace Skinner sat behind him on the table, squeezing his ribcage gently in search of any hidden fractures, as she completed her medical examination. If the boy had looked over his shoulder he would have seen that she was in tears.
`Doctors don't believe in miracles,' she said quietly to her husband, 'but this is one. There isn't a scratch on him. Down there, people are-' She shuddered, and stopped herself just in time.
`The water, the angle of descent, and the stewardess's cradling, must have cushioned him against the impact. From your description, I'd guess that the cabin crew all suffered fatal whiplash-type injuries. But Mark must have been curled up like a ball, and held safe. He's completely unscathed.'
`Let's hope he stays that way, mentally,' said Skinner fervently.
`Where's my Daddy?' asked the child again, more insistent this time, with more than an edge of fear in his voice. The last of his trembling had gone, but as the adults looked at him, each was torn by the haunted look in his eyes.
`Your Daddy's had to go away,' said Maggie Rose gently. 'You know that happens sometimes, don't you?'
The child nodded sagely. Even at his age he must have known the demands of a politician's life, for the answer seemed to satisfy him.
`Mark,' asked the red-haired Inspector, 'do you know where your Mummy is today?'
At the dentist in London.' The boy screwed up his face with distaste.
`Do you know if she was coming up to join you later on?' `Yes. We're on holiday. From school,' he added, with emphasis.
Is this your first year at school?'
‘Yess! Mummy teaches there. We're both on holiday. We have to go back on Monday morning, though. Daddy's going to take me to football tomorrow.'
`Which team do you support?'
`Celtic' The boy stuck out his chest, proudly. In spite of himself, and for the first time that morning, Skinner laughed. Suddenly he felt Sarah tug at his sleeve.
`Bob. I have to go back' He looked down at her. The tears had stopped, but her face was ghostly white and drawn. He guessed at the images which were before her eyes, and his heart went out to her.
`No love, you don't,' he said quietly. 'There are other doctors on the scene now.'
`But no one else to organise. There's no one else here who's been involved in the contingency planning for this sort of thing.'
Others have. I'll get one of them.'
She shook her head. 'No special treatment for the DCC's wife. I signed up for this sort of thing, and I'm here. I have to go back.' She pulled her hand away from his and left the office, almost at a run.
Through the window he watched her, as she climbed into her car. He had never seen this Sarah before, and he was frightened by her; even more frightened for her.
`Sir,' Maggie Rose broke into his thoughts. He turned round towards her, and the boy, who was concentrating on liberating a four-finger KitKat biscuit from its wrapper.
`We should ask him now — about what happened.'
He looked at his assistant. 'You're trained in interviewing kids, Mags. But are you sure it's safe? Couldn't we damage him?'
Obviously he doesn't understand what's happened. There's trauma, but he isn't able to comprehend the scale or the consequences. It's probably better that we help him to talk about it now, rather than later… if you know what I mean.' Skinner winced at the thought of the child's pain to come when he learned of his father's death. His mind went back almost twenty years, to a young Police Sergeant breaking the news to his daughter, even younger then than Mark, that her mother was gone for ever. He remembered her initial disbelief, then her refusal to understand him, and finally her confusion as she struggled to come to terms with a concept which was beyond her ability to comprehend. The picture was as clear in his mind as a video recording, and with it was his recollection of his struggle to keep the tears from his own eyes as he explained, as best he could, life, death and the cruelty of fate to four-year-old Alex.
All right. You can talk to him,' he said at last, in a voice not much above a whisper. 'But stop at the first sign of distress.'
