Killer

“Right,” said Ross. “Unless we have anyone who fancies hopping around starkers in the snow, we’ll put up this tent as a temporary changing room. We’d better do it now before we’re entirely incapable.”

They were just in time. The cold was draining their vitality, so that even Job’s expert hands fumbled over perfectly simple tasks, and it took them a long time to get the tent up. It was a large blunt pyramid, its base eight feet square, six feet in height. Its dark material was heavily insulated against the cold. Quick said into the dark hold, “Miss Warren?”

Kate said, “Yes?”

“They have a tent up, and we have all the absolute necessities now, I think. Can you see a net anywhere? It’s in a bundle, not a box. Orange nylon, like the ropes.”

“All right. I’ll look.”

“Good. Won’t be long.” When he reached the tent he said, “This is far too far away from the plane. You’ll have to move it.”

“Why take risks?” said Ross, from inside the tent where he and Job were changing. “Anyone who sees the plane there will see us here. And here, we’re out of danger if it does blow up.”

“Blow up! It’s not going to blow up! Why should it blow up? It’s quite safe. The engines are off, everything. It’s quite safe, isn’t it? Preston? You tell him!”

“Yes, it’s quite safe,” said the co-pilot –

“There! I said . . .”

“ – if you’ve disconnected the battery.”

“The battery? My God – Miss Warren’s in there!” Quick snarled. “She’s in the hold!”

Ross wriggled out of the tent, still doing up his jacket, pulling up the fur-lined hood. He went slipping and stumbling over the slippery ice towards the plane. The others paused for a moment then followed him with equal urgency.

As Quick’s footsteps sloshed away, Kate had begun to search again among the boxes and crates still piled around her. It was not there. An orange bundle . . . As the plane hit, the bundle would be thrown forward. Of course! She looked up to the high far end of the hold. It would have been thrown up there! Probably it had wedged.

On one side of the bottom of the hold, like ivy on a wall, were jumbles of pipes and cables: an easy enough climb if they were firm. She tested them. They were strangely warm, but solid enough. She swung herself off the ground and began to climb, steadily and with ease. At first she tested her footholds, but she became more confident as she got higher. It was only twenty feet or so, after all, and there was plenty to hold on to if her foot slipped. The pipes and wires were hotter up here, but not uncomfortably so: quite the reverse, as her hands had been going numb with the cold. She paused, looked around. It was much darker up here and she could see very little. She climbed a little further, and struck her shoulder against something soft. The net. She pulled at it, but it was caught on something. Pushing it to one side, she went up a little more.

Above the net she could see a flickering blue light. Her mouth tightened. She knew what it was – by God, would she have words with that Simon Quick when she got out. Still, if the plane was dangerous, this stuff was better out than in.

The net was simply hooked on to a broken edge of a packing case which had wedged here. The case contained some of her father’s equipment, packed in fibre and woodshavings which were bulging out of the damaged boards.

Kate unhooked the net and let it fall. Then she began to climb down, her eyes now fascinated by the jumping of the blue spark above her head. She had gone perhaps five feet when her Arran pullover caught against something. She stopped, went up a little, began to undo it. It was only wrapped around a small bracket which had come loose. Only a fibre or two. She carefully unwound the heavy wool, one hand on the pipes and wires. She was still preoccupied with this when her foothold gave. She swung out from the pipes with only her left hand maintaining firm grip. The plane moved. The blue light above her became continuous and very much brighter. The warm wire beneath her hand suddenly became hot. A smell of burning filled her head. She choked, began coughing. Her hand began to hurt. The wires quickly became too hot to hold. She knew she would have to let go, and looked down to where the net lay. That was her target. God but it was small! She let go. Her pullover jerked as she fell, tearing free of the bracket. She hit with force, rolled like a parachutist, bounced up as she did so, crashed into the steel wall, and knocked herself out.

Above her, the flex on the shorting wire began to burn. The flame ran up the wire to the packing case to which the net had been attached, and from which bulged woodshavings and woodfibre. The crate instantly caught fire. And the next. In seconds the whole nose of the plane was ablaze, the flames running down the outsides of the damaged fuel pipes looking for a way into the tanks.

By the time Ross got to the hole where the last remaining boxes were, he had to shout to make himself heard above the roar of the flames. “Miss Warren? KATE!”