Title: Ghosts On The Black Box
Disclaimer: Cabin Pressure, like so many things I love, belongs to the BBC and is the creation of the amazing John Finnemore.
Warnings: Multiple character deaths and graphic description of a plane crash.
Season 4 spoilers throughout.
Beta by my dear DC, who, like myself, has seen too much ACI to be considered healthy.
"MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY - Swanwick, this is Golf Tango India, declaring an emergency. We have lost all rudder control - request coordinates for nearest available airport for emergency landing. Repeat, MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY - Golf Tango India, we have lost all rudder control..."
It took MJN Air four minutes from the first distress call to hit the waters of the North Sea. Her crew spent every second of that time fighting to save her.
It was still dark on a frosty January morning when Carolyn Knapp-Shappey arrived at Fitton Airfield. Her hapless crew and Arthur were still on that courier job but were scheduled to return from Zagreb at some point in the next few hours; and she had better find them another job to do when they got back, otherwise they might as well pack the whole thing in and become a travelling dancing troupe.
One of the many amenities that the MJN Air Portakabin lacked was central heating, so Carolyn resigned herself to working in her coat and gloves for most of the morning and regularly defrosting the windows with hot water from the kettle until the ancient electric heater managed to warm the place up.
She was currently outside on the first of these defrosting missions when the phone started ringing.
"Patience, I'm coming..." She muttered to herself as she struggled to pick up the phone with gloved hands and still holding the kettle.
"Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, CEO, MJN Air, where can we fly you to today?" She answered in her best customer service voice.
It wasn't a potential customer on the phone.
"What do you mean, you've lost radio contact?" She found herself saying to the dispassionate voice on the other end of the line. "Those two fools have probably accidentally hit the off switch."
"No longer on radar? Well, turn it off and back on again, that will work." She argued again - those idiots should be looking for her plane instead of ringing her with such nonsense.
"There couldn't have been a Mayday, no - you must be mixing things up - that couldn't have been MJN Air..."
The kettle she was still holding fell to the floor.
How the phone call ended Carolyn would never remember, no matter how many times she replayed the conversation in her head. What she does remember is trying desperately to contact G-ERTI on the satellite phone over and over again.
The call never connected.
"In other news, there has been a plane crash in the North Sea. The plane is believed to be a Lockheed McDonnell 312 from MJN Air, a small charter company. There were three members of crew on board. Authorities believe there are no survivors at this time. The recovery operation continues..."
It was a member of the Fitton ground crew who snapped Carolyn out of her stupor.
"Do you want me to take you home, Mrs Knapp-Shappey?" He asked, hovering at the door.
"Excuse me?" Carolyn said, unable to tear her eyes from her computer screen, the BBC website showing footage from the crash site; light pieces of fuselage floating on the surface of the water.
That can't be G-ERTI, she thought to herself, it can't be my plane, my crew, my little boy...
"Do you want me to take you home?" He asked again.
Carolyn looked at him, truly seeing him for the first time. "You better tell the rest of the ground crew - I'm afraid there's..."
"We know. We already know." The crew member thought over his next words carefully - what do you say to someone who has lost their business and their son in one single moment.
"I'm sorry, Mrs Knapp-Shappey."
It was lying on the coffee table when Carolyn arrived home, exactly where Arthur had left it before leaving the day before.
A paper aeroplane.
He was always making silly little things like that - and leaving them lying around that house, no matter how many times Carolyn told him not to.
She picked it up, examining it gently.
Arthur had decorated this one - he had written G-ERTI on one wing, MJN Air on the other.
She collapsed onto the sofa, sobbing.
Arthur wasn't coming home.
None of her boys were coming home.
It wasn't front page news, but a plane-crash- even a small plane with only three crew members on board - was still eventful enough to make page five.
They printed photographs of the lost crew, obviously taken from the website. Arthur's looked like his primary school photo, despite the fact it had been taken only five months before. He never looked his age, why should he have ever acted it?
They mixed up the captions on Douglas's and Martin's photographs, making the usual assumption that everyone always did - that the older, more confident-looking of the two had to be Captain Crieff.
Carolyn could imagine Martin's frustration at the mistake, as clearly as had happened so many times before.
This one last time, she wasn't going to let the mistake go unchecked.
She rang the newspaper and shouted at them for half an hour until they promised to print a correction the next day.
The memorial service for the crew of MJN Air was to be held in the aircraft hangar at Fitton Airfield a week after the crash.
Carolyn only managed to get about two hours sleep the night before. She sat at the kitchen table, notepad in front of her, page filled with writing, most of which was crossed-out.
She knew that she would be expected to say something at the service and she was dreading it. She had always thought that anything said at funerals and memorial services was over-sentimental - nobody likes to speak ill of the dead. She couldn't exactly say how all three of them used to drive her potty, and how often she came to nearly strangling them.
Dawn was just breaking when there was a knock on the door, followed by the turning of the key in the latch.
"Carolyn?" Herc's voice called from the hallway, as he dropped his flight bag by the potted plant.
"In the kitchen."
Carolyn would completely refuse to admit it, but she needed the hug that Herc gave her more than anything.
Herc would have come the night of the crash but he was half-way to Australia at the time and this was the earliest his duty-time would allow him to visit. He could have taken leave, would have but Carolyn wouldn't hear of it.
"What's this?" He asked, examining the notepad.
"Trying to think of something to say that isn't going to give everyone diabetes."
"I've a few good stories about Douglas."
"Douglas couldn't stand you. He called you Herc The Berk."
"I'm sure he had a few other choice names for me."
"All of which were most definitely post-watershed." Carolyn put the kettle on. "Coffee?"
"Yes please." Herc took a seat at the kitchen table. "Have you heard anything yet?"
"The crash was so violent they don't think they'll be able to recover any bodies." She pressed both of her hands on the worktop to steady herself. "I won't be able to bury him..."
She blinked rapidly, determined not to start crying again.
Especially not in front of Herc.
"Do they have any ideas what caused it?"
Carolyn shook her head. "If they do, they're not telling me."
"I know a guy at the Air Accident Investigation Branch." Herc said, trying not to sound pompous and failing. "We were at flight school together. If you want to me to get information about how things are going, just say."
"Actually, Herc - I would appreciate that, thank you" Carolyn said. She had been phoning the AAIB every day since the crash and they had been steadfast in their refusal to tell her anything of use.
Finally, dressed in her finest black suit, she and Herc set off on the short journey to Fitton Airfield. As she arrived, she couldn't help but look to the spot where G-ERTI would normally be parked.
The hangar was filled with row after row of stackable chairs, borrowed from the local secondary school. Many of the seats were already taken. There was food on the tables to the side, with flowers on a table near the front. There was a small queue of people to sign a book of condolence.
Carolyn took a seat in the front row, Herc beside her, just as the service started. She zoned out for much of it, and Herc had to nudge her when it was her cue.
As she stepped up to the microphone, Carolyn realised she didn't need the notes in her pocket. She suddenly found it very easy to say what she wanted to say, what she needed to say.
She spoke of how she could always rely on Douglas for anything, of how many times he had gotten them out of some mess, of how his cynical outlook used to make her laugh.
Of how, and this could never be an exaggeration, Martin died doing the one thing that meant more to him than anything, of how he loved to fly.
And of how Arthur was always so happy, always saw the best in nearly everyone, of how she never told him how much she loved him. Of how very proud she was of her son.
When she had finished, she went back to her seat, and stared straight ahead. She could barely remember a word she had said.
When the formal part of the service was over, Carolyn knew she was expected to mill around and to speak the attendees. She knew this was unavoidable. But that didn't mean she had to like it.
She was struck by the size of the turnout.
All of the ground crew, anyone who used to drink in 'The Flap and Throttle', had turned up - Fitton was closed to all outgoing and incoming flights for the day. Many arrived with food and smuggled in alcohol for after the service.
"Only right to give them a bit of a send-off, like." One of them said to Carolyn, holding a lunch-box full of mini sausage rolls and his coat pockets bulging with several cans of cider.
There was one man with them she didn't recognise - it wasn't until he spoke that she realised it was Karl. She had never met him - neither had her crew, despite the fact they had spoken nearly every day.
"I got someone else to cover duty in the tower today - came down to pay my respects." He shook Carolyn's hand. "I'm sorry for your loss."
If she had a fiver for every time someone had said that to her over the past week, MJN Air's debts would have been paid off in full.
Pilots, many of whom had flown with Douglas in his long career, mixed with Martin's housemates past and present, and friends of Arthur's, many of whom had travelled some distance to be there.
Herc went to speak to one of his former colleagues from Air England and soon they were telling stories of Douglas's many exposits, leaving Carolyn to study the displays of flowers.
They had mostly sent by MJN Air clients, including a massive bouquet of daffodils, courtesy of Mr Birling, and a beautiful arrangement sent by the Royal Family of Liechtenstein - the note, handwritten by Her Serene Highness Princess Theresa, was tearstained at several points.
Sitting close to the flowers was two of Douglas's three ex-wives and some of his family. His daughter had cried through most of the service, and her eyes were still red.
Carolyn felt a stab of guilt when she saw the girl curled up at her mother's side, wondering how many birthdays or Christmases she didn't have with her father there because Douglas was working, because Carolyn had scheduled yet another job at the last minute.
Now she would never see her father again.
Carolyn was speaking to some of the Richardsons, who she had never met before, when she noticed the Crieff family sitting to the side. They noticed her at the same time and she knew she had to speak to them.
This was going to be harder than talking to Douglas's family and she was dreading it. She knew them, knew what they were like around Martin, and had tea with his mother. Her own grief was starting to consume her and she didn't think she could deal with theirs on top of hers.
Caitlin was keeping her head down, raising it only to deal with her two young children, who didn't know why they were there, why they had to be still and quiet or why people were talking about their Uncle Martin.
They didn't understand that they would never see their Uncle Martin again.
Simon was hiding behind his confident persona but Carolyn could see the lost schoolboy behind the mask. This wasn't a situation he could fix with charm or by shouting at someone for fifteen minutes and he knew it.
And Wendy...
Wendy just looked like how Carolyn felt.
"Are you any closer to figuring out why my little brother died?" Simon asked as Carolyn approached.
Carolyn knew she didn't have an answer to that question but it was Wendy who saved her.
"Simon! We'll know when the investigators do their job." She said, grabbing Simon's shirt-sleeve. "Remember, she's lost her son too."
"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. It's just..." Simon looked instantly apologetic "Mum, do you want a cup of tea?"
Wendy nodded and Simon excused himself and over to where the ground crew were running the unofficial bar.
"Sorry about that. It's just his way of coping. He just wants someone or something to blame." Wendy said. "Mainly it's the flying. He thinks that if Martin had given up the flying, he would still be here."
Carolyn felt another stab of guilt. Martin had made so many sacrifices in every part of his life so he could fly and she had knowingly taken advantage of that, so many times.
"Caitlin's just regretting every harsh word she ever said to him." Wendy continued.
"And yourself?" Carolyn asked.
"I like to think he's with his father." She said with a quiet sob. "But I still can't believe my little boy isn't away on some trip; that he isn't going to walk through the front door in his pilot's uniform."
"The house is so quiet without Arthur." Carolyn said.
"He was a lovely young man - a credit to you."
"So was Martin to you." Carolyn's eyes began to burn with tears.
Wendy handed her a tissue from her handbag and both mothers sat in silence , thinking of their sons who weren't coming home.
Carolyn purposefully didn't invite any of her own family - she knew that the day was going to be enough of an ordeal without having to deal with people she didn't like but happened to be related to.
This is why it was a completely unwanted surprise to see her ex-husband standing near the back of the aircraft hangar.
"Would you excuse me please, Wendy?" Carolyn said, before marching over to the figure standing by the hangar door.
"So you're here." She said, crossing her arms. "Now get lost."
"No! First of all you crash my bloody plane..."
"Of course, the plane! Never mind that Arthur's dead - you care about the plane. I mean it, Gordon - get out of here."
"Of course, I'm here for Arthur!" Gordon said. "He was my son too."
"As much as I try to suppress the memory, the fact it took the pair of us to create that boy has not escaped me." Carolyn said "However you have never acted like Arthur was your son and I see no reason why you start acting that way now."
"I'm his Dad and have every right to be here."
"Dad? Seriously? When did you earn the right to that title?" Carolyn jabbed her pointed finger at his chest. "Let me tell you something for nothing, Gordon Shappey, those two men he died with were more of a family to Arthur than you ever were."
She needed to get away from him, as fast as possible, but she had to get one last parting blow in.
"By the way, Gordon - if you still want the tail fin of your precious plane to stick on your mantle, you can go and fish it out of the North Sea yourself!"
She kept herself together long enough to get to her car. She needed to be anywhere but here, preferably at least a hundred miles from her ex-husband.
She struggled to fasten her seatbelt, before giving up. She punched the steering wheel in frustration, hot, angry tears pouring down her face.
She only stopped when Herc, summoned by the blare of the car horn, opened the car door and held her wrists.
She managed to get out of the car and collapsed sobbing into Herc's arms.
"Why wasn't I on the plane too?" She whispered. "I should have been there with them."
She put the house up for sale.
It was a business decision, she told herself. She was able, just about, to insure G-ERTI against total loss. However that wasn't going to cover all of MJN Air's debts and she knew she was unlikely to see a penny of the payout until the cause of the crash was resolved.
Selling the house would stave off bankruptcy for a few months at least.
It wasn't because she couldn't bear to be in the house anymore because everywhere she looked was a reminder of Arthur.
She always thought that the day that Arthur moved out could not come quickly enough.
Now he was gone.
And the house felt so empty.
As if it had lost its soul.
Carolyn couldn't call it home. Not anymore.
She went to Fitton one last time, armed with crates and cardboard boxes.
She had given up MJN Air's lease, and had to clear out the Portakabin.
There was one job Carolyn was dreading, that she didn't want to face at all. But there was only so much cleaning and polishing that a small Portakabin needed.
Clutching the master key, she plucked up the courage to tackle clearing out her pilots' lockers.
She took a deep breath. Douglas's first.
The lock resisted the turning of the key for a few moments, before giving way.
The first thing she noticed was a bottle of Talisker sitting on the top shelf.
In fact, Douglas's locker resembled the stock of an eccentric market stall - art from China, Irish lace, even a Swiss cuckoo clock.
Douglas's legally dubious business operations had always been a bone of contention between the two of them, but she had to admit she enjoyed the challenge of trying to outsmart him.
She also knew that he was trying to pay as much as possible into his pension and a saving account for his daughter; the dodgy deals supplemented his income greatly.
Not to mention that he enjoyed the thrill regardless.
Apart from the Talisker (that was actually hers in the first place), she began to carefully wrap and pack everything away.
At the bottom of the locker, there was a box containing several souvenirs from places that MJN Air had flown to recently.
A snow-globe. A doll. A teddy bear.
Douglas always bought a souvenir for his daughter when he flew abroad.
Carolyn sealed the box with a shaking hand and labelled it with the rest.
She was only halfway through the job.
Martin's locker was even harder to open than Douglas's - so much so that Martin kept a bottle of WD-40 on top of it. Carolyn had to use it herself before it would finally open with a loud clunk.
The inside of it was spotless and organised to perfection. Martin's spare uniform was hanging there, starched and ironed. A tin of shoe polish and brush shared the shelf with various tomes about different aspects of flying, their spines cracked from constant reading.
There was an in-depth diagram of the cockpit layout of the Lockheed-McDonnell 312 Blu-tacked to the inside of the door, surrounded by a few photographs and mementoes from his travels.
One of the photographs, Carolyn had taken herself when they had gotten back from St. Petersburg. Martin and Douglas stood on either side of the brand-new engine, with Arthur crouched in front of it.
All three of them grinned at the camera, looking like they had just conquered the world.
There was also an admission ticket to Duxford Air Museum, tacked beside a photograph of a nervous-looking Martin, arm around a confident-looking Theresa.
Martin Crieff's very own Princess.
As Carolyn packed up the books, she found a letter tucked in one of them for safe-keeping.
A letter from Swiss Airways confirming the offer of a position as First Officer with their airline.
The closing date for reply was the week after the crash.
Every time she had asked Martin if he had heard anything about the job (which had been every day since his interview), he had told her he hadn't heard anything.
And the letter had been there, in his locker, the whole time.
You stupid boy with your stupid misguided loyalty, she thought. Why didn't you tell me?
Carolyn had come close to losing Arthur once before.
Strawberries have always given Arthur hives, ever since he was a small boy. Yet the silly child always seemed to find a way to eat them. Carolyn would rub anti-histamine cream into his skin and tell him off.
Then once, at a garden party when Arthur was a teenager, he ate a strawberry cheesecake.
The reaction this time was much more serious than hives.
He went into anaphylactic shock.
Carolyn rode in the back of the ambulance, watching terrified as paramedics tried to maintain his airway, so that he wouldn't stop breathing.
Keep breathing, you silly boy, she thought to herself.
I can't lose you.
Arthur made a full recovery. Carolyn started carrying Epi-Pens everywhere.
She couldn't endure another ambulance ride like that one again.
You're not supposed to outlive your children, are you?
Once, all four of them (and G-ERTI) were stranded in Tenerife as fog reduced visibility to the point that the airport had to be closed for five hours (a gross over-precaution in Douglas's esteemed opinion).
Tenerife, of course, has the dubious honour of being the scene of the worst crash in civil aviation history. This fact and the miserable weather conditions were making Captain Crieff even more nervous than usual.
Somehow Martin ended up talking about flight recorders, the so-called 'black box', which he quite passionately pointed out aren't actually black at all, they're usually orange, much to Arthur's confusion("Why aren't they called 'orange boxes' then?").
Carolyn learnt a lot about flight recorders that afternoon, most of which she didn't need to know. Like how the two main types of recorder are the cockpit voice recorder or CVR, which typically records the cockpit conversations during the last thirty minutes of the flight, and the FDR or flight data recorder, which records parameters such as velocity, altitude and engine thrust - the latest models can record thousands of parameters.
Douglas pointed out that G-ERTI's model could probably only record one, whether she was actually flying or not.
Carolyn had tried to forget most of that conversation but one fact had stuck in her mind. In the event of a crash at sea, the flight recorders have a locator beacon or 'pinger' that gives out a signal, helping the investigators to find them. The battery power for this pinger lasts for approximately thirty days.
It had been over three weeks since the crash. They still hadn't found the recorders, and Carolyn was starting to lose hope of ever finding out what had bought her plane down and shattered her whole world.
Day Twenty-Nine since the crash and Carolyn got a phone call from Herc. He had been calling most evenings just to check on her, but this call was at 10 o'clock in the morning.
"Carolyn - they've found one of the recorders. The CVR." He said the moment she answered the phone.
"I need to hear it."
"That's against protocol. Only the invest..."
"I don't care, Hercules Shipwright! I need to hear it."
Herc sighed on the other end of the line. "I'll see if I can pull a few favours, get us in on the reading."
"Just to warn you, Carolyn," Herc said as they drove through Hampshire on the way to Farnborough. "There is a lot of talk of pilot error."
"They haven't found out what happened yet. Aren't they jumping to conclusions?"
"Yes, but with Douglas's employment history, and Martin struggling to get his CPL..." Herc shrugged.
Carolyn ignored him and concentrated on the road ahead.
I have a good pilot and a safe pilot.
It couldn't be their fault, she told herself. It just couldn't.
As Herc greeted of the head of the AAIB investigation team like an old school friend, Carolyn felt herself disappearing into the background. She was (her mind emphasised the past tense) the CEO of a charter company which counted the rich and powerful, even royalty, amongst its clients - but that didn't matter in this room. The fact that she was also there as a grieving mother didn't matter much either.
Finally the friendly greetings and procedural formalities were over. Carolyn sat in the most unobtrusive corner of the room, barely noticing as Herc sat beside her and took her hand.
There was complete silence as the tape started playing the final 30 minutes of MJN Air's last flight.
There was about two seconds of static then Douglas's voice came out of the speakers.
"... for a game of Airport Code Acronyms, I think, Martin."
"I'm up for that."
"Start us off then. Belfast?"
"City or International?"
"Mmm... City."
"BHD, BHD, BHD... let me think... Best Has Drink?"
"A bit obvious, Martin?"
"You do Belfast International then."
"International's... BFS, so should I go politically incorrect? I think I shall - Bombsite For Sale."
"Isn't bomb-site hyphenated? I think the hyphen disallows that one. I'm sure that should be disallowed."
The investigation team looked at each in disbelief and confusion as the two voices bickered good-naturally about the rules of Airport Code Acronyms before continuing the game.
Carolyn just listened with a sad smile on her face, smirking when there was a particularly clever answer, and having to suppress a giggle when Douglas gave a filthy one.
If she closed her eyes, she could imagine herself in the cockpit with them. Pretend this nightmare wasn't happening, and that she wasn't listening to the ghost of a conversation long over.
"'Morning Skip! 'Morning Douglas!"
Carolyn opened her eyes in shock as suddenly Arthur's voice appeared on the recording, bright and cheerful as ever.
Carolyn had told herself that Arthur was probably curled up in the cabin fast asleep when it all happened, that he probably slept through the crash and didn't notice a thing. To hear her son's voice again started to break down her carefully constructed defences.
She grasped the hand that Herc had placed on her own and continued to listen with nauseous anticipation at what she might hear next.
Martin was trying to explain the rules of the game - a concept that was completely beyond Arthur's comprehension, with Douglas's usual sarcastic comments.
Then, with four minutes left on the recording, all hell broke loose.
"What was that?"
"Rudder hard-over? Oh God... we've completely lost rudder control!" Martin's voice betrayed his panic.
"Arthur, you ok?" Douglas asked.
"I'm fine! Just hit my head! And I'm a bit scared."
"Strap yourself in. Now. Get your lifejacket on too."
The recorder picked the sound of Arthur fumbling to get into the jump seat.
"Let me try and stabilise her, Martin." Douglas said.
There was an alarm sound as the autopilot was disengaged.
"I have control."
"You have control." Martin acknowledged quietly. His next statement was crystal clear in its urgency.
"MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY - Swanwick, this is Golf Tango India, declaring an emergency. We have lost all rudder control - request coordinates for nearest available airport for emergency landing. Repeat, MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY - Golf Tango India, we have lost all rudder control."
The air traffic controller responded immediately.
"Come on, Gertie! She's not responding to rudder commands at all." Douglas sounded breathless from effort.
"Minimal response to the elevators."
The investigation team were listening intently to every word uttered for some sort of clue. Carolyn simply listened in horror.
Douglas struggled to control the plane as Martin ran through every checklist he could think of in a doomed attempt to fix whatever had gone so seriously wrong.
Two of the investigators looked at each other in surprise as they realised that Martin wasn't using the Quick Reference Handbook like most other pilots would do in this situation - he had memorised the checklists word for word.
The strain could be heard in both their voices now, as different alarms could be heard ringing.
"Losing hydraulic pressure now, Douglas."
"She keeps pitching up - threatening to stall."
"Swanwick - Golf Tango India, we are approaching a stall. Repeat Golf Tango India, we have minimal control and are approaching a stall."
"Don't worry, Skip - Douglas will think of something!"
Carolyn swallowed a sob at this - Arthur's never-ending faith in Douglas's ability to get them out of anything.
"Arthur..." Martin started.
"Not this time, Arthur." Douglas said.
"But Mum'll miss us..."
The tears were openly falling down Carolyn's face now, as the alarms grew even now frantic.
"Shit! Stick-shaker!" Douglas called out, as a mechanical voice declared repeatedly 'STA-ALL, STA-ALL, STA-ALL'. "Arthur, brace position -now!"
"Swanwick - Golf Tango India, we've stalled and are now in an uncontrolled dive..."
The last twenty seconds consisted of Martin and Douglas shouting instructions to each other as they fought desperately to pull the plane out of the dive.
Then silence. Complete and utter silence.
And then Carolyn fled the room.
Herc found her seating on a low wall outside, staring at an anaemic-looking shrub that had been planted in a failed attempt to cheer up this concrete wasteland.
"You shouldn't have listened to that." He said. "I shouldn't have agreed to this."
"Do you honestly think you could have stopped me?" Carolyn said eyes still on the unfortunate shrub.
Herc shook his head. "No, I don't."
"It wasn't their fault, was it? Douglas and Martin? It wasn't pilot error." She said.
"As far as I could tell, no." Herc sat beside her and placed his arm around her shuddering shoulders. "They did everything they could."
Carolyn's nightmares were now in stunning High Definition.
The thoughts that haunted her sleep before had been abstract, flashes of her plane hitting the North Sea in the pitch dark, maybe a frantic voice calling out "MAYDAY!"
Now her subconscious replayed that terrible tape over and over with visuals, and she woke in a cold sweat most nights.
Snoopadoop had gotten used to Carolyn wandering into the kitchen at three a.m., unable to get to back to sleep.
Herc was trying to convince her to move to Zurich, and she knew that there was nothing left for her in Fitton anymore. She had accepted an offer on the house, so she was going to have to move anyway.
So what was stopping her?
When the AAIB finally recovered the parts of the tail fin assembly that Gordon Shappey wanted to put on his mantle piece, it allowed them to put together what had brought down MJN Air.
Mechanical failure.
Mechanical failure so catastrophic, there was no possible way that G-ERTI would have been able to land safely.
Captain Martin Crieff, First Officer Douglas Richardson and Steward Arthur Shappey never stood a chance.
The AAIB published their report and considered the matter closed.
Knowing the reason why she lost her son and two of her dearest friends that night brought no comfort to Carolyn at all.
Carolyn gave in. In desperate need of a completely fresh start, she left Fitton forever and moved to Zurich.
But if Hercules Shipwright thought this meant that she was going to move in with him, he would be sorely disappointed.
Carolyn Knapp-Shappey had no intention of being Wife Number 5.
She also had no intention being just an old lady either.
The bills and debts were covered by the insurance policy and the sale of the house. There was even a little left over, which she invested into a run-down building on the edge of Lake Zurich and turned into a guesthouse.
Not quite the hotel she had thought of running, and she could never have a bellboy.
That role belonged to one man alone.
But she became very good at dealing with the terrible plumbing whilst dealing with her guests with her usual style of customer service.
She kept busy. She saw Herc on a regular basis and settled into her new life.
There was a bottle of Talisker in the bottom drawer of her desk, still unopened, along with an old MJN Air brochure and a paper aeroplane.
Several photo frames were on the desk as well, photographs showing three grinning men beside an aircraft engine; a young man, arm around his mother, celebrating Christmas in a Hawaiian paradise; the same man as a boy, wide smile for the camera, with several teeth missing and school uniform pressed to perfection.
She would still wake up in a cold sweat, her son's voice still ringing in her ears.
"Mum'll miss us..."