The pub wasn’t quite as friendly as the Farriers but it served well enough, Shaw refusing Anderson’s offer of a free lunch but still willing to have a beer and a chat. The fact it was Darren’s parents who had passed on Shaw’s details was perhaps the only reason he had agreed to meet, Anderson again struggling not to seem insensitive, his virtual story on Darren growing more real by the day.
“You did what you could,” continued Anderson, as he toyed with his second soft drink of the day. “No-one could have helped save Darren.”
“So everyone says. You stand there and just pray for the ambulance to turn up; for someone – anyone – to arrive who knows what to do. Those ten minutes seemed like an hour.”
“And the other driver, Bob Kendal; he must have been in shock as well.”
“He was in a terrible state; just cuts and bruises but he kept trying to wrench open the driver’s door, anything so he could get to Darren and help him. When we arrived Kendal was pretty much incoherent and he didn’t even realise the engine to his van was still running.”
“He was lucky you got there when you did.”
“I guess.” Shaw said, while absently lifting his head to look at the TV screen high up on the wall above Anderson’s left shoulder. “We saw a spurt of dust in the distance but didn’t think much about it; didn’t hear anything at all.”
“And that was what, a minute before you got there?”
“Thirty seconds maybe.” Shaw’s gaze drifted back towards the TV, “Turn the sound up, mate,” he said loudly.
Someone duly obliged, Anderson left with little option but to turn round to see what Shaw had found so interesting.
The scene on the TV was one of flames bursting from a shattered apartment block. At least three of the lower floors were ablaze, the thick black smoke billowing aside to reveal part of an aircraft’s wing, edge neatly severed, lying forgotten on the ground like some giant toddler’s broken toy. A score of hoses played water on the inferno, while several helicopters hovered nearby, one trying to winch survivors from the roof. The camera panned closer to show the massive fiery gash gouged out of the tower block, tracing it up towards the roof, before refocussing on the dramatic helicopter rescue.
The commentator’s sombre voice cut across the pictures. “...British Airways Boeing-787 Dreamliner carrying over 250 passengers and crew. Whilst hundreds of people have been successfully evacuated from the apartment block, it is feared that the total number of casualties could be as high as one thousand. Although no terrorist organisation has yet accepted responsibility, this latest attack comes–”
“Sorry, was there anything else?” Shaw asked loudly.
Anderson just left it at that, thankful Shaw had been so co-operative, convinced now that Darren Westrope hadn’t been murdered. That didn’t mean McDowell and Erdenheim were off the hook but it wasn’t looking promising, Anderson’s instincts well wide of the mark.