The last funeral had taken place in Kingussie and the final notes of Mo Dhachaidh had died away. Assistant Director had chosen to attend this ultimate send-off accompanied by Legal Blair, stork-like in his kilt. A number of department heads had been shanghaied from their laptops, forming a beefy phalanx of neo-Civil Servants. When formalities had been punctiliously observed and duties discharged, this group swiftly retired from the picturesque church and old cemetery among the hills. Soon, their Land Rovers were in cruise control, heading for suburban homes.
Conscious of wide media coverage, Assistant Director had arranged an overnight stay in Kingussie for himself and for Legal Blair only (Press Liaison had been excluded). Their presence would hopefully impart the lilac sadness of a deep personal grief.
From Florida, the Director himself had sent a statement of condolence to all the bereaved. The Prime Minister had begun that day’s business with a tribute to the dead whose names he read out in the House (his advisory committee on populism had proposed that the Lochaber fatalities should be forever enshrined in Hansard). Assistant Director felt smugly certain that he had shown his mettle. Under dynamic leadership the Commission had exemplified the ‘caring face’ of power.
In his hotel room after supper, Assistant Director viewed his reflection in a cheval mirror. His hands gripped the handle of an imagined cricket bat. He took a half step and pushed outward in the classic forward defensive.
Rattray had observed the impact upon the media presence of the heavy Commission turnout. Cynics to a woman and man, the journalists took notes and photographs, hoping for a glimpse of insincerity, of anything out of keeping with the black crepe around a mourning Highland town. In that, they were disappointed. In one respect, however, a professional curiosity was gratified. It quickly became evident that fury at the role of the Press helicopter would be unleashed immediately respects had been paid to the dead. Every member of the Press corps was set to interview the six survivors, the only witnesses. By a simple process of elimination, they had concluded the chopper must have been a Daily News venture.
Newspaper reporters are disbelieving of coincidence. It was natural that they would try to connect the deaths at the farmhouse to the shooting of both journos by Noel. They remembered that the infamous Nic, who had enjoined them to be respectful of martyred colleagues, had given private assurances that it was simple tragedy, all about PTSD, absolutely, and no digging to muddy the waters. They became convinced that Nic had tried to hush his paper’s culpability for multiple death.
Each songwriter began to set lyrics to his preferred music. Nic, however, beat them to it, as they discovered the following morning when the Daily News hit the streets and the internet.