Assistant Director was under siege and finding it difficult to convince a cynical Press of sincerity in his ‘caring face of the Commission’ stance. Journalists, seeking fresh angst, were trawling for statistics to support a tirade on any related matter. Political advisers sat with black coffee and sought to defend or attack the Commission, depending on whether they were being paid by Government or by the Opposition to it.
While the frontage of flame was being holed by firebreak on the Polloch road above Strontian, the minister responsible for The Environment had publicly teamed with his Health And Safety colleague on behalf of rural workers everywhere, to protect each other from ambitious youth in their own Party and rival politicos in another. Assistant Director was only too aware of their retreat into a deep political bunker where communications were not only deniable, but denied.
Legal Blair knocked, entered the well appointed office, and folded his gangly frame on a seat opposite his boss.
“This may be important,” he said. “There was a helicopter in the vicinity when the men were trapped by fire.”
“So?” Assistant Director leaned back in his chair and raised an eyebrow. Legal Blair was smirking which meant good news. Good news had been in seriously short supply of late.
“I checked. The Kingussie forester was experienced in fighting fires and to get trapped at that farmhouse seemed very odd indeed.”
“Go on,” Assistant Director’s spine straightened. Perhaps blame could be apportioned elsewhere.
“A helicopter was seen buzzing around by a number of people. It was not one of ours. We have three, none of them near Lochaber, so I ran a check on all charters,” Legal Blair paused for dramatic effect, “The Daily News chartered one for a flyover of the area – a photographic reconnaissance, I believe it was logged as.”
“And?”
“That farmhouse was surrounded by trees, lots of trees. If the helicopter flew low enough when there was fire near the farmhouse…”
“Downdraft,” Assistant Director hunched forward. He picked a fountain pen from the encrier. “I trust this is not mere speculation.”
“Absolutely not,” Legal Blair said. “The survivors have been questioned and all have attested, in the strongest language I should add, to hearing a chopper shortly before they found the fire was encircling them. One says he saw it, and a cameraman filming.”
Assistant Director fiddled with his Waterman pen. “Well, well,” he said. “Daily News said he was covering the fire, not damn spreading it. Good job, Blair, damn good job.” He rose from his chair and raised a hand for silence. For a time he stood at the window, thumbs interlocked behind a rigid back. “Keep this quiet for now,” he said finally, “but gather all you can on that helicopter flight. Especially look for an effort to cover up by our friends in the Press.”
Legal Blair disentangled his long legs and rose to leave. “Already being done,” he smiled.
“Good job,” Assistant Director repeated. “Be discreet.”
Legal Blair had neglected to divulge that the implications of the chopper overflight of the farmhouse had been painstakingly explained to him in a telephone call from Rattray, who had heard of it from the survivors at the scene.
When Legal Blair had departed, Assistant Director uncapped his fountain pen in order to sign a document left many days before on his desk with a most respectful plea for urgent action. No need to read it. He signed with his customary curlique. Leverage on the Press was a rarity, and precious.