"James Herbert - The Survivor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Herbert James)

He'd send them all packing if he had his way. The worst of it was when the
vendors had arrived, selling peanuts, ice-creams, soft drinks; that had really
sickened him. Trouble is, it's so near London. It was a nice day out for the city-
dwellers.

The constable adjusted his chinstrap and set his jaw more firmly. Well this one is
going to get the rough end of my tongue, he thought, but as Keller emerged from
the car, he changed his mind. He looks like a journalist. Got to watch what you say
to them. Mind you, they were worse than the thrill-seekers, probing and inventing
stories when they couldn't find one, just to sell their bloody newspapers! He'd had
a few run-ins with them over the past month. But you'd think they'd let it die down
now, after all, it was nearly four weeks since it'd happened. No, they wouldn't let
anything rest, these reporters; at least, not while the investigation was still going
on. He hadn't realised it took so long to find out the cause of an air crash; you just
located the Black Box, or whatever it was called, and that told you exactly what
had happened. That's what he'd thought, anyway. But they'd been poring over that
field for a long time now, taking bits and pieces away, searching every corner of
the big field, the South Meadow, that was just behind the High Street; even
dragged the small river that branched off from the Thames and ran through the
South Field. They'd found a few bodies in there, bodies that must have been
thrown clear on impact, right across the road over The Brocas, and into the river.
Others that had been sucked out before impact. God, that had been horrible. Three
days it had taken to find and collect all the bodies; or what was left of 'em.

'You can't go in there, sir!' he told Keller gruffly.

Keller stopped, but ignored the policeman, looking past his shoulder into the field
beyond. He could see the remains of the aircraft, or the main bulk of what they'd
left. It stood, a huge blackened shell, cone-shaped because of its flattened belly,

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broken and ashamed. The guts of it would be back in the laboratories being
reassembled, analysed, tested. He could see figures carrying clipboards moving
about the field, stooping, picking up objects, examining grooves in the earth, their
grim purpose contrasting with the bright, cold day, the greenness of the field, the
quiet in the air.

The constable examined Keller closely. He looked familiar. 'I'm sorry, sir, but
you're not allowed to go in,' he said.

Keller finally tore his eyes away from the field and looked at the policeman. I
want to see Harry Tewson,' he told him. 'He's one of the investigating officers.'

'Oh, yes. Mr Tewson. Er, I'm not sure that he can be disturbed just now, sir. Was it
for an interview?' He raised his eyebrows at Keller.

'No, I'm a friend.'