Oh great, Kelly thought. That was all she needed. She closed her eyes as the engine whirred louder and louder until they hovered slightly off the ground, before pitching steeply towards the lake. She concentrated on all the equipment inside the craft: a few stretchers, body bags and lots of containers with labels, as yet empty. There was nothing she could spot that indicated that they were on a mission to retrieve people who were still alive. This was the work of the dead: tidying them up and getting the mountain functioning again. It was a grim realisation. She was flying to a potential crime scene.

Her stomach lurched and she thought she might throw up as suddenly the helicopter banked and accelerated like a fairground ride. She reached out her hand absent-mindedly, wanting to grab on to something, and all she found were black plastic body bags intended for human remains to be brought back to the Penrith and Lakes hospital, for her father to examine and report on. They flew over Cat Bells and soon she could see the range of mountains comprising the eastern fells, the highest of them being Scafell Pike itself. However, she realised with concern that the cloud was gathering over the hills, sticking to them, darkening by the minute. Sure enough, as they flew on, south-west, the visibility changed dramatically, and by the time they descended over the Lingmell Col, she could only see pockets of the hills around. The ’copter dropped rapidly to the Col and Kelly held on for dear life as the machine lowered against all natural laws, to Kelly’s mind anyway.

The view distracted her.

As they descended, Kelly saw the fuselage of the ’copter, broken in two, with the N-number clearly readable on the tail section. Daylight changed her perspective.

Detritus and carnage was spread across the mountainside for hundreds of metres. People in climbing gear were trying to access the most dangerous part of the crags to retrieve bodies or bits of the craft, possibly vital in the investigation, and volunteers made a human chain down the mountainside to Wasdale, passing to and fro items crucial to the effort. It was a wonder of human resilience and dedication and Kelly felt humble. Thoughts of her own imminent death subsided and she jumped out and joined the chain to help fetch and carry.

Then she was led to the woman in charge of the AAIB investigation.

The woman, a civil servant, was dressed oddly for the terrain, in a trouser suit, over which she wore a huge coat, and a white MRT helmet on her head. She was youngish, in her thirties, and shouting orders. Kelly waited for an opportune moment to introduce herself and held out her hand.

‘Kelly Porter, SIO,’ she said.

The woman eyed her, sussing her out, and eventually took her hand.

‘I’m Zoe.’