Yakking for Argyll

Think of the psychology of the man. Look at the picture. Consider the oddities. An ace pilot on a weekend with a friend in Nevada takes a small plane up for a quick recce to do with his next adventure. He goes missing. Nothing of any kind is found even after prolonged and complex searches - including heat seeking - over the huge area where he was known to be flying. Commemorative ceremonies are held. End of? The conspiracy theories begin.

Suddenly a hiker in a remote area of California - not where Mr Fossett was known to be heading - comes across some small fragments of clothing and some very clear ID documents - all clearly named Steven James Fossett: his Pilot’s Licence, some credit cards etc. One credit card had a little burn-and-curl damage in the top left corner, conveniently not obstructing the name of the cardholder in any way. And just to add reality, there were some dollar bills around. Steve Fossett could afford to throw away a lot of dollar bills. Think about it all.

If you were on a weekend break in the desert and taking off for no more than a quick jaunt - would you tuck your Pilot’s Licence in your pants? Would you take your credit cards? Will you be landing at a huge secret shopping mall in the desert? Is your host back below likely to nick your cards if you leave them in your bunk?

Next excitement - wreckage found, spread over a wide area.
Wreckage identified as the plane Fossett was flying.
Plane seems to have hit hillside head on, hence dispersal of wreckage. Not conclusive.
What good pilot couldn’t set the plane on a collision course and parachute out in time?

Then - ‘human remains’ found in the wreckage. OK. It really was Fossett.
Ah… but - latest announcement: the remains are ‘minimal’ but enough to establish DNA.
Then they’re identified as only ‘a fragment of bone’. All to play for again.

Wouldn’t Fossett be just the boy to be capable of sacrificing a fragment of bone from an appropriate part of his body - a finger or toe, perhaps?

I think he’s out there somewhere, living a new life and having a laugh at how well it’s all working out. And I think Richard Branson knows all about it.

Can’t you just see the two of them? Old ballooning mates - used to gambling with their lives for thrills and achievements the rest of us couldn’t imagine - planning one gigantic sleight-of-hand trick with all the skills and resources at their command.

Couldn’t be done? Think of the murdering Lord Lucan and his chums. Couldn’t it be done?

Tomorrow they’ll probably find the rest of him - but you never know. What do you think? That I’m a heartless ghoul? Could be.