The Chemical Cocktail Read online

  Praise for The Chemical Detective

  SHORTLISTED FOR THE SPECSAVERS

  DEBUT CRIME NOVEL AWARD, 2020

  ‘Action, intrigue and a stonkingly modern heroine. It’s a blast.’

  Sunday Times Crime Club

  ‘Intricate, seductive and thrilling. Erskine’s writing glows with wit and danger.’

  Ross Armstrong, author of The Watcher

  ‘A very readable debut thriller with a feisty and likeable heroine.’

  Irish Independent

  ‘Just the right blend of suspense and tension… I recommend this original and compelling debut novel for fans of mysteries and thrillers, as well as for those looking for a credible female protagonist in a genre dominated by male superheroes.’

  Forbes, Editors’ Pick

  ‘Explosive science, strong women and snowy landscapes, all within a gripping, smart, fast-paced read.’

  Helen Sedgwick, author of When the Dead Come Calling

  ‘Imagine the love child of Jack Reacher and Nancy Drew… A delicious cocktail of dating and detonations. Call it Mills and Boom.’

  Evening Standard

  ‘A stunning, cinematic debut that’s going to land on the 2019 thriller scene like a half-kilo of silver fulminate.*’

  *stuff that goes bang.

  Andrew Reid, author of The Hunter

  ‘[An] excellent, high-octane thriller…featuring the brilliant, kick-ass, female protagonist Jaq Silver. Who knew chemical engineers could be so cool?’

  Trevor Wood, author of The Man on the Street

  ‘A fantastic read!’

  Mary Loudon, author of My House Is Falling Down

  Praise for The Chemical Reaction

  SHORTLISTED FOR THE

  STAUNCH BOOK PRIZE, 2020

  ‘No one else writes with the knowledge or brio of Erskine.’

  Literary Review

  ‘The book keeps the reader guessing throughout… The fast pace of the thriller makes it difficult to put down.’

  The Chemical Engineer

  ‘A feisty, intelligent, three-dimensional heroine.’

  The Bay magazine

  ‘This is a whip-smart, action packed, intriguing read.’

  Mystery People

  ‘A globetrotting action-fest.’

  Peterborough Times

  ‘A convincing thriller with an unusual edge.’

  Crime Review

  For Matthew, of course.

  Brazil is the country of the future – and always will be.

  Guide to chapter headings

  12

  Twelve months earlier

  Just before midnight, seven days before Christmas

  Christmas Eve

  Christmas Day

  DETONATION MINUS 7

  Praia de Moçambique, Florianopolis, Brazil

  Seven days before Christmas

  The crunch of shoes on gravel jolted her from sleep.

  Jaq Silver opened her eyes and raised her head from the pillow. Darkness enveloped her, just a pale sliver of moonlight stealing through the gap between shutter and window. No light inside the beach house. Mercúrio had left her. Had he forgotten something? Returned quietly to avoid disturbing her? Quietly? She dismissed the thought before it even half formed. A human tornado, Mercúrio was more puppy than panther.

  They’d argued before. He’d walked out on her before, but this time he wasn’t coming back. Things were said that couldn’t be unsaid. Honest things. Angry things. The holiday was over. She’d be alone again this Christmas.

  The footsteps were closer now, moving from the path to the veranda. A mosquito whined in her ear as she strained to listen. Crepe soles on polished wood, crinkly coagulated latex squeaking against the wide mahogany planks. Slow and stealthy, moving round from the garden to the beach side of the house. Furtive. Up to no good.

  A thief? There was little of value here. If she had any common sense, she would lock herself in the bathroom and let him take whatever he wanted.

  But when the adrenaline flowed, she tended to follow the chemical messengers coursing through her body. Which told her not to back herself into a corner, but to face trouble head-on.

  Reaching over the side of the bed, she swept her hands just above the floorboards until a fingertip touched the soft fabric of her dress. Short skirt, halter neck, the silk creased and rumpled from the speed at which she’d removed her clothes last night. She pulled it on. Cover enough.

  The footsteps halted. Heart thudding, she swivelled her legs until her feet made silent contact with the hardwood floor.

  What if it wasn’t just a thief outside? What if someone was coming for her? Someone who knew Mercúrio was gone for good? Praia de Moçambique attracted a colourful bunch. Those who needed to put some distance between their surfboards and civilisation. Rich kids escaping controlling parents, poor kids escaping the drudgery and toil of real life, foreign kids playing intrepid explorer.

  While Jaq was working, improving the design of a nitrogen propulsion system, the surfers slept through the hottest part of the day in hammocks slung between the palm trees, waking from the long siesta to gather fruit and catch fish. They shared everything round bonfires, smoked weed, played guitar and talked nonsense. Up all night. Watching the tides, the shape of the waves, evaluating the breaks. Waiting for that hint of dawn, the trigger to paddle out to sea again.

  Was it one of them creeping around outside? Someone she’d surfed with? Unlikely. Mercúrio’s friends were a peaceful crowd.

  Someone passing through? A convict on the run from a high-security prison? A rapist? A murderer?

  The bathroom was definitely the safest place. A window too small for a man to climb through, a sturdy lock and a bolt too. That’s where she should go. Grab her phone, make a dash for it, barricade herself inside and call for help.

  She reached out to the bedside table. Her fingers brushed a water glass, a book, a pair of earrings. No phone. Xiça! Where had she left it? Think. She closed her eyes.

  She’d last seen it on the dinner table, silver against the white tablecloth, a splatter of garlic and parsley forming a halo all around. Mercúrio had cooked spaghetti alle vongole, sweet little clams, amêijoas, fresh from the surf. She’d been texting Marina when Mercúrio slammed down the serving spoon, accused her of ignoring him, taking him for granted. This criticism a bit rich from a twenty-something who was never without his phone, driving up the mountain in search of a signal just to update Instagram. But his anger was the trigger they both needed. Time to face the facts. She’d turned her phone off. Laid it down on the dining table. Where it must still be. Merda.

  A new noise. Leather on brass. A gloved hand turning the outer door handle. She had locked up; she was sure of that. But Mercúrio must have unlocked the front door to leave. Had he locked it behind him? She held her breath. The door rattled but held. Obrigada, querido.

  Click, click. This was no amateur, no sneak thief hoping for food or drugs, or cash to buy them with. How many people wore shoes and gloves on this beach? How many people used a lock pick?

  Jaq sprang to her feet and yanked the bedroom door open. She sprinted across the corridor, racing to get to her phone before whoever was out there broke into her house.

  Too late.

  As she burst into the salon, the outer door swung open. Waves crashed onto the beach outside as a figure moved into the frame, silhouetted against the security light.

  She backed away, swallowing hard at the rasp and click of a safety catch being withdrawn. The man in the doorway raised a gun and pointed it at her chest.

  ‘You are Maria Jaqueline Marta Ribeiro da Silva,’ he announced in stentorian tones.

  Friends called her Jaq. Professional colleagues addressed her as Dr Silver. The child who was Maria Jaqueline Marta Ribeiro da Silva had become Jaq Silver many years ago.

  Only one person continued to call her by her birth name.

  Right up until the day she died.

  12

  Lisbon, Portugal

  Twelve months earlier

  The bright white tower of Hospital São Francisco Xavier rose from a hill above Lisbon, commanding a fine view over the river Tagus to the port of Trafaria. The geriatric medical department was on the third floor, the female wing consisting of several nightingale-style open wards with eight beds in each section.

  If this hospital was unfamiliar, it smelt like any other, a mix of bleach, chloroform and despair. Jaq hurried down a long corridor, the rubber soles of her trainers squeaking against the tiled floor, heart beating faster than feet could carry her.

  Come quick, they said. She may not have much time left.

  Angie lay in a simple hospital bed, one hand resting on the border of a white sheet where it had been folded over a pale-blue blanket. Her eyes were closed.

  ‘Hello, Angie,’ Jaq said.

  Her mother’s eyelids flickered, but there was no other response.

  Jaq sank into a chair beside the bed, suddenly deflated. Anxiety gave way to light-headed relief. And something else, something darker, something she wasn’t prepared to examine, not yet. She gazed down at her mother.

  Angie had been a beautiful woman, and there were still traces of that loveliness as she slept. The delicate bone structure framed a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and full lips.

  A machine beeped and a nurse approached to check the charts at the end of Angie’s bed. His aftershave, a scent of pine forest, followed in his wake. It smelt better than triiodomethane or carboxylic acid, mo
re hopeful.

  ‘Como está minha mãe?’ Jaq asked. How’s she doing?

  ‘Muito melhor.’ Much better now. He smiled and continued in Portuguese. ‘The consultant is just starting her daily round. Best ask her.’

  An elderly woman in the bed opposite began shrieking.

  The nurse sighed. ‘I wish all my patients were as lovely and easy as your mum.’

  She must be seriously ill then. Jaq opened her mouth to explain that her mother was never normally so tranquil, but patients in other beds were shouting for attention now, and the nurse moved briskly away.

  The consultant introduced herself and pulled up a chair to sit opposite Jaq.

  ‘Are you the daughter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nasty episode. A reaction to the drugs she was on. She’s stable now, but you need to steer clear of any more experimental regimes.’ The doctor checked her notes. ‘Quite the chemical cocktail.’ She frowned at Jaq as if to say – what were you thinking?

  What indeed? Jaq lowered her eyes. ‘What’s the outlook?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. Physically, there’s nothing out of the ordinary for a woman of her age. Good heart and lungs, that’s the main thing.’

  ‘And mentally?’

  ‘We haven’t been able to do the usual tests. She seems to have checked out, switched off.’

  ‘She’s been like that for a long time. Before the new treatment she hadn’t spoken for years.’

  ‘With this experimental treatment, was she lucid?’

  ‘Briefly. When we listened to music, she knew the composer, the piece, even the artist.’

  ‘She was a musician herself?’

  Ripples of sadness lapped at the edge of memory. Jaq nodded. ‘Once upon a time.’

  ‘It’s common, even with advanced dementia, for patients to have clear early memories.’

  ‘She complained of being in pain.’

  ‘The admissions team mentioned that. We checked for any undiagnosed fractures or nerve damage. She has a touch of arthritis but nothing that could explain constant physical pain. How did it manifest?’

  ‘She described it as if something was eating her bones from the inside.’ Terrible, terrible pain. Excruciating, unbearable.

  ‘Any delusions?’

  That the convent nursing staff were torturing her. That the matron was the devil. That her son had been killed by her daughter. Not all of those things were true.

  ‘Delusions, yes.’

  ‘Had she been taking strong pain killers?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Classic symptoms of withdrawal from morphine.’ The doctor frowned. ‘Pain is difficult to treat correctly. It’s the body’s alarm signal to alert us that something is wrong. But often, especially with the elderly, the signals get mixed up or triggered for no reason and we can’t find any underlying cause to deal with.’

  ‘You mean it’s not real? It’s all in the mind?’

  ‘All pain is in the mind. It doesn’t mean it is not real to the sufferer.’

  ‘But – to use your analogy – you can silence the false alarms?’

  ‘Chemically, we can control it. Muffle rather than silence, and only temporarily. The body builds up tolerance. And wants more. And then you have a whole new set of problems.’

  Jaq looked down at her mother. ‘What next?’

  ‘There’s nothing more we can do for her in hospital. I’m proposing to discharge her. Will she be going home with you?’

  The very idea brought panic, sudden and visceral.

  ‘No,’ Jaq said.

  ‘So, back to …’ the consultant checked her notes, ‘the convent nursing home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then make sure they don’t peddle any more miracle cures.’

  Jaq waited until the doctor moved on. She took her mother’s hand and stroked the long, thin fingers. The ache in her heart sent tears to her eyes.

  ‘Goodbye, Angie.’

  Angie opened one eye and stared at her daughter. The moment of recognition was followed by a glare of pure venom.

  ‘Maria … Jaqueline … Marta.’ She drew quick, sharp breaths, separating each word with a hiss. ‘Get … away … from … me.’

  With a strength that never failed to surprise, Angie gripped her daughter’s wrist, digging sharp fingernails into Jaq’s skin before snatching her hand away.

  ‘Go!’

  It was the last time Jaq ever saw her mother.

  Praia de Moçambique, Florianopolis, Brazil

  The intruder remained in the doorway of the beach house, his large body filling the entrance, a gun pointing at Jaq. Dazzled by the security light behind him, she couldn’t make out his features, but the booming voice was distinctive. Unique. She was certain they hadn’t met before; she would remember that bass timbre with its guttural rasp. He had the delivery of a preacher addressing a vast congregation. Or a judge commanding a court of law. He knew who she was, had spoken her birth name aloud. Not posed as a question, pronounced as a statement of fact. What did he want?

  Mouth dry, pulse racing, she scanned the room. In the soft glow of fairy lights on the Christmas tree, she could see the phone. Exactly where she’d left it, on the dining-room table at the far end of the room. Even if she could reach it before he did, call for help before he shot her, it would take time for anyone to respond. Praia de Moçambique was one of the least crowded of the forty-two beaches on the island of Santa Catarina. An hour’s drive from Floripa with no population centre near the beach, the very remoteness of this cabin was the reason she chose it. To spend time alone with Mercúrio. To celebrate their first Christmas together.

  And now he was gone.

  No time to think about what was lost. A madman was pointing a gun at her.

  ‘Get out of my house,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not your house,’ he said. ‘This is an illegal construction.’

  Porra! An armed eco warrior? Come to save the turtles by murdering tourists? Many of the beach houses in the national park were unlicensed, tolerated by the authorities to encourage an influx of tourist wealth. But Marina had helped her to rent this house perfectly legally and her environmental impact was benign, if not positive. But perhaps now was not the time to point this out to a man with a gun.

  ‘The police are on their way,’ she lied. ‘We can discuss legalities with them.’

  ‘Sit.’ The man in the doorway waved the barrel of the gun towards the sofa.

  She obeyed.

  ‘Hands where I can see them.’ He spoke with a Brazilian accent, educated, more Porto Alegre than São Paulo. She placed her palms on her lap, smoothing the short dress down over her thighs.

  He pulled a phone from his shirt pocket and barked something unintelligible into it. Footsteps on the veranda. The slap of flip flops and squeal of bare feet. Merda, there were at least two more of him. Two men, faces covered with neckerchiefs, silhouetted by the outside light.

  He gave an order. She didn’t understand the dialect, but the message was clear – search the house.

  Stepping forward, he kicked the door closed with his heel. The rattan creaked and squealed in protest as he slumped into a cane armchair. He reached out a gloved hand and clicked on a side light.

  The man with the gun was in his forties, blond hair wisping at his collar, thinning over the crown, clean shaven apart from darker sideburns. His face was angular – square chin, thin mouth, sharp, triangular nose, deep-set eyes and protruding brow. He wore a checked cotton shirt, open at the neck to reveal a smooth chest, denim jeans and tan leather shoes with crepe soles.

  A big man, solid rather than athletic, heavy rather than fat. Judging by his laboured movements, she could easily outrun him, but he sat between her and the outside door. He had a gun, but it was the gloves that gave her pause. Guns were not uncommon in Brazil, guns and gloves more sinister. Stay calm.

  His two sidekicks were wreaking havoc. Pulling out drawers and throwing the contents to the floor. She could hear one of them in the bedroom and see the other one in the salon.

  ‘If it’s money you’re after,’ Jaq said. ‘Take my wallet.’ She nodded at the beach bag hanging from the dining chair opposite her phone.