The Chemical Detective Page 11

  ‘Yes.’ Mario opened the cab door. ‘Clean up here, then stop all movements.’ He swung his legs over the side. ‘Nothing else crosses the border until you find the tracker.’

  ‘Me?’ Boris had been expecting something like this. Life was unfair. You gave management important information and instead of rewarding you, they gave you extra work. Dangerous work.

  ‘Yes, you.’ Mario jumped out of the cab. ‘Find it. Destroy it. I’ll make it worth your while.’

  That was more like it. ‘OK, patrón.’

  Mario glanced over his shoulder. ‘Do you need anything?’

  Now, that was a first. ‘I’ll let you know.’ Boris broke into a grin as Mario strode off towards his fancy car. Oh, yes. I need something. I need wheels like yours. A pay rise. More than that, I need you to count me in. Take me seriously. I’ll find the Tyche tracker for you. But in return I want my share of the action.

  Friday 11 March, Teesside, England

  Home sweet home. Not so sweet. Jaq wrinkled her nose as the musty smell hit her nostrils. She dropped her bags and went to the window. Yarm High Street bustled with activity. The York train sped across the viaduct spanning the River Tees. A queue of cars formed behind a single-decker bus, the line of traffic at a standstill as an elderly gentlemen climbed slowly aboard. Nothing much had changed in the time she’d been away. A town small enough to have escaped most of the chain stores and preserve its own local shops: a butcher, fishmonger, a couple of delicatessens, bars and restaurants.

  Jaq slumped onto an old leather chair and closed her eyes. Slovenia felt like a bad dream. Any minute she would wake up and everything would be back to normal.

  What was normal, exactly? Her life had never been what other people considered normal. She got off to a bad start and things went downhill from there.

  She opened her eyes and let them wander over the Paula Rego ceramics hanging on the wall. Her Great-Aunt Letitia gave her one tile on each birthday and Christmas from the day Jaq turned eighteen. The last tile bestowed, not long before Letitia died, depicted a sculptress.

  A woman, drawn in blue, sits and smokes, her legs wide apart, seat and thighs covered by full skirts. One hand is splayed over a knee, the other hand curls around the bowl of a long clay pipe. She peers through puffs of smoke, but is she gazing into the distance, or are her eyes unfocused: contemplating, reflective? Her hair is covered by a white headscarf and she wears a neckerchief neatly fastened at her throat with a square buckle that matches her hooped earrings. A solid, tidy, competent woman, an artist who has just created something pleasing: a woman proud of a life well lived.

  Jaq jumped up and threw open the sash windows. Her fingers ran over the music shelf until she found what she needed. The polystyrene box snapped open and she inserted the disc – a polycarbonate base overlaid with a thin layer of aluminium topped with transparent acrylic varnish – into the stereo and pressed play.

  As Ella Fitzgerald sang ‘T’aint What You Do (It’s The Way That You Do It)’, a flutter of hope flew in on the spring breeze. Aunt Lettie’s flat held Jaq’s happiest memories. Peaceful. Safe. A waft of lavender from a tiny cushion brought with it her great-aunt’s voice. Come on, girl. No use hanging around. Dilly-dally, shilly-shally never buttered no parsnips. Seize the day. It won’t come again.

  Camilla. She needed to find Camilla.

  The hinges on the garage door squealed with rust, but Aunt Lettie’s ancient Land Rover started first time. Jaq rattled along the cobbled back alleys, parallel to the high street, joining the main road at the bridge, and headed north. The Zagrovyl sign loomed over the flyover, a virulent blue casting its own shadow over the dual carriageway. Jaq slipped into autopilot as she entered the car park, turning left into the staff section, past hundreds of white rectangles separated into rows by neat box hedging until she arrived at number 179. Someone was in her space. She bit her lip and frowned. You don’t work here any more. Jaq gripped the steering wheel, turned the car round and found the visitors’ section.

  She turned off the engine and remained in the car. A few changes – three charging points for electric vehicles, an empty chrome and glass bicycle shed, some hanging baskets and planters. She chuckled to herself. Zagrovyl’s attempt at green credentials. All for show. Time to ask some questions of substance.

  Her hand trembled against the door handle. This place held so many bad memories. She swallowed hard. Just open the door and stride into reception. Ask for Dr Hatton. How hard could it be? And what if they recognised her? Fat chance. There was almost no one left from the old days. All the good ones long gone, sacked by the macho men. Shoot first and ask questions later. It was unlikely anyone here would remember her. She had rarely come to headquarters after the acquisition of her ICI factory by Zagrovyl. She clenched her fists. Time to demand some real answers.

  The glass doors opened with a whoosh. The carpet was new, thick pile in the same blue as the company logo. A bad choice; it was already showing marks from muddy boots. The young woman behind the reception desk looked up; an unfamiliar face, a mask made rigid by too much make-up. What had happened to Pam, the smiling, kindly receptionist? Probably too motherly to fit with the dynamic new image.

  ‘Good morning, may I help you?’

  Jaq approached. ‘I’m here to see Dr Hatton.’

  ‘And you are . . .?’

  ‘Jaqueline Silver.’

  No flicker of recognition. ‘Please take a seat.’

  So far, so good. Jaq sank into the nearest chair and tried to regulate her heartbeat by distraction. She contemplated the changes. No expense had been spared in the new waiting area. Black leather sofas and chairs – strewn with bright blue scatter cushions, the Zagrovyl logo embroidered in gold – arranged around low glass and chrome tables. The hard lines of the modern furniture softened by an array of tall green ferns in pots, lit by a revolving display cabinet. She flicked through the journals on the table. A dismal selection.

  The chair was deceptively uncomfortable, insufficiently padded, the metal frame pushing against her coccyx. Jaq stood and stretched before inspecting the cabinet. Shelf upon shelf of awards glittered under halogen lamps as they slowly rotated. Silver trophies – Queen’s Award for Export; brass plaques on rosewood – Investors in People; engraved glass blocks – Six Sigma awards; Perspex sculptures – carbon footprint reduction. Jaq suppressed a snort of irritation. Easy to reduce your carbon footprint by closing all your manufacturing and exporting it to countries with lax environmental regulation. Net result – better for English lungs, worse for the planet. Where did the judges imagine the Perspex came from for the trophy? Their arses? She stroked a frond of the fern. Even the plants were plastic.

  A leaflet boasting Zagrovyl’s support for environmental projects caught her eye, the cover picture a sparkling, turquoise pyramid of ice: the Artificial Glacier Project. That explained a lot. Zagrovyl was a principal funder, along with EPSRC, Fustington Industries and NASA. Laurent wouldn’t jeopardise the relationship with a major funding partner. He would do whatever Zagrovyl wanted him to do.

  But what was it that Zagrovyl wanted?

  A young man in a suit and tie pushed through the turnstile from the inner building, said a few words to the receptionist and strode over to Jaq.

  ‘Good morning.’ He extended a hand. ‘Miss Silver?’

  ‘Jaq.’ She shook his hand. He could easily have been a model, with his high cheekbones, square jaw and sharp suit.

  ‘You asked to speak to a Dr Hatton?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m afraid it won’t be possible.’

  Jaq raised an eyebrow. ‘Why not?’

  ‘She doesn’t work here,’ he said.

  Jaq stepped back and planted her feet apart. ‘Then where does she work?’

  ‘There is no one called Camilla Hatton working for Zagrovyl,’ he said.

  Jaq reached into her pocket and pulled out Camilla’s business card. ‘Then how do you explain this?’

  As the you
ng man examined the card, a flush rose from his neck and spread to his cheeks. ‘Please excuse me for a moment.’ He raced through the turnstile, phone already to his ear.

  Jaq paced up and down, unable to settle. She filled a plastic cup from the water cooler. Nice clear polyethylene terephthalate cups. She drank two cupfuls, but her mouth remained dry. The receptionist answered the phone and then tapped away on a computer, casting sidelong glances at Jaq.

  An aerial photograph covered one wall: Zagrovyl’s empire in Teesside. The photo had been cropped. One site missing. Seal Sands. Just a few miles away to the north. A few miles, several light years and many unnecessary deaths.

  The return of Mr Cheekbones jolted Jaq back to the present. Beside him stood a man in a blue three-piece suit, his waistcoat fastened with pearl buttons, matching cufflinks peeking beneath his jacket sleeve as he shook her hand.

  ‘This is Frank Good.’ Cheekbones introduced him in tones of reverence. ‘European operations director for Zagrovyl.’

  ‘Come.’ Frank waved a hand, indicating a small glass-fronted meeting room beside the main waiting area. He closed the door behind her, leaving Cheekbones outside, sat at a hexagonal table and gestured for her to sit opposite. ‘Perhaps you can tell me what all this is about?’ He smiled.

  The curl of his lips didn’t match the expression in his cold, glittering eyes. It was as if someone had taught him which physical muscles to move to achieve the necessary rictus of mouth and cheek, but not what feelings should trigger it, a simulacrum of a real emotion. The smile of a snake.

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me,’ Jaq replied evenly. ‘I need to talk to Camilla Hatton urgently.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken. We don’t have anyone by that name here,’ he said.

  ‘So, she has left the company?’

  ‘No, she never worked here.’

  What? Had she been hoodwinked by the tall, pale stranger in turquoise salopettes? Anyone could copy the Zagrovyl logo from their website and create a false business card. Why should she believe Camilla? Jaq blinked, as if it might shift the film over her eyes, the haze blurring and obscuring the truth.

  Why not believe Frank Good, this clean-cut captain of industry with a natty taste in waistcoats? She made eye contact. Why? Because he was lying. They were both lying. The boy with the cheekbones claimed not to recognise the name, and yet he had known Dr Hatton was female. Most people associated the title ‘Dr’ with a man by default. And he used her first name, Camilla, before Jaq did.

  Frank claimed Camilla Hatton had never worked here. Zagrovyl had acquired hundreds of companies with thousands of employees. And then sacked two thirds of them. How could Frank possibly know the names of all the ex-employees of all the Zagrovyl subsidiaries? He hadn’t recognised Jaq’s name, and she had worked here.

  They were all lying. She was absolutely sure of it. So, what had Zagrovyl done to Camilla Hatton? And what might they do to Jaq Silver if she asked too many questions?

  Time to go.

  Jaq made her excuses and marched past the reception desk, through the sliding doors and back in the cool, damp air. Drops of rain fell onto her hair. She looked up and let the soft drizzle wash away the lies.

  This had been an ICI office once: a division where engineers were listened to; an environment where dispassionate data trumped power-distorted emotion; a culture of respect and meritocracy; a commitment to new technology and lifelong learning. She’d been supported through her PhD, allowed to continue at Teesside University one day a week as an industrial lecturer, mentored to become an expert in her field of process safety, rewarded and promoted.

  And then Zagrovyl took over. That’s when it started: the changes, the headaches, more changes, then deaths.

  Tony was the first man to die. In his mid-sixties, overweight and unfit, he had resisted all proposals for retirement, joking that he felt better at work than at home. He collapsed on shift one day. By the time the ambulance arrived, he was already dead. It was awful, but such things do happen out of the blue.

  Nobody made the connection until Adrian collapsed a few days later. Co-workers administered CPR, he made it to hospital, but the damage was done. After many agonising months, the family capitulated and allowed the life support machines to be switched off. By which time there had been a third death, Peter, and the connection was undeniable.

  That’s the trouble with change. As Donald Rumsfeld put it, there are known knowns – things we know we know . . . known unknowns – things we do not know. There are also unknown unknowns – the ones we don’t know we don’t know.

  But Donald missed out an important category: the unknown knowns, things once known but then forgotten.

  She’d survived the suspension, the deposition, the inquiry. The HSE decided not to prosecute. Then Zagrovyl fired her. Oh, they masked it as redundancy, but there was no doubt why they wanted her gone. She was given no support when the families brought a civil action against her.

  Raindrops streamed across her cheeks. Salty raindrops. It still hurt to come back here, to be forced to remember everything she would rather forget.

  Jaq swallowed hard. How dare she wallow? How dare she complain? Didn’t the bereaved families deserve some redress, some compensation, some closure? Even if they were fighting the wrong person?

  She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. What’s done is done. Never look back. Lock it down. Lock it in.

  Radio TFM reported congestion on the A19 flyover. Jaq made a detour, driving to Port Clarence. She joined the queue of lorries waiting for the moving platform of the Transporter Bridge to cross the River Tees.

  The platform docked and the barrier opened. Jaq drove into a bay and got out of the car. She stood on the platform and watched the river speed past.

  Through the rain she admired the Cinderella of civil engineering, a slim-thighed blue maiden hidden away in a forgotten corner of Teesside among abandoned warehouses and empty docks.

  Although not completely abandoned. Rubber screeched on tarmac as one lorry after another drove out of a ramshackle warehouse. Signs of life. Perhaps there was hope for Teesside. New investment. New beginnings.

  But not for Jaq. There was nothing for her here. Nothing for her back in Slovenia. Not unless she could find Camilla. Prove that Camilla had tricked her. Copied her keys. Entered the warehouse looking for samples that no longer existed because Laurent had already destroyed them. Set off an explosion to make sure no evidence remained.

  Had Jaq given too much away in her confrontation with Laurent? Had she been a fool to visit Zagrovyl here in Teesside? A gazelle bounding into the jaws of a lion. Caramba. Time to start being more careful. The bastards at Zagrovyl knew she was searching for Camilla. Would they try to stop her?

  Friday 11 March, Teesside, England

  Frank remained in the meeting room after Jaq left. His hands formed a steeple. One foot tapped the floor as he examined several courses of action. It didn’t take him long to discard most of the options. More information was required for further refinement. He called HR, gave them two names. Then he called security and logged an incident report.

  While he waited for the HR director, Frank meandered through a circle of fifths in his head, tapping out the Brandenburg Concerto No. 4, inventing a harpsichord part. Even Bach made mistakes sometimes. His fingers flew across the desk, stopping abruptly as Nicola knocked at the glass door.

  ‘Well?’ He didn’t invite her to sit.

  The HR director paused to catch her breath. She was not only repulsive, but woefully unfit. Compulsory corporate boot camp, that’s what Zagrovyl needed. He would restrict access to the Zagrovyl canteen to those who could fit through a narrow door, and link the chocolate machine to a weighing scale – only those below a certain BMI would be permitted to withdraw the Snickers and KitKats they craved. That would soon get rid of this one.

  ‘Dr Jaqueline Silver,’ Nicola said. ‘Former employee of ICI. When Zagrovyl took over the Seal Sands site, she was technical ma
nager.’

  ‘So, she works for us?’

  ‘Worked. She left, after the Seal Sands incidents.’

  ‘What incidents?’

  Nicola looked as if she had swallowed a frog. Her eyes bulged and the wattle on her thick neck wobbled as she swallowed repeatedly. Her voice came out as a croak.

  ‘The fatalities at the Seal Sands site.’ Her protuberant eyes, eloquent with pain, spoke of shock that he didn’t remember. ‘When the authorities decided not to press charges, the families mounted a private prosecution.’

  So, Nicola did have a soul after all. He’d found a way through those shithouse rat eyes to a gloopy, bleeding heart. A leader has to know what makes his people tick. Now he knew Nicola’s Achilles heel, he could find the buttons to press. This was a discovery to save for later. ‘Unfortunate, most unfortunate.’ Before she could comment, he added, ‘What about Camilla Hatton?’

  Nicola shook her head. ‘I’ve no record of any such person ever working for Zagrovyl.’

  Good, Bill had done his work well.

  ‘Is that all?’ Nicola opened the door to leave.

  ‘Wait.’ He held up a hand. ‘Do you know what Jaqueline Silver is doing now? Apart from making a bloody nuisance of herself.’

  ‘I’m your HR director.’ Her wrinkled nose suggested a bad smell in the room. ‘Not a private investigator.’

  Which gave him an idea.

  Friday 11 March, Teesside, England

  Boris did a double take. Suka. He crouched behind a stack of pallets and peered at the moving platform speeding away across the River Tees. Green Land Rover. Tall woman standing beside it. No doubt about it. Instantly recognisable. Silver. What the fuck was she doing in Teesside? What the fuck was she doing alive? Hadn’t she triggered his trap? Set off the explosion? Been blown to bits? What had gone wrong? If it wasn’t Jaq who detonated his little surprise, who the hell was it?

  She was staring back at the warehouse. He ducked. Had she seen him? What did she know? Christ, was she on to them already? Too smart for her own good, that one.