The Chemical Detective Page 12

  Boris ground his teeth.

  He’d promised to clean up. He’d promised it was all under control. If Mario found out, his life was over. SLYV did not tolerate failure. Mario had special punishments. Yuri’s fate was a trip to Dignitas in comparison.

  Káča pitomá! Time to take decisive action. Silver was a witness. Witnesses had to be taken care of.

  Friday 11 March, Teesside, England

  The gym sat above the Tees barrage, the weir that separated the river from the sea. Before its construction, melting snow from the Pennines clashed with high tides from the North Sea, leading to widespread flooding from Middlesbrough up through Stockton and back to Yarm. Now the drop from river to sea was carefully controlled, with a sluice gate that fed a white-water rafting course used by those seeking controlled thrills: an oxymoron if ever there was one.

  Frank blasted his horn and accelerated towards a gaggle of idiots in wetsuits and fluorescent buoyancy aids dragging their kayaks across the road. He was early for his meeting on the squash court, but roads were for cars, not for aquatic arseholes.

  Frank always used the same private investigator. His first divorce threatened to cost him a fortune until Bill came on the scene and fixed things. Intelligence was the key. Once you had the facts, the connections, then you could decide how to spin things to your advantage. Information was power.

  And Bill was adaptable. He offered more than just surveillance. When called upon, he could make people vanish, people like Camilla Hatton.

  Dr Jaqueline Silver wasn’t going to be so easy.

  As he was parking the car, his phone rang. Country code thirty-three. France.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Good. It’s Monsieur Barré here.’

  The new marine surveyor, the third expert to inspect Good Ship Frankium.

  The yacht gave him two thirds pleasure and one third pain. Pleasure because he looked so good at the wheel. Pleasure because he had taken it from a rival down on his luck. Negotiating hard, he drove the price down to rock bottom, the former owner weeping openly by the time he signed over the registration document. A fine day’s work.

  Pain because of the ruinous expense of running it – not just the mooring fees and crew salaries – because underneath the beautiful interior writhed a viper’s pit of trouble, fine cracks spreading through the hull.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Repeated grounding . . . poor-quality patch jobs . . .’

  Within two minutes Frank had stopped listening.

  Did a marine surveyor ever call to give good news? It’s all fine, Mr Good. The hull is going to get better all by itself. No need to go into dry dock, scrape barnacles, lather on eye-wateringly expensive paint from stem to stern. No need for complicated repairs, bigger bilge pumps, extra batteries or new sails.

  Good news from Barré was about as probable as his Zagrovyl bonus paying out this year. The one year he really needed the money, the fucking useless Russians had fucked up.

  ‘I estimate the cost of repair at . . .’

  Frank’s jaw dropped. Barré was just another money-grabbing bastard. Pah! He could go fuck himself.

  One more season of fair-weather sailing, then he’d spruce it up and pass the Good Ship Frankium to some other unsuspecting bastard.

  Frank cut the call, grabbed his kit and headed towards the gym.

  Bill had cultivated the art of blending into the background. There was nothing memorable about him. Medium height, average build, clean-shaven, brown hair neither short nor long, regular teeth but not too white, straight nose but not too large. Lips neither thin nor thick. Hooded eyes. A face you forgot the moment he turned away. Even his sportswear was unbranded: white shorts, socks and trainers, a blue T-shirt and a grey racket. Totally nondescript.

  It was easier to talk on the squash court. Frank hit a few balls to warm them up. ‘I need some information,’ he said, slamming the little black balls into the wall. ‘On a woman.’

  Anyone else would have made a smart-arse comment, but Bill was not one for small talk or innuendo. He returned the balls one by one. ‘Name?’

  ‘Jaqueline Silver.’ Frank selected the ball he wanted for the match and put the others in his pocket.

  Bill moved to the back of the court, bent his knees and rocked onto his toes, ready and waiting. ‘What do you know?’

  Uuuh. Frank served. ‘Late twenties or early thirties. Sporty. Ski tan.’

  Bill volleyed. Thwack. Frank hit a perfect boast off the front wall onto the nick. Clatter. Bill missed it, his racket hit the wall and skidded across the floor.

  ‘English. Educated. Engineer.’ Frank didn’t wait for Bill to recover his position; he served underarm to win the next point.

  ‘Ex-Zagrovyl,’ Frank continued as he set up a rally. ‘Asking awkward questions about a certain’ – wallop – ‘Camilla Hatton.’

  ‘I see.’ Smash. Bill sent a drop shot over Frank’s head. ‘I thought that particular threat had been’ – Bill grunted, ran towards Frank’s return and missed – ‘neutralised.’ He rested his hands on his knees and panted.

  Frank served and rallied. ‘It appears there are some residual issues.’ He made a fist pump as Bill conceded the first game. Bill played a mean game of squash. Not quite as well as Frank, but a worthy opponent.

  Bill served overarm. ‘So, what do you want me to do about this Silver character?’

  Blam. Frank returned the shot. ‘Just information.’ Slam-slap. ‘For the moment.’ Swish. ‘Anything I can use against her.’ Squelch. ‘Skeletons in the closet.’

  Bill sent a firm drive into the far corner and jumped aside as Frank rushed for it. ‘How deep do you want me to go?’

  Frank scooped the ball from the corner and volleyed. ‘Something tells me you won’t have to dig too far.’

  Saturday 12 March, Teesside, England

  Fine Georgian town houses lined Yarm High Street; the upper floors with their high ceilings and tall sash windows remained residential, but lingerie boutiques and cocktail bars had invaded the ground floors. Coming back from her morning run, Jaq glanced into the window of a new nail bar as she jogged past.

  Camilla’s nails. Perfectly manicured. Camilla’s hair. Expertly styled. If Camilla had lived and worked in Teesside, she might have used a local salon. People talked to their hairdressers. Built up relationships. And there was one person who had direct access to every hairdresser in the North-East.

  Natalie ran her salon from the side room of a barber’s shop. Simple and functional: sink, chair, mirror, kettle and a large black-and-white photo of Paul Newman beside a window looking on to a side street above Yarm. Businesslike, down to earth, no frills. Just like Natalie.

  Jaq didn’t bother calling ahead. It was a short walk up the hill. She was greeted with a rib-snapping hug. ‘Christ! Look at the state of your hair!’ Natalie said.

  ‘Can you fit me in?’

  ‘You’re in luck,’ Natalie gestured to the empty chair. ‘First client cancelled.’

  Jaq waited until the washing and cutting was out of the way before making her request. ‘I’m looking for a woman named Camilla Hatton. Short white hair. Not from round here, but I think she worked in Teesside. Fifty-ish, sporty.’

  Natalie shook her head. ‘Not a client of mine. D’you want me to check Hairnet?’

  Natalie had developed and licensed a phone-based booking system which had been taken up by most of the salons in the country. Coupled with a refreshingly relaxed attitude towards data protection, Natalie was a valuable source of information.

  She typed the name into her phone. ‘No. No one by that name booking through Hairnet. Shall I put a call out to the continental sisters?’

  ‘Please. I need to find her.’

  Natalie tapped a few keys. ‘Done.’ She asked no further questions about the search as she started to dry Jaq’s hair. ‘You’ve got a little grey, you know.’ Natalie combed through Jaq’s long, thick tresses. ‘Want me to do something about it next time?’

  ‘No,’ Jaq said. A
nd then, ‘It’s natural.’

  Natalie reached for a colour chart, but Jaq had other things on her mind. She sat up straight, pulse racing, staring at the mirror. Had she imagined it? A bearded face at the window. Fleeting, but furtive. She looked over her shoulder. The face had gone. But the space that had seemed cosy a minute ago now felt confined.

  ‘Sorry, Nat.’ Jaq sprang from the chair. ‘I need to check something.’

  She peered through the window. A man was moving along the street. She hadn’t seen him walk past, so he was returning the way he came. He had his back to her now; all she could see was his tartan shirt and fur-lined boots. Something familiar in his gait. Was she imagining things? She shook her head. Bolas. Best not to take any chances.

  ‘Can I slip out through the back?’

  Natalie raised a perfectly threaded eyebrow and led the way. ‘One condition.’

  ‘Name it.’

  Natalie’s eyes sparkled. ‘You tell me the full story next time.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  Jaq hurried down the cobbled alley, designed for horse-drawn carts to deliver coal straight to the back kitchens of the railway terrace, scalp prickling as an icy spring breeze caught her damp hair. She pulled her coat tighter around her waist and picked up the pace. Glancing along the street as she approached the main road, she pulled back into a garage doorway just in time. Valha-me Deus! No doubt about it. Blackbeard. The driver who delivered the Zagrovyl order. The one who had insisted on the samples. Boris. He was waiting for someone, waiting for her. Run.

  Heart pounding, she retraced her steps. Past the back door of the barber’s shop, round by the telephone exchange and then along the railway track. Egglescliffe village clock struck ten, the chimes reverberating between the road and rail bridges. The Manchester airport train was ten minutes away and the Grand Central to London had already left. She slung her bag across her chest, bent low and sprinted across the railway viaduct, high above the River Tees.

  On the Yarm side of the bridge, a vertical ladder took her down to the river path. She took the long way round so she could observe her flat from the opposite side of the high street.

  Just as well. And even worse than she feared. The second man was easy to miss: head down, wearing a long fawn raincoat and beige flat cap, almost a study in nonentity. He walked past her flat, staring up at the windows. Once might be the general curiosity of a tourist, twice might be property-hunting . . . six times was surveillance. No doubt about it, Mr Beige was waiting for her.

  Jaq sped away from her flat, taking the muddy footpath beside the Tees. The river rolled and boiled, peaty-brown water carrying tree branches from the wooded slopes of the Pennines towards the North Sea.

  Blackbeard and Beige. Who sent them? Frank, of course. Maybe she’d asked too many questions. Just like Camilla? Maybe she’d better disappear before they helped her on her way.

  At the crossroads, she sat on a bench and checked her bag. Car key, passport, credit cards. Everything she needed for a trip. Time to get out of Teesside.

  She called Johan.

  Sunday 13 March, Cumbria, England

  The cottage nestled into the hillside. The thwack of an axe on wood punctuated the roar of rushing water. A stream tumbled over a cliff, through hawthorn trees and mossy rocks, skirting the garden before sliding towards the lake, a silver crescent of water far below.

  Jaq parked in between Johan’s trailer and a shed stacked with kayaks. As she opened the door of the Land Rover, the familiar scent of moss and fern made her smile. Johan appeared with a basket of logs, dressed only in shorts, bare-chested despite the rain. Looking serious. Looking fit. Looking fine. Her heart leapt. Boy, was she glad to see him.

  Their embrace was interrupted when the front door flew open and a little boy barrelled out, followed by a black and white puppy. Johan released her and held his arms out for his son, swinging the boy in the air to his shrieks of delight. The puppy barked and ran in excited circles around them.

  ‘You remember Ben?’ Johan asked Jaq over his shoulder.

  The dog or the child? Johan kissed his son. The boy, then. He’d been a sleeping infant last time. He looked more interesting now. Jaq waved a hello, but the boy turned away, burying his face into his father’s chest.

  The front door opened directly into a large farmhouse kitchen. Johan’s wife was waiting in the doorway, a small blonde woman with a generous smile.

  Jaq took the proffered mug of tea, inhaling bergamot and steam, almost spilling the hot liquid at the squeak of springs as a baby swung towards her, suspended in a harness from one of the oak beams inside, fat little legs pumping vigorously.

  ‘Jaq,’ Emma said. ‘Meet Jade. The latest addition to our family.’

  Jaq put down her tea and approached. ‘Hi, Jade,’ she said. Two bright blue eyes stared. The rosebud mouth trembled, and the baby began to wail.

  Jaq took a step back, almost tripping over a cat curled up on a rug. The cacophony of noisy children and animals rang in her ears. Santissima. What had she been thinking of? This menagerie might be Johan’s idea of perfection, but it was certainly not hers.

  ‘Husband, will you put some clothes on.’ Emma affected mock irritation; no one could miss the love and pride, least of all Jaq. ‘We have guests.’

  ‘Jaq’s not a guest,’ Johan said. ‘She’s my best mate.’

  Best mates. Friends. That’s what they were. That’s what they had always been. And always would be.

  Emma pursed her lips. ‘And it’s bath time.’

  ‘My turn?’ Johan asked. His wife nodded, raising her face for a kiss. ‘Come on, kids.’ He scooped them up, one under each muscled arm, and propelled them, squealing and giggling, upstairs.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you, Jaq,’ Emma said.

  Jaq forced a smile. ‘And you.’ It wasn’t quite a lie, though it was Johan she had come to see. Johan she needed to talk to. When had he surrounded himself with all this extra baggage? No longer able to drop everything at a moment’s notice and give her his full attention. She gazed at the stairs, willing him to come back down.

  Emma chattered about her parents, who lived nearby, and Johan’s, who didn’t. ‘How’s your mum?’ she asked.

  The anger took Jaq by surprise. It started in the pit of her stomach, an acid drill that seared as it swirled up through her gullet, constricting her throat and stinging her eyes.

  It wasn’t Emma’s fault for asking. Jaq had only told Johan that her mother was sick. How was Emma to know the full story?

  ‘No change,’ Jaq said. Still in a nursing home. Still bereft of her wits. Still so upset by her only surviving child’s visits that Jaq rarely made the long journey.

  Emma opened her mouth as if to ask another question, then pursed her lips instead. They sipped tea and the unasked questions hung between them like a net of barbed wire.

  Did Emma mind Jaq being here? Johan had never made any secret of their prior relationship. Or that it was over for him by the time Emma came along. Jaq studied the face of her best friend’s wife. A heart-shaped, pretty face; apple cheeks, lightly freckled, softly curling fair hair. Open blue eyes that showed no hint of guile. No edge to Emma.

  ‘More tea?’ Emma jumped up to open the fridge. ‘Or wine?’

  Jaq smiled. ‘Guess.’

  Emma filled a large glass for Jaq and poured a small one for herself. ‘Don’t tell Johan. He’s on a health kick, and I’m still feeding Jade, but a little sip won’t hurt.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Jaq sipped the cold, straw-coloured liquid. Aaah. Lime and gooseberry, tiny bubbles, sharp on the tongue, refreshing. She sat down on a bench at the kitchen table, running a hand over the rough pine surface, a finger tracing the whorls. Another sip. Better already. Come on, make an effort. ‘How’s business?’

  ‘Booming.’ Emma pulled up a chair opposite her, the wooden legs screeching against the flagstones. ‘Johan has never been busier. Stag dos, hen parties, kids’ camps in the holidays.’ She raised a glass. ‘But the rea
l money is in corporate team building.’

  ‘And your legal practice?’

  ‘I’m on maternity leave. Still doing the pro bono work to keep my hand in.’ Emma put her glass down. ‘Refugee charity.’

  Jaq cocked her head. ‘Thanks for providing refuge.’

  Emma leant forward. ‘How was Slovenia?’

  ‘Complicated.’

  Emma grinned. ‘Man trouble?’

  ‘The least of the complications.’ Jaq closed her eyes and an image of Karel flashed into her mind. Their goodbyes had been brief and tender. He promised to wait for her, but why would she choose to be in Slovenia without a job?

  There was little opportunity for adult conversation over dinner, a noisy family affair featuring Johan’s signature pasta bake, but once the children were finally in bed, the three adults, one puppy and a cat moved to the snug, gathering round a log fire.

  Emma led the interrogation while Johan listened intently. Jaq told them about the delivery mix-up, the disappearing samples, her suspicion that Camilla had copied her keys, the break-in, the explosion, the inquiry, her suspension and Camilla’s disappearance.

  ‘You’ve contacted the police?’ Emma asked.

  Jaq thought back to the young detective who sat silently throughout the kangaroo court proceedings at Snow Science. ‘The Slovenian police are on the case.’ Her lack of confidence was audible.

  Jaq met Johan’s gaze. Quizzical blue eyes. A deep well she could tumble into. For the first time she was tempted to say it aloud, to crystallise the terrible theory haunting her. She dropped her gaze to the fire. Coils of glowing embers writhed on a burning log, Kekulé’s Serpent in the flames. If she gave voice to her fears, she could no longer sit on the sidelines. Could she carry this burden? Better to leave it to the professionals.

  ‘Fact of the matter is, I was responsible for the explosives store, and the explosives store blew up. And the prime suspect, Camilla, has disappeared.’ It was as if the woman in turquoise salopettes had never existed. ‘Unless I can prove Camilla’s part in all this, it’s my word against my boss’s. The odds are stacked against me.’ She needed space and time to think. ‘Let’s change the subject.’