The Chemical Detective Page 13

  ‘Music?’ Johan asked.

  ‘Please.’ Jaq smiled. ‘And now, I want to hear about you guys.’

  Johan selected Archie Shepp. The solo tenor saxophone burst into the room, brave and bright. They stopped to listen, transported by the applause to a jazz festival in Montreux. The free-jazz cadenza sank into a mellow quintet. Warmth and peace. Good food and good friends. Music to soothe the soul. A ‘Lush Life’ indeed.

  Johan turned down the volume, encouraging his wife to talk about the advocacy work she was doing. After some initial reluctance, Emma became animated. ‘There’s one guy, a photographer . . .’

  Ben appeared at the door, hair tousled, half-asleep. ‘Baby crying,’ he said.

  Emma got up. ‘Sorry, Jaq, I need to go and feed Jade. Let’s talk more tomorrow?’ She kissed Jaq on the cheek and turned to Johan. ‘Darling, not sure who is sleeping where.’

  He got up. ‘I’ll sort it.’

  Jaq stared at the fire. Through the silence came the pitter-patter of rain outside, the slap of wet leaves on the window pane, the crackling and hissing of the logs.

  Johan returned with a sleeping bag and a bottle of brandy. ‘Musical beds in this house. Wherever Jade or Ben go to sleep, they seem to gravitate to their mum during the night. Our bed is getting too small for four.’ Did he mind? It didn’t look like it. A good father.

  Johan poured Jaq a glass and one for himself. ‘Don’t tell Emma about this,’ he said. ‘She can’t drink while she’s breastfeeding, so I’m trying to cut down as well.’ He took a sip and sighed with pleasure. ‘Suspicious samples, explosions, corporate impostors, it’s a mystery, all right. Your life is never dull, is it, Jaq?’ He threw a log onto the fire; red and orange sparks fanned out and danced up the chimney. ‘So, who do you believe? This Camilla woman, or the Zagrovyl people?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. Camilla came across as smart and plausible. Frank is a dick.’ Jaq sipped the firewater. ‘Camilla was hiding something, and yet I would trust her further than I could ever throw Frank Good. He claimed not to know her, but he was lying.’

  ‘You think Frank got rid of her?’

  ‘I don’t know what to believe. Zagrovyl is a publicly listed company, FTSE 100. Their shareholders are unlikely to endorse cold-blooded murder.’

  Johan wrinkled his nose, unconvinced. ‘What do you think they were transporting? Drugs?’

  Jaq took a long swig. ‘Worse than that.’

  Johan got to his feet. When he came back, he was carrying a folder.

  ‘Emma’s pro bono case,’ he said. ‘Feeling strong?’

  Jaq nodded.

  Inside the folder were large-format black-and-white photographs. The first picture showed the corpse of a child aged three or four, about the same age as Ben, lying on a concrete floor in a foetal position, face turned away, knees drawn up to the chest, arms wrapped around thin ankles.

  The second picture revealed that the child was just one of a family of six who perished together. Behind the boy, on a divan bed, lay a stick-thin old woman. Beside the boy, a young mother clutched a lifeless infant. Beyond the door of the one-roomed house, two men had just made it to the road outside before they collapsed and died.

  The third picture showed a whole village exterminated. Hundreds of people lying on the ground. Animals, too: dogs, cats, goats and birds that had plummeted from the poisoned sky. No gunshot wounds, no blood, no shrapnel, no physical damage. Buildings intact. Living beings felled. Eerie. Heartbreaking.

  The last picture was of the first subject again, the little boy, photographed from a different angle. Bile rose to her throat as her eyes moved to his face. This child had suffered. Oh God, how he had suffered: head thrown back at an impossible, neck-breaking angle; clouded, sightless eyes open and protruding from shock and terror; mouth wide open, jaw almost unhinged in his last, terrible scream.

  ‘Sarin gas,’ Johan said. ‘One of the few attacks that was properly documented immediately afterwards.’

  Jaq wiped her eyes. ‘How did you know what I feared?’

  ‘I’ve known you a long time, Jaq.’ He took her hand. ‘I know when you are not telling me everything.’

  ‘But I don’t know anything, not for sure.’

  ‘The stuff you sampled, the stuff that went missing, you suspect a link to chemical weapons?’

  Jaq nodded. ‘I can’t rule out that possibility, but—’

  ‘I’ve witnessed how chemical warfare affects people.’ Johan’s mouth tightened. ‘Even if it’s only a hunch, you need to escalate.’

  ‘I don’t have a shred of evidence.’

  He put an arm around her. ‘Jaq, your gut feel is worth more than a million samples.’

  Ben reappeared at the door, his father’s chaperone.

  Jaq withdrew into the sofa and hugged herself. ‘You get back to your family,’ she said. ‘I’m going to sit by the fire and think a little longer.’

  ‘You okay with a sleeping bag?’ He pointed to the futon.

  Jaq nodded.

  ‘Put the fireguard on when you turn in.’ Johan paused in front of the fire, silhouetted by the flames. ‘Goodnight, Jaq, sure you don’t need anything?’

  Anything? I need everything. And nothing. ‘Goodnight, Johan, I’m fine.’ She reached for the bottle of brandy and turned back to the fire.

  Monday 14 March, Cumbria, England

  Patches of snow glistened on the high hills, but the rain swept the rest down in ribbons. The ribbons formed streams, the streams combined into rivers and the rivers rushed down towards the lake.

  Even after the phone-tracking signal was lost, it didn’t take Boris long to find the right place, the battered green Land Rover instantly recognisable beside a rack of kayaks in an open-sided shed. Boris drove slowly, observing the large garden with swing and slide, the lake in front, cliff and stream behind. He cruised past, accelerated round a sharp bend and found the National Trust car park beyond. Pulling on his brand-new green cagoule, he folded the Ordnance Survey map into the pouch and hung it around his neck, along with the binoculars. Master of disguise, Boris walked back to the ridge to get a better view. Whitewashed stone. Thick walls and small windows. Old, the English were obsessed with old. Old cars, old houses. Idiots.

  The farmhouse door opened. A man came out and began to load up the trailer with kayaks. The next person to appear was Silver. She helped the man connect the trailer to the jeep, although judging by the muscles on him, he needed no assistance.

  A short blonde woman emerged with a babe in arms and a little boy scampering around her feet. Boris didn’t like children. He had fathered none himself, at least not as far as he knew. No brothers or sisters, and he kept his distance from his mother’s extended family in Slovakia. Gypsies. Filthy animals. In his limited experience, children were drippy, noisy and unpredictable. You scowled at them and they laughed, you grinned at them and they screamed. And went on screaming. Boris didn’t like children at all when they were awake.

  But the little one was sleeping. She looked quite appealing in that state, he had to admit it. The little rosebud lips, pouting and sucking on an imaginary nipple. A cloud of fair hair, so light and insubstantial it seemed to hover around her like a halo. The soft skin would be velvet to the touch.

  Silver looked away as the man kissed Blondie on the lips, then boy and baby on their foreheads. The man didn’t even acknowledge Silver in the presence of his family. Such studied avoidance. Interesting. Watch out, Blondie, you have competition. A big black cuckoo in that fair nest. The man got into the Land Rover and drove off. Good. He looked inconveniently fit. One less to worry about.

  How to do it? How to silence the kurva who thought she could outsmart him? How to do it quickly and silently? Without getting caught? This was England. Normally he wouldn’t risk anything here. But she’d left him no choice. He had to clean up before The Spider found out.

  He’d watch and wait.

  Improvise.

  Monday 14 March, Teesside, Englandr />
  Frank was leaving work for a lunchtime meeting when his phone rang. He stepped under the gatehouse awning and checked the number.

  ‘I have good news.’ The Spider spoke softly.

  ‘About bloody time.’

  ‘All is well. The numbers do not lie.’

  ‘And the missing materials?’

  ‘Incompetent management. Computer system error.’ The Spider tutted. ‘No further cause for concern now you have sacked crazy Ivan and the bad apples.’ A laugh. ‘The books balance.’ The Spider stretched the last syllable into a long hiss.

  Frank played his trump card. ‘So, who are SLYV and what are they paying for?’

  A splutter, then silence.

  ‘Look, you hopeless piece of shit,’ Frank said. ‘I’m not stupid. I can read management accounts. Don’t fucking lie to me. Next time you call me, you’d better have something useful or I’ll have you struck off.’ Take that, you useless bastard. Frank cut the call.

  As Frank waited for Bill in Café Lilly, he ran through the Brandenburg Concerto No. 5. The show-off solo cadenza. Frank had an excellent musical memory. For contemporary music, he sometimes had to pause and refer to a recording or the score. But for baroque music, for J.S. Bach, he was note-perfect. When he sat stony-faced in meetings, he was enjoying the sublime music in his head, usually more interesting than listening to other people.

  Bill was more interesting than most. Frank saluted as he entered the restaurant.

  ‘Well?’ Frank put his hands behind his head and spread his legs wide. ‘What have you got for me?’

  ‘Unusual story, this one.’

  The waitress came to take their order.

  Frank ordered the fish special for both of them and waved her away. ‘So, tell me.’

  Bill laid his iPad on the table. ‘Born Maria Ines Jaqueline Ribeiro da Silva, Luanda, Angola. Angolan mother of Anglo-Portuguese descent, Russian father.’ He flicked to the birth certificate.

  Older than she looked.

  ‘One brother, died young. Family left Angola during the civil war. School in Moscow, Lisbon and then Middlesbrough. Parents separated. Changed her name to Silver when she moved to the North of England. Honours degree in chemical engineering from Newcastle University, master’s from Edinburgh and PhD at Teesside University.’

  An academic.

  The fish arrived, skate wings with a black butter and caper sauce. Frank ate while Bill talked. No point letting both meals get cold.

  ‘Father dead. Mother in an institution.’

  ‘Institution?’

  ‘Mental health problems.’

  A family history of mental illness. Could be useful.

  ‘Worked for ICI. Closely connected with Teesside University, both for her PhD and then as visiting industrial lecturer. Married Gregor Coutant. Separated. Divorce not yet finalised.’

  Broken family. Unstable relationships. Perfect, he could use that.

  ‘She left ICI shortly after Zagrovyl took over. Cited in a private prosecution over the deaths at Seal Sands. Moved to Slovenia and took up a job with Snow Science as their explosives expert.’

  Snow Science again. Explosives in the hands of a mentally unbalanced criminal. Lovely.

  ‘Quite the party animal. Observed stepping out with various young men in Kranjskabel. Most recently, ski instructor Karel Žižek.’

  Juicy. ‘What do you have on the latest boyfriend?’

  ‘Squeaky-clean. Suspicious. I’ll dig a little further.’

  Frank polished off the last morsel of fish and pushed his plate away. Snow Science, SLYV – what was Silver’s part in all this?

  ‘Where is she now?’

  Bill consulted his notes. ‘Right now, Silver is staying with an ex-boyfriend in Cumbria.’

  Frank banged his fist on the table. ‘So what the fuck are you doing here?’

  Tuesday 15 March, Cumbria, England

  Boris had a plan.

  The lake stretched out below him, a shimmering sheet of silver. At the end of a rocky promontory, out of sight of the farmhouse, a little rowing boat bobbed up and down, its mooring rope tied to a tree. Beyond it lay a hidden beach, shielded from the lakeside path by a copse of trees: silver birch, twisted hawthorn and gnarled oak. Barely a breath of wind, the water lay still and sparkling, at its deepest where the pebble beach sloped steeply and then fell away to blackness. If Silver would come down close to the water, the dangerous water, he could make the next step look like an accident.

  The head of the household had already left for work, leaving only Blondie and two babies between him and Silver. Easy.

  The farmhouse door flew open. Silver emerged in vest, shorts and trainers.

  ‘Have fun!’ A woman’s voice floated out from the farmhouse kitchen.

  ‘Back in thirty minutes!’ Silver closed the door.

  He looked away as she did her stretches, his throat drier than a desert as the bounding pulse in his neck intensified. The straining breasts. The taut buttocks. The long legs. Disgusting. Christ Almighty, had she no shame?

  She set off with a long stride. Heading up the hill, not down to the lakeshore. Away from the freezing water. Damn.

  What would bring her down?

  The door opened again. The little boy skipped out, followed by Blondie. He held a toy boat in his hand and made outboard motor noises as he scurried around the lawn.

  ‘Oi! Stay where I can see you,’ his mother admonished. ‘Don’t go near the water.’

  Oh, but that is exactly where you are going.

  Blondie hefted a wicker basket onto her hip and headed for the woodshed. A shed with a padlock on the outside. Perfect. Couldn’t be easier. Child’s play.

  Boris crossed himself and asked forgiveness for what he was about to do.

  Child’s play.

  No, Boris didn’t like children; they brought out the worst in him.

  When Blondie was fully inside the shed, Boris snuck round the side and closed the door.

  ‘Ben?’ she shouted. ‘Is that you?’

  Boris threaded the heavy padlock between the door loop and the metal clasp. It snapped shut with a satisfying clunk.

  ‘Mummy?’

  The little boy came running from the other side of the garden, unaware of the intruder until he reached the locked door of the shed. Boris pocketed the key and grabbed the boy by the neck. The child stared at him wide-eyed, shocked into silence, his little arms and legs windmilling uselessly as Boris raised him up and clapped a hand over his mouth.

  He inspected the child. Not as appealing as his sister. Pity. Fewer entertainment options while they waited. But better bait. This one would scream his head off, shout directions and bring Jaq running straight into the trap. A ghastly accident in a freezing lake.

  He whispered in the boy’s ear. ‘Let’s leave your mother in the woodshed.’ He slung the boy under his arm. ‘While we play. You, me,’ he started the descent towards the icy water, ‘and Silver.’

  The path down to the lake was steep and uneven. Boris paused at a grassy platform halfway down. The little boy wriggled under his arm, punching and scratching, kicking and biting, throwing him off balance. An amusing tussle when there was no hurry. Warm little boy. Soft little boy. Weak as a kitten. Powerless, just like Blacky, Whitey, Spotty, Stripy, Softy.

  Boris yanked the boy up to face him, one big hand spanning both tiny armpits.

  ‘Stop fighting,’ he growled. ‘Or I might have to hurt you.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ The boy spat in his face. ‘Let my mummy out of the shed.’

  Boris wiped the tiny drop of warm saliva from his cheek and smeared it over the boy’s face, running a fat finger down from the child’s temple over his button nose to the trembling lips. Soft lips. He forced them open with his finger. ‘Do you love your mummy?’

  ‘Yes.’ No more than a whisper.

  ‘And your little sister?’

  ‘Yes.’ Louder this time. Defiant.

  ‘Do you want me to hurt them instead?�
��

  The boy began to cry.

  ‘Then shut up.’

  Until I make you shout.

  Boris reached the lakeshore, the child under his arm quiet now, apart from the sobbing. He bounded over the rocks to the mooring point, unhooked the rope and walked the boat to his chosen place under the cliff. The perfect spot, only one way in, down a narrow, twisting path. Where he’d be waiting. And for Silver, only one way out. Underwater. Until she stopped breathing.

  How much time left? Silver must have turned back by now. Boris pulled at the line. Wood juddered against pebbles as the hull mounted the beach. He reached in and removed the oars, tossing them into the water.

  ‘I’m going to set you free now.’

  The little boy scowled at him, suspicion fighting with relief.

  ‘What is your name, little boy?’

  ‘Ben.’

  ‘Get in the boat, Ben.’

  Ben shook his head. ‘I can’t swim. I’m not allowed—’

  ‘I said, get in the boat.’

  Ben clambered awkwardly into the flimsy wooden craft and began to root around under the seat.

  ‘What are you doing, Ben?’

  Ben emerged with a yellow life jacket and held it aloft. ‘Daddy says—’

  Boris snatched it from him and tossed it into the water where it bobbed beside the floating oars.

  ‘Whatever you hear next, whatever you see next, don’t tell anyone.’ He brought his face close. ‘If you tell anyone about me, I’ll come back for you.’ He threw the rope into the water. ‘If you tell anyone what happened, I’ll be back to hurt you. And I’ll hurt your baby sister, too.’ Was the boy too young to keep a secret? Better not take the chance. He leant into the scuppers and pulled out the bung. ‘I was never here. You went out in the boat all by yourself.’ The leaky boat. ‘Now, off you go.’ He kicked the boat off the beach and gave it a shove. ‘Shout for Silver to come. She’s your only hope now.’ The boat glided into deep water. Silver would be able to see it from the hillside above. ‘You haven’t got long. Shout for Silver if you want to stay alive.’