The Chemical Detective Read online

  ‘Mmmm.’ Jaq wiped her lips with a napkin. ‘Very good.’

  Karel bowed his head to acknowledge the compliment. ‘More tea?’

  Jaq shook her head. Had she overstayed her welcome? He was a young man with impeccable manners, but some awkwardness was only to be expected now. She would spare him the brush-off. He would have things to do, people to see, places to go. ‘Time for me to leave.’ She put a finger to her lips at his polite assurances. ‘My clothes?’

  ‘I hung your dress up,’ he said and pointed to the wardrobe. ‘But—’

  ‘I should go.’

  ‘Should you?’ He moved towards her.

  The glass rattled in the window above, and a flurry of hail blasted the ice clear enough to reveal a storm-dark sky. No skiing today. No message from Snow Science about the delivery. Time to kill.

  Karel laid a hand on her shoulder. Warm, gentle, no hint of coercion. Only invitation. Promise. He ran a finger up the side of her neck and whispered, ‘Come back to bed first.’

  Her skin tingled under his warm breath. When his lips nibbled her earlobe, she had to fight the urge to grin inanely. The good food, the cosy little attic, the storm outside, the gorgeous man, the firm bed. She might regret this, but. . .

  Last night she’d taken a risk, let herself go with the flow, to see where it led her. What did she have to lose? Things could hardly get any worse. Forget about the past. Forget about the future. Focus on the moment.

  Focus on the pleasure.

  Saturday 26 February, Jesenice, Slovenia

  The lorry crossed from Austria to Slovenia at daybreak. A border guard waved it down, directing the driver to a lay-by. Boris parked and swung his legs through the door, fur-lined boots followed by jeans sliding out onto the road. Snowflakes settled on his black beard.

  ‘What you got in there, mate?’ The official nodded to the rear of the lorry and tapped a clipboard with his pen.

  Boris handed him a sheaf of papers. ‘Explosives.’

  The official stepped back. ‘Who for?’

  ‘Snow Science.’ Boris pointed to the order. ‘Want to take a look?’ He jangled his keys.

  ‘No, thanks.’ The official held up his hands, palms outwards as if to shield himself from the cargo. ‘What the hell does a research centre want with a lorryload of explosives?’

  ‘The hell I know.’ Boris shrugged. ‘I’m just the delivery boy.’

  ‘Better you than me, mate.’ The official returned the papers and hit the button to raise the barrier. ‘Drive on.’

  Click. 46.5028, 13.7944. Intensity 152X, 648C

  An hour later, the lorry crunched over rock salt as it swept up to the gates of Snow Science. In the amber dawn, the low buildings lay in darkness. Perfect. The only light shone from a Portakabin beside the main gate. Boris blocked the entrance with the lorry. He grabbed a hi-vis jacket and hauled a bag from the cab before climbing down.

  The smell of smoked meat wafted through a gap in the guardhouse delivery hatch. Something sizzling in a frying pan, bacon. Mmm. His mouth watered as he picked his way across the snow.

  He tapped on the steamed-up window. ‘Oi, Stefan!’

  The gap in the hatch widened and the guard peered through.

  ‘Delivery from Zagrovyl,’ Boris said.

  Stefan waggled a finger at Boris. ‘Too early.’ He pointed to the large clock behind him, a round white face with black roman numerals in a wooden frame. ‘No one in. You’ll have to wait.’

  Boris swore and stamped the snow from his boots. ‘You don’t want to leave that stuff on the lorry.’

  ‘Why? What have you got in there?’

  ‘The usual.’ Boris reached into the bag and produced a bottle of whisky. ‘With the usual fee?’

  Stefan stuck his head through the hatch and examined the gift before he accepted it. Strands of thin white hair blew around a freckled skull. ‘It’s cold out there,’ he said. ‘You’d best come in.’ A lock clicked, and the door opened.

  Thirty minutes later, the lorry rolled quietly into the Snow Science complex past several modern blocks separated by covered walkways. The special warehouse lay at the furthest corner of the site, behind a small hill. Boris knew where to go. He parked up and opened the lorry doors as Stefan arrived.

  Stefan swept a torch over the contents and counted. He bit his lower lip while flicking through the papers on his clipboard. ‘The order says two pallets.’

  Boris handed a set of papers to Stefan. ‘Here’s the consignment note: twenty pallets.’

  ‘That’s ten times too much!’ Stefan glanced behind him and dropped his voice. ‘What do you want me to do, this time?’

  ‘The usual.’ Boris clapped him on the back. ‘Call this number. Yuri will come and pick up the extra.’

  Stefan shuffled from foot to foot. ‘Why don’t you leave it on the lorry?’

  Boris shook his head. ‘Regulations,’ he said. ‘Bloody European Union red tape and bureaucracy. They won’t let me drive this stuff east without the proper paperwork.’ He sighed. ‘As soon as you call this number, they’ll generate a new set of transport papers.’

  Boris started to unstrap the cargo. ‘C’mon. I’ve got other jobs to do.’

  Stefan climbed into the cab of the electric forklift and manoeuvred it forward. After removing the first two pallets, he jumped down from the cab and sidled over to Boris. ‘I’m not happy about this. Everything has changed here. Sergei has gone. There’s a new boffin. A woman. She’s more careful. I could lose my job.’

  ‘How?’ Boris rolled up the straps. ‘When you’re doing the right thing?’ He unhooked a tarpaulin. ‘You unload the delivery. Then you check it against the order.’ He folded the tarp, once, twice. ‘You notice something wrong,’ he continued, doubling the sheet again: three times, four. ‘You call the number I gave you.’ He stowed the waxed canvas, neatly arranged into a square. ‘Yuri picks it up. It’ll be gone by the end of the day, before Dr Silver even gets notification of arrival.’

  Stefan scratched his head. ‘How do you know her name?’

  Boris disappeared round the back of the lorry and reappeared, frowning. ‘She placed the order,’ he said. ‘Dr Jaqueline Silver.’

  Saturday 26 February, Kranjskabel, Slovenia

  The halogen lamp flickered and then burst into light, illuminating the sign that straddled the entrance: SNOW SCIENCE. Set up as a collaboration between the European Space Agency and Earthwatch to compare satellite images of snow and ice with ground-based observation, Snow Science had expanded into a privately funded multinational, multidiscipline research institute.

  The complex huddled high above the ski resort of Kranjskabel, hidden from view in the natural corrie at the top of a side valley, five kilometres of winding road from the centre of town, less than a kilometre as the crow flies.

  Jaq took the direct route, sprinting up the mountain, snowboard jammed through the trolley sleeve of her bag-turned-backpack, breathing steadily. The spikes fastened to her running shoes skittered across tarmac then crunched over snow as she ran uphill, shortcutting the zigzags in the road. Long socks and padded overtrousers protected her ankles and shins from sharp crusts of ice broken by quick feet. The freezing air stabbed needles at her lungs; she exhaled in puffs of steam. A chill wind howled across the mountains as she emerged from the valley. Tugging at her woollen hat, she pulled the rim down over her earlobes and yanked the soft polyester snood up over her mouth and nose.

  At the crest of the ridge she paused to admire a pair of buzzards. One bird cruised with the wind, a languorous tilt of black feathers fringing pale, broad wings to maintain course. The smaller raptor was working to impress, flying high before plummeting down in a crazy helix, twisting and turning on a roller coaster descent that made Jaq dizzy to watch. The plaintive peea-ay echoed between the mountains. Her heart soared as the male prepared to repeat his display, rising above snow-covered forests towards the saw-toothed peaks of the Julian Alps. A lone cross-country skier moved confidently across the
horizon, the turquoise salopettes disappearing behind a cluster of pines.

  Jaq retrieved her snowboard, clipped on and cruised down to her laboratory.

  The perfect commute.

  The gates of her workplace swung open and a lorry rolled out, the tail lights fading as it swept down the hill. An unfamiliar logo – Cyrillic script, SLYV – a Russian haulier driving all the way to Teesside and back for two pallets. How could that be good for the planet?

  What was it like, the life of a long-distance lorry driver? Wages were low, drivers lived away from home for weeks, sleeping in the cramped confines of a cab. Now the most dangerous profession, the death rate on the roads was higher than any industry mortality, worse than mining. One day historians would revisit the twenty-first century and marvel at the abuse of the working man. Logistics sounded more benign than modern slavery.

  Stefan waved from the guardhouse. Jaq released the clips and propped the snowboard under the hatch.

  ‘I got your message.’ She’d slipped away, while Karel was sleeping, to wash and change at her own flat. The run up the mountain had banished the dregs of a hangover. ‘Am I late?’

  ‘Come on in.’ Stefan opened the door to his little cabin. ‘I’ve got the delivery papers.’

  She wrinkled her nose at the familiar fug of a single-skinned building with poor ventilation, eau de Portakabin with top notes from the drains.

  Stefan pointed to the papers on the bench. Jaq squeezed herself past the row of CCTV monitors and found a seat. She perched on the edge, removed the bag from her back and wriggled out of her ski jacket. The stool tilted, and she had a sudden sharp memory of her school chemistry lab.

  Her interest in explosions had started early. Even now she could evoke the smell of that first school lab: formaldehyde, vinegar and a faint whiff of leaking gas. It was a large room, south-facing. When the sun streamed through the windows, the green canvas blinds did little to impede the glare. Jaq and her fellow students sat on stools beside wooden benches, the mahogany surface scratched in places with the initials of bolder students.

  The new chemistry teacher, Mr Peres, demonstrated the reaction of alkali metals with water, but used potassium instead of sodium. Rather a large piece. When the hydrogen ignited, with a beautiful lilac flame, he lost his eyebrows as well as his job.

  Standing in the classroom surveying the shattered windows, the broken glassware and charred desk, Jaq had been truly impressed by the power of chemistry. It had provided her with gainful employment ever since.

  Stefan coughed, and she turned her attention back to the paperwork on the bench. ‘Two pallets delivered?’

  Stefan flicked through the CCTV screens. ‘In the quarantine yard.’ He nodded at the screen.

  Two pallets with danger labels plastered on the side stood in the snow, beside several dark squares on the ground.

  ‘Did they deliver something else?’

  Stefan turned away. ‘They picked up some returns.’

  The light was fading between the mountains as they walked to the warehouse. Keys jangled, tinkling in the cold, still air as Jaq pulled the bunch of twelve from the inside pocket of her bag. Stefan beat her to the first lock with his own, single key. As the outer door swung open, the lights clicked on and illuminated the delivery in the courtyard: two pallets, white bags with blue Zagrovyl labels. She crossed the open area, pulled off a glove and breathed on her hand before tackling the double lock of the inner door. The silver key with long shaft and serrated edge tugged reluctantly against the mortise lock, but the gold Yale key turned easily, triggering the timer.

  Thirty seconds before the alarm went off.

  Jaq strode through the inner door and approached the security panel. She ran her hands over the smooth plastic and pressed the top corners. With a snap, the cover dropped on its hinges, flapping under the bottom edge to reveal the flashing timer. Twenty-one seconds to go. She fumbled with the brass key – a fat hollow cylinder with wings, the shape of a clock winder. Finding the right-hand aperture, she pushed it in. Fifteen seconds to go. Now to get the sequence right. A quarter-turn left, a full turn right and half a turn left. The lights stopped flashing with eight seconds to spare.

  High-energy explosives and detonators were kept behind blast-proof walls, but traditional propellants, like today’s delivery, went to locked cages. She unlocked the empty cage with a four-sided key and signalled for Stefan to bring the pallets.

  The warehouse sheeting creaked and quivered in the wind. A comforting rattle. The light construction was designed to flex and bend. Strength through adaptation rather than rigid resistance. In the event of an accident the blast would shoot upwards, blowing off the weaker roof panels. Unfortunate for birds, but safer for humans. The downside: it was freezing inside the store. The paperwork was complex, certificates of analysis to check against the batch numbers delivered, samples to take.

  Stefan parked the forklift truck and got out, following her, stamping his feet and blowing on his hands, his nose and cheeks unnaturally red against a pale face and rheumy eyes. Poor man; he looked as if he could use a cup of tea.

  ‘Thanks, Stefan.’ She pointed over the artificial hill, in the direction of the gatehouse. ‘Go and get warm.’

  No point in both of them getting frostbite; she preferred to work alone.

  Sampling. There was something pleasing about this most mundane of tasks. In her last job, she’d had a team to do this sort of thing, a team of people who needed managing; how refreshing to return to uncomplicated hands-on practical stuff.

  The first pallet of explosives was smooth to the touch – tightly stretch-wrapped in clear film. Each one-tonne pallet had forty bags stacked in fours, ten high. Each bag contained twenty-five kilograms, the weight of a heavy suitcase. The standard acceptance protocol required sampling from 10 per cent of the individual bags, so four samples were required from each pallet.

  Jaq selected the bags at random, marking a neat cross with a permanent marker. Snapping on a pair of disposable gloves, she cut a slit through the stretch-wrap. The sampling cylinder – a hollow metal quill with a sharp point – slid easily into the bag, freezing her fingers through the thin latex gloves. Swapping hands to turn the quill, she withdrew a sample and closed the perforation with special tape. The sample cascaded from the quill to a small glass bottle. She sealed it with a metal screw cap and added the date, time and the batch number to the label.

  After taking four samples, she stretched and yawned. Not much sleep last night. A warm tingle lingered, embers of Karel’s fire on her skin. She ambled over to the vending machine in the corner of the store and dropped a euro into the slot. Nothing happened. She slapped the side and pushed the coffee selection button again, but it remained obstinately silent. Porra!

  The second pallet was in worse shape than the first, the stretch-wrap dirty and loose, and the bags had slipped in transit. She cut away the tattered film to inspect the delivery. Odd. The top bags appeared different from those below. The same plain white polyethylene, the same circular blue Zagrovyl symbol, the same label, the same hazard warnings, but the lower bags were misshapen and lumpy. Best to sample every one.

  The top four bags were easy: the sample quill slipped in smoothly, the corer turned without resistance and a homogeneous column of white crystalline powder emerged. She poured each sample into a glass bottle and taped the centimetre-long perforation on the bag.

  But the lumpy bags were problematic. The punch snagged and stuck and had to be tugged and wrenched out, the corer emerging with several different shades of powder along its length – white, cream, yellow, pink – in sharply defined layers. She emptied the sample quill carefully, labelling each bottle with the number on the side of the bag.

  Despite the physical effort required to force the sample punch through the lumps, her teeth chattered. She stoppered the vial on the last sample and blew on her hands. Nearly done. One more task. Tick off the bag numbers against the delivery notes.

  She jogged on the spot as she co
mpared numbers. An icy finger of unease slowed her steps, freezing her with surprise. O que é isto? Jaq threw the clipboard and swore. She should have checked the numbers first. They didn’t bloody match. The consignment note said one thing, and the bags said another. All that work, and she’d just spent hours sampling the wrong batch.

  The windows rattled and the inner door flapped open. A gust of icy wind blew in a flurry of snow through the gap. High above the jagged peaks a new storm loomed.

  She shouldered her bag, locked the warehouse and marched along the covered walkways to the office block. A row of brand-new snowsuits hung from a rail in the access hall, clear plastic covering flapping in the wind as she opened the inner door. The lockers rattled as she strode past, stuffed to the gunnels with climbing ropes, snowshoes, crampons, skis and poles.

  Inside the laboratory, she placed the samples in the blast-proof fridge before dialling Zagrovyl complaints. Customer care, they called it. A misnomer if ever there was one. Closed for the weekend. Customer-don’t-care, more like. She left a message. After locking up, she stowed the keys in the inside pocket of her bag and zipped it up.

  Outside the snow was falling fast. She took a shortcut towards the exit gates.

  ‘All finished?’ Stefan opened the gatehouse hatch as she approached.

  ‘Some mix-up,’ she said. ‘Consignment notes don’t match the delivery. One of the pallets is quarantined until we sort it out.’ She handed him the consignment notes through the hatch.

  Stefan swayed and grabbed the window ledge. ‘I’ll call Zagrovyl.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘Already done.’

  A strangled moan escaped his lips and a shadow passed over his face, descending like a shutter, leaving a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow.

  Jaq stopped in her tracks. She’d sent him away earlier because of the cold, but now he looked seriously ill. A man in his sixties in a sedentary job with occasional bursts of physical activity in sub-zero temperatures. A recipe for disaster.