The Chemical Detective Read online

  Her eyes strayed to the Paula Rego ceramic hanging above her desk, the only decoration in the room. The square tile, deft coloured brushstrokes on a cream-glazed background, was a gift from Great-Aunt Letitia.

  A blue woman leaps over yellow fire, lithe and strong with well-defined calves and forearms. The bodice of her sleeveless dress is tight and smooth against a generous bosom; her ponytail and skirt soar in the air as she travels forward from right to left. Slip-on shoes balance precariously on outstretched feet as the ankles bend, the toes stiffen, the bridges arch to keep the mules from slipping into the fire. She glances down, assessing the danger, calibrating the risk, a half-smile on her lips. This is not a woman fleeing danger; rather one embracing it. Her hands swivel at the wrists, long fingers curled over to meet the tip of a straight thumb forming a dancing bud, ready to click in time to the campfire castanets, ready to flower.

  The leaping woman is in complete control of the moment.

  Vamos a isso! Jaq rose from the bed and selected some music, plugging her phone into the speakers. No one can sulk to P-Funk. As she bopped around the room, allowing George Clinton and Parliament to work their magic on her mood, she couldn’t help noticing just how bare the room looked. She’d meant to buy more things, local handicrafts, soften it a bit, but she was always too busy at work. Work, ha! Some dream job, this. Look where it had led. Outmanoeuvred. Outnumbered. Outfoxed.

  Jaq had been furious when she stormed out of Laurent’s office. Now the anger was tinged with disquiet. She needed to talk with someone she trusted, but when she called Johan from her office at Snow Science, it went straight to voicemail. She left a message. Two missed calls from Gregor, the last person she wanted to talk to.

  You’re on your own. You are better on your own.

  A low battery alarm interfered with Bootsy Collins’s bass. When the track finished, she took the phone to the kitchenette and plugged it in. She selected something light, Bledi Konj, anything to distract herself, but Agatha Christie’s words danced on the pages and she couldn’t settle.

  The phone rang. Johan? It took only two strides to reach the kitchenette. It wasn’t Johan’s number so she let it go to voicemail. Karel’s deep voice emerged from the speaker, apologising for something. A little prickle of pleasure displaced her anger and she rang back.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Oh, you are there.’ Karel’s delight did something unexpected to her stomach. ‘Can we meet up?’

  Jaq hesitated. She definitely needed distraction. Why not someone unconnected with Snow Science or the mystery she had stumbled into? A couple of beers with a good-looking man. What was the harm in that?

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’m in the area,’ he said. ‘I think I might be on your street.’

  ‘What? On Korošca Ulica?’

  ‘What number are you?’

  She paused. Did she want Karel to know where she lived? It was meant to be a one-night stand, a moment of weakness: delicious, delirious, glorious weakness. Not to be repeated; she absolutely did not need another man in her life right now. One thing to wake up in the bed of a stranger, quite another to invite him into her personal space. This flat, however small and bare, was her private domain. Solitary. Claustrophobic. Cold. Bare. Mean. Miserable. Bolas, who was she kidding?

  She told him the building and flat number. The doorbell rang almost immediately.

  From the window she could see him, under a street lamp, a large brown paper bag in one hand, a rucksack on his back. He beamed up at her through the falling snow with a smile that was hard to resist.

  And why resist? What the hell was she waiting for? She buzzed to unlock the street entrance and opened the flat door as he bounded up the inner stairs.

  After the formal greeting, he kissed her on the mouth. Hot lips. Asking questions she wasn’t ready to answer. Jaq withdrew and stared into his eyes. The deep blue took her back to the school laboratory, the time she used the complete stock of copper sulphate to grow beautiful spiky crystals.

  She pulled away. ‘How did you know where I lived?’

  He cocked his head, a sheepish expression. ‘You told me, just now, on the phone.’

  ‘Then how did you get here so fast?’

  He laughed. ‘Nowhere in Kranjskabel is more than a few minutes away.’

  He had a point.

  ‘So, are you free for dinner?’ he asked.

  Snow was falling steadily, the wind whirling it into helical ribbons, a helter-skelter of icy white.

  He followed her eyes to the window. ‘I’m suggesting dinner right here.’

  ‘The choice is limited,’ she said. She’d stocked up recently on tins of baked beans and pot noodles, but European men were notoriously fussy about food.

  ‘I brought some stuff,’ he said. ‘Can I cook for you?’ He waited for her assent before unpacking a roll of sharp knives, a wooden chopping board and a wok from the rucksack. As he opened the brown bag, the smell of raw vegetables reminded her how bad her diet had become.

  ‘I like cooking,’ he said, and smiled at her, ‘almost as much as I enjoy eating with someone interesting.’

  ‘Interesting?’

  ‘Yes, interesting.’

  He could have said beautiful, but she would have rejected that. Beauty was a perfectly oval face, symmetrical features, a petite, hourglass figure, slender hands and small feet. Jaq’s tall, skinny body and strong features had been unappealing to callow youths when it first mattered. Although not to Mr Peres. In fact, those early encounters with her chemistry teacher had saved her from wasting time with boys, time she had spent studying so she could beat them all. As she grew older and curvier, she became more comfortable with her body, secure in her own skin.

  He could have said intelligent. She had been top of the class in everything she ever tried, from school through university.

  He could have said nice. No, not if he had been paying attention. She wasn’t going to repeat previous mistakes. She had learned her lesson, changed for good. Or for bad, depending on your point of view. Bad was the new good.

  On balance, she would settle for interesting. In fact, she liked it.

  He unpacked the food: a bunch of spring onions – long green stems with fat white bulbs; a stick of lemongrass; a stub of root ginger. He sliced the wizened and wrinkled skin of the ginger, revealing a buttery and glossy interior, and smashed the lemongrass with the handle of a knife, releasing a delectable aroma. For such a powerful man, he was unusually graceful, aware of his body, balletic in the confined space.

  ‘So, you work at Snow Science?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you do there?’

  ‘Top secret.’ She smiled. ‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’

  He grinned, and she relented.

  ‘It’s a mix. Some long-term research, some operational stuff. Snow generation to keep the slopes open. Safety. We monitor the snowpack, the depth and crystal shape. Before it builds up to dangerous levels, we set off minor explosions to avert the danger of avalanche. The main research centre is in the French Alps, but there are satellite Snow Science labs all over Europe.’

  ‘What are you working on right now?’

  ‘Testing out different types of explosives: dynamite, ammonium nitrate, TNT, and so on, and the best form of delivery – in the air above the snow, on the surface or buried underneath. Quite often the only access is from a helicopter, so most of my work is on fuse timing. And then there’s the more fundamental research on climate change and artificial glaciers and—’

  ‘Artificial glaciers?’

  ‘I can show you one day,’ Jaq said. ‘If you like.’

  ‘I’d like that very much.’

  Karel heated the wok and it started sizzling.

  ‘And you?’ Jaq asked.

  ‘Nothing so exciting.’ He sighed. ‘Just a man for hire. A ski instructor in the winter and a mountain guide in the summer.’ He splashed some wine into the wok and it bubbled and hissed.


  ‘And occasional chef?’

  ‘My training,’ he said and smiled. ‘But I prefer working outdoors.’

  As they sat down to eat, her mobile rang.

  She checked the caller ID. Laurent Visquel. Blast. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Work.’

  He nodded sympathetically.

  She answered. ‘This had better be important.’

  ‘Break-in at the explosives store,’ Laurent said.

  Merda. More than important.

  ‘Come immediately and see what is missing.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’ Jaq jumped to her feet.

  Karel sat back in his chair. ‘You’re leaving now? Can’t you eat first?’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ A knot formed in her stomach, twisting at her intestines. ‘It’s an emergency.’ Another one. How many dinners had she ruined because things always went wrong at night? ‘I have to go.’

  He sat motionless, food untouched as she changed clothes and organised her bag. She avoided returning his gaze until she had one hand on the door handle. ‘Please stay,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  ‘I understand.’ He met her eyes. ‘It’s okay.’

  Tuesday 1 March, Kranjskabel, Slovenia

  Jaq’s heart pounded as she raced down the back stairs to the drying room. She slipped into a warm jacket, laced up her stiff, dry boots and headed out into the night.

  Screaming sirens and flashes of blue light, reflected and amplified by the crystalline snow, heralded the arrival of the police. As she stepped down from the shuttle bus she noticed Laurent silhouetted in the halogen lights. She gritted her teeth. The small, dapper figure cast an unusually long shadow, one that was in constant motion as he rubbed his delicate gloveless hands and stomped his feet in thin-soled leather shoes. He dressed as if he was still in Paris. An ambulance sped past in the opposite direction. Someone injured? She swallowed hard.

  Laurent started shouting as she arrived. One of the uniformed policemen brought her up to speed. A break-in. The security guard, Stefan, overpowered and knocked unconscious. He hadn’t seen or heard his attacker and remembered nothing. He sustained a nasty head wound and was distressed and confused. They had taken him to hospital to check for concussion.

  The police were waiting for her at the door to the warehouse. Two uniformed officers stood well back, nervous at the proximity to explosives. Everything was wide open – the outside door, the inner door, the blast-proof cell doors, the metal cages and the sample cupboard. Mau Maria! What had been taken?

  Laurent was still shouting. She ignored him. The older of the two police officers asked the questions: what time had she locked up? She answered, slapping the snow crystals from her hat.

  ‘No sign of forced entry,’ the junior officer said. ‘Who has keys?’

  Laurent opened the smart leather shoulder bag he always carried, extricated his bunch of keys and rattled them. ‘Two full sets, given only to those licensed by the inspector general to handle explosives.’ He pointed to Jaq, and she produced the second set of keys from the secure pocket of her bag.

  ‘What about the security man, does he have keys?’ he asked.

  Jaq shook her head. ‘Only to the outer gate,’ she said. ‘He offloads the truck and leaves the material in the quarantine area. If these inner doors are opened and the alarm is not reset within thirty seconds, then the intruder alert goes off.’

  ‘Who has the key to reset the alarm?’

  ‘I do,’ Jaq said, holding out the clock-winder key. ‘And Dr Visquel.’ She nodded towards Laurent and he held up an identical key.

  ‘Well, let’s see what’s missing, shall we?’ The junior policeman gave Jaq latex gloves and instructions to touch as little as possible until they’d dusted for fingerprints.

  Box on box, shelf after shelf, case upon case, Jaq counted and recounted. She stopped and inspected. Everything was exactly as she had left it.

  ‘Were the thieves interrupted?’ she asked.

  The senior officer shrugged. ‘You have CCTV.’ He pointed at the cameras. ‘It shouldn’t be hard to see what happened.’

  After giving prints and a statement, Jaq hurried home. The flat was empty, no sign of Karel apart from a spotless kitchen.

  Assailed by conflicting emotions, Jaq sat on the edge of the bed. The rush of relief – her own space, her own rules, time to think – mingled with disappointment. She laid her head in her hands. Get a grip, girl. You are better alone. Now is not the time to wobble. Blood sugar low. Eat something.

  Karel had left several dishes in the fridge, covered in plastic film. She couldn’t face cold fish but ate some fruit salad, crunching absent-mindedly on the small pieces of peeled apple mixed with soft banana and berries.

  Should she call him? He could have waited. She stood at the window and surveyed the snowy street. Too late.

  Why had someone broken into the explosives store? How had they broken in? Overpowering poor Stefan was not enough. Without a full set of keys and knowledge of the sequence, the alarm should have gone off thirty seconds after entry. Why hadn’t the elaborate security system worked?

  As she crawled into bed, something rustled beneath the pillow. Smooth paper with a faintly spicy scent. She held it under the bedside light.

  A man came around. Gregor Coutant. Asked you to call.

  The note was signed by Karel.

  PS He says he’s your husband.

  Wednesday 2 March, Budapest, Hungary

  A stream of cars accelerated away from the motorway tollbooth, a spray of grey slush fanning out towards the parked lorry.

  Boris walked away from the policeman and lit a cigarette against the bitter cold. Had he made a mistake? What would Yuri have done? Damn. He never thought he’d miss that imbecile.

  The Hungarian police officer had waved his lorry down just outside Budapest and directed him to a lay-by.

  ‘What’s up, mate?’ Boris asked.

  ‘Special control,’ the official said. ‘Wait here.’ A radio crackled, and the official spoke into it.

  Boris opened the door. ‘How long?’

  ‘They’re on their way.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Inspectors.’

  Stay calm. ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ve set off some sort of alarm.’

  Just his luck. Mario would blame him for this, too.

  It was lunchtime before a black car drew into the lay-by, followed by a minibus. Soldiers emerged and surrounded the vehicle. With guns. What the fuck?

  A woman, dressed in a leather jacket, exited the car. Boris lit a cigarette and appraised the long black curls and motorcycle boots. Not a woman to argue with. She advanced towards the lorry as a soldier approached him.

  ‘Papers?’ The soldier demanded his documents.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  The soldier inspected the papers. ‘Wait here.’

  The woman circled the vehicle holding a black box. Click . . . click, click . . . click. Some sort of metal detector? Or a Geiger counter? Hovno! When she’d finished, the soldier handed her the papers.

  ‘Open up,’ she ordered.

  ‘It’s hazardous stuff,’ Boris protested.

  ‘I can read.’ She tapped the clipboard. ‘And I haven’t got all day.’

  Boris unlocked the back doors and flung them wide.

  The woman passed the black box over the first pallet. Click . . . click . . . click.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  She ignored his question. ‘You picked this up in Slovenia, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And it’s going to Russia?’

  ‘To Smolensk. For recycling.’

  Inside the truck, the device chattered like a machine gun.

  The woman shook the papers at Boris. ‘We’ll need more information.’ She turned to the soldier. ‘Get me the number for Zagrovyl,’ she said. ‘They have some explaining to do.’

  Wednesday 2 March, Jesenice, Slovenia

  The marke
t was in full swing. The thud of hessian sacks, the clatter of crates on concrete and the welcoming cries of stallholders hawking their wares drowned the chatter of shoppers.

  As the doors of the bus opened, Jaq breathed in the aroma of roasting chestnuts: acrid charred shell and sweet white flesh. She moved quickly past souvenir stalls brimming with wooden carvings, oil paintings, straw dolls dressed in traditional costume, wicker baskets and glazed pottery, and scanned the stalls groaning under the weight of Slovenia’s natural bounty: honeycomb cubes in wooden frames, liquid honey, jams and pickles in amber pots with bright red checked gingham hats, cheese and preserved meat wrapped in straw. At the fruit and vegetable stall she bought a small basket of fruit for Stefan – oranges, apples and grapes in a wicker tray wrapped in cellophane – and followed the signs to the Jesenice General Hospital.

  The police had drawn a complete blank on the Snow Science break-in. There were no unusual fingerprints. The CCTV disk was missing, and the backup system battery had run down and failed to register. The security guard was the only person who knew what had happened.

  As she got closer to the hospital, Jaq stopped and tried to call Karel again. No answer. So that was the end of that. She sighed. So be it. She certainly wasn’t going to return Gregor’s call.

  Gregor Coutant. Her husband. Third-biggest mistake of her life. What was he doing in Kranjskabel? How had he found her address? And what the hell did he want?

  She could imagine Gregor’s reaction to finding Karel, apparently perfectly at home, in her flat. Even though she and Gregor were long separated, even though he was the one divorcing her, the discovery of a younger man in her apartment would have brought out the worst of his competitive antagonism. Ugly.

  Let them fight it out. Right now, she had more pressing matters to attend to.

  Jaq stood aside to let the mountain rescue team rush past with a stretcher. A figure lay prone inside a portable canvas tent. Sedated or badly injured – there was no sign of movement. The stretcher entered A&E, and Jaq took the next entrance, towards the main reception.

  The smell of antiseptic hit her as she entered the ward. Stefan Resnik lay in an iron-framed bed in a ward of eight men. Suddenly much older, paler, thinner – and fast asleep. On a locker beside his bed sat a family photo, his reading glasses and a book.