The Chemical Reaction Read online

  He sat back in a glow of satisfaction, watching her storm out. He had to hand it to her; she was tough. Which made it all the sweeter. Nothing more satisfying than impending victory over a worthy adversary. Whatever the medical advice, he was ready to get back to work.

  Match Man accosted him as he was leaving for his appointment with the doctor who stood between him and Zagrovyl.

  ‘Mr Good, so glad I caught you.’ He beamed. ‘Good news. Level 2, Row AA, Seat 17 has not yet been sponsored.’

  Frank carried on walking. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  Teesside, England

  The fair was back in town. A big wheel, ghost train, carousel, dodgems, roller coaster and a cantilevered catapult that swung out across Yarm High Street, narrowly missing the tops of the Georgian terraced houses as it looped the loop over the river Tees at white-knuckle speeds.

  A little boy sat at the window of Jaq’s flat, a glossy brown conker in his hand, wrinkling his snub nose and licking his lips at the hint of hot sugar in the air outside: candyfloss and toffee apples.

  ‘Can we go to the fair now, please?’

  Emma shook her head. ‘Sorry, darling.’ She stroked the fair hair of her baby daughter, fast asleep on her lap. ‘We can’t go yet.’

  Jaq watched Ben’s shoulders slump, but he said nothing.

  Emma turned to Jaq. ‘Where’s that contract you wanted me to look at?’

  Jaq pulled out the file. She couldn’t meet Emma’s eyes. This was the moment she’d been dreading. She stuck a yellow note onto the front and wrote on it. I can take Ben to the fair if you like.

  ‘You sure?’ Emma mouthed.

  ‘If you’re OK with it?’

  ‘Let’s ask him.’ Emma whistled. ‘Ben, d’you want to go to the fair with Aunty Jaq?’

  A bundle of energy leapt up from the window and grabbed Jaq’s hand.

  ‘Off you go, then.’ Emma kissed him as he passed. ‘Take care.’

  Outside the flat, they pushed their way through the crowds, past the Roma caravans with fortune tellers, straight to the merry-go-round. Jaq let the little boy choose a horse and hoisted him on before taking the saddle on the one behind.

  ‘Again!’

  After the third session, Jaq enticed him away to the candyfloss centrifuge and the big wheel. It wasn’t very big, but it towered over the houses. Each time their little pod made its slow progress into the sky, Ben waved and shouted at the windows of Jaq’s flat, hoping for a glimpse of his mother. Jaq texted her friend and by the last circle, Emma was leaning out of the window, blowing kisses at her son.

  Ben spotted the giant soft toys from the air, pointing excitedly at lions and tigers and a giraffe. As soon as they were back on land, he made a beeline for the shooting gallery.

  ‘I’m gonna win a present for Mummy,’ he announced. ‘And Jade.’ A definite afterthought. His relationship with his little sister wasn’t entirely straightforward. Understandable, really. Promised a playmate, all his baby sibling had done so far was sleep, cry, eat and poo, demanding almost constant attention from her parents. And yet Ben was clearly fond of Jade, bringing her well-meaning if unsuitable presents – interesting stones, unusual insects, telling her stories, singing her songs with the words all muddled up.

  Jaq wondered how Sam had felt about her, his little sister. She remembered her big brother as a friend and ally, her protector until she became his. And then she hadn’t done a very good job. The mock Kalashnikovs, model AK47s of the shooting gallery brought back a flood of unwelcome memories.

  ‘How old are you, sunshine?’ The gruff voice brought her back to the present as Ben clambered onto a stool, reaching out for a rifle.

  ‘Four and three-quarters,’ Ben announced proudly.

  ‘Sorry, mate.’ The stall owner took the gun from him and pointed at the sign. ‘Eight years or over.’

  Ben bit his lip. ‘The fair is not fair at all.’

  She could have offered to shoot for him, but the thought of handling a gun, even a poor replica, made her stomach turn. Jaq took his hand. ‘Come on, I know something better.’

  His eyes opened wide at the wriggling goldfish slowly suffocating in plastic bags beside the coconut shy. Jaq paid for a heap of missiles – little bags of sand sewn into rough sacking – and kept paying until between them they finally managed to topple a coconut.

  He chose a little fish with red fins and a gold back, the underbelly spotted with white. A sick little Carassius auratus. Jaq felt a momentary pang of conscience, but Emma would know what to do with it.

  Ben carried his prize aloft and they headed back to Jaq’s flat.

  Rosalie the fortune teller sat on the steps of her caravan, a little wooden house on wheels, elaborate carvings of flowers and dragons around the circular opening, the sides freshly painted in bright red and green.

  ‘Cross my palm with silver, and I’ll tell you the future.’ Her voice was low and musical, and Ben stopped to stare.

  Gold rings dangled from her ears and a jewelled comb sparkled in her long black hair, the coils twisted into a bun on top of her head. Her eyes slanted upwards, dark with kohl, and red lipstick contrasted against gleaming white teeth and smooth, tanned skin. She wore a dress with a tight bodice and flared skirt, clean white petticoats tumbling out beneath the embroidered hem.

  ‘Shall I tell you your fortune, young master?’ She beckoned to Ben with a long finger, the nail a curved talon painted purple with a gold star in the centre.

  Ben regarded her with curious fascination. ‘What about my fish?’ he asked. ‘Can you tell his fortune?’

  ‘Indeed,’ she cackled. ‘Come inside.’

  Ben looked up at Jaq in excitement and she didn’t have the heart to pull him away. Anyway, she was curious to know what a Roma fortune teller made of the poor fish’s chances of survival. She pulled out a pound coin, but the woman held up ten fingers. Outrageous. Jaq haggled until they reached a compromise.

  An oil lamp made their shadows flicker and dance as the woman ushered them inside the caravan and let the heavy curtain fall. She pointed to brocade cushions on the floor and took up position behind a low stool. Ben held his fish aloft, the gold scales bright in the soft light.

  ‘What’s his name?’ Rosalie raised a velvet cloth to reveal a glass globe.

  ‘Rosco Bulldozer.’

  Jaq suppressed a smile.

  ‘A fine name,’ the fortune teller said, straight-faced. ‘A noble name. For this fish is a prince among fishes. He has come a long way. Do you know where this fish came from?’

  ‘The sea?’

  ‘From China. Rosco is descended from the royal fish of the Qing dynasty. His imperial forebears swam in the jewelled pools between the palaces of the Forbidden City.’

  ‘Where’s his crown?’ Ben peered through the plastic, the lens of water making his eyes even larger.

  ‘Rosco’s grandfather gave up his royal privileges to be with the love of his life, and they swam away together.’

  ‘To come to Yarm Fair?’

  ‘To find you. But Rosco will not be with you for long,’ she said. ‘So, you must heed the five lessons he teaches.’

  She held up a hand, her long fingers heavy with rings, little sequins and stars sparkling in the varnish of her painted nails.

  ‘Number one – we all need space. Give him a big tank of water to swim in, the biggest one you can find. Give him the illusion of freedom and he will settle into his captivity.’

  Jaq looked at Ben to see if he had understood. He was staring at the woman, nodding sagely.

  ‘Number two – keep him clean. Change half his water and brush his tank every week. And that goes for you too, young man, for the master must set an example.’

  ‘I brush my teeth three times every day,’ Ben said proudly, opening his mouth to display a fine set of baby teeth.

  ‘Number three – don’t feed him too much. Greedy fish get slow and sick, and that goes for the master, too.’

  ‘I’m not greedy,’ Be
n said, surreptitiously wiping a pink thread of candy floss from the edge of his mouth.

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ Her eyes sparkled as she held up her ring finger. ‘Number four. You must do a good deed every day.’

  ‘Every day? Even school days?’

  ‘Every day.’

  Ben wrinkled his nose and dropped his eyes, thinking hard. Eventually he looked up and nodded.

  ‘Number five.’ She held up her pinkie. ‘Can you read?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ben said, then cast a sideways look at Jaq. ‘A bit.’

  ‘Then you must read to your fish out loud. Every single day. He only speaks Chinese right now. You must teach him English. And the best way to do that is to read him stories.’

  Ben opened his eyes wide. ‘Will he speak back to me?’

  ‘Not out loud. But you’ll hear him in your head. Watch the patterns he forms as he swims. Right now, he is speaking to you in Chinese characters. Once you teach him your language, he’ll spell words for you. But only if you treat him right. Lots of space, keep him clean, not too much food, be good, read to him every day. Got it?’

  ‘Got it!’ Ben turned, ready to go.

  Good advice. Money well spent. Maybe the so-called Roma fortune teller was an ichthyologist, or a primary school literacy champion making a bit of extra money at half-term. ‘Thank you.’ Jaq stood up with a smile.

  Ben pulled back the curtain and the light from the lamp flickered.

  ‘Wait!’ The woman grasped Jaq’s hand and ran a finger over her palm. ‘Your son.’

  Jaq tried to pull her hand away. ‘Ben isn’t my son.’

  Dark eyes bored into her soul, a beam of dizzying intensity. There was sadness in those dark eyes, but also a hard edge, a glint of anger, a tinge of madness.

  ‘Your son is looking for you. He’s out there. Searching. A son in danger.’

  ‘I don’t have children.’ Jaq wrenched her hand free and turned to follow Ben, who had already descended the wooden steps and was running towards the crowd.

  ‘Ben, wait!’ Jaq shouted, jumping down after him. The last step tilted, and she tumbled onto the cobbles. As she picked herself up, a wave of people surged past and Ben disappeared.

  Heart beating nineteen to the dozen, Jaq raced after him. But he was nowhere to be seen. Amor de Deus. Where was he? He couldn’t have gone far.

  ‘Ben!’

  What would Johan say if she lost his son at Yarm Fair? It was amazing that he trusted her near his children after the near drowning in Lake Coniston. Ben seemed to have recovered from his misadventure, but now she’d put him in danger again. One moment’s inattention and he was gone.

  The fortune teller called after her. ‘Find him!’

  Fat lot of help that was. Oh, Christ. What if the fortune teller was part of some gang? Gaining Ben’s trust so that an accomplice could whisk him away from under her nose? Bile rising in her mouth, her stomach clenched as she pushed deeper into the crowd.

  ‘Oi! Steady on. Watch where you’re going!’

  Jaq ignored the protests, elbowing her way through the crowd, pushing and shoving, every muscle straining. Where was he?

  ‘Ben!’

  And there he was. High above the crowd. Sailing towards her. A big grin on his little face, Rosco Bulldozer held aloft, still swimming in his tiny polyethylene prison. Safe on the shoulders of his father.

  ‘Johan!’

  Jaq fell into the arms of her best friend and, for a moment, all was right with the world again.

  The meal was simple, hastily assembled. Pizzas from the deep freeze (with extra olives, anchovies, capers, jalapeño peppers for the adults), accompanied by a packet of pre-washed salad tossed with a dressing of Dijon mustard, olive oil and cider vinegar. The goldfish was installed in a clean washing-up bowl and Johan took the children to bed, leaving Emma and Jaq alone.

  ‘I can’t believe you signed this!’ Emma put down the bundle of papers and stared at Jaq, her blue eyes wide with astonishment. ‘Why didn’t you check with me first?’

  ‘There wasn’t much time.’

  In truth, there had been time enough. But Jaq had caused her friend enough trouble, enough danger.

  ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘I won’t lie, Jaq.’ Emma leafed through and pointed at a paragraph on the final page. ‘In the event of damage or loss you agreed to pay the cost of repairs or the full cost of a replacement yacht.’ She sighed. ‘There’s no provision for dispute resolution. It’s not good.’

  Good. Frank Good. A misnomer if ever there was one. Neither frank nor good.

  ‘There was something structurally wrong with the Frankium. There’s no way a storm, even of that intensity, could have caused it to sink.’

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  Jaq shook her head. The Frankium lay in pieces at the bottom of the Black Sea.

  ‘At least no one was badly hurt,’ Emma said.

  ‘Giovanni might disagree.’

  Emma laughed. ‘If he’s anything like Johan, he’ll bounce back quickly enough from a broken arm.’

  ‘He could have been killed.’ It was a close call. And if they’d been down below when the yacht disintegrated, they would both have drowned. Was that Frank’s plan all along? Had he booby-trapped the yacht? ‘I’m going to fight this.’ And nail Frank.

  Emma flicked through. ‘As your friend, I would say why not? As a lawyer, I would have to advise caution. It’s not my area of expertise. You’d have to hire specialists. It could be very expensive. My recommendation would be arbitration, make a direct appeal, try for a settlement.’

  ‘Negotiate with that bastard? Never! I’d rather pay him his filthy money.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ll sell this flat.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how much yachts cost? It’s a lovely flat, but I doubt the money you’d get would come close to what you would need.’

  Johan joined them, walking on tiptoe, closing the door softly behind him.

  ‘Do they need me?’ Emma made to stand up.

  He shook his head. ‘It’s OK. I read one of the new books Jaq bought for Ben. They both went straight off to sleep.’

  ‘Does that mean I chose well, or badly?’ Jaq asked.

  ‘Perfectly judged.’ Johan smiled and joined his wife on the sofa.

  Jaq sprang to her feet. ‘Wine, anyone?’

  Johan and Emma exchanged glances. ‘Go on then,’ Emma said. ‘A very small glass of white.’

  ‘And a large red for me.’

  Jaq removed a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the fridge and then uncorked a bottle of Rioja. Johan fetched two large crystal goblets and one tiny sherry glass from the sideboard.

  Jaq poured the wine, refraining from comment on the marital portion control.

  ‘Cheers!’ They chinked glasses. ‘OK, bring me up to speed.’

  Emma outlined the mess Jaq was in – a sunken yacht and a contract that held her liable for the cost.

  ‘So where are they with the salvage operation?’ asked Johan.

  Jaq sighed. ‘If Frank has anything to do with it, the yacht will never be recovered.’

  Emma shook her head. ‘If the boat is insured, then it won’t be his decision. The moment he makes a claim, it becomes the job of his insurers.’

  ‘After negotiating with the Russian, Ukrainian, Georgian, Romanian, Turkish and Bulgarian maritime agencies. So it’s not going to happen any time soon, and the longer it stays underwater, the poorer the evidence.’

  ‘I know guys who do underwater survey work, contracts from insurance companies – North Sea, mainly,’ Johan said. ‘They might appreciate a job in warmer water. Even if they can’t bring the yacht to the surface, they might be able to get some underwater pictures to prove your case.’

  That was the great thing about Johan and Emma. They believed in her. At times, more than she believed in herself.

  ‘The trouble is . . .’ Jaq hadn’t told anyone yet. ‘I did sort of blow it up.’

  They both turned to look a
t her.

  ‘Giovanni was trapped, and I had to get him out.’

  Johan chuckled. ‘That’s the spirit!’

  Emma looked aghast. ‘You blew it up?’

  ‘Only after it capsized.’ Jaq took a gulp of wine. ‘Without evidence, it’s my word against Frank’s. With evidence of an explosion, it’s going to look even worse.’

  ‘You need a good lawyer.’

  Jaq touched Emma’s shoulder. ‘I’ve got a good lawyer.’

  Emma reached up and squeezed her hand. ‘No, you need a specialist lawyer.’

  ‘Can you recommend one?’

  ‘I can ask around, but it’s not going to come cheap.’

  Johan fetched the bottle of red and filled Jaq’s glass and his. ‘What about the UN? The Organisation for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons. You went on their behalf, after all.’

  ‘Strictly unofficially. They’d have to deny all knowledge of a rendition from Ukraine. Anyway, Frank Good is a bloody hero in their eyes. They need his testimony, and they’re unlikely to want to alienate him before the trial.’

  ‘What about the woman you rescued?’ Emma asked.

  Jaq noted that Emma hadn’t touched her drink. ‘Camilla Hatton.’

  ‘You saved her life. Maybe she could help with legal fees.’

  ‘Or maybe I need to find a job.’

  And, as she confided to Rosco Bulldozer, contentedly swimming round her washing-up bowl after everyone else had gone to bed, a very well-paid job at that.

  Newcastle, England

  Frank sat in the dark of the gentlemen’s club and nursed his tonic water, scowling at the barmaids.

  The elation he’d felt after the showdown with Jaqueline Silver had all but evaporated in the doctor’s surgery. He might be medically fit, but Zagrovyl were putting new obstacles in the path of his return. It was almost as if they didn’t want him back. Ludicrous. Clearly, there was some conspiracy against him at the Teesside factory.

  The TV screen above the bar flicked over to the news. He watched the ticker tape headline.

  Scotland Yard launch murder investigation after victim of frenzied stabbing bleeds to death in his luxury Chelsea home.

  Frank drained his glass. He’d come to this city centre haven in the hope that a dose of recreational titillation would chase away the blues, but he’d felt no stirring of interest in any of the hostesses so far.