The Chemical Detective Page 7

  He stirred as she sat down beside the bed.

  ‘Hi, Stefan,’ Jaq said. ‘I brought you some fruit.’

  ‘Whisky would be more bloody useful,’ he growled.

  ‘I’ll remember that for next time.’ She laughed. ‘It’s Jaq. From Snow Science. Came to see how you’re doing.’

  His eyes flew open. ‘Dr Silver.’ He scrabbled at the sheet, drawing it tight around his neck. ‘You need to leave.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Jaq drew back. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  He sat up in the bed, suddenly flushed, chest heaving. A hand shot out and clutched her arm, preventing her from obeying his next instruction. ‘Go away!’ he said. ‘It’s not safe.’

  ‘Not safe?’ she repeated.

  ‘Not safe at Snow Science.’ He squeezed her arm and released it, his voice rising in volume. ‘Get out while you can.’

  A nurse bustled over, a middle-aged woman in a blue uniform and white lace-up shoes with fair hair scraped back from an angular face into a neat bun. Her low voice commanded attention.

  ‘Madam,’ she said. ‘You are disturbing my patient.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Jaq tilted her head in contrition. ‘I just arrived. I won’t stay long.’

  Stefan moaned. ‘Get away!’

  The nurse laid a firm hand on the chair. ‘The patient has asked you to leave.’

  ‘That’s not what he meant,’ Jaq protested.

  ‘Mr Resnik needs to rest.’ The nurse pointed towards the exit.

  Jaq bent over the bed and whispered in Stefan’s ear. ‘Tell me what happened, please.’

  ‘Shall I call security?’ The nurse didn’t raise her voice but spoke with an authority that brooked no argument.

  Stefan closed his eyes and turned away. ‘Go,’ he whimpered. ‘Before it’s too late.’

  Thursday 3 March, Budapest, Hungary

  The rain froze to sleet as Boris shivered under a flimsy shelter in the motorway lay-by outside Budapest. They wouldn’t let him back into the cab, nor would they let him leave.

  Bad enough to have the wagon surrounded by soldiers, but he was cold, hungry and tired as well. He should have stopped for food before Budapest. Goulash. Dumplings. His stomach groaned with hunger.

  When were they going to release the lorry? What if they arrested him? Demanded to know what was hidden in there? He imagined their faces as he told the truth. You think explosives are bad? Try some of this stuff! And what if he told them where he was actually taking the cargo?

  For a moment, he was tempted. Trouble is, he’d done too many jobs already. If he told the authorities what he knew, he’d go straight to jail. And then Mario would find him. And send someone to kill him. Best to say nothing.

  Something was up. A car arrived. A woman emerged. Christ, they were everywhere these days. Wide-hipped, short white hair, turquoise salopettes. Straight off a ski slope. None too happy about it. The other one, curly hair, leather boots, was back. She didn’t look too chuffed either, a bunch of men in suits in tow. He sidled up, close enough to hear the introductions.

  ‘Camilla Hatton, Zagrovyl.’

  ‘Carla Rachman, International Atomic Energy Agency.’

  The two women strutted away, out of earshot, and faced up to one another. They weren’t going to see eye to eye. No siree. Spoiling for a fight. Phones appeared. Phones were exchanged. Curly stomped away, waving her free arm around as she listened, black curls bouncing with agitation. She practically threw the phone back at the white-haired woman, who caught it with a deft sideways feint.

  The suits from Austria left with their noisy equipment in their fancy cars, and the soldiers piled back into their van. Victory! Zagrovyl one, bureaucrats nil. Sometimes it felt good to be on the winning side.

  The customs official marched over and handed Boris the transport papers, signed and stamped.

  ‘Okay, mate, you’re good to go.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ Boris asked.

  ‘A misunderstanding. It’s all fine.’

  Boris shrugged and started up the engine. As he passed the white-haired woman, he raised his hand in a salute. She stared straight through him.

  Bitch.

  Camilla Hatton. The name was familiar. The Spider would remember. The Spider never forgot anyone. That’s what made him so dangerous.

  Click. 47.45952, 18.99284. Intensity 72X, 648C

  Boris changed gear and headed east. He would stop for food and rest as soon as he was clear of Budapest. Tonight, he would cross the border with Ukraine, and then he was on the home run.

  Chernobyl.

  Click. 51.389853, 30.094047. Intensity . . . Error . . . Error . . . Signal lost

  Friday 4 March, Kranjskabel, Slovenia

  Jaq pulled on her new snowsuit and patted the fabric to check for pockets. None: they had ignored her request again. She converted her bag to a backpack and coiled the climbing kit around her waist. The blasting planned for today had been delayed; the explosives store was still out of bounds as a crime scene. The ski slopes beckoned instead. A chance to forget about Zagrovyl and Gregor. Ex-employers and ex-husbands were bad news. Time to gather some snow samples.

  Jaq rode the button lift up and skied to the crest of the north ridge. The portable laboratory in her bag contained everything she needed.

  She anchored the orange nylon rope around a rock pillar, looped it through the metal karabiner at her waist and tied a double overhand knot. It was a smooth belay down to the site of interest.

  The procedure was similar to taking samples in the warehouse. Extend the telescopic tube with a sharp point on the end, lock and push deep into the snow. When it was retracted, a core of snow came with it, perfectly representative of the layers below the surface.

  She assembled a portable microscope and assessed the crystal shape in each layer, then extracted a second sample to measure density, filling a graduated tube, closing it with a stopper and leaving it in the sun to melt.

  Six-pointed star snowflakes were stable; each unique and beautiful crystal had jagged legs that hooked and linked to another in three dimensions. The danger struck when supercooled water froze suddenly into pellets, rounded shapes that could easily slide one over the other. Avalanches were frequent on this sort of steep terrain. And the start and end of the season were the worst times.

  The snow sparkled white and blue, diamonds and sapphires twinkling from the surface, reflecting the azure sky – a colour halfway between blue and cyan – a shade only possible in the thin, clean air of the High Alps. Completely absorbed in her task, unaware of the shadow moving across the snow until the warmth went out of the air. A tall figure skied up to her and blocked out the sun. Karel.

  ‘I tried to call you.’ Jaq shielded her eyes as she looked up at him.

  ‘What are you doing up here?’ he said. His voice was exasperated, unfriendly. ‘The north ridge is dangerous, out of bounds.’

  ‘Not any more,’ she said, and held out the microscope. ‘Look.’

  But Karel didn’t want to hear about snow crystals, dendrites and needles and rime and graupel. It was obvious there was only one thing on his mind. Gregor Coutant.

  Jaq packed up. ‘I’m sorry about Tuesday night.’

  ‘Was anyone hurt?’

  At least he had the decency to think of others before his wounded pride. ‘The security guard is in hospital. But he’ll recover.’ She poked the snow with a ski pole and drew a circle in hollow dots. ‘Gregor Coutant is my ex-husband. We’ve been separated for a while.’

  She untied the knot and yanked at the rope. It slithered down the slope like an orange snake.

  ‘I don’t care,’ he said, but his voice softened a little.

  A good man. He believed this was an avalanche zone and still skied over, putting himself at risk to warn her. Perhaps there was still hope. Perhaps she could salvage something from the mess.

  ‘Can I show you something?’ she asked.

  Jaq yanked at one of the plastic tubes buried i
n the snow. ‘Do you know what this is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The artificial glacier project.’

  Karel said nothing but straightened his skis and slid forward.

  She pointed up at the mountain. ‘The ice on the south side is melting. We divert the meltwater to the north and it freezes again. That way we preserve the fresh water and release it slowly over the summer months.’

  Turning her back, she began to ski away.

  ‘Science lesson over,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Race you back.’

  There were many reasons for taking the job at Snow Science. First and foremost was the need to get away. From Gregor, from Zagrovyl, from the lawsuit. Second was the chance to design and run her own experiments, try different combinations far from anyone who could be hurt. But the third and most uncomplicated was the chance to ski again.

  The snowboard was handy for low-level commuting, but for the high slopes, she preferred skis.

  Jaq gave herself over to the sheer pleasure of doing something she excelled at. Launching herself off the cornice, the snowy overhang formed by the constant wind between rocky outcrops, she sailed clear of the glacier and landed on powder. The acceleration took her breath away. Nothing to beat the buzz, the thrill of speed, the adrenaline response to danger all around, the exhilaration of freedom.

  As the westerly sun warmed one side of her face, a rush of cold air froze the other. The snow glittered, crisp and granular. She flew across a crust of ice, hearing the crunch as it collapsed behind her. Straight down the slope, a thin layer of water making the hardpack faster. Careful. Approaching the treeline. Zigzag round the trunks, jump over roots. Flobble-flump. Rafts of snow fell from branches, bringing with them the scent of pine pitch. Swish, swoosh, sliding into the valley, glancing up at glorious jagged mountains tinted rose gold. Avoid the mashed potato on the southern dip, snowplough-turn to skirt the novice skiers. Slew, stem and glide as the resort came into view.

  Jaq didn’t pay much attention to Karel, but slowed a little on the run-out to allow him to overtake her as they carved into the valley.

  With his hat and goggles already removed, he waited for her.

  ‘What now?’ A deeper question in his voice.

  What indeed. What did she want from him? Nothing. Just for him to ski away and forget her. And yet.

  ‘I think I owe you dinner,’ she said. ‘We can heat the fish.’

  ‘Baah . . . old fish is no good.’ But she could hear the smile. ‘I’ll pick up something fresh and be there in twenty minutes.’

  They had undressed one another long before they finished the pizza.

  When Jaq woke, Karel was still asleep. She scrutinised his untroubled brow, his square, clean-shaven chin, the long ringlets of hair and curling fair eyelashes: young, beautiful, the face of an angel.

  She got up and wrapped herself in a towel to make breakfast. He deserved something better than instant coffee. At the back of the cupboard she located the Bialetti Dama – a Christmas present from Johan and Emma.

  A noise rose from the bed. Karel was murmuring in his sleep. He had a beautiful voice, low and slow. She pressed one hand to her ear to control the melting memory of last night. The moment she’d stopped and looked at him, really looked. He was filling a glass of water for her, standing here, where she was now, at the sink. Naked. From the bed she’d studied the shape of him outlined in the moonlight, then listened to his approach through the darkness, tingling all over, aching for his touch.

  A shaft of sunlight warmed her face through the kitchenette window. The skiers were already queuing at the lifts. White snow contrasting with the bright colours of their ski outfits: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, turquoise. Turquoise salopettes. Damn. Why had she agreed to meet with Camilla Hatton? Did Camilla really work for Zagrovyl? Could the company have changed so much? She didn’t fit the profile of a Zagrovyl director. Survival of the meanest, the ones who succeeded were misanthropic, aggressive, thrusting bullies. There was something credible about Camilla. Which made the subterfuge even more disappointing. Camilla had tricked Jaq into leaving the mysterious samples unattended. Camilla had told her to keep her distance. Camilla could not be trusted.

  What to make of Stefan’s warning? The security guard had been shaken. Already in poor health, now he was confused. Paranoid even.

  Cold brown water trickled out as she unscrewed the jug of the Bialetti Dama from the octagonal base. Ugh. Had she forgotten to clean it out last time? The tightly packed coffee grounds had turned green and an impressive colony of white spores had made a home inside the filter section. After scraping the residue into a bin, Jaq filled the sink with hot water and detergent and let her hands float in the warmth, the water caressing her skin as she scrubbed the coffee maker clean. She dried it and poured coffee into the funnel, packing it down with the flat side of a spoon before inserting it into the base and screwing on the jug.

  It was a thoughtful gift. It must have been Emma who bought and shipped the little coffee pot in time for Christmas, but Jaq knew the choice of gift was Johan’s. He always knew the right thing for her. If only she’d heeded him. Johan had warned her about Gregor. She’d chosen not to listen. Too late now. Johan had Emma and the children, and they were happy. A sigh from the bed reminded her that, today at least, she was happy too.

  She lit two gas rings, placed the assembled coffee machine on top of one and a small pan of milk on the other. Three minutes. Behind her the sheets rustled and sunbeams danced as bare feet padded across the floor, bringing the scent of liquorice and the heat of a smooth chest pressing against her back.

  The towel fell to the floor and she glanced down at her body. A hand cupped her breasts, her nipples erect even though his fingers hadn’t reached them yet. The other hand wandered across her belly. She rubbed her buttocks against him, bringing her hands down to steady herself against the kitchen counter, pretending to continue with the coffee activities, placing the cups on tinkling saucers. His lips were on her neck, then his tongue in her ear whispering his request.

  As he slipped inside her, three things happened at once.

  The Bialetti Dama spluttered and whistled as the last of the pressurised water rose up through the ground coffee. The milk in the pan boiled over, a great wave of white froth cresting and foaming onto the cooker, extinguishing the gas flame so the rising steam carried the smell of fresh coffee, burnt milk protein and unburnt gas.

  And outside, a massive explosion shook the whole valley.

  Saturday 5 March, Kranjskabel, Slovenia

  Jaq ran from her flat to Snow Science, racing towards the source of smoke that billowed and soared. Barely registering the cold; her calves and thighs burning with the effort of running uphill. As she neared the main gate, a police car roared past, soaking her in a salty grey spray. She weaved past two fire engines parked outside, all eyes on the pillar of grey smoke rising from the warehouse into the calm blue sky.

  ‘Spusti me noter!’ The fire chief raised his voice, demanding to be let in. Patrice, the security guard, stood firm, barring the entrance.

  ‘Stop! Ne vstopajte!’ Jaq yelled. Panting with the effort of covering the final few metres, she kept the information brief. ‘Explosives. Eksplozivi.’

  ‘I told them,’ Patrice said.

  ‘Well done.’ Jaq turned as an ambulance arrived. ‘Anyone hurt?’

  ‘No one in today,’ Patrice said and handed her the yellow hi-vis jacket with Emergency Controller, Sili Glavni, stamped across it in red.

  Jaq bent forward with her hands on her knees and took a few deep breaths, before slipping the vest on and signalling to the fire chief to join her in the control centre.

  She showed him the inventory and the sign-in sheet and asked Patrice to confirm no one had been working inside Snow Science at the time of the explosion. ‘Can we take the fire tender to the rise and go up in your aerial platform?’ Jaq pointed to the hydraulic ladder at the back of the fire engine.

  From a vantage
point twenty metres above the site, Jaq examined the roof of the warehouse. The cinder block walls were intact, but the plastic sheeting on the side and roof of one corner had been blasted away. The smoke was thinning. The worst was over.

  ‘No sign of fire,’ she shouted down.

  The fire chief relayed the information to the brigade. Jaq closed her eyes and created a mental map of the warehouse. The stock of high explosives was on the south-west wall. All the damage appeared to be in the north-east corner, where there was only a small office, sample cabinet and a vending machine that didn’t work.

  ‘Bring me down,’ Jaq said. When she arrived at ground level, she presented a summary. ‘The event is confined to a small area of the warehouse. I’ll wait until the smoke has cleared and then go in and check.’

  ‘No.’ The fire chief wagged a finger at her. ‘Products of combustion can be every bit as dangerous as fire.’

  ‘Oxides of carbon and nitrogen.’ Jaq nodded. ‘I know. I do this for a living. I’ll test the atmosphere first.’

  ‘Ignition temperatures?’ he asked.

  ‘Above two hundred degrees centigrade,’ Jaq said. ‘Biggest risk of detonation is percussive,’ she clapped her hands to illustrate, ‘and the shock wave has long passed.’

  They sent a robot in first, a thermal camera and gas detector on wheels. Jaq moved back as they opened the warehouse door. A smouldering fire could be reignited by a rush of oxygen.

  Patrice came up to her. ‘Dr Visquel has arrived. He wants to see you in the office.’

  ‘Once we’re sure—’

  ‘He said to come immediately.’

  ‘Tell him you passed on the message.’

  Patrice nodded and turned away.

  As soon as the fire chief gave Jaq the all-clear, she made her way into the warehouse. As the smoke dissipated, the damage to the north-east corner became visible. Sunlight shining in where the corner walls and roof should be illuminating the tangled mess. Bright red melted plastic mixed in with white electrical conduits, fragments of yellow foam insulation, shining steel and charred debris.