The Chemical Detective Read online

  Only when she was sure that the dynamite and TNT safes remained undamaged did Jaq obey the summons from her boss. To tell him that it could have been worse. The ammonium nitrate was gone, but the segregation and blast walls had prevented any spread. There was no immediate danger; any risk of a secondary explosion had long passed.

  ‘I’m taking over,’ Laurent said.

  Well done you. Puxar a brasa à sua sardinha. Let someone else do all the work, and then swan in to take the credit. Except that none of them could take any credit for this mess. They were both responsible for the safety of the explosives store. They had both failed.

  Jaq handed over the incident controller vest. ‘How can I help? What can I do?’

  ‘Go home, Dr Silver.’ Laurent’s mouth twisted. ‘I think you have done quite enough.’

  Monday 7 March, Moscow, Russia

  Frank stepped out of the car, leaving his assistant to pay the taxi driver. She scurried after him as he strode up the steps of the Moscow hotel, sliding on the ice despite her ugly, flat shoes.

  ‘I don’t need you for the next meeting, Shelly,’ he said from the top of the steps. A uniformed doorman held open the heavy wooden door and Frank stepped into the grand entrance of what had once been a Romanov imperial palace: heavy on the marble and gold leaf, weak on plumbing and Wi-Fi speed. He preferred modern and functional, but Shelly had selected this ridiculous place.

  ‘It’s Raquel, sir.’ She caught up with him, panting. ‘My name is Raquel, Mr Good.’

  ‘I don’t need her either.’ His upper lip curled with disdain. ‘I will need the Smolensk Two project report in the morning, so make your own arrangements for dinner. I’ll see you in time for the car tomorrow.’

  Raquel had been an extraordinarily disappointing choice for this trip: prickly, aloof, bolshie, unwilling. Frank waited until the door closed behind her before acknowledging the man waiting in the shadows.

  ‘Mr Good?’

  The black-suited man shuffled forward with the stoop of someone who suffered with his spine; it made his thin arms and legs seem too long. Framed by spikes of black hair, decades of pain were etched onto his gaunt face. This must be Pauk Polzin. When Frank heard the accountant referred to as ‘The Spider’ at the Tyche meetings, he assumed the nickname came from the financial webs he wove, the traps he laid. Now Frank had to suppress a wry smile. The Russians were so literal; he’d never seen a man who more closely resembled a spider. ‘You must be Pauk.’

  The man nodded and held out a bony hand. His grip was firm but icy-cold. Frank led the way to a private room that opened off the main bar. The waiter filled shot glasses and then left them the bottle before closing the connecting doors.

  ‘Za vas!’ Pauk toasted Frank and then without further preamble, he asked, ‘You need my help?’

  The Spider came highly recommended; his perspicacity was legendary, his discretion assured. Frank paid his dues; he had not forgotten that the Tyche deal had been made possible, in part, by this man. A small part only, Frank had done all the real work on the deal, but one favour deserved another, at least now it suited him.

  Frank sank into a padded armchair and sipped at his vodka, gesturing to Pauk to sit.

  ‘I prefer to stand,’ he said.

  ‘But I insist.’ Frank smiled, pulling unfamiliar muscles in his cheeks, stretching the skin. He observed the spidery man manoeuvre his long body, fascinated by the variety of grimaces that rippled over his sallow face as he folded, first at the knees and then at the hips, waiting until Pauk was perched on the edge of the velvet sofa opposite before continuing.

  ‘How much do you know about the Zagrovyl factory at Smolensk?’ Frank asked, refilling both glasses.

  ‘All factories are the same to me,’ Pauk said. ‘Money goes out, money comes in.’ He downed the vodka, reached into his jacket pocket and removed a slim packet of cigarettes. ‘More money comes in than goes out, I am happy, I leave the factory alone.’ He peeled off the cellophane wrapper and opened the lid, tapping it on the onyx tabletop to dislodge a black and gold Sobranie, which he offered to his interlocutor. Frank shook his head and waved a hand under his nose, pursing his lips with disgust. Pauk stroked the protruding cigarette with his fingertip before pushing it back into the packet and returning it to his pocket. ‘More money goes out than comes in, I am angry, I fix it.’

  ‘Good,’ Frank said. ‘They told me you were the right man for the job.’

  ‘The job?’ Behind thick glasses, Pauk’s black eyes glinted.

  ‘The Smolensk expansion project is late,’ Frank said. ‘Very late.’

  ‘Likha beda nachalo,’ murmured Pauk. ‘Beginning is the big trouble.’

  Frank stood and stretched. ‘No.’ He shook his head and waggled a finger to make his point. ‘More than start-up problems.’ He paced to the window. ‘They made other promises that they haven’t honoured.’ He spun round to admire his tall, straight shadow projected by the slanting light onto the marble floor. ‘They buy equipment but don’t install it,’ he said. ‘Then they buy spares for the equipment they never installed.’ He returned to his companion, standing behind him so Pauk had to twist to maintain eye contact. ‘They pay for raw materials that get lost, make double orders, accept returns for recycling but never recycle it.’ Frank clenched his jaw and his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Something doesn’t smell right.’

  ‘Doveryai no proveryai,’ Pauk said. ‘Trust but verify.’

  Frank snorted. ‘I prefer verification to trust.’ He returned to the table and opened his briefcase, handing a red folder to The Spider.

  Nicotine-stained fingers flicked through the pages. Pauk nodded. ‘Yes, I will take this job.’

  ‘Good. We are going to the Smolensk factory tomorrow. Can you join us?’

  ‘Why would I go there?’ Pauk asked. ‘Everything is already in the numbers.’ He tapped the red file with a long, yellowed finger.

  Frank opened his mouth to protest, but Pauk held up a hand.

  ‘Some people look at numbers and they see only numbers,’ he said. ‘I swim with the numbers, I dive through them. I see everything: what comes in and what goes out, the factory, the assets, the efficiency and inefficiency. The way to understand the people is through the numbers. I see the weak, the stupid, the lazy, the greedy, the brilliant . . .’ he glanced up and smiled, ‘. . . and I always find their secrets.’

  Frank relaxed in the armchair and crossed his legs. It was good to be out of England. Refreshing to be in a country where people called a spade a spade and knew how to wield the blade effectively.

  Frank proposed another toast. As Pauk slammed down his glass, there was a knock at the door. Pauk shouted something, telling whoever it was to wait outside.

  ‘I have seen your numbers, Mr Good,’ he said. ‘I know a little about what you like.’ He opened his briefcase, took out an envelope and handed it to Frank.

  Frank tore open the seal and removed two tickets for the evening performance at the Bolshoi: Orpheus, Stravinsky. The Russian Bach. A slow smile formed.

  ‘You have excellent taste in music.’ Frank studied The Spider with new respect. ‘You will accompany me?’

  Pauk shook his head. ‘I have work to do.’ He stood. ‘But by chance a cousin is visiting Moscow from the countryside. She is a simple girl, but she loves the ballet.’ He clapped his hands and shouted something. The door opened and a young woman in a fur coat appeared in the doorway.

  ‘I am Nadya. I am for Frank,’ she said. Frank licked his lips. A stunning cousin, no country bumpkin. Sultry red lips, dark, smouldering eyes under heavy kohl.

  ‘Wait outside,’ Pauk ordered.

  Nadya pouted and winked at Frank before turning on her six-inch stiletto heels, wiggling her arse as she left the room.

  ‘Perhaps you would do me the great favour of accompanying Nadya to the ballet?’

  The evening was looking up, definitely looking up. The fur coat would be more interesting company than that frigid Raquel, or whatever she
was called. What a criminal waste of a plane ticket; he wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  Pauk was rising from the sofa. Frank observed the man’s laborious progress, fascinated by the symphony of pain communicated through a single gasp.

  Once upright, Pauk collected himself quickly. ‘I have ordered a chauffeur-driven limo for you,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a tour of the city bridges would help you become better acquainted with Nadya before the . . .’ he coughed, ‘main performance.’

  Frank rose to his feet.

  ‘Well, Pauk,’ he said, ‘you certainly do your homework.’

  ‘Numbers.’ Pauk tapped the folder. ‘It is all in the numbers.’

  Frank picked up his briefcase. Good. The meeting had gone well. The wheels were in motion. Time to relax and let others take care of the details. He nodded to the door. ‘We can’t keep a young lady waiting, now, can we?’

  The fur coat sashayed towards them as they entered the lobby. When Pauk introduced her formally, she stretched forward to kiss Frank on either cheek and her coat fell open.

  Frank wasn’t sure what the dress code was for the Bolshoi these days, but he was sure it involved more than lingerie. Perhaps it was just as well Pauk had booked a private box.

  Tuesday 8 March, Kranjskabel, Slovenia

  The wooden floorboards creaked as Jaq paced up and down, waiting to be called to the accident inquiry. Was there anything worse than waiting? Part of the skirting was coming away from the wall and she deliberately clipped it with her heel at each turn. How many lengths of this windowless anteroom – a space as gloomy as her mood – before it broke free? She didn’t complete the experiment; the moulded pine panel was still hanging on by a splinter when a door opened and Laurent emerged, his face twisted into a rictus of peevish irritation.

  He barely glanced at her, waving his hand to indicate she should replace him in the meeting room. Her eyes followed where his finger pointed to the wintry glare of the accident inquiry chairman, seated at the head of the long oak table. From Paris, he had the right sort of face for an accident investigator – a stern, impassive mask and hooded eyes framed by a mane of white hair. Next to him sat Sheila, with a notebook. Flanking them were half a dozen members of the Snow Science European team, all based in France, most of whom she knew only by reputation.

  Sheila smiled and indicated a seat, before passing a manila file to the chairman. He opened it and took out Jaq’s CV.

  ‘Elle parle français?’ He addressed the question to his neighbour.

  ‘Yes, she does,’ Jaq said in English, then switched to faultless French as she answered a series of questions about her professional qualifications, previous employment and activities at Snow Science.

  The technical director cleared his throat. ‘Tell us, madame, in your own words, your activities at the explosives depot on Tuesday 1 March.’

  The day of the break-in. ‘I came in early to prepare the explosives for blasting the north face.’ Jaq filled her glass and sipped some water. ‘I locked up and went to the laboratory to analyse some samples, but I was called away to meet a representative of our supplier, Zagrovyl.’

  ‘We don’t need to know operational detail,’ the chairman said. ‘Just focus on the security of the explosives store.’

  ‘I think this might be important.’

  The technical director whispered something to the chairman.

  ‘We’ll decide what’s important,’ the chairman said.

  Jaq leant forward. ‘Did you know that the samples I am referring to were removed and destroyed before I could complete the analysis?’

  Sheila looked up and frowned at Jaq. A warning?

  ‘Wait a minute.’ The technical director stood up. ‘Let me get this straight. Did you analyse samples from the two tonnes of ammonium nitrate that were in the warehouse at the time of the explosion?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rita ran the samples.

  ‘Did you find any problem?’

  ‘No.’ Jaq had checked the analysis and signed them off.

  ‘So the material was fully approved?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could a problem with composition of the material in the warehouse have contributed in any way to the explosion on Saturday 5 March?’

  ‘In my opinion, no.’

  ‘So, the samples that you refer to relate to some reject material that was delivered by accident on Saturday 26 February and removed two days later on Monday 28 February.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The chairman and technical director exchanged glances.

  ‘Laurent told us about this incident, you can move on.’

  ‘But—’

  The chairman leant forward. ‘I said, move on.’

  Before Jaq could protest, the technical director resumed his questioning. ‘Who locked up on Tuesday, before the break-in?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Where were you when the break-in happened?’

  ‘At home,’ she said. ‘Dr Visquel called at about 8 p.m.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I went straight to the depot and checked the inventory with him.’

  ‘Was anything missing?’

  Jaq rubbed her chin. ‘Everything appeared to be there.’

  ‘Appeared?’

  ‘The same crates, boxes and packages with the same serial numbers.’

  The technical director stroked his white goatee. ‘Why would someone go to all the trouble of attacking a security guard and breaking into an explosives store and then not take anything?’

  Jaq did her best Gallic shrug. ‘Perhaps they were looking for my samples.’

  The chairman puffed in irritation. ‘Dr Silver, your boss told us about the reject samples. He has also explained to us that they are of no consequence to this inquiry.’

  Jaq started to object, but he raised a hand and spoke over her.

  ‘The samples, and the material the samples represented, had already been removed. Laurent warned us you might bring this up. If you persist with this line of argument, I can only assume it is a tactic to divert our attention away from your responsibility for explosives safety and security.’

  Jaq bit her lip. Laurent had already poisoned their minds against her.

  The technical director resumed. ‘What happened after the break-in?’

  Jaq laid her hands on the table. ‘The explosives store was cordoned off by the police while they carried out a forensic investigation. It was only released on Friday, the day before the explosion.’

  ‘And did you check the security arrangements with the police on Friday?’

  Jaq shook her head. ‘No.’

  The technical director pursed his lips and wrinkled his nose. ‘Someone had gained access on Tuesday. Would it not have been wise to change the locks or put in some additional security measures?’

  ‘Yes, it would have been wise, but I was not party to the discussion between Dr Visquel and the police.’ Take that, Laurent. Two can play at your game.

  The chair reasserted his authority.

  ‘Between the time the police closed their investigation on Friday and the explosion at 8 a.m. on Saturday morning, did you go to the explosives store?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Describe the security arrangements to the panel.’

  Jaq explained how the security guard only had the key to the outer gate, which led to a small open-air courtyard. He didn’t have the key to the inner doors or cages or the key to silence the alarm. She confirmed that there were only two sets of inner keys. She had one set, Laurent the other.

  ‘Where are the keys kept?’

  Jaq picked up her glass and emptied it, maintaining eye contact. Where was he going with this?

  ‘Officially they’re meant to be left in the safe in the office,’ she said.

  ‘Officially?’ The chairman was sharp, finely attuned to the slightest qualification. ‘And unofficially?’

  Jaq held up her Tardis bag, in briefcase form today. ‘We keep them with us at all times.’
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br />   It was easy for people who worked office hours to write procedures; they were not the ones who had to be at the depot before dawn to book out explosives to the avalanche prevention teams. Whatever the standard operating procedure said, it was simply not practical to keep the keys in a locked safe which was only accessible during office hours.

  Sheila glanced at her phone, approached the chairman and whispered in his ear. As she sat down her eyes met Jaq’s and flashed a message of . . . what? Surprise?

  ‘I think we have heard enough for today.’ The chairman addressed the assembled company in booming tones. ‘The inquiry will resume tomorrow at eight thirty.’ He turned to Jaq. ‘Madame, please be here at nine o’clock sharp. In the meantime, you have a visitor in the small meeting room.’

  Gregor Coutant was standing by the long window, his back to her. Medium height, boxer’s build, wavy brown hair with silver threads – expensively cut to appear debonair. She paused for a moment, observing the familiar solid silhouette of her ex-husband as he spoke into his mobile phone. He might as well glue it to his ear for all he was ever without it. She waited until he finished the call.

  ‘Hello, Gregor.’

  He turned with a sharp cry and strode forward, holding out both arms. She stepped reluctantly into the embrace. Four awkward Parisian-style kisses followed. He held her at arm’s length and scrutinised her face.

  ‘Jaq! You look gorgeous,’ he cried. ‘Ravissante. The alpine air must be doing you the world of good.’

  Flattery will get you exactly nowhere. ‘Gregor, what do you want?’

  ‘I heard you were in trouble. Can I help? I know the chair—’

  ‘No.’ No hiding the acid in her voice. ‘Gregor, why are you really here?’

  ‘To see you.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  He had the decency to hang his head for a moment.

  ‘Cecile gave birth.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ Christ, did she even know her stepdaughter was pregnant? Had Gregor told her? Probably. Was that why he kept phoning? They had never been close; Cecile was almost sixteen when Jaq married Gregor. His daughter lived with her mother and always resented her father’s new wife. It was not surprising they lost touch completely when Jaq and Gregor separated. But Gregor didn’t look like a proud grandfather. He looked awful: unshaven, wrinkled, great bags under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept for a month.