Chapter Eight
Cora sank onto the bed. Beth had dashed into her bedroom, rapidly tidied up the unmade bed and insisted Cora should not sleep in the lounge, but that she would.
Cora looked around and Beth’s presence wrapped itself around her.
Vintage posters of French classic fashion designs by Chanel and Dior … Less conventionally some sketches of clothes by JP Gaultier and Paco Rabanne. The large table that took up the space of half the room and on which Beth drew clothes and accessories, was covered with her own designs. Others had been pinned to a cork board on a wall in clusters of different styles.
And of course, clothes were everywhere, hanging in the open wardrobe, from its doors, over the backs of a couple of armchairs that rested in the only free corner of the bedroom.
There must have been some on the bed, but Beth had done away with them by scattering them on top of a highly decorated silk screen she used to change behind. She liked to present the final picture of herself in whatever outfit she had chosen to whomever was in the room at the time … male or female.
The scent of lavender mixed with other floral perfumes made the room soothing and welcoming despite the creative energy that emanated from her drawings. Cora rolled on her side and brought her knees to her chest.
She took her mobile phone out of her jeans’ pocket. The screen displayed one of Apple’s preloaded images and Cora’s eyes swam. Tears started rolling down her face and she let them flow.
The selfie of Ollie and herself pulling silly faces that had become her screensaver had vanished with her previous phone.
Her body shook and she pressed her hands over her face to prevent anyone hearing her sobs.
“No more drugs … Not even weed.” Ollie had said.
They were both at a party one of her artists friends had thrown, impromptu. The location had been chosen at the last minute, keeping the invitees guessing until a few hours before the start. The large derelict warehouse had been kitted up with DJ equipment, laser lights played around a monumental piece of art built out of recycled objects.
Cora had hesitated. It’s old stuff and idea recycling, she had complained. But Ollie had thought it might be fun. They had arrived shortly after midnight as the party was just starting.
The ripe smell of joints of various strengths and origins filled the air. Cora giggled … No need to buy any … You could just inhale. Ollie took a deep breath and laughed.
They grabbed two glasses of something sparkling and started looking for people they knew. Sure enough, a few art critics had turned up, some people in showbiz, actors of various calibres. It would have been a fine evening until a short, fat man who must have been in his late 50s opened up a pill box full of various coloured capsules.
“Happiness in a gulp.” He kept saying to the young girls and boys that had gathered around him. Cora turned her attention away from him, intent on ignoring such a crass way of attracting attention or perhaps worse. But Ollie looked transfixed.
“What is it?” She tugged at his shirt.
“Nothing … It’s just … Bad stuff …” Despite the changes in light created by the laser beam effects, Cora could see that his face had turned pale.
He looked away suddenly, twisting his head as if looking for air.
“It’s just too hot in here. Let’s get out.” He didn’t wait for her response and walked towards the exit, barely noticing when he bumped into people.
“What was all that about?” She was not annoyed, more puzzled.
Once home Ollie had told her his story … The escalation from a little weed … Then a little coke … to stay alert during his exams … The known risk of combination drugs supposed to help during his PhD and then the inevitable … dependency.
It had crept up on him without his noticing. He had convinced himself he could stop anytime … until he couldn’t.
“Didn’t your parents notice?”
“Too busy with their own business.”
“How did you get clean?”
“My PhD tutor sent me to rehab.” Ollie sat motionless on the sofa of their flat. “He got my parents involved by convincing them to pay for it, although he advanced the funds to start with.”
Cora brought her face next to his, brushing her cheek against his. “And now?”
“I’m clean, Cora. I promise. I’ve not touched any of that stuff since the US and that was years ago.”
Cora rested her head on his shoulder and the weight of it brought him back to life.
“I promise.” Ollie wrapped his arms around her tight.
* * *
“Certainly, Ms Butler.” Officer Michael Branning was on a call to the senior pathologist. She was dispatching a SOCO team to Cora’s flat and had argued with the London fire brigade that they should be first on site … It was a criminal investigation into whether or not arson had been committed. She insisted her team would go in first.
Branning was given a time slot for the team’s arrival of 3pm, 4pm at the latest.
He grumbled when the phone went dead and heaved his heavy body up from the chair. He had been offered lunch by the arty gang, as he liked to call Cora and her mates.
Time for another intake of nicotine and perhaps a better cup of tea then what that lot had been offering him. All those fancy fragrances did not cut it for him. He just needed a good, strong cuppa of honest builder’s tea.
Beth was in the kitchen preparing the dough for some more cookies. He looked at the mix in the bowl with suspicion … The words ‘organic’ and ‘free from’ did not inspire much confidence. He told her he was just going downstairs to have a quick cigarette. She nodded and returned to her baking.
Branning lumbered down the flight of stairs. He tied his old woollen scarf around his neck … The only concession he made to acknowledging it was cold outside. He stepped onto the pavement outside the main door, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. It took a few more drags to do the trick but it eventually hit a home run. His neck relaxed. His shoulders dropped a fraction.
DS Branning looked up towards the flat and looked around for signs that might cause him to drop his plan. There was no one else around and the cars parked in the small courtyard in front of the building had been there since he arrived. A police patrol car had driven around twice already that morning to show a police presence in the area and an unmarked police vehicle would be taking up position within the hour.
He was almost finished with his fag. He moved swiftly towards the main road, crossed diagonally, and entered the small café he had spotted on his previous nicotine run.
And there it was … He could see it from the colour of the liquid in the mug that a large man in overalls was holding, sitting near the window.
A proper cup of English brew.
The woman at the counter eyed him with suspicion. Then gave him a large smile. The broad cockney accent and the request for a cuppa and a sausage roll seemed to have convinced her that Michael Branning was an okay guy.
He dipped his lips into the burning liquid and smiled, perfect.
Branning took a bite of his sausage roll. It was now pure heaven.
In the distance a large van had turned into the courtyard he had just left and parked in front of the building that was still cordoned off and sealed. He looked at his watch. They were early. He grabbed his tea and made his way across the road.
Three people got out of the van and started kitting up in full PPE.
“You were quick.”
“No time to lose mate.” The tall man was zipping up his white protective suit and adjusting the hood over his head.
“Which lab are you from?” Branning stood a few paces away, relaxed, removing the lid of the cup in his hand.
“Yvonne Butler’s Lab.” The sound of the man’s voice was muffled by the mask he had now fitted to his face.
Branning nodded
again. He looked at the other two men who had also completed their preparations. They lifted the yellow and black hazard tape. Two of them carried their SOCO kit inside the building and disappeared.
The tall man who had spoken to him lingered a little longer. He locked the van and made his way to the first floor of the ravaged building.
Branning strolled through the other entrance to the building, climbing the steps quickly. He walked past the door of the arty gang’s flat, straight to the back door that opened onto the old fire exit.
His mobile rang, a number he did not recognise.
“DS Branning, Nancy Wu speaking … I hope I am not interrupting.”
He grumbled a no.
“Excellent … I wanted to check on Cora.”
“She is having a rest.”
“Good … Anything else?”
Branning almost asked why he should give her any more information but then recalled being told she was a consultant with the Met. Perhaps a little diplomacy would not go amiss.
“The SOCO team has arrived.”
“Is that Yvonne Butler’s team?”
“It is, Ma’am.”
“Splendid … Do you mind if I pop in to ask a few questions?”
Branning didn’t mind as long as they didn’t prejudice the integrity of the evidence.
Nancy assured him she understood the rules rather well.
She jumped into a cab and arrived less than 15 minutes later.
DS Branning was waiting for her next to the van that had brought the SOCO team. They had not reappeared since he last saw them, then again he had nipped into the arty gang flat to check on Cora.
“They started half an hour ago.” Branning said by way of introduction.
“And still no evidence bag?”
“Not that I have seen.”
“They probably came down without you noticing.”
Branning squinted but did not reply. Nancy breached the new entry tape and turned towards him. “Are you coming?”
She turned back and walked into the property without waiting for his answer.
There was little noise coming from Cora’s flat. The place sounded almost deserted apart from the soft sound of objects being moved around. Nancy stopped. Branning caught up with her. “What?”
She put a finger to her lips to stop him talking. They walked together towards the entrance.
The door had been shut. Nancy pushed against it and it opened. She ventured a quick glance. There was no one in her immediate field of vision.
Furniture had been moved. A set of solid planks had been laid across a part of the floor that was threatening to collapse. One of the men was standing near the door and the other two had reached the far end of the room. Their face masks had been dropped around their chins and their gloves were black from the soot on the furniture they had touched.
The man at the far end seemed to be systematically going through the props for Cora’s installation.
Nancy took one step forward, her eyes falling on the box that lay open. Its contents did not belong to the standard SOCO team equipment. Despite her caution Nancy trod on a piece of broken pottery. One of the men turned around. What he held in his hand had the glimmer of a gun.
* * *
The plane had been in the air for about 30 minutes. The ride was a little bumpy, but Jack didn’t mind. He had chosen to purchase a first-class ticket, less out of a need for comfort but rather to ensure privacy. He had asked one of his analysts to gather as much information as she could about a subject that sounded more like sci-fi than a medical school study topic … Bioinformatics.
A number of emails had dropped into his inbox just as the steward had asked him to log off and shut the laptop down. Jack had indulged in accepting the snack offered by American Airlines … An excellent smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel and a cup of freshly brewed coffee.
He resisted the temptation to say yes when the tray of freshly baked muffins came through, poking with a finger at a waistline that had suddenly started to expand more than it should. He was going to London and intended to taste the variety of culinary delights he knew he would find there … He was off on holiday.
Laurie had done an excellent job in the short time she had been allocated. Jack rested the coffee cup that had just been refreshed on the wide armrest of his seat. He opened the first email and started reading.
Bioinformatics was an interdisciplinary field that developed software tools to capture and manipulate biological data. It combined biology, computer science, information engineering, mathematics and statistics, in order to analyse large and complex quantities of data.
Jack sat back in his seat to ponder the information he had just received. He could understand why certain fields of biology which had increased in complexity and relied on large volumes of data, might require computer science. The era of big data was reaching biology. He was, however, amazed to read that computer science had reached the field as early as the 1950s. His smooth, almost baby-like face brightened up at the prospect of discovering a field he knew little about. He waved at the stewardess. “If you have a blueberry muffin left …”
She smiled the requisite ‘anything for a first-class passenger’ smile and returned a few seconds later with the forbidden item.
The papers Laurie had unearthed were of good research quality, not dumbed down yet clearly presented. Jack created a new document to capture his notes. He thought it might be important to remember why bioinformatics was used in genetics to process information about genomes and observed mutations, and that it aided in simulating or modelling DNA.
The red light flashing on the panel above his head indicated that passengers were to return to their seats. The captain’s voice came on the intercom to announce a period of turbulence. Jack’s cup was empty, the blueberry muffin gone. And other passengers across the aisle had returned to their seats in a hurry from the WC, fastening their seat belts nervously.
Jack smiled amused and yet mellow.
He has just finished his training and his first mission has begun. Iraq’s war is going well for the USA. The might of the American army has no rival on the ground, nor in the air … They are pounding the Iraqi forces relentlessly … Operation Shock and Awe.
Jack sits in the C-5 Super Galaxy aircraft that the US Air Force uses to transport its troops, munitions, and other essential logistical supplies. He has strapped himself in so tightly he can hardly breathe. The US marine master chief on the mission smiles at him with his usual amused yet good natured smile.
“Your first trip to a war zone, son?”
“Yes Sir, it is.”
Master Chief Hayes sits down next to Jack. The bulk of his upper body lands with a small thud against the metal frame of the aircraft.
“Are you joining the search for more WMD?” Hayes removes his US marine utility cap, slaps it against his thigh and folds it into a neat roll.
“Yes Sir, I’ll be looking for the weapons of mass destruction with the CIA team already on the ground.”
“What’s your gut feeling on that?” Hayes has now crossed his muscular arms over his chest. Jack notices a tattoo peeking out of his rolled-up sleeve. He doesn’t know how to answer about what has become a controversial subject.
“Don’t worry … I’m not interested in the official version. I’m just wanting to know what you think?”
“I haven’t yet formed a clear opinion. “Jack speaks slowly and Hayes drills into him. He’s just told him he is not interested in official and certainly not BS from a junior CIA agent.
Jack clears his throat. “I’m not convinced we’re gonna find anything.” There, he’s said it. Jack feels his cheeks colour a little and hopes Master Hayes has not noticed.
Hayes drops his chin on his chest. His lower lip covers his upper, twitching slightly.
“Thanks for being honest,�
�� he finally says. “Although you know that it’s not going to do you any good if you are too honest too often.”
Jack nods. He knows, he has been told, there will be plenty of occasions when he will need to be economical with the truth. He feels today is not one of them.
“For what it’s worth …” Hayes is setting up his Invicta watch to local Iraqi time, ready for arrival when they land. “… neither am I.”
Jack frowns. “You don’t think they will find anything either?”
“Nope … We would have done already if there were any, and Saddam would not have held back from throwing the lot at us if he had the means of defeating the US.”
“Even if it meant killing some of his own people in the process.” Jack is not disagreeing but simply completing the picture.
Hayes settles back into his seat and closes his eyes. Jack is still waiting for an answer. Has the conversation stopped abruptly or is Hayes waiting for Jack to say more?
“If you don’t have anything valuable to say, don’t fill the conversation with irrelevant crap.” Master Hayes has not opened his eyes. Jack settles back into his seat and loosens his seat belt.
He would like to thank Hayes for the advice but it would be a piece of irrelevant crap.
The plane dropped into an air pocket and the frame of the American Airlines aircraft shuddered. Jack glanced at his neighbour, eyes closed, shoulders to his ears and hands clasped white on his armrests. Jack shook his head …
Old memories of his first mission always greeted him when he departed from the usual routine of his job.
Perhaps this time it was also reminding him of how he had met Harris in Iraq. Neither he nor Steve had ever spoken again about the mission in 2003. There was no need for them to revisit a moment in their lives that would be engraved in their minds forever … The fall of Baghdad.
The captain’s voice came back on the intercom. Half an hour to Boston Logan airport. Jack resumed his reading. He had finished the first paper and made some further notes.
This time it was the capability bioinformatics had to study how a normal cell might be altered by disease, and the mapping of the different stages in its progression, that attracted Jack’s attention. Everything Jack had read so far indicated that bioinformatics would be a game changing tool for a lab that was devoting their work to the discovery of new medications, whether these drugs were part of the fight against new viruses or old microbes.
BLOOD DRAGON Page 9
