BLOOD DRAGON

by Freddie P Peters

  Jack left the tube at Barbican. At least it would not be a lie if he said he had visited one of the landmarks of London … the Brutalist architecture of the Barbican Arts Centre had to be seen to be believed.

  He found himself at a crossroads. The opposite side of the street was dominated by a heavy construction of concrete and glass. The grey colour of the walls had turned to black in large areas.

  At the end of what turned out to be a short tunnel, the famous ziggurat construction stood heavy against the skyline formed by other tall buildings. Jack crossed the road and entered the tunnel. The walls had been decorated with tiles, but the dust of traffic fumes had dulled their colours.

  It took less than 10 minutes for Jack to reach his destination … Silicon Roundabout.

  Jack enjoyed the stroll down the small streets that characterised the sector known as the City of London. The area had been heavily bombed during World War II and a lot of the buildings appeared postwar, rapid constructions aiming at giving Londoners a roof over their heads. A few of the old buildings still remained and the curving streets conveyed the history of meandering lanes which had evolved according to people’s needs over centuries.

  Old Street Roundabout appeared to his left as he emerged from one of these lanes. The desolated central reservation was as ugly as Jethro had described. A few larger streets radiated from it. Silicon Roundabout was no bigger than Central Park. Jack smiled. Unlike its better-known brother, Silicon Valley, which stretched over almost 100 square miles, the London imitation had a way to go.

  “Got to start somewhere …” Jack grinned and walked towards Viro-Tech’s location. He turned into an alleyway that looked like a dead end. The red brick building was suitably unnoticeable. Jack walked along the façade, and turned into another part of the lane that housed a small car park. It felt cramped and, despite the cold, the air was heavy with the smell of fumes and garbage bins.

  A small door appeared on Jack’s right as he retraced his steps. He stopped and checked the name on the doorbell. Viro-Tech Therapeutics’ buzzer was at the top. The other bells remained blank apart from the very bottom one that mentioned the Rainforest Foundation. Jack took a second look at the door, strong steel security panels fitted with specialist locks. The small camera that was fitted outside the door frame was also high spec.

  Viro-Tech did not want any uninvited guests on their premises. Jack walked back along the front of the building. The windows had been placed high up in the construction. The frames looked solid, filled with what he identified as static proof opaque glass.

  If he wanted to take a look unobserved, Jack would have to find a way through the back door. He stopped again at the top of the lane and checked the Rainforest Foundation on his smartphone. Unsurprisingly, the Foundation was dedicated to the protection of the the Amazon rainforest.

  The Association of Companies with such different interests puzzled Jack but still, it might offer a way in. Jack pulled a black cap from his rucksack, flipped it onto his head. He retraced his steps, only slowing down when a black cab drove past him and stopped in front of the Viro-Tech door.

  An Asian woman stepped out on to the pavement, paid the driver and rang the top buzzer. Jack was only a few steps away. She was wearing a smartly cut black coat, her silky dark hair pulled into a neat bun at the back of her neck. She looked professional, perhaps even severe.

  He kept going at an even slower pace, hoping he would catch the conversation as the door was being opened.

  “I have an appointment with Oliver Wilson,” the woman announced.

  The voice that answered the buzzer asked a question Jack could not catch.

  “Nancy Wu.” The door opened with a low clunk.

  * * *

  The cab ride would last barely 15 minutes. Nancy placed her call, hoping he would be available.

  Andy Todd answered before the first ring was over. She was in luck.

  “Good afternoon, Ma’am, what can I do for you?”

  “Andy, really … won’t you indulge me and call me Nancy like everybody else? I’m not part of the Met’s most notorious circle of women.”

  “Very true …” Andy chuckled.

  “Good. Now … I have a delicate message you need to convey to Pole.”

  The tone changed at the end of the line. “Please go ahead.” Andy was getting ready to take notes.

  “At 13.07pm today, a man on a motorbike tried to run me over to steal my satchel. I was crossing the road in front of Whitehall Gardens when this occurred. I’ve reported it to the officers who helped me at the scene, PCs Doyle and Garth. I don’t believe the aggressor was intending to steal the bag. It was much more personal … either a threat or a warning. I can’t quite tell yet. You may want to take a look at the CCTV cameras around the area. The number plate of the bike is D293ACX. I’m about to go into a meeting. I will call Pole as soon as I am out … and before you ask, I am fine apart from a spoilt pair of tailor-made trousers and a few grazes here and there.”

  Nancy waited for a few seconds. “Are you still there Andy?”

  “I … am.” Andy cleared his throat. “I could try to find Inspector Pole.”

  “Sorry Andy, I’ve just reached my destination.”

  “He is not going to be happy.” Andy spoke without noticing.

  “I know. Just tell him not to shoot the messenger. I’ll make it up to him …” She almost mentioned the evening but thought better of it. It might be a little too risqué although the thought was rather tempting.

  “You will be fine … I must go now.” She terminated the call, breathed in deeply and prepared herself. “Showtime … it’s not a court of law … simply the CEO of a biotech company.”

  The door opened with minimal sound. Nancy recognised good quality security … strong steel doors with specialist locks, high performance surveillance cameras to scan visitors. The building inside did not contrast with the exterior.

  The row of lifts looked sober. There was no receptionist and Nancy gathered most visitors could only ride to the top floor absent a security pass. When the doors of the lift opened, she was proved right. The swipe panel was flashing, prepped for a ride to the top floor.

  The scene changed completely when she arrived at reception, cool steel and glass with a colour scheme which matched the company website. A giant version of the Viro-Tech logo, which combined a stylised DNA strand with a woven textile, was installed on the wall above the receptionist’s desk. The young man in black polo neck and jeans contrasted with the polished décor, setting the tone … smart casual with an emphasis on smart.

  Nancy stepped into the reception area, walking towards the desk with studied calmness to disguise her interest and a little apprehension.

  “Nancy Wu for Oliver Wilson, please.” She forced a reserved yet professional smile.

  The young man acknowledged her with courtesy and without the slightest discomfort. He must have been well briefed. Ollie was critically ill in ICU, but it appeared to be business as usual, regardless of what had happened to him.

  She walked over to the window and looked outside. The heavy skies had already darkened the day. Inky colours were spreading outside, helping the glass reflect the brightly lit reception area.

  A man arrived from within the offices. Dark hair with nascent grey at the temples … jeans and an open necked shirt. Nancy turned around. She was about to meet the CEO of Viro-Tech Therapeutics Ltd.

  Her expression was neither expectant nor inquisitive, it was simply business.

  “Jared Turner.” The man extended his hand to shake hers. “How do you do?”

  Nancy feigned surprise whilst introducing herself.

  “I’m sorry that Ollie Wilson will not be able to meet with you.”

  Nancy raised a disappointed eyebrow. “What a shame.”

  “But perhaps I can be of help.”

  “Well …”
Nancy hesitated for what she felt was the right amount of time. “Why not?”

  Jared Turner gave Nancy a corporate smile and extended his arm sideways, indicating she should follow him towards a part of the building which she surmised contained the meeting rooms. He waved the badge he had removed from his pocket over the security eye and the glass doors opened. He stood aside to let Nancy walk ahead of him.

  Alongside the walls that led to the meeting rooms, Nancy recognised a good display of contemporary art. Whoever was doing the buying had a knack for identifying up and coming artists, or perhaps the pieces were simply loaned, through one of the ubiquitous art-for-offices schemes.

  They entered a small yet comfortable room. She accepted a cup of coffee from the latest Nespresso machine. Jared Turner chose a coffee as well and settled at the small table in the seat opposite hers.

  “I’m sorry about the inconvenience, but unfortunately Ollie has not been well recently.”

  “I hope it is not serious.” Nancy steeled herself to sound mildly concerned.

  “I’m sure he will be fine.”

  Nancy sipped her coffee and waited.

  Turner clasped his hands on the table. “But perhaps you could tell me a little about the reason for your visit.”

  “Ollie spoke to me about the successful research in virology and vaccines Viro-Tech has undertaken over the past five years. And although I am not a scientist, I understand what the potential of a good outcome would be.”

  Turner’s face did not betray any emotion. He was listening carefully, intent on not giving away any information until he was comfortable with the genuine interest of the person in front of him.

  “I met Ollie through his partner, the artist Cora Wong.”

  Turner nodded, but still remained silent.

  “Instead of spending substantial sums of money on contemporary art … which I normally do – incidentally I appreciate the quality of the small collection displayed around your office, including the early Grayson Perry – I decided I was ready to invest in other ventures. Ollie made a strong case for the future of biotechnology.”

  “An excellent suggestion. Ollie is right.” Turner finished his coffee. His eyes had not left Nancy for a moment, assessing, weighing up the status and credibility of the person he was talking to.

  “Biotech is a good long-term prospect, but investors must be prepared to wait sometimes years for a return … and, of course, to come in at the right level of investment. They have to be able to understand the complexity of the R&D process. It’s not for everyone.”

  No sugar coating for the conversation. Nancy wondered whether it was honesty or chauvinism. Would a woman ‘understand’ the nature of what she was getting herself into?

  “Certainly. I am not completely ignorant about the world of business or that of patient capital for that matter. I have defended enough multinationals in the criminal courts to understand how the world of investment operates.”

  A dark shadow moved over Jared Turner’s eyes. A lawyer of quality was not what he wanted on his company’s premises.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “The Northumberland Avenue crossing you say?” Pole was on his mobile to Andy. His hand squeezed the phone hard. He had almost shot the messenger but instead taken his jacket and walked out of the building.

  What on earth was she playing at? She was not Jane Tennyson … come to think of it, Nancy would have been perfect for a tough female DCI.

  The wind blew his tie into his face and he pulled it away to one side with a snap.

  Pole crossed the road to find himself on the right-hand side of the pavement. He stopped and surveyed the scene. Skid marks at a right angle made by a single motorbike which had stopped and mounted the pavement, were clearly visible. He squatted down for a moment. A few pedestrians gave him an odd look.

  Someone stopped altogether and was about to comment.

  “That’s okay … I’m not going to have a crap … I’m looking for evidence.” He took out his police ID card and shoved it in the direction of the onlooker without looking at them.

  The intruder scuttled off.

  Pole called Andy back. “Speak to Yvonne … I want the skid marks on file …” Pole grunted, “… please.” It was an afterthought, but he was not in the mood.

  Another gust of wind reminded him that he had just walked out in only a light jacket and that London in the middle of February required a little more than that.

  He had spoken to PCs Doyle and Garth who, unlike Andy, had managed to get on the wrong side of him. DCI Pole did not think it was good police procedure to let a victim wander off alone … even if they made sure she was safely at home.

  Was it a good idea? No, Sir.

  Hope you learned from your mistakes. Yes, Sir.

  Pole surveyed the scene once more and called it a day. He hesitated, decided otherwise, and pushed his mobile deep into his pocket. He was damned if he was the first to call.

  He picked up a couple of good coffees from his regular sandwich shop. As soon as he went in, the waitress started preparing his usual order. Pole managed a smile. “Times two please.”

  He placed his peace offering on Andy’s desk, but the young man only half noticed. His eyebrows were knotted into a scowl Pole knew well.

  “What’s up?” Pole started sipping his coffee, a welcome warmer.

  “I’m not sure, Guv … I keep seeing a phone showing up in and around the office which I can’t either explain or trace.” Andy moved the data around several screens he had opened on his PC. He smiled a thank you, took a sip and sighed. Just what he needed, too.

  Pole’s hand squeezed a little harder around his cup. He fought the urge to check his jacket pocket. His new burner phone was there. But this time he had switched it off. Harris had insisted it should change every month and for once he had to thank him for a good piece of advice. The phone Andy had traced was long gone. But the question would remain. What was this unknown mobile doing at Scotland Yard and, more importantly, who owned it?

  “What do you make of it?” Pole took another sip, as did Andy.

  “I’d say a pay as you go. Some people like these when they run an operation using informants or sources. They don’t want to use their regular phone for that.”

  Pole nodded.

  “I’ve just got to see where else this phone shows up.”

  “Keep up the good work,” Pole managed convincingly.

  As soon as he stepped into his office, the phone rang. Trouble always came in threes.

  Superintendent Marsh was calling him.

  Pole stroked his goatee. Letting one of his team pick up would only delay the inevitable. Marsh wanted an update. He sat down at his desk and picked up the phone.

  “Good afternoon, Sir.”

  “Afternoon, Pole … any news?”

  Pole updated Marsh about the meeting with Ferguson, in detail. Although there was little that had been achieved, at least he could talk about the plan they had agreed on.

  “Promising. How about the list of people who were working on the Phelps case?”

  “I have finished my list and so has Ferguson.”

  A pile of documents had arrived with the mail. Pole picked up a large envelope at random.

  “What does Ms Wu think about this?” The Super was almost meek.

  “I haven’t thought it fit to let her know about the informal investigation, Sir,” Pole replied smoothly. “She is after all on the list of the people who worked on the Phelps case.”

  Marsh cleared his throat. “I suppose …”

  “I plan to review the data and interview the people on the list tomorrow. Commander Ferguson is conducting interviews on his side. I’ll come back to you soon.” Pole this time was curt … unusually so, and Marsh was silenced.

  Pole picked up an old rubber band and played with it for a moment.
He needed to place a call to Harris. The clock on his wall indicated 4pm … too early.

  A text pinged on his mobile.

  You are fuming I know … BUT I do have very interesting information to share … dinner at 8?

  He toyed with the idea of not replying. He needed the information though and, more importantly, a good explanation as to why she hadn’t called him.

  Need to speak now … I too have information to share.

  An excellent excuse to leave the office and place the call he needed to make away from the tracking devices Andy was now running continuously.

  * * *

  Her fingers grazed the keyboard, then rose suspended in a motionless pause. Cora reviewed the information on screen. There were very few tickets available in economy class … Cathay Pacific was full, Emirates and Qatar Airways had a couple left, British Airways seemed a better bet, but prices had rocketed since she last booked a flight to Hong Kong.

  Philippe brought two cups of tea and sat next to her.

  “Crazy expensive. Emirates or Qatar with two or three hours’ stop in either Dubai or Doha.”

  “I’ve got to go there. The two other gallerists I work with don’t know anything and they are getting scared. The Hong Kong police are not giving me or them any information.” Philippe ran a wary hand over his face. “The longer I delay, the more likely it is they will give up and not try to find Amy.”

  Cora rolled back the chair away from the desk. “What are they saying? Suicide? Bad luck meeting a weirdo who pushed her into the water?”

  “No, worse … they are not saying anything.”

  “Hong Kong used to be such a fun place,” Cora said almost despite herself. She had spoken to Philippe about her memories of the place she used to love. There was no need to explain. She simply wished she could have brought back her grandparents with her when she left. Her mother’s parents, so wonderfully supportive of anything she did even when she decided to train as an artist.