Lethal Profit

by Alex Blackmore

  ‘Well, are you sure there’s no needle mark?’

  Chard looked over at Legrand. ‘Trust me, mate, we’ve made sure.’

  Legrand felt chastised. ‘What was the man’s name?’

  ‘Rob Gorben.’

  The only fares left on the Eurostar had been first-class so Leon and Eva had found themselves cocooned in the enormous seats of the luxurious carriage, being served food and drink as the train flew across the darkening French countryside. As night fell, Eva was becoming more anxious. She had spent the first half of the journey thinking about the episode at the park. It was pretty obvious that whoever had been behind it was keeping tight tabs on them and was not afraid to attack them in public. As she and Leon really had no idea as to why whoever was chasing them was trying to kill them – or what was the significance of the syringes – they were forced into drawing conclusions, a dangerously vague way to proceed. Presumably, they had become targets because of the information they held – because that would influence the outcome of something, somehow, for someone very powerful – which meant that they had no option but to race these people to the point at which they handed the information over to someone else. Although somehow she doubted that would be the end of it. They seemed to have made some very unpleasant enemies.

  As they had no real idea who those enemies might be, that meant that there really wasn’t anywhere that they were safe.

  Eva glanced at the aisle.

  Whilst standard class had been full, their part of the train was almost empty and there were at least three vacant seats behind them; still every time she heard footsteps Eva tensed and prepared to have to defend herself in some way. She took a long drink of a brandy she had ordered after they had eaten, to calm her nerves.

  The more she thought about the attack at the park, the more puzzled she was about Leon’s ‘good Samaritan’. He had vanished by the time she had emerged back into the park – not even walking in the other direction but completely vanished – and she still didn’t understand what had happened on the other side of that hedge. One masked man had died, the other – the black-eyed man who had seemed to be in charge – had escaped. Leon had apparently not been involved in any of it.

  She looked over at Leon who, unexpectedly, was fast asleep. He had gone from being alert and full of adrenaline in Paris to out cold as soon as he had eaten, which surprised Eva given the intense energy of paranoia and suspicion that seemed to drive him. His sleeping face gave nothing away.

  Eva shifted in her seat. Her body ached. She felt like she needed a good long soak in a hot bath. But to be honest she was just happy to be alive. After witnessing the shocking death in the park, she knew that were it not for blind luck it could have been her lifeless on that wet ground thanks to whatever was in those syringes. Why were they being used as a weapon rather than a gun or a knife? They seemed an awkward choice for a moving victim and far less efficient than a bullet or a blade. Although whatever was in them was certainly as effective as any other murder weapon, she thought, remembering the dead man’s tortured face.

  Eva turned away from Leon and rested her temple against the soft, comfortable headrest of the first-class seat as a wave of tiredness swept over her.

  When she awoke an hour later it was to the muted tinkling of the hostesses’ trolley distributing coffee and papers. She took a deep, relieved breath and then exhaled slowly; apparently on this train at least, they could sleep safe. When the trolley arrived at her seat she asked for a black coffee and picked up a broadsheet from the pile. They were on the other side of the Channel now and couldn’t be far from London. Eva checked the clock on her phone: nearly 9pm UK time, less than an hour until they arrived, and the only plan they had been able to come up with so far was contacting the woman who had broken her family apart and asking her for help. It wasn’t ideal. Eva leaned back and rested her head against the soft seat and wondered how much of her suggestion to make contact with Irene Hunt was about resolving this current situation and how much was about the chance finally to confront a woman she had hated in absentia for more than a decade.

  Across the table, Leon stretched in his seat and kicked out with one heavy boot, banging it against the table leg. She gazed again at his sleeping features. Dark hair, two-day stubble swathed around his chin and throat, a large bruise forming over his left eye and a deep graze on his right cheek. He had grey hollows under his eyes and his long, black eyelashes flickered against them as he dreamed. She looked at his muscled arms, tight stomach and thick legs; he exuded some kind of raw strength even in his sleep. It wasn’t something Eva found attractive. He was an unknown quantity: a dangerous, violent unknown quantity who had already killed at least three people.

  And saved her life.

  The state of confusion that left her in was not one she was used to. Eva made immediate judgement calls about people and they were usually right. After that, she rarely gave anyone a second chance.

  She cut short the thought and turned her attention to the papers. The algae was quickly spreading through the UK waterways. However, the front page article that covered the story seemed to conclude that, although the plants were a nuisance, they posed no real threat to the public. Was that panic control or a cover-up? Halfway through the paper she came across an article, apparently considered non-headline news, positioned between the sports section and the classifieds, linking the algae explosion with Bioavancement S.a.r.l.. Why was this not on the front page? Eva read the article and realised that it had been ‘buried’. It was a trick she recognised from her editor days. Where there was a piece that could not be removed completely from a publication but that wasn’t considered newsworthy enough – or was news that someone wanted to hide – it was kept off the pages of the paper that drew the most attention. Burying the article on those dead pages meant that subconsciously the readers would give its contents short shrift. It was a clever way of making a molehill out of a mountain. Eva continued to stare at the page in front of her. Someone was controlling this situation; the power of the press was being used to great effect to ensure that the public knew nothing about who was really behind this, what was actually happening and what the consequences might be.

  She took her phone and went out into the corridor of the carriage.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Dad, it’s Eva.’

  ‘Eva. Where are you?’

  ‘I’ve been away on holiday. Dad, I was wondering if I could ask you a favour.’

  ‘No problem.’ Eva heard the sound of liquid being poured from bottle to glass.

  ‘Are you still in contact with Irene Hunt?’

  There was silence on the other end of the phone and the liquid-pouring stopped.

  ‘Dad, are you still there?’

  ‘Is this a trick question, Eva?’

  ‘No, I need to speak to her.’

  ‘I won’t have all this resurrected again.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with you any more.’

  ‘Eva, I made a mistake. One mistake. Why must you bring all this up yet again?’

  For a moment Eva hesitated and the confusion she had felt for years reared up once again. She loved her father, he was a good man. But he had betrayed them and no matter how much she tried to convince herself that she had forgiven him, she wasn’t sure that some small piece of resentment didn’t still lie buried.

  However, she didn’t want to behave like a child, raking up the past because she wasn’t mature enough to move on. Was she doing this for the right reasons? Was there a better alternative?

  No, Eva reasoned, there was no alternative.

  ‘Doesn’t she work in intelligence?’

  ‘You know she does.’

  ‘Dad, it’s important. Please, I can’t explain, I just need to make contact with her, I need her address.’

  Eva could almost hear her father’s mind working on the other end of the phone. Since her mother died, they rarely probed into each other’s lives in too much detail, but still it must have sounded like a
bizarre and slightly ludicrous request out of the blue.

  ‘I haven’t seen or spoken to her since… since I promised you that it was over. I don’t break my word, Eva. Especially not after what it did to your mother.’ He sounded so sad.

  Eva felt the gentle poke of guilt. She spoke more softly this time. ‘Dad, this is not about you. I promise I’m not about to do anything stupid. What is there left to say anyway?’

  After some hesitation her father left the phone and returned with Irene Hunt’s address. ‘I don’t even know if she still lives there. Eva, can’t you tell me what this is about?’

  ‘No Dad, I can’t.’

  ‘Eva… ’

  ‘Look Dad, I’m an adult now and I know that there isn’t an age where you just wake up and start getting everything right, even when you’re a parent. You did your best with what you had at the time. We’re all just human.’

  She had thrown several self-help slogans at him and she knew it sounded slightly forced.

  ‘Eva, I never wanted to let you down…’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘If I could go back…’

  ‘I know,’ she said again. And then it dawned on Eva that perhaps she really did know what that kind of guilt felt like and just maybe she really could forgive him.

  Irene Hunt however was another matter.

  Leon was awake when she returned to her seat, looking refreshed and alert, drinking a large black coffee and reading the paper she had left behind.

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘I went to phone my dad.’

  ‘Why?’ As always, he sounded very suspicious.

  ‘I got an address for Irene Hunt.’

  As John Mansfield MP put down the phone, his heart began to hammer; an emergency briefing for all members of the cabinet about the algae situation. The country had been put on high alert and the armed forces mobilised to deal with any civil unrest that could ensue if the public somehow discovered just how dire the situation was. Everything was beginning to fall apart, he thought to himself. There was no question in his mind that the algae epidemic must be connected to the Bioavancement S.a.r.l. algae plants that he had personally shepherded into the country. Before long the link to him would no doubt be discovered and he would be made the scapegoat for the entire crisis, as was the way with contemporary politics.

  He forced himself to remain controlled. Now was the time to be calm and manufacture himself an escape route. As far as he knew, no one had yet made a solid connection between Bioavancement S.a.r.l., him personally and the algae emergency but he was sure that by the end of the day they would have. He glanced at his watch and then slowly began to pack his briefcase. Soon he could be called to the PM to justify the decision to associate with Bioavancement S.a.r.l.. He had prepared and rehearsed his speech for weeks. Given the situation with the algae and the fact that he had known that the algae arrived in the UK before the proper licences and approvals had been granted, he would, of course, be in for quite a grilling. But he had severed any possible ties that could connect him to the company as an insider so he would claim innocent incompetence rather than intentional deception and then offer himself up as a sacrifice. The PM could bundle this whole disaster up and hang it around Mansfield’s neck – the ease of that solution would appeal to him. When it came to preserving his identity, only the other stakeholders in the project knew in what way he was tied in and they would no sooner want to identify themselves with this crisis than he did. He would no doubt be sacked from his cabinet post but he didn’t expect there to be any further consequences. If there was no proof of anything other than stupidity how could they do anything more to him? After that he would quietly slip away, the apparent victim of a freak boating accident, his body lost at sea. The Bioavancement S.a.r.l. payment was large enough to last him for the rest of his life in a country that did not have an extradition treaty with the UK.

  When they arrived at St Pancras International, any sense of safety they had felt during the journey on the isolated train quickly vanished. In the crowds at the station they were pushed, shoved and poked by evening commuters and their luggage. Every hand felt like a sharp knife and every elbow was a blow of some kind. It didn’t help that Eva’s body was now a mass of bruises from where she had been physically pushed around at various times during the last week.

  They decided to take the underground to the address Eva’s father had given them. Eva could really have done without the commuter crush, which did nothing for her nerves, but in a way the normality of the lives continuing all around them was comforting.

  Eva noticed Leon suddenly becoming quite protective of her, shielding her with his body when too many people tried to board the train at one station and pushing his way through to a seat so that she could sit down. She didn’t want his help and she tried to make it clear that she didn’t need it, but he seemed to be motivated to do it regardless.

  As they came out of the station at Warwick Avenue the near-deserted area set them both on edge. They had five broad Maida Vale roads to walk across before they would reach Irene Hunt’s house and no idea whether she would even be there when they arrived – or if she even lived there any more.

  Leon – who had memorised the route they had to take from the map on his phone – guided them across the road and they started walking uphill, taking a right at the next corner and then crossing again onto the road that would lead them to their destination. The pavements were wide and the houses huge with grand interiors. The darkness around them was misty and cold and the orange light of the street lamps provided the perfect setting for an anonymous drive by.

  Eva focused on keeping pace with Leon’s wide strides.

  When they were just two streets from the road where Irene Hunt lived, Eva heard a car start to slow behind them. She forced herself to keep walking but glanced briefly over at Leon.

  ‘Keep walking,’ he said in a low voice and took a quick glance over his left shoulder towards the road. Apparently not feeling the need to share whatever he saw, he picked up his pace ever so slightly and continued to power forward. Suddenly, without warning, he pulled Eva inside an open front gate of one of the Maida Vale mansions and flipped her around so that he was standing with his back to the approaching car as if he had just taken the opportunity to kiss his girlfriend. Eva stood rigid in his arms, hardly breathing. Their faces were touching, noses, lips and one cheekbone skin on skin. She looked over his shoulder at the car behind his back. She felt his hand move at his side and saw the metallic glint of a gun as he took it from the waistband of his trousers. God only knew how he had got that through customs.

  Eva’s heart was pounding.

  ‘Leon… ’ She started to speak. Suddenly he kissed her, apparently to stop her saying anything more. Her eyes opened with surprise. Unexpectedly she didn’t feel the urge to pepper spray him. The car passed and he pulled back and released her. They stood still for several seconds as they heard the car driving away and then turned and resumed their original path. Further up the street, the car stopped and appeared to ask another young couple for directions.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  JOHN MANSFIELD ALLOWED HIMSELF an unprecedented afternoon snifter of the vintage cognac the CEO had so kindly dispatched to him that was worth more than most people’s cars. He tried to relax back into the plump cushioning of his antique armchair at home and took a deep draught of the amber liquid in his glass. The rich smell filled his nose as the warmth spread from his throat to his chest and the golden drops made their way down to his stomach. Even in the midst of a crisis there were some things that one had to stop and savour. He glanced at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece: 4pm. The CEO had asked him to call exactly on the hour. He had not been expecting more contact – there was supposed to be no more communication between them for fear of risking Mansfield’s escape route. He suspected it might be an apology for the situation with the algae – which had not been part of the deal – but he was not entirely sure what was about to happen. This made him
rather anxious; he was nervous enough as it was after the earlier phone briefing about the algae, even though he had managed to put off seeing the PM until the morning.

  Mansfield delicately deposited the brandy glass back down on the largest of the nest of walnut wood coffee tables his mother had insisted he buy for the house when he’d made the mistake of inviting her over for tea one weekend. He stood and walked over to the desk. From his briefcase, positioned just underneath the enormous leather-topped desk, he extracted a phone that contained just one number.

  ‘You’re prompt.’

  ‘I try to be.’

  ‘I appreciate you calling me, I know the risks.’ The CEO’s voice was utterly expressionless; Mansfield could glean nothing from his tone.

  ‘It’s not a problem.’

  Mansfield waited. The CEO would never be rushed and Mansfield was too in awe of the man to push him.

  ‘We are cutting you loose, John.’

  Mansfield felt his throat begin to close up. ‘I… I’m sorry?’

  ‘Cutting you loose. We can’t honour the contract.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘We no longer have need of you.’

  ‘But everything is done. All that is left is for you to make the payment. I have done everything you asked of me.’ The words were tumbling out now; millions of pounds were slipping from his fingertips.

  ‘John, please be calm. We wouldn’t be cutting you loose if you couldn’t handle it. You will be fine.’

  ‘But I will lose my job, Daniel. I’ve already offered myself up as a scapegoat as we planned; the axe is about to fall.’

  ‘I’m sorry, John, but we won’t be honouring the payment because we don’t have it. The project has been compromised.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘An information leak. A girl called Eva Scott.’