by L. A. Larkin
There’s a tentative knock at my door.
‘You all right in there?’
‘I’m fine. Go away.’
A momentary hesitation, then the sound of shuffling feet receding.
31
The Laboratory of Molecular Biology in Cambridge is the hub of one of the largest clusters of healthcare-related enterprises in Europe. It reminds her of a glass cruciform cathedral, with stainless-steel-clad towers above the transept. When Wolfe’s train sped past the building on her way to Cambridge Station, the afternoon sun illuminated the mid-section, turning the steel a shining gold. Now, as the lobby’s glass doors slide back and she enters the atrium of Bavarian Jura beige limestone floors and four-storey-high glass walls, she’s met by a flurry of young scientists and university students. Six hundred people pay homage to the God of Science here, including some of the world’s best microbiologists.
She clocks two guards in black and white uniforms and a door marked ‘Security’ to the right of the reception desk. Somewhere in this building, Heatherton, Price, Matthews and Sinclair are working with the lab’s most brilliant microbiologists on the unknown bacterial life. But she doesn’t know their exact location; her phone calls have been met with silence chillier than anything she experienced in Antarctica. Casburn has put the fear of God into them.
The receptionist is in her fifties with a blonde French twist and a cheery smile, wearing bifocals from which a little gold chain hangs so she doesn’t lose them. The woman sits behind a monolithic rectangular limestone-clad desk that reminds her of an altar. Wolfe is handed a clipboard with a questionnaire attached.
‘Can you fill this in, please?’
It’s for the LMB international PhD program. Wolfe hands it back.
‘I’m here to see Dr Michael Heatherton.’
‘I’m so sorry. I assumed you were here for an interview.’ The receptionist glances at Wolfe’s biker jacket, torn jeans and biker boots, backpack slung over her shoulder. She assumed Wolfe was a student. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘I don’t. It’s a personal matter.’
The receptionist smiles sweetly and makes an internal call.
‘I’m sorry, he’s not available.’
‘Can I speak to him, please?’ says Wolfe. ‘It’s important.’ She points to the receptionist’s phone.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Can you possibly find out when he’ll be free? I’ve come down from London specifically to see him.’
‘I see,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you get yourself a coffee,’ she says, gesturing to a café at the far end of the atrium, ‘and I’ll see what I can do.’
Wolfe thanks her and shuffles off to the café. She needs another coffee anyway. Making a statement to DI Overington was distressing, but tougher still was the realisation that Wolfe can no longer sleep soundly in her own home. A night in a Cambridge hotel will do her good and staying locally gives her a better chance of snagging an interview. Her coffee ordered, she sits at a table that gives her a full view of the atrium. Olivia’s cappuccino has barely arrived before the receptionist walks over.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, looking genuinely apologetic. ‘I’ve been told Dr Heatherton can’t see you and he isn’t available for visitors. He’s in the middle of a big project, you see.’
Wolfe tries to keep the annoyance from her voice. ‘And what about Dr Stacy Price? She’ll have time for me.’
After all, Price did call her about Rundle’s accident.
‘I’m afraid none of his team is available to talk to the media.’
‘Who told you I was media?’
The woman’s eyelashes flutter in agitation.
‘Look, please don’t take it personally. Nobody’s allowed near them.’
The receptionist scuttles back to her desk. Somebody other than Heatherton is refusing her access. Is Casburn back in the country?
Near the café is an escalator. Wolfe looks up. The layout of each floor is identical: from what she can see, the offices and labs are glass-fronted and face on to the void. Security cameras are everywhere, but if she looks as if she belongs, she shouldn’t raise the alarm. She needs a white coat to blend in and a security pass around her neck. When she’s sure the receptionist is busy with a well-dressed visitor, Wolfe takes the escalator.
Wolfe goes up to the third floor, keen to put some distance between her and the security guards. Avoiding eye contact with people, she glances into each lab through the glass walls, hoping to see someone she recognises, or, at the very least, a spare lab coat. In one room, a female lab technician drops tiny amounts of cloudy liquid from a pipette into a tray of test tubes. She is alone, her back to the door, and is wearing earphones, an iPod in her pocket. Wolfe opens the door as quietly as possible, steps into the lab and lifts the white coat off the hook and leaves. She puts it on: it’s a little bulky over her jacket, but it’ll have to do. Trying to hurry without looking rushed, Wolfe searches for the Lake Ellsworth scientists before Security finds her. Distracted, she almost collides with a guy whose chin bum-fluff and acne suggests he’s an undergraduate. He’s chatting to somebody on his phone. This could be her chance.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ says Wolfe, deliberately knocking his arm so he drops his phone.
He picks it up, checks it’s not broken and shrugs, still talking on the phone.
‘Can you help me? I’m new. Looking for Dr Heatherton.’
He points up. ‘Fourth floor,’ he mouths, then continues with his phone conversation. He hasn’t noticed she’s taken his security pass.
As soon as Wolfe arrives on the top floor, she realises all the labs are Biosafety Level 4 facilities, designed to contain potentially lethal biological agents such as smallpox and anthrax. Each lab has an electronic, vacuum-sealed door. Peering through the reinforced glass panels of the nearest facility, she sees changing rooms, and then another door, through which researchers can pass only when fully kitted out in protective gear. There are lockers and piles of gowns in varying sizes, as well as male and female shower rooms.
Wolfe hesitates. Is Heatherton being overly cautious, or is LE31S potentially hazardous? She doubts the student’s pass around her neck will get her inside one of those labs, and, given the risks, she’s not sure she really wants to. Perhaps she should wait until one of Heatherton’s team takes a break?
Moving quickly, she works her way along the corridor, peering into each lab as she goes. No Heatherton or Matthews or Price or Sinclair. She stops when she sees a technician in an airtight suit with breathing apparatus working at one of three sealed transparent cabinets with Perspex fronts. Each cabinet has two arm spaces to which thick white rubber gauntlets are attached: entry points that enable technicians to work with the dangerous microbes inside. At the corner of the room is the kill tank, where all the lab’s liquid waste is destroyed. It’s heated under pressure to 121 degrees Celsius. Wolfe waits for the person to turn around. She doesn’t recognise him, so she keeps searching.
Wolfe glances down through the void. The two security guards she saw earlier race up the escalator from the ground floor. She starts to run. At the very end of the corridor, two men in dark suits sit outside the entrance to a lab. One holds his hand to his ear, and looks straight at her. Both men stand. Their loose-fitting jackets tell her they are carrying firearms. The taller officer charges at her. He’s fast. The other officer places a hand inside his jacket and stands with his back to the door. She’s caught in a pincer movement between the armed officers and the security guards. There is no point running. If she does, she might get shot. She stands her ground.
‘Ma’am, you have to leave. Now,’ the officer says, grabbing her arm.
‘I’m here to see Dr Heatherton,’ Wolfe replies.
‘No, you’re not. You’re coming with me.’
‘You can let go now. I’ll leave quietly.’
But he doesn’t let go. He grips her arm until he has escorted her down the escalator and out of the building.
/> ‘Drove here?’ he asks.
‘I can find my car without you.’
‘What are you driving?’
‘A silver Fiat 500.’
‘Hired from?’
She gives him the details.
‘I’ll take you to your car.’ He holds her arm again, but his grip is lighter.
An ITV outside-broadcasting van has set up in the car park, and an ITV reporter is trying to gain access to the building. They weren’t there when she arrived, so who has tipped them off? She spots Minkley from the BBC, on the phone and sounding furious, his cameraman by his side. He’s clearly irritated that news of the alien bacteria has got out. Wolfe wants to talk to him, to find out what details have leaked.
‘Ignore them,’ says the armed officer. ‘You’re leaving.’
Crowd control fencing is being hastily erected across the entrance to the main building, as security guards refuse entry to the reporters. A short man with a cocky walk in a Burberry rip-off trench coat heads for a gap in the fencing: Eric Lowe from the tabloid, UK Today. He’s blocked by Security. Known in the business as Nails, he’s a hard-bitten, old-school journalist who always carries a bundle of fifties in his inside pocket, should his attempts at intimidation or blackmail fail to elicit the sensationalist story he’s after. Lowe clocks her being manhandled, and mocks her with a royal wave.
‘Why does Dr Heatherton need a protection detail?’ Wolfe asks her escort.
No answer.
As Wolfe unlocks the Fiat, Heatherton runs through the car park in shorts, trainers and a singlet, despite the cool, crisp weather, heading back to work after a lunchtime jog.
‘Michael! Over here!’ she shouts. ‘Michael, it’s Olivia Wolfe.’
At first he doesn’t hear her. She calls his name again.
Heatherton looks her way, stops abruptly and leans forward, panting. He is only a few feet away. ‘I . . . I can’t talk to you,’ he says, his eyes fixed on the police officer.
‘Yes, you can,’ she says. ‘Tell this buffoon to let me go.’
‘In the car, now,’ says the buffoon.
Heatherton won’t look at her. ‘I . . . I just can’t. I’m sorry.’
Finally his eyes meet hers. Gone are the arrogance and naked ambition. In their place is wide-eyed fear.
32
It’s six in the evening and Wolfe chews on a stick of licorice as she sits in her Fiat 500 outside the Laboratory of Molecular Biology. Even though she’s at the back of the car park, there is a good view of the security-fenced main entrance. She’s left messages for Casburn, who, unsurprisingly, hasn’t called back. Since none of the scientists will talk to her, she’s rung Beer on his satellite phone, keen to know how Rundle is doing in hospital, but as soon as he heard her voice, he disconnected the call. To alleviate the boredom she’s unpacked and then re-packed her Go Bag: temporary laptop, smartphone, toiletries, notebook and pen, torch, knife in sheaf, key chain, lock pick, water bottle, as well as warm clothing, her Afghan dress, headscarf and passport, which she always carries, just in case she’s sent overseas at a moment’s notice.
The car park’s sodium lights cast an orange glow on the building’s exterior and distort the colour of cars, hair and clothing, making it harder to identify the people she’s waiting for. She has their home addresses. An easy exercise, since three are in the local phone book and Matthews, although ex-directory, has been photographed outside his renovated, super-energy-efficient, low-carbon-footprint home for the local paper. Naturally, the year-old article didn’t reveal his house number, but by using Google maps Wolfe managed to locate it. Her mobile rings.
‘Where the hell are you?’ Cohen barks.
‘In Cambridge, doing what you asked me to do. Except nobody’s talking.’ She suppresses a yawn.
‘Boring you, am I?’
‘Stakeouts aren’t exactly exciting, Moz.’ Wolfe tells him about the scientists’ protection detail. ‘I’m going to follow Stacy Price home. I think she’s the most likely to talk.’
‘Why the police escort?’
‘I’m guessing whatever the bacteria does, it isn’t good. It’s in the lab’s Level 4 facility.’
‘Is it now? That’s a story in itself. I want an article tonight. Apart from Harvey, who’s as useless as a kick up the bum, you’re the only one who has a relationship with the team, so don’t let me down.’
Wolfe recognises Price’s wavy auburn ponytail poking out from her navy bobble hat. She’s in a matching down jacket, and she tucks her chin into her scarf to hide her face. ‘Gotta go, Moz. Stacy’s leaving.’
The media still hanging about don’t recognise Price, so she is undisturbed as she walks to the bus stop. Wolfe turns the ignition, reverses out of her spot, catches up with Price and winds down the passenger window.
‘Stacy! It’s Olivia. Get in!’
Price speeds up. Wolfe keeps up with her, leaning across the passenger seat so she’s sure Price will hear her.
‘Stacy, I just want to talk. Hop in and I’ll buy you a drink.’
Price approaches the car and bends so she can see Wolfe through the open window. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been told not to talk to anyone. Not even my family.’
‘But Stacy, you called me, remember?’
A bus is approaching. Price takes off and jumps on board just as the doors are closing.
‘Shit!’
Wolfe does a U-turn and drives back into the car park, wondering if one of the many security cameras has recorded her accosting Price. Deliberately parking in a different spot, she waits. There’s a steady stream of people leaving the building, but from her new parking spot it’s difficult to see their faces.
A man of short stature with a plodding walk leaves the building. As he gets closer, his bedraggled beard confirms he’s Sinclair. He’s wearing the style of duffel coat that reminds her of Paddington Bear, even if Sinclair’s is brown. He gets into a dark-coloured Volvo XC90. Nobody else but Wolfe follows him, so it seems the protection detail is for the bacteria, not the scientists. He turns on to the A1134. She memorises his number plate in case she loses sight of him, but manages to tail the Volvo all the way to Mill Road in the suburb of Sturton Town. Sinclair parks in the Co-op supermarket’s car park and gets out. Wolfe trails him inside. Sinclair struggles to free a wire basket jammed tightly into the one beneath, then sets off down the first aisle, grabbing a couple of Granny Smith apples. Two aisles over, he selects a pack of three lamb chops.
‘Toby!’ Wolfe calls.
He almost drops his basket. ‘Jesus!’
He looks past her to the exit as if he’s considering doing a runner. She raises a placating hand.
‘It’s okay, Toby. I just want to talk.’
Sinclair shakes his head.
Wolfe steps closer. He takes a step back.
‘How are you, Toby?’
‘W . . . what are you doing here?’
‘I want to talk.’ She nods at his shopping basket. ‘How about I take you out to dinner? Save you having to cook.’
Sinclair glances at the exit again.
‘I’ve been told not to talk to you or Charles or anyone.’
‘Who says you can’t? I thought we were mates.’
He clenches his jaw and glares at her. There’s a ferocity she hasn’t seen before. ‘You’re not my mate. You’re a journalist.’
‘Yes, that’s my job. But I’ve grown very fond of you guys and I’m very sorry about Trent’s accident. Do you know how he’s doing?’
‘No. No, I don’t.’
For a moment Sinclair is distracted, lost in his thoughts. Wolfe moves closer.
‘Should I be worried, Toby? Could the bacteria make me ill?’
Wolfe stands between Sinclair and the six self-service checkouts, so he walks quickly to the back of the store. She runs after him, grabbing the back of his coat.
‘Wait!’
He stops and faces her. His eyes are bloodshot and his lids heavy, his skin taut and flaky. He’s exhausted and
his body odour tells her he hasn’t washed for a while.
‘Toby, please tell me what’s going on. I never betray a source. You’re perfectly safe.’
His shoulders droop. ‘I’m a prisoner.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘All my life, I’ve marvelled at our beautiful world, how magnificent it is and how little we really know about it. To discover new life, cut off from the rest of the world for millions of years - well, that was truly amazing. Finally, I could make a real difference.’
He shakes his head.
‘Go on,’ she says.
‘I’d hoped we could learn something about life on our planet, and possibly on other planets too.’ Sinclair looks straight at her. ‘But how could I forget how destructive we are? We use our brilliant minds to find devastating ways to kill. Did you know that the most deadly pathogens known to man, the ones we have spent decades eradicating, like smallpox, are kept alive in maximum-security facilities in the USA and Russia? Do you know why? Do you, Olivia?’
Sinclair has raised his voice. He’s drawing attention from shoppers.
‘I’m guessing germ warfare,’ Wolfe replies, keeping her voice low.
‘Precisely. Instead of eradicating them for ever, we keep them, to be used as a weapon against some future enemy, potentially killing millions of innocent people. Collateral damage, they call it. I call it murder.’
He clams up, flushed with embarrassment. A young mum near the dairy fridges scurries away, dragging her two little girls with her.
‘What’s this got to do with the bacteria?’ Wolfe asks.
‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Leave me alone.’
Sinclair drops his basket on the floor. Wolfe watches him go.
