She pushed the handle of the gatehouse door. Locked. Heaving open the hatch, she yelled through the gap, ‘Stefan, are you OK?’
He grabbed a slim tube from his inside pocket, opened his mouth and sprayed a short blast onto the back of his tongue.
A magical transformation took place before her eyes: a pink sunrise blooming over ashen skin.
Nitroglycerine. The liquid that killed one member of the Nobel family and inspired another to invent both dynamite and the Nobel Prize. Not just an explosive; also used to treat angina. A powerful vasodilator that relaxes the smooth muscles and opens the blood vessels to the heart.
Jaq stood rooted to the spot, her muscles suddenly frozen, holding her breath before exhaling in a long gasp. What a perverse symmetry. If she had known then what she knew now, could she have saved them? The men at Seal Sands. If they hadn’t died, would she even be here now?
The hatch fell as she clenched her fists. No point looking back. Lock it down. Lock it in. There was still time to help this man. She reached into her bag and found her phone. ‘I’m calling 112.’
‘No!’ He opened the door.
Jaq took his arm and guided him to a chair. ‘You need a doctor.’ She checked his pulse – rapid but steady; his breathing – shallow but regular.
‘I’m better now.’ He grabbed her hand. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone else.’
She was taken aback by the fear in his eyes. Did this job mean so much to him? The lowest rung in the organisation, with the longest hours and the lowest pay. Snow Science was a good employer, regular medicals and adaptable work. They’d play fair with him. Stefan must be nearing retirement age anyway. Perhaps he was worried about his pension.
She sat with him for a while, making him a mug of hot chocolate, chatting about anything and nothing until he asked her to leave. Anxious to complete all his paperwork before the night shift arrived, he thrust the snowboard into her hands and practically pushed her out of the Portakabin.
New snow had fallen, leaving behind a thick, soft carpet which muffled all sound. As she bent to clip in for the descent, she glanced back at the lighted cabin.
Stefan stood at the open doorway, his back to her. One hand held a phone to his ear. He clenched his other hand into a fist and banged it against the wall.
Monday 28 February, Teesside, England
The limo driver held up a placard with FRANK GOOD, ZAGROVYL on it in large letters, and the Chariot Cars logo underneath. Frank’s upper lip curled into a sneer. Teesside airport had fewer than ten flights a day. A clutch of chauffeurs loitered, waiting for the Amsterdam flight, the same uniformed drivers each time. The placard was hardly necessary – the limo driver knew Frank, and Frank knew his own name.
‘Pleasant flight, sir?’ The driver, PK, tucked the greeting sign under one arm and held out a hand for the luggage.
‘Not particularly.’ Tyche–Zagrovyl integration meetings were always tedious. Thank God that was the last one. Frank rolled the suitcase towards PK and strode for the exit. The castors clicked over the linoleum of the airport foyer.
PK caught the case and hurried after his client across the car park. ‘Head office?’ he asked as he opened the passenger door.
Frank nodded, his eyes never leaving the screen of his phone. Teesside airport might be convenient, but it wasn’t worth a second glance: a single-storey building with a runway on one side and an access road on the other. Several pointless roundabouts joined the ambitiously sized airport car park – almost empty except for a patch sublet for caravan storage – to the A67 leading west to Darlington and east to Yarm.
The limo turned north. As they joined the A19, Frank snapped his fingers. ‘Change of plan,’ he said. ‘We’re picking someone up.’
Shelly stood outside her house, sheltering under a tree. Frank took in the high heels, silk blouse and linen skirt as the short raincoat blew open in the wind. PK jumped out and opened the door. She slipped in beside Frank, who barely acknowledged her greeting before turning his attention back to his telephone.
‘Thanks, PK.’ Shelly bent forward as the driver got back in. ‘How are you?’
Frank scowled as the chatter between them interrupted his concentration. Shelly was a little too free with her attentions. Put him in mind of a poem he’d learned back at school.
A heart . . . too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Frank placed a hand on Shelly’s knee. ‘What time is the meeting?’
‘Two thirty, Mr Good.’
‘Then we have some time to play with.’ He slipped his hand under her skirt, sliding it up to the top of her stocking where the texture became more interesting.
Shelly squirmed in her seat and glanced at PK.
‘Don’t worry about the driver,’ Frank said. ‘You know what to do, don’t you, driver?’
PK met his eyes in the mirror. ‘Transporter Bridge, sir?’ The slow route to Seal Sands, crossing the River Tees on an Edwardian moving bridge. Frank nodded and pressed the privacy button. A dark glass partition rose into position, sealing the back from the front.
‘Frank, please.’ Shelly pulled his hand away. ‘Not here.’
If not here, then where? Shelly had changed. Once upon a time, when he first hired her, he only had to lift an eyebrow and she’d start undressing. Frank shook his head and turned away. What was the point of her now?
The car drove past the ruins of Vulcan Street and down to the riverside. What a dismal picture. A giant blue structure towered above the river, a complex lattice of girders and rivets, carrying a suspended gondola designed to transport vehicles across without impeding the ships sailing up the River Tees. In the design office they called it an engineering marvel. It was more like an over-engineered dodo, a pointless waste of good steel. Made by men looking to the past, not the future. There were no tall-masted ships by the time the bridge was completed, and the new supertankers would never come this far upriver.
A plume of black smoke darkened the leaden sky and the smell of burning rubber wafted across the water. A steel ship that once operated as a nightclub lay tilted in the mud, abandoned and rotting. This was why change was needed. The derelict warehouses and empty wharves were the perfect reminder of how poorly those before him had performed. That’s why Zagrovyl had chosen him as European operations director: a firm hand to put things right, or close them down forever.
Shelly leant against his shoulder, mouthing a faint apology, and began a laboured explanation. He stroked her long hair, letting his fingers meander down to her breasts. She sighed but didn’t push him away this time as one hand slipped under silk. He knew what Shelly liked. A simulacrum of affection and she was his for the taking. Could he be bothered?
Under slanting rain, the platform of the Transporter Bridge sped across the ash-grey river to Port Clarence. When he realised she was crying, Frank jerked back, dabbing at his suit with a clean handkerchief before passing it to Shelly. The windows had misted up. He ran a finger across the glass and admired the glistening sheen before wiping it on her skirt, leaving a faint trace.
As the car neared the Seal Sands complex, Frank lifted the partition. Slumped against the door, Shelly stared out of the window. The tinted glass reflected a ravaged face: lipstick smeared across one cheek, black mascara smudged around enormous eyes. She looked fucked, even if he hadn’t finished the job. But who was to know?
He pressed the privacy button and settled back as the tinted glass partition descended, linking his arms behind his head, and waited to make eye contact with the limo driver. How should a hireling respond? With a wink? Far too intimate; they were not of the same social standing. Acknowledge him with a nod? Inappropriate. Roll his eyes? A sure way to get sacked.
PK was no fool. He stared straight ahead.
‘We’re late, driver.’
PK glanced in the mirror. ‘Yes, sir.’
The driver remained impassive, giving no
hint of approval or disapproval, congratulation or censure. A disappointing outcome; Frank was spoiling for a fight. ‘Drive straight to the warehouse.’
‘Through security, sir?’ PK bit his lip. ‘I don’t have a pass to enter the factory.’
Frank harrumphed. ‘Shelly will sort it out.’
Shelly reapplied lipstick, smoothed her wrinkled skirt and checked the buttons on her blouse – a hasty attempt to repair the damage. At the gatehouse, she dashed out the moment the car stopped, without waiting for PK to open the door. Frank banged on the window and gestured impatiently at the security guard. The moment the barrier was lifted, Frank told PK to drive on, leaving Shelly behind.
The road ran through the centre of the factory. On the dockside stood the export cranes, rusted into dereliction. Opposite them the production units hissed and hummed, geometric sculptures of columns and spheres connected by a spaghetti of piping. At the end of the broad avenue stood the warehouse. When they arrived, PK jumped out and unfurled an umbrella before opening the passenger door.
Rain hammered on the roof of the limo. The wind swept the drops sideways, and they splashed back up from the pavement. Frank grimaced and sat back in his seat. He dialled another number.
‘I asked for a report on controlled chemical stock movements.’ Frank gestured for PK to close the door. ‘I’m outside in the car. Bring it to me.’ He scratched his crotch. ‘Right now,’ he added. ‘I don’t like waiting.’
Monday 28 February, Kranjskabel, Slovenia
Even Jaq had to admit that Zagrovyl responded quickly. Almost too quickly.
On Monday a man called her from the transport company. An error with some Zagrovyl deliveries, he explained. The pallet meant for Snow Science had gone to a warehouse nearby. The pallet they had delivered was reject material bound for disposal. He gave a long and detailed explanation. Almost too detailed.
He promised an immediate swap. The lorry was on its way. All very smooth. Almost too smooth.
The snow fell in slow, soft flakes, coating the Snow Science buildings in a fluffy white mantle, insulating the sophisticated laboratories from the primitive world outside. Jaq was catching up on some paperwork in her laboratory when the delivery lorry rolled through the main gate. She finished her report and locked it in a drawer before pulling on her jacket. The padded snowsuits lined the corridor, silent observers, empty limbs quivering as she made her way to the exit.
The security man swung the forklift round as she arrived, the replacement material already in the warehouse quarantine area.
‘Hi, Patrice.’ Jaq put up a hand, signalling for him to stop. ‘Where’s Stefan?’
‘Day off. He’s back on night shift tomorrow.’
The new pallet was in good shape, tightly stretch-wrapped and all the bags smooth and flat. Jaq unlocked the inner door, reset the alarm and opened the cage.
Patrice removed the rejected pallet and replaced it with the new one while she assembled her sampling equipment – pen, knife, gloves, quill and sample bottles. Boots crunched over snow. The inner warehouse door flew open. A bearded man, the delivery driver, stood in the doorway. Despite the cold, his unbuttoned tartan shirt revealed a chest as black and hairy as his beard.
He pointed at the bottles in her hand and frowned. ‘Did you take samples from that other pallet?’ Blackbeard inclined his head towards the lorry idling outside the door, now loaded up with a single pallet of reject material. He moved towards her, craning his neck to peer over her shoulder as she turned away.
Jaq locked the sample cupboard. ‘It’s okay, I’ll dispose of them.’ She carried the sampling equipment to the cage and shook out a pair of latex gloves.
‘Give me the old samples.’ The lorry driver advanced with an outstretched hand. He stood in front of her with his legs apart, chin jutting forward, a man who was not moving until he got what he wanted.
Jaq squared up to him. ‘Why do you want them?’
‘Reject material.’ Blackbeard scowled, his thick brows meeting in the middle. ‘Might get muddled up.’
Jaq brushed past him. ‘I’ll make sure it doesn’t.’ She crouched to check the bag numbers against the delivery note. This time they matched.
‘Might be unstable.’
‘We know how to handle explosives,’ Jaq said.
‘Look, lady.’ He stamped a fur-lined boot. ‘I was told to bring back all the material, and I do what I’m told.’ He bent down so that his eyes were level with hers. Black eyes. ‘So be a good girl and fetch them.’ He reached out as if to pat her on the shoulder.
Jaq intercepted with the sharp end of the quill; it caught the side of his hand and he drew back with a cry.
At that moment Laurent sauntered in. Unusual for him to venture out of the office in such bad weather, but for once Jaq was glad to see her boss.
Blackbeard straightened up. ‘Dr Visquel.’ He shook Laurent’s hand and introduced himself as Boris. ‘I’m sorry about the mistake. I was just explaining to Dr Silver that we need all samples back as well.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem.’ Laurent fixed his gaze on her. ‘Should it, Jaq?’
How did Boris know their names? Jaq observed the way the two men stood facing her, Boris and Laurent. Close together, almost touching, a team. The blizzard had reached a new peak, the wind howling and snow falling so fast she could barely see the lorry through the open door, much less the laboratories and offices on the other side of the snowy mound. Icicles of unease chilled her spine; she shivered and shrugged away the apprehension. No point in arguing with these two.
‘Let me finish up here,’ Jaq said. ‘Then I’ll get the samples.’
‘Anyone for coffee?’ Laurent asked. He headed over to the vending machine. Jaq suppressed a smirk as it swallowed his coins. Laurent kicked it and tried again before inviting Boris to the office canteen.
‘Bring them to the gatehouse,’ Laurent instructed as he ushered Boris out.
Jaq collected four new samples and locked up. She chose the shortcut, scaling the artificial hill that acted as both helicopter landing circle and barrier between occupied buildings and explosives store. Bad decision. The snow had turned to hail. Buffeted by the wind, prills of ice lacerated her skin. She bent double and fought every step of the way before tumbling down the far side.
The office block offered sanctuary from the howling wind and stinging ice. She shook the snow from her hair, striding past the snowsuits that swung from a metal rack in front of the lockers. Inside the lab, she scanned the room. Rita, the analyst, sat in the far corner, engrossed in a phone call. All clear. Jaq took a deep breath before selecting four of the forty samples, the ones from the top bags.
Jaq shoved the samples into her jacket pocket and headed back out into the blizzard. The gatehouse lay opposite the car park, but the wind whirled the fallen snow into vortices of pure white-out. She could barely see her hand in front of her face. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. Better to take the long way round, through the walkways. It meant retracing her steps, but the partial cover offered some protection from the storm. Jaq lowered her head and battled on to the gatehouse. Blackbeard jumped down from the cab of his lorry.
‘Here you go.’ Jaq handed over the samples.
He scrutinised her face. ‘This the lot, then?’
‘We sample one in ten.’ She maintained eye contact. ‘Standard procedure,’ she added before stepping back into the storm.
Monday 28 February, Teesside, England
Frank strode into his office and heaved open a window. Outside, the ancient factory sprawled towards the River Tees. His eyes followed the progress of a Russian ship as he loosened his tie. Insufferably hot again. He’d sack whoever kept the offices so warm. A waste of money, stifling thought and creativity, curbing action. Only the elderly and the lazy needed inside temperatures above 18 degrees Celsius. He’d have a word with the engineers about moving the control panel into his office and locking the damn thing.
Robin put his head rou
nd the door. Tufts of brown hair speckled with grey framed a pale, bespectacled face. His brown, beady eyes scanned the room in quick, jerky movements. Dressed in a brown suit with white shirt and red tie, the finance director looked more birdlike than ever. ‘We’re all assembled and ready when you are,’ he said.
Frank waved the bean counter away. He removed his outdoor coat and draped it over a wooden hanger, smoothing the tan cashmere before suspending the hanger from a curlicue on the hat stand. He paused for a second to admire the photo on the wall. It showed Frank – in white shorts, navy shirt and captain’s hat – taking possession of his new yacht, purchased with the bonus awarded after the Tyche acquisition. Good Ship Frankium was waiting for him in Cannes. The sooner he concluded this business, the sooner he could get back to the Med.
Double doors separated his office from the boardroom. He flung them open, and a hush fell over the management team. The newer managers, the ones he had hand-picked, sat bolt upright, jackets off and shirtsleeves rolled up, expectant, eager. The dead wood, the managers he had inherited, were slumped in their seats, jumpers on under jackets, stinking of fear.
‘What’s first on the agenda?’ Frank asked, grabbing the papers laid out on the table.
‘Safety,’ Robin said. ‘Stuart, do you have anything for us?’
Frank drummed his fingers as the safety manager fiddled with the projector.
‘Transport of hazardous goods regulations,’ Stuart said. ‘I’d like to update the team on how the EU harmonisation plans will affect us in Eastern Europe.’
Frank yawned. He allowed Robin to run the meeting, feigning interest as the department heads churned through their updates, his fingers tapping on the polished mahogany table, running through the first Brandenburg Concerto in his head. On and on they droned, spinning the good news, glossing over any difficulties, concocting elaborate excuses for production targets missed, sales contracts not signed, budgets overspent: the usual crap. Frank was just getting to the Minuet when Shelly tiptoed into the room, clutching some papers.
The Chemical Detective Page 3
