Where was Silver? She must have heard the cries by now. He rolled the body into the water, kicking it out towards the depths.
Still panting, he checked the pile of clothes for identification, keeping one eye on the path. How did the man know the child was bait? Who else was watching Silver? He reached into the inner jacket pocket. One driving licence and several cards in the name of William Sharp. A notebook. Detailed surveillance notes. This one had been watching Silver for a few days. He put everything back.
‘Ben!’
A shout from above. At last. Silver was coming! Getting closer now. The trap was sprung. He retreated to his hiding place.
It was a great plan. A cold, deep lake. Only one way down to the water and he had it covered. Only one fucking way, unless you were off your fucking head.
How was he to know that the kurva would be crazy enough to dive off the sodding cliff? Fucking mental.
He watched in disbelief as she passed over him, momentarily awestruck.
He didn’t give up, even then. She had to come back this way. With or without the boy. Judging by the amount of water the boat had taken on, it was going to be without. He’d get her on the way back. Exhausted. Distraught. Easy to overcome. Drown her in the shallows and then send her back to the depths.
A tragic accident.
It was still a good plan.
Until Boris saw the fit bloke in the red kayak powering across the lake. Ben’s father. Suka. That’s when he knew he’d missed his opportunity. And when he heard the siren, he realised he had to get away. Fast.
It was a good plan. Until Silver fucked it up.
This was the last time he’d let her humiliate him. She’d tricked him over the samples, she’d made him waste the last of his Semtex on the booby trap in the vending machine, and forced him to start smoking again after all the pain of giving up.
He took a puff and dropped the cigarette end, grinding it with his boot, squashing and flaying it.
This time, she couldn’t escape. This time he wasn’t just going to kill her, he was going to punish her first.
And that meant watching and waiting for a little longer.
Boris had a new plan.
Thursday 17 March, Ljubljana, Slovenia
Jaq took the bus from Ljubljana to Kranjskabel. As the bus headed north into the mountains, she opened the white envelope containing the forensics report. Although it made for depressing reading, the results were largely straightforward, unremarkable. Except for one thing.
The report listed the discrepancies, comparing the records she had supplied at the time of the break-in with the inventory taken after the explosion. It showed that all the detonators, fuses, fuel oil, cartridges, primary, secondary and commercial explosives – nitroglycerine, dynamite – were unaffected. The limited inventory and careful storage in segregated areas had worked. Safety by design.
Only the Zagrovyl material had gone.
Explosives 101, one of the many courses Jaq taught to young engineers, defined an explosion as the release of energy so sudden that it causes a shockwave.
Of the three types: atomic explosions – like the runaway reaction in Chernobyl; physical explosions – molten lava from the Krakatoa volcano cascading into the sea, vaporising a cubic mile of seawater and creating a blast wave felt three thousand miles away; and chemical explosions, the latter were the easiest to control.
Artificial chemical explosives rely on rapid oxidation, the reaction between nitrogen and oxygen, for example. The reaction happens in microseconds, the temperature shoots up to thousands of degrees, the pressure soars to hundreds of atmospheres and all that liberated energy needs somewhere to go. Bang!
But pure ammonium nitrate was extremely stable. A propellant, not a primary explosive. When used to shift snow, they had to mix it with fuel oil and other, more energetic, ingredients. Something else had set it off.
Judging by the damage, the detonation had started in the area of the vending machine. An electrical short? Exploding coffee? Impossible. It would only have a fraction of the energy needed to create a secondary explosion.
And this was the curious thing: the police found traces of RDX and PETN. She scratched her head as she checked the detailed analysis. How could they have found decomposition products of Semtex when she never stored Semtex at Snow Science? The plastic explosive, invented in the Czech Republic, beloved of terrorists the world over, was of little value in avalanche control.
One thing was certain: no evidence of negligence. This explosion was not accidental. Someone had set it off deliberately, messed it up and perished in the act.
Ping! Jaq checked her phone. A text from Natalie. Hairnet had come up trumps. Jaq clicked on the link. Camilla Hatton had never attended a salon in Teesside, but there were bookings every six weeks at a salon in Mölndal, Sweden and then more recently Den Haag in the Netherlands. And tomorrow, her heart skipped a beat, a booking in Kranjskabel.
Jaq closed her eyes. If her suspicions were correct, that was one appointment the white-haired woman in turquoise salopettes would never make. So desperate to destroy the Zagrovyl material in the Snow Science warehouse, she had destroyed herself in the act.
The sun slipped below the horizon leaving a pellucid sky, periwinkle blue, above mountains fringed with rose gold. As the bus swept into Kranjskabel, a tall figure with golden ringlets emerged onto the wooden balcony of a ski school. Jaq’s heart sank. Since visiting Johan, she had avoided thinking about Karel. The relationship was absurd, the age gap too wide. They had nothing in common except skiing. She knew what she had to do, but the realisation saddened her.
Karel didn’t notice the bus, lost in conversation with two men. Not customers. Bearded and heavyset, they wore suits, not the garb of typical ski students. Not policemen, either. Something about the body language was wrong.
The bus drove on, buildings obscuring her view. She was the last passenger to leave the bus at the terminus, and by the time she doubled back, the men were gone.
Karel’s face lit up as she approached; the guilt made her feet slow and heavy. After the formal kiss, she stepped aside. He frowned and took her gloved hand. ‘I was worried you wouldn’t come back.’
A group of teenage girls emerged from the ski school. She couldn’t tell him here. It would have to wait until they were somewhere private. She owed him that at least.
‘The police need a statement.’ She handed him Wilem Y’Ispe’s card.
‘Has something happened?’
What had Will-O’-the-Wisp said? Don’t tell him about the developments. In other words, don’t tell him about the body. She brushed a strand of hair away from her face. ‘They want to know if I let the keys to the explosives store out of my sight. I guess I did when I was . . .’ She hesitated, searching for the right words. ‘When I was with you. I’m sorry, but they need to hear your version.’
‘So best not to mention my sleepwalking habit?’
‘Don’t joke,’ she said. ‘This is serious.’
Karel grimaced. ‘I’ll call him when I finish here.’ He nodded at the waiting girls. ‘I have a class now. Can I come over later?’
No point delaying the difficult conversation. ‘Sure.’ She dropped her eyes. ‘Call me first.’
Jaq shuffled through slush towards her flat. She pulled out her keys, light and insubstantial now the bulky work set had been removed. An image of Sheila’s bent head sprang to mind, her erstwhile friend unable to make eye contact as the formalities of suspension were executed, the Snow Science keys swapped for a paper receipt.
Wait a minute.
Sergei. When he left Snow Science, did he hand in his keys? If he had, it would be recorded in his file. If he hadn’t, there might be a third set of keys. And that opened all sorts of other possibilities.
Her hand reached for her phone, to call Detective Y’Ispe. The police could subpoena Snow Science for Sergei’s HR files. Or was there a faster way to find out, before Laurent destroyed more evidence? She dumped her suitcase in t
he flat and sprinted back into the street, reaching the stop just in time for the shuttle bus trundling up the hill.
The Snow Science complex loomed silver and grey against the night sky.
‘Good evening, Dr Silver.’ Patrice, the relief shift security guard was on duty again. ‘I see the police still have the warehouse cordoned off. Any news? I’m just back from holiday.’
Good, he didn’t know that she was suspended. Would the security system stop her? Only one way to find out.
‘Evening, Patrice,’ she said. ‘Hey, I left my pass behind. Can you let me in?’
‘Sure thing, Dr Silver,’ he said. ‘I can give you a temporary pass.’ He took a blank from a drawer and pushed it into a machine before tapping something on a keyboard.
‘You know your employee number?’
Jaq thought fast. Sheila was efficient, she would have blocked the account by now. But employee numbers were sequential. Rita had started on the same day, registered just before her. She subtracted one and gave him that number instead.
‘Here you are.’ He handed her the pass without checking the name. ‘Valid for twenty-four hours. Anything else you need?’
Could she push her luck a little further? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. ‘The office keys,’ she said.
He unlocked the key cabinet. ‘Which office?’
Jaq scanned the rows of keys. The HR information was kept in Laurent’s office. She pointed to Key No. 1.
‘Sign here,’ Patrice pushed a thick book towards her. The last signature was logged at 5 p.m. She flicked back a few pages. The same signature every morning and evening. Rosa, the cleaner. Nothing else on the date of the break-in. Nothing else on the date of the explosion.
Icicles fringed the covered walkway leading to the office block. The heat of the sun melted the snow by day; it dripped from the roof and froze again at night, leaving hanging ice daggers with needle-sharp points that glinted in the brilliant white light as the halogen security floodlights flashed on and off, the motion sensors tracking her progress.
At the end of the walkway, the office block lay cloaked in darkness. Laurent never worked late, and most of the team followed his example. The key slid into the lock of the outer door. Jaq checked behind her; nothing but a distant orange glow from the security cabin. She opened the door and listened; nothing but the tinkling of stalactites above, the distant hoot of a snowy owl behind. At the inner door, her hand hovered over the light switch and then withdrew. No. She knew her way. Best to draw minimal attention to her presence.
The door swung closed behind her. A whorl of warm air swirled down the corridor, and with it a rustling and chattering. Jaq froze. Was something moving up ahead? She waited. Nothing; just the thud-thump of her heartbeat. She took a deep breath and advanced. The outside floodlights clicked off. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, then continued more slowly, one arm outstretched, fingers skimming the wall. Shadows scurried across the ceiling, bounded by an eerie green halo. Something was sliding towards her. Something or someone? Her hand brushed against softness. She lurched to the other side of the corridor. Instead of hard plaster, she stumbled into yielding, smothering shapelessness.
A scream escaped her lips as cool limbs wrapped themselves around her. She flailed against the enveloping form, punching it away. A metal frame clattered to the floor.
In the faint green glow of the emergency exit sign, the reflective strips of twelve snowsuits blinked at her from where they had fallen, scattered across the corridor floor, malevolent cyborgs vanquished.
Feeling foolish, Jaq righted the frame and returned the garments to their hangers. She used the light from her phone to locate Laurent’s office, her hand shaking so hard she could barely fit the key in the door. Inside his office, she locked the door behind her and leant against it, wiping cold sweat from her brow, breathing hard. What a twerp. What on earth was she doing here? Breaking and entering. She wasn’t cut out for this sort of cloak-and-dagger stuff. The sooner she got out of here the better.
She closed the blinds before putting on the light. Laurent still had his 5S plan pinned up on the wall. A rectangle for his phone. A line for his pen. More shapes for his laptop, monitor, mouse and keyboard. Replicated perfectly on his desk. He was taking this new fad seriously. She sat on the edge of his padded leather chair, wrinkling her nose at the smell of stale cologne. His massive walnut desk had five drawers. All locked. Spare key? She ran her fingers under the desk, under his chair, checked under the rug, above the door, behind the filing cabinet: nothing.
The connecting door to his secretary’s office was not locked. Sheila’s desk was piled high with papers. Either she hadn’t caught on to 5S with the same enthusiasm, or she had more work to do than Laurent. Probably both.
Jaq sat at Sheila’s desk. The fabric-covered chair creaked and tilted as she rummaged through the paperwork, careful not to leave anything out of place. A pile of grant applications: cryospheric data project, low-temperature fusion, artificial glaciers, pumpable ice, energy storage, 3D ice printing. An in-tray full of administrative documents: travel requests, train tickets, hotel bookings. Some correspondence. No personnel files. Nothing remotely confidential. Sheila’s single drawer was locked, but the desk was flimsy laminate. It took only a few sharp tugs to force it open. And right at the back, in a brown envelope taped to the far corner of the drawer, were the keys to the secure store.
She returned to Laurent’s office and unlocked the store. Inside was a safe and two filing cabinets. The HR files were ordered alphabetically. Jaq didn’t bother with her own file; she went straight to the section for ex-employees. There weren’t many. The Slovenia branch was relatively new, and people tended to stay with Snow Science. The work was interesting, the pay and conditions good. Laurent might be lazy, but he was not stupid. He let the scientists and engineers get on with their work without too much interference. So long as they brought in grant money, published papers which credited him among the authors and let him attend international conferences in exotic places, he left them alone.
The third file she found, the cardboard scuffed and coarse against her fingers, was labelled Sergei Koval. Who was the mysterious Sergei? Why had he left Snow Science?
Jaq opened the thick folder. Did she have time to take copies? The photocopier in Sheila’s room would need an access code to ensure it was charged to the right department. Laurent was a stickler for cost centres. It was safer to take pictures on her phone. She laid the file on Laurent’s desk and switched on the anglepoise desk lamp.
The first page had a list of contents: employee registration, bank details, medical certificate, flying certificates, explosives licence, CV, references, insurance, salary letters and disciplinary meeting notes – lots of them. Sergei was trouble. She took pictures of anything interesting as she worked through the file.
As she skimmed through the information, her interest was piqued. Sergei Koval, born 13 February 1955 in Donetsk, Ukraine, had flown with the Soviet air force, studied engineering in Kiev and worked for a series of major international construction companies, moving further west with each job. He gained indefinite leave to stay in the European Union when Slovenia joined in 2004. One page caught her attention. The certificate of a medal of honour for services after the Chernobyl accident.
Chernobyl. 1986. The world’s worst nuclear accident. Sergei must have been thirty-one when the nuclear reactor exploded. Was he mobilised to assist with the ‘clean-up’? Had he been one of the helicopter pilots charged with dumping tonnes of sand and boron onto the smouldering reactor? If so, he was lucky to have survived. The exposure to radiation was high, and the death toll among the first responders had been terrible.
A noise outside. Jaq froze. Footsteps in the corridor. Pausing. Moving on. Jaq held her breath until she heard a vacuum start up. Just the cleaner in the canteen.
Jaq flicked through the file, taking pictures. Apart from the normal personal data and professional licences, most of the file was taken up with disciplin
ary investigations. Sergei had a habit of borrowing helicopters when he wasn’t on duty.
His experience in Chernobyl certainly hadn’t dampened his independence of spirit. Jaq couldn’t help grinning as she read the transcripts of the interviews. Not only had Sergei ‘borrowed’ helicopters at regular intervals, they had found empty fuel cans in the cockpit, suggesting that he had gone on trips that required him to stop and refuel.
He must have been well regarded. Numerous infractions had been ignored before it came to a formal disciplinary process. There was even a written protest from the chief of the air crew about the need for an inquiry at all. The investigation had been blocked at every turn. But eventually Sergei had taken it too far. Absent in a Sikorsky when a major avalanche necessitated a massive rescue operation, he flew in at the last minute. It was only by daredevil flying that he managed to rescue the last of the trapped mountaineers. Someone intervened, ordered a full inquiry. The investigators must have been shocked by what they found in the helicopter logbooks. Trips east. From Slovenia to Serbia, Hungary, Moldova, Ukraine.
What had he been up to? Joyriding? Smuggling? From the transcripts, Sergei wasn’t giving anything away. He remained silent throughout. Incredibly, they hadn’t suspended him.
But then, he hadn’t left a Snow Science party with someone he wasn’t married to.
A final disciplinary interview was scheduled, but he never turned up.
Sergei simply vanished.
Jaq reached the end of the file. No letter of resignation. No exit interview. No form to acknowledge receipt of keys. She flicked back and forth until she found the form for key issue and took a note of the serial numbers. Were they the same ones she had been given?
Jaq went back to the filing cabinet and located her own slim file. She was a model employee by comparison to Sergei, at least until the explosion. She found the form receipting back her keys to the explosives store. The serial numbers were not the same as Sergei’s.
The Chemical Detective Page 16
