Bouncer launched himself after her. She was out of the door, kicking it closed behind her so he slammed into it. Taking fast, deep breaths, she vaulted over the first balcony and raced down a flight of stairs. Quick. Where to? Head for the back exit. Slam. The flat door flew open and bounced against the wall, but the few seconds had given her a chance to get out of sight.
She moved more slowly now, so they wouldn’t hear her. The stairs were wet with slush, melting snow from the boots of the kidnappers. Her bare feet skidded across the steps, the freezing metal edges catching and searing her skin. On the second floor, light pooled under a front door. Loud music from a TV show. Butter and onions. Someone was cooking in front of the TV. Should she cry out? Would they hear her? The men upstairs certainly would. If she battered on that door with her fists and hollered at the top of her voice, would a stranger open it before the men reached her? And if not? She was almost at the back stairwell, the private one that led to the drying room and ski rack. Her best chance of escape was silence, to slip out the back. Her flat was only minutes from the centre. Bright lights. People. Somewhere she could blend in and lose her assailants.
Jaq slipped through the door and into the back stairwell before the men reached the second floor. She could hear them shouting. She jumped the last few steps and landed awkwardly. Caraças! She didn’t need a twisted ankle right now. She hobbled past the ski rack and tugged at the outside door.
And stopped.
Boris stood outside the back door, his black-bearded face lit by a glowing cigarette, a gun in his other hand.
‘Silver,’ he said, and snarled. ‘You won’t be able to dive over me this time.’
Santissima Trindade. She slammed the door and put her back against it, her heart thudding louder than a door knocker. Would he shoot her? In public? In cold blood? Could she run past him? Or get her skis and make a dash for it?
Too late. The other men had discovered her escape route. They banged down the stairs above her. Merda. She grabbed a ski from the rack and pointed the sharp end at the corridor, preparing to defend herself. She didn’t hear the back door open, but she smelt fresh tobacco smoke in a gust of cold air as the barrel of a gun pressed into her back.
Jaq froze. Redbeard nodded at Boris behind her and removed the ski from her hands. Boris kept the gun to her back while Bouncer shoved a ski sock into her mouth.
Jaq struggled not to choke. The woollen fabric made her retch. She couldn’t cry out, but she could conserve her energy. Concentrate. Focus. Redbeard and Bouncer held an arm each and lifted her off the ground, carrying her through the back door into the street. Her toes skimmed the snow as they hauled her round the side of the building to the waiting black van.
She kicked and squirmed, twisting her neck in the direction that Karel would approach from. Where are you when I need you? Was that a shadow lengthening under a street lamp? A tall man with bright curls just round the corner? She heaved and managed to spit out the sock, call out to him. ‘Help!’
Boris punched her in the stomach, and she collapsed forward. Poça! Breathe. You must breathe. Don’t panic. Breathe. Control. Inhale. Expand your chest. Create a vacuum. Let the air in.
The breath came finally in a great rasp of freezing air. But the shadow had gone. Had she imagined it? Or had Karel run away? No one had rushed to her rescue. No one was going to save her. Boris slapped her hard and stuffed the sock back in her mouth. She couldn’t cry out. The wail of a distant siren made the noise she wanted to.
Her cheek stung, and her eyes watered at the smell of diesel from the spluttering black van. A screech of metal on metal as the side door was yanked open. Boris was in the driving seat. Redbeard bent down and grabbed her ankles and Bouncer caught her arms as she fell backwards. As they carried her towards the open van, she looked up to the sky. A rash of stars in a clear black canopy. A full moon. Meu Deus. Was this the end? Was this the last thing she would see?
The siren was getting louder. Jaq stopped struggling and let herself go limp. She waited until Redbeard had loosened his hold on her legs to climb inside the van. Then she contorted her body into a backflip, kicking Redbeard under the chin so he fell inside the van, running her bare feet up the open door frame and pushing off the top, using Bouncer as a pivot for her shoulders so that she somersaulted right over him. He slipped and fell to the ground. As he lunged out to grab her, pull her down, she leapt over his head and dodged behind the van. Heart thumping against her chest, she sprinted into the snowy street.
Flashing blue lights sped down the hill. Jaq charged upwards, swinging her arms in broad strokes. Would Boris shoot her from behind? The van engine coughed and revved as it screeched away, down the hill, away from her. She let out a long breath and wilted, her muscles trembling with relief.
But there was a new danger. Headlights. Coming fast. The car was skidding on the ice, a fan of slush, a screech of brakes. Had they seen her? Could they stop in time? Suddenly Karel was there, running towards her, scooping her out of the path of the vehicle. The police car swerved to a halt a few inches away. A uniformed officer jumped out.
They made an odd couple, Jaq barefoot in the snow, wet hair and jeans, in a crumpled shirt with half the buttons missing, and Karel in full snow gear with his arms wrapped around her.
‘Jaq, what the hell are you doing out here?’ Karel released her.
The uniformed officer squinted up at the block of flats and then down at the official document in his hand. ‘Are you Jaqueline Silver?’
Jaq appraised him. Her relief at the arrival of the police car was tempered by a new danger.
‘Yes.’
The uniformed officer stepped forward. ‘Jaqueline Silver.’ His voice carried loud and clear. ‘You are under arrest.’
Thursday 17 March, Kranjskabel, Slovenia
The snow fell softly, covering the handprints where Jaq had tumbled into the road, covering the line made by her toes where she had been dragged to the van, covering the footprints of Boris and the Russians, covering the tracks of the black van itself. The street lamp on the corner cast a matte orange glow over the snow, sucking all the sparkle into its low-pressure sodium chamber, the maximum lumens per watt, in sharp contrast to the twinkling white reflections from the stroboscopic blue light on top of the police car. The siren wailed to silence. Jaq’s breathing slowed to normal. Everything peaceful. The snow muted noise, absorbed energy.
Snowflakes rested on the fur collar of the uniformed officer who held out a warrant for her arrest. Big flakes, each one a unique crystal. Diamond dust. Stellar dendrites. Fern-fronded stars.
Jaq stood barefoot in the snow as he read her her rights. Under arrest? For what? She ran a hand through her damp hair and shivered.
‘Those men tried to abduct me,’ she said.
‘What men?’ The policeman addressed Karel. ‘Did you see anything, sir?’
Karel shook his head. ‘I arrived at the same time as you.’
Jaq glanced at him. That shadow under the street lamp. Could he have been lurking there all the time? Too scared to confront men with guns? And now too ashamed to admit his cowardice? Or worse. What could be worse?
Jaq stood her ground. ‘Three men. I know one of them. Boris . . . I don’t know his surname . . . he’s a delivery driver for Zagrovyl. Two accomplices, Russians. In a black Volkswagen van. They broke into my apartment and tried to kidnap me . . .’ Jaq trailed off as she recognised the weary look in the officer’s eyes.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Come along, miss. You can tell us all about it at the station.’
She whirled round towards Karel. ‘Boris was with the same men you met outside the ski school this afternoon. I’m sure of it.’
Karel shook his head. ‘Jaq, I’m sorry. It’s best if you go with the police.’
You bastard. Some knight in shining armour! Fit and strong and cowardly. Jaq glared at him. ‘Boris is a regular driver. Snow Science will have records.’ She appealed to the inspector. ‘I need my phone.’ She had a picture of
their van from outside Stefan’s. The number plate. Evidence. She lifted her bare feet, bright red from the cold. ‘I need socks, shoes and proper clothes.’
‘I’m sorry, miss, you need to come with us to the station.’
‘No. You need to secure the flat,’ Jaq said. ‘It’s a crime scene.’
‘And what crime would that be, miss?’
‘They’re trying to kill me!’
‘You come along with us, and you can file a report.’ He gestured to the police car.
‘I’ll go and get your things,’ Karel said.
‘Be quick, sir.’
‘My bag, too . . .’ Jaq shouted after him.
‘This way, miss.’ The uniform opened the back door and helped her inside.
When Karel came back down he had her coat, sweater, socks and shoes.
‘My phone?’
He shrugged. ‘No sign of it.’
Jaq tried to remember the sequence. Her phone had been ringing when she was in the shower. If it wasn’t with her in the bathroom, then it must have been in the main room. Had the Russians taken it? Her shoulders drooped. All the evidence. All the information from Sergei’s file, her proof that there was another set of keys, the investigation reports and the van number plate. All gone.
‘Shall I come with you?’ Karel asked.
She shook her head. ‘Stay here. There must be fingerprints, forensic evidence.’ She turned back to the policeman. ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Jesenice Police Station.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Take me to Ljubljana. I demand to speak to Detective Wilem Y’Ispe.’
Friday 18 March, Ljubljana, Slovenia
The interview room, in the police station at Ljubljana, had mist on the inside of the windows. Little trails of condensation rolled down the glass but never reached the bottom. Warm enough to evaporate the droplets before they pooled on the sill, but Jaq kept her coat buttoned up. The terrible juddering had eased, but cold had seeped into her bones. She kept her fingers wrapped around the mug of hot chocolate, breathing in the hot, sweet steam of temporary refuge.
‘Why am I here?’
‘No idea.’ Detective Y’Ispe flicked a wisp of fair hair from his forehead, his green eyes shining with concern. ‘Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?’ Will-O’-the-Wisp, the one policeman who listened to her.
‘I need some . . .’ why should something so natural be so embarrassing? ‘. . . some tampons or sanitary pads.’ Trust her period to arrive two days early.
Will-O’-the-Wisp looked away, a slight flush at his throat. ‘The desk sergeant will arrange something.’ He made a brief call. ‘Tell me what happened.’
The furrows in his brow deepened as he wrote down the sequence of events.
‘I’m not hurt,’ Jaq said. ‘But someone will be if you don’t catch those thugs.’
He took down a description of Boris, Redbeard and Bouncer. ‘Did anyone else see them?’ he asked.
‘I think Karel was talking to the two Russians earlier in the day.’
‘I’m on the case.’
A female PC accompanied her to the toilets, stern-faced but with a pack of pads. The old-fashioned kind, without wings or adhesive. Only slightly better than a wad of toilet paper. It would have to do for now.
Back in the interview room, Will-O’-the-Wisp was on his feet.
‘Better?’
Not really; her lower back ached, she wanted to wash and then curl up in a warm bed with a hot-water bottle. But it would have to do for now. ‘Yes, thanks.’ Time to change the subject, move the conversation on. ‘I read the forensics report. The explosion was no accident.’
‘That was the chief inspector’s conclusion as well. He’s on his way to explain what’s happening.’
‘There’s another set of keys,’ Jaq continued. ‘Sergei Koval, my predecessor at Snow Science, he had a third set.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Get his personnel file from Snow Science. And talk to Stefan Resnik, the security guard.’
‘Jaq—’
‘And something else,’ she interrupted. ‘I think Zagrovyl is smuggling banned chemicals through Snow Science.’
‘Jebemti!’ He reeled back. ‘That’s a pretty serious accusation. Who else knows about this?’
‘Please, you need to contact OPCW direct.’
A burly, broad-shouldered man with a square jaw marched in and turned hard black eyes on Jaq. Will-O’-the-Wisp saluted and pulled out a chair for his superior, introducing him as Chief Inspector Goran Trubor.
‘Go.’ The chief inspector dismissed Will-O’-the-Wisp with a flick of the hand.
‘Sir—’ he protested.
‘I’m taking over. You have other work to do.’
Jaq shivered. A freezing draught blew in as the only policeman she trusted left the room. The door remained open to admit a uniformed officer escorting a man who introduced himself as her lawyer. They must’ve scraped the bottom of the barrel to find him. Elderly, rumpled suit, stubble on his chin, he stank of cigarettes and yesterday’s alcohol. Without the warmth of green-eyed Will-O’-the-Wisp, the temperature in the room plummeted. Chief Inspector Trubor rolled up the sleeves of his striped shirt and barked into a tape recorder the date and time and names of those assembled.
‘We are investigating the manslaughter of an unidentified person, found in the Snow Science store after the explosion on . . .’
Wait. The professional negligence accusation had morphed into a manslaughter charge. So, they knew the explosion was not an accident. Did they still think she was responsible?
‘. . . and the murder of security guard, Stefan Resnik.’
Jaq dropped the mug. ‘Stefan? Murdered?’ Hot chocolate spilled and ran across the table, dripping onto her jeans. Ó meu Deus, que horror! ‘What happened?’
‘We were hoping you might tell us.’
The black van. The same one outside his house. Credo. The Russians.
‘When did you last see Stefan Resnik?’
‘Today.’ Jaq glanced at the clock; it was after midnight. ‘Yesterday. Earlier tonight. I went to his home.’
‘Why?’ The chief inspector stroked his chin.
Rumple Stubble held up a hand. ‘Could I have a moment alone with my client?’
‘It’s okay.’ Jaq waved him away. ‘I only wanted to ask Stefan some questions.’
Rumple Stubble threw his hands into the air.
‘And did he answer them to your satisfaction?’
‘No. He didn’t remember anything.’
‘In other words, he wouldn’t help you?’ The chief inspector smiled.
Oh, Christ, where was this leading? ‘I just—’
‘What time did you go to visit?’
‘About seven o’clock.’
‘Did you take flowers, chocolates, perhaps?’
Jaq stared down at her jeans. ‘A card and a bottle of whisky.’
‘So, you went to see an injured man after he was released from hospital.’ The chief inspector opened his palms and turned them to the ceiling, his expression one of incredulity. ‘With a bottle of whisky?’
‘I wanted to check that he was okay,’ Jaq said.
‘And to ask him some questions,’ the chief inspector reminded her.
She glanced over at Rumple Stubble, but he had his phone out, his fingers flying across the keyboard. Had he given up on her? She swallowed hard. Honesty was always the best policy. ‘I wanted to know if he remembered anything about the break-in.’
‘I see.’ The chief inspector straightened his tie. ‘And did he?’
‘No.’ Jaq sighed. ‘He was confused.’ Confused or scared?
‘What time did you leave?’
‘I don’t remember. Before eight o’clock.’
The chief inspector drummed his fingers on the table. ‘So how long were you there? An hour, would you say?’
‘Less, he was tired.’
‘I see. So, let me get this straight. You distur
b an elderly man on the day he is released from hospital after a brutal attack at your facility.’ He stressed the word your. ‘You visit late at night—’
Jaq protested. ‘Seven o’clock is hardly late—’
The chief inspector ignored her and continued. ‘You ask him questions. His answers are unsatisfactory—’
‘I didn’t say that—’
‘And a short time later he’s dead.’
‘Poor Stefan.’ Jaq bowed her head. ‘How did he die?’
‘A massive heart attack.’
Rumple Stubble snapped to attention. ‘My client can hardly be held responsible for—’
‘Let’s wait for forensics to finish,’ the chief inspector boomed, big and confident. ‘Did he ingest anything else while you were there?’
‘Yes. I gave him his painkillers.’
‘Enough!’ Rumple Stubble stood up. ‘You must have had a reason to get an arrest warrant.’
‘We had a tip-off.’
‘Then we have the right to know the details of the accusation. Who sent you to my client’s address?’
The policemen exchanged glances. The chief inspector nodded, and the uniform leafed back a few pages until he found the notes he was looking for.
‘We were contacted at 20.09,’ he said. ‘A member of the public told us that Stefan Resnik had been murdered. Our informant claimed the culprit was about to flee and gave us the address of Jaqueline Silver.’ He flourished a handkerchief and dabbed his nose.
Rumple Stubble banged his fist on the table. ‘Who denounced my client?’
Another exchange of glances.
The chief inspector rose to his feet. ‘That information is confidential.’
Monday 28 March, Ig, Slovenia
The women’s prison lay a few kilometres south of Ljubljana. The converted Palace of Ig rose several storeys above an arcade courtyard, surrounded by parkland and forest, contained within stone walls.
Jaq perched on a narrow bed in the spartan remand cell waiting for the police escort. The nights passed slowly, but the days were worse.
Every weekday morning, she was taken in a prison van to Ljubljana police station. Her prospect of release deteriorated with each interview. At first Chief Inspector Goran Trubor only wanted to talk about the explosion, refusing to accept that there were other sets of keys, accusing her of booby-trapping the vending machine to deliberately kill someone. Demanding that she reveal the name of her victim.
The Chemical Detective Page 18
