Next, he focused on Stefan, producing new testimony from the nurse who asked Jaq to leave Jesenice Hospital, as if that proved Jaq had been trying to murder the security guard for some time.
What would she be accused of today? And what had happened to Will-O’-the Wisp? She hadn’t seen him for days.
Wearily, she got to her feet as the police escort arrived, hands outstretched ready for the handcuffs.
The journey from Ig to Ljubljana was brief and uncomfortable in shackles. But it wasn’t the physical discomfort she minded as much as the confinement. Through tinted windows she could see the fertile valley blooming as the days warmed and lengthened. She longed to be outside.
Inside the police station, the restriction was worse. Through the small window, too high to afford any view, came the noises and smells of a busy little city. Car horns and market cries, roasting meat and garlic, music and chatter, fresh bread and hops, laughter and spring flowers.
She took her seat in the interview room and waited to have the handcuffs removed. Rumple Stubble sat slumped, half-asleep in the corner, as they waited for Chief Inspector Trubor.
He arrived in jovial mood with two uniformed officers. Experience warned her that his uncharacteristic good humour didn’t bode well.
After the usual formalities, the chief inspector resumed his questions. ‘Do you suffer from migraines, Dr Silver?’
‘No.’
‘Do you recognise this bottle?’
Jaq squinted at the evidence bag as he placed it on the table. Inside the plastic nestled a brown glass vial. One she had never seen before. ‘No.’
‘This bottle of pills was found in your bathroom cabinet.’
Jaq shook her head. ‘That’s not possible. They’re not mine.’
‘Wait, this is all most irregular.’ Rumple Stubble woke up. ‘You cannot search my client’s flat without permission.’
The chief inspector smiled. ‘She gave us permission.’
The lawyer turned to Jaq. ‘Did you?’
You need to secure the flat. It’s a crime scene.
She bowed her head. ‘Yes.’ The word came out as a whisper.
The chief inspector handed the evidence bag to the uniform. ‘Sergeant, can you confirm that this was found in the bathroom of Miss Jaqueline Silver while she was in custody?’
‘I can confirm.’
‘And how many capsules are missing?’
‘Eight.’
Jaq shivered. ‘What’s in the bottle?’
‘Ergomar. Each capsule contains two milligrams of ergotamine.’
Ergotamine. The drug synthesised from ergot. A fungus found on rye wheat. A dangerous natural poison. Responsible for the deaths of thousands in the Middle Ages. They called it St Anthony’s Fire, an illness that caused hallucinations, a sensation of scalding fire, gangrene of the hands and feet. Sufferers went berserk, writhed in agony, vomited and ran crazily in the streets, pulling off their clothes to reduce the terrible burning sensations in their limbs.
She’d written a paper on it once. A rebuttal of the view that synthetic chemicals were always bad and natural substances were always safer. Natural Danger. Jaq put her head in her hands.
‘In your interview, you stated that . . .’ the chief inspector rustled through some sheets of paper until he found the right point, ‘. . . you gave Stefan Resnik some medicine on the night he died. Is this the medicine you gave him?’
Jaq shook her head. ‘Stefan took paracetamol. And those pills are not mine,’ Jaq said.
The chief inspector glared at her. ‘The autopsy report came back this morning. A heart attack. Our expert confirmed that this could have been triggered by a massive dose of ergotamine. Four capsules would do it. Eight are missing. We are checking for traces of ergotamine in his blood.’
Jaq put her head in her hands. Poor Stefan. He was already ill. He’d been waiting for a heart bypass. Attacked and hospitalised, it wouldn’t have taken much more to kill him. Someone was trying to frame her. Someone who knew what they were doing. But why ergotamine? And how did the bottle of anti-migraine pills get into her bathroom cabinet?
The police? Could they have planted the evidence?
‘I want to talk to Detective Wilem Y’Ispe,’ she said.
She’d asked for him every day, but this time the chief inspector queried his sergeant.
‘Is he back from England?’
England? Her heart sank.
The sergeant nodded and left the room to fetch him.
Will-O’-the-Wisp looked even thinner than before, his face pinched, shadows around his eyes and under his cheekbones. He remained in the open doorway, as far away from her as he could get and still be in the same room.
Her stomach twisted as she scrutinised his face. He held her gaze. A new, hard edge; something had changed.
‘Dr Silver.’ There was no warmth in his greeting.
‘Detective Y’Ispe.’ She cocked her head in enquiry. ‘Did you get Sergei Koval’s file?’
‘Snow Science refused our access request,’ he replied. ‘We’ll obtain a warrant in due course.’
‘And OPCW?’
‘The Organisation for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons were already aware of your allegations against Snow Science and Zagrovyl.’ Will-O’-the-Wisp closed the door behind him. ‘They’ve referred the case back to the national authorities: Slovenian Ministry of Health, UK Department of Energy.’
Kicked it into touch, in other words.
Will-O’-the-Wisp took a step forward. ‘The English police wish to speak to you about the death of a Mr William Sharp,’ he continued. ‘It would have been helpful if you had mentioned that earlier.’
So that’s what she saw in those green eyes. Disappointment. Hurt. Suspicion. She looked away.
It came as no surprise when Chief Inspector Trubor informed Rumple Stubble that he would oppose bail. A man had died in suspicious circumstances in England. Two men were dead in Slovenia: the unidentified body found in the ruins of the explosives store and the security guard. Jaq was the prime suspect for all three deaths. She had been the last person to see Stefan before the break-in and the last person to see him alive. The drug that probably killed him had been found in her flat. Poison, the female murder weapon of choice. Explosives, her area of expertise.
Slam dunk.
Friday 1 April, Kranjskabel, Slovenia
Jaq lay beside Karel, listening to his breathing. Every time she moved, he tightened his hold on her. Bodyguard or jailer? Protector or captor? Jaq was no longer sure.
For once, Rumple Stubble had earned his keep: found the flaws in the paperwork. Insisted proper procedure be followed, demanded that Jaq be allowed twenty-four hours to put her affairs in order before returning to Ig Prison to await trial.
Not bail, but temporary release under supervision. They took her passport and sent for Karel, who offered to supervise and promised to bring her in for the formal arraignment.
One last night of freedom. Karel had surpassed himself in the kitchen, but Jaq could barely manage a mouthful. He remained quiet, solicitous, attentive, strangely incurious. Jaq didn’t lie to him; told him that she was going away for a long time, that their relationship was over and he should move on. He sought to reassure her, suggested they take it one day at a time. She didn’t persist; this was not the time to fight, she had enough enemies as it was. If Karel wanted to pretend to be on her side for a little longer, then she would go along with the charade – whatever got them through the night. For the first time, they didn’t make love.
Karel sighed and twitched in his sleep. What was he dreaming about? Every time she moved away, he curled around her, his warm chest against her back, his arms round her waist, his knees in the hollows of her knees. Perfectly tessellated. She could hardly bear his touch.
There were too many coincidences.
The first night, the night at the karaoke bar, was Karel sent to detain her? Did someone want to make sure she didn’t meet the first delivery? Keep her
occupied until the extra eighteen tonnes were removed?
Who was he meeting in Café Charlie? Camilla? Was it a coincidence he came to Jaq’s flat on the night of the break-in? Was Karel’s offer to cook her dinner a ruse to make sure she was not around at the warehouse when someone went looking for the samples? And then, after the police cordon was removed, the morning of the second break-in, the day of the explosion, was Karel sent there again to keep her away?
Did he call the police to frame her for Stefan’s murder? Did he tell the Russians how to get into her flat? Did he hang back outside, knowing that men with guns were abducting her? And when the kidnap attempt failed, did he plant the evidence that was about to send her to jail?
How could she have been so stupid? How could she not have seen him for what he was – a ski instructor in winter, a mountain guide in summer, an occasional chef, a man for hire. Certainly a great actor, she would never have guessed he was anything but genuine. But how much thought had she given it? When the sex was that good? Face it: she lost all reason when the testosterone mingled with the pheromones.
If someone had put together an identikit perfect man, a honeytrap for Jaq, then they couldn’t have done better than Karel: musical, athletic, handsome, gentle, a linguist and a great cook. Had he been hired by Zagrovyl?
She waited until his breathing was regular and slow. Jaq slipped out of bed, placing a pillow in the depression left by her body. She breathed in his scent for the last time: liquorice and lemon – the sweet tinged with the sour.
There were things that had to be done, and she was running out of time.
She dressed quickly, hopping from one foot to the other, attempting to keep the chill from the floor seeping up through the soles of her feet. Karel murmured her name in his sleep but she didn’t reply. What was there to say? Once trust is lost, can anything remain?
She peeked through the gap in the curtains at the top of the parked car in the street outside. The police guard was light, two men taking turns guarding the front entrance from the car and the back entrance on foot. They swapped every hour, on the hour. She’d watched them yesterday while she packed: a decoy suitcase with the clothes and books allowed in prison, crates and boxes of possessions to go into storage, and – while Karel was busy in the kitchen – her bag stuffed with the things she really needed.
Jaq checked her watch. At ten minutes before the hour, she opened the front window. Even if he had been paying attention, the man in the car was too close to her building to see the roof.
She converted her bag to a backpack and climbed out into darkness. Thick cloud hid the full moon. Hands scrabbled over roof tiles, uneven and slippy with frost, cold against her cheek as she spread her bodyweight and moved crabwise to the ridge. A light breeze brought a hint of woodsmoke. Jaq peered over. Back Door Man stomped his feet and checked his watch. She extracted the orange rope from the backpack, looped it round the chimney stack and threaded it through the karabiner hook on her belt. Her fingers shook as she tied the double overhand knot. Wait. Listen. The only sound was her thumping heart.
Before the church clock struck five, Back Door Man began to move. It took her fifteen seconds to abseil from the roof and drop into the back alley, another five seconds to recover and stash the rope and then she was off, moving silently away from her flat, sprinting towards freedom.
Dawn was breaking as she boarded the bus. She closed her eyes against the beauty of the mountains. This chapter was over.
Time to start afresh.
Time to take control.
INTERMEZZO
Friday 8 April, Teesside, England
Rain lashed the streets of Middlesbrough. Frank cracked his knuckles as PK parked the limo, extracted the Chariot Cars umbrella and accompanied him to the town hall entrance.
Why was there no news from The Spider? He’d been dragging his bony heels for long enough. It was about time the glorified accountant came up with something worthwhile. The Russian was getting paid ten times as much as Raquel and, so far, had achieved fuck all: unacceptable. Frank dialled and switched the phone to his good ear. ‘News?’
‘You were right,’ Pauk said.
‘I am always right.’
‘I’ve tracked down the missing items.’ Pauk sounded pleased with himself; he almost chortled. ‘I know where they were sent.’
Some progress at last. Frank gazed out at the rain. ‘Can you get them back?’
‘Best not.’
‘What the hell do you mean?’
‘This might open up an interesting new . . . business opportunity.’
Frank bit back the angry retort. Pauk was no fool, but the Russian version of an interesting business opportunity was unlikely to delight his boss in the USA, a slave to the Zagrovyl corporate responsibility team. Business prevention team, more like; fucking committees, populated with has-beens and lily-livered lickspittle who would never amount to anything. The only way to get things done was to pounce first and manage the damage limitation after the target had been secured.
‘Stop talking in riddles. Explain yourself.’
‘Meet me.’ The voice was low and rasping.
Frank loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Perhaps Pauk had more ballerina cousins who needed seeing to. ‘Moscow?’
‘No. Kiev.’ That disconcerting hint of laughter again, part giggle, part smirk. ‘I’ll take you on a little helicopter trip. To show you something that has to be seen to be believed.’
Frank grunted. ‘I am a busy man.’ A bell rang; the concert was about to start. ‘This had better be good, Pauk.’
‘Oh, it’s good.’ A low chuckle at the end of the line. ‘Believe me when I say you will not be disappointed.’
Friday 29 April, Lisbon, Portugal
Jaq sat in the shade of a jacaranda tree opposite the grave of the fifteen-minute baby, the roar of Lisbon traffic hushed by the canopy of mature trees and sprinkled with birdsong. The British Cemetery provided a perfect refuge from the bustling city. Crowded with the dead, empty of the living, lush with creepers and flowering shrubs, birds and insects. Secluded, a place of hibernation, a haven for her thoughts.
The journey from Slovenia had been long and arduous. She took a roundabout route, sleeping on overnight buses and trains. Thanks to borderless Europe, her lack of passport presented no problem so long as she stayed within the Schengen area. All she needed was the old French driving licence in her married name. No one was looking for Jaqueline Coutant. Not yet.
She couldn’t go north – to England, so she came south – to Portugal. It was a risk, she knew that. Anyone searching for her would look for family connections. But the police had her passport, and the fastest way to get a new one meant taking this chance.
And when in Lisbon, she had the perfect place to hide. Jaq had started coming to the British Cemetery as a teenager, often staying the night in the caretaker’s cottage, fleeing her mother’s rages or the disapproval of the nuns, using the underground passage that connected the British Cemetery to the mortuary of the British Hospital, right next door to the convent where Jaq was once incarcerated and where her mother now lived.
If lived was the right word. Her mother no longer moved. She lay ramrod-stiff in the narrow bed, her shrunken body disappearing into the mattress. Once a day she was hoisted into a wing-backed chair next to a shuttered window that opened on to a wall. She barely ate or drank; didn’t read or listen to music and never left the room.
Jaq was prepared for the anger, but not for the surge of pity. If nothing else, her mother had always been lovely to look at. It was hard to find any trace of the once-radiant beauty in the withered husk who sat before her now. The 20-watt bulb under a heavy lampshade cast a sickly glow over her sharp bones and translucent skin: an empty shell.
Maria dos Anjos de Ribeiro da Silva, Angie, was born in the highlands of Angola in the province of Bié, to a wealthy Anglo-Portuguese family of colonists who owned a string of successful coffee and rubber plantations.
&n
bsp; Her parents expected their only child to make a good marriage inside their narrow community of landowners, a son-in-law to continue the flourishing business.
Instead Angie ran away with a cultural attaché from the Russian embassy. It was an impossible match. Jaq’s father was a man of the world: a political intelligence officer – hard, practical and resourceful, a Soviet spy. Angie was a delicate caged bird: beautiful, innocent, impractical – a fantasist raised on fairy stories with handsome princes and happy endings.
Never the strongest, Angie became increasingly unwell as Angola began to unravel. The death of her son, the separation from her husband and the move to Lisbon pushed her sanity over the abyss. But this new form of dementia, if that is what it was, made Jaq feel as if she was being abandoned all over again.
‘Hello, Angie,’ Jaq said. Her mother had always insisted on first names, detesting mãe or Mummy.
No response.
‘Your daughter has come to say goodbye.’ Sister Magdalena spoke in an exaggerated, loud voice, as if the problem lay in Angie’s ears rather than her brain.
No response.
Jaq knelt and extended a hand towards the spotted claw that lay in her mother’s lap.
Angie retracted her hand and turned her face to the wall.
‘How is she?’ Jaq asked as she backed away.
‘No change,’ said the nun. ‘The Lord watches over her.’
Fat lot of use that was.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Jaq asked.
‘Just pray for her, my child, as we pray for you.’
Good luck with that. Jaq bit back a sharp retort. Her memories of this place were more painful than the young nun could imagine. This is where life began. And ended. Jaq had what she came for: cash from her mother’s strongbox, the bottomless fund in a secret box she was never allowed to see; a copy of her birth certificate in the name of Maria Ines Jaqueline da Silva; and a Portuguese passport application in the same name, now endorsed by the priest.
The Chemical Detective Page 19
