The Chemical Detective

by Fiona Erskine

  The clothes they’d given her were mismatched and ill-fitting. Paper knickers but no bra. A salmon-pink round-necked long-sleeved T-shirt and stiff, shiny, pale blue trousers. Unfashionable, like the lace-up shoes without laces. Her eyes were drawn down again, fascinated by the shoes. What colour were the laces they’d taken out? White? Or perhaps red, to contrast with the pale fabric, a criss-cross of bloody stitches? Or yellow, like scar tissue on skin drained of blood. Did they really think she might hang herself with a shoelace? Jaq had been through many things in her life, but the thought of suicide had never entered her head. The clumsy, protective act made her see how they saw her: damaged, lost, a danger to herself.

  No one believed her. Perhaps she no longer believed herself.

  Stop thinking about the shoes. Think about something else.

  When she was well enough, she could go home. Where was home?

  Was home where her friends were? The farmhouse on the shores of Lake Coniston, where Johan and Emma always made her so welcome?

  Or was it the little flat in Yarm, overlooking the River Tees? It was the only property she’d ever legally owned, and yet she still thought of it as Aunt Lettie’s. Or was it her rented bedsit in Slovenia? Home had certainly never been the grand house Gregor bought, even if she’d fooled herself into believing they were happy there for a time.

  Gregor wouldn’t have been seen dead with her wearing the salmon and pale blue lunatic costume. On the plus side, if he’d been coming to collect her he’d have provided something beautiful for her to wear. Although someone else would’ve been sent out to buy it. What were secretaries for?

  Don’t answer.

  On the downside, he’d have found a psychiatrist and mental asylum to have her committed the minute they arrived in England. Perhaps that was Frank’s plan as well. For Gregor it was avoidance of inconvenience disguised as concern. For Frank, it was more threatening.

  Or was home with her mother in Lisbon? Should she be back in Campo de Ourique, sidling past the convent every day, blocking out the memories of her own incarceration there to visit her only living relative in the dementia block, unrecognised and unwelcome?

  Was home in Angola, the country of her birth, a country torn apart by a civil war, a civil war that stole her brother, her father and the soul of a mother who fled, abandoning her children to save herself?

  Going home? She had no home. No point in pretending. No point in anything any more. Nothing left. No one who cared. No hope.

  Her eyes were drawn back to the shoes. Why remove the laces, when she could perfectly well hang herself with a sleeve of the T-shirt? Or a leg of the trousers? She was an engineer, for Christ’s sake. If she wanted to make a noose she would find a way.

  Saturday 9 July, Terespol, Poland

  Emma appeared at the doorway, her fair curls backlit by the sun. The scent of rose water followed as she bustled into the hospital day room, swooping to retrieve the plastic beaker dangling from Jaq’s hand as she woke from a doze.

  Jaq allowed herself to be embraced by Johan’s wife, turning her face away to hide the disappointment. Stop it. Smile. Any friendly face was welcome.

  ‘Good gracious! You look terrible,’ Emma exclaimed. ‘Are you fit to travel?’

  ‘The doctor says I can’t fly yet.’

  ‘Not dressed like that, you can’t.’ Emma wrinkled her mouth in disapproval.

  Emma cared about her appearance. Naturally short and slight, fair and freckled, always neat and tidy. Today she wore a light checked jacket, a crisp white cotton shirt, beige trousers and flat black boots, polished to a shine. All she needed was a crop and hat and she could have galloped straight from the stables. By contrast Jaq resembled an asylum inmate, tall and scrawny, dressed in hospital clothes and lace-free plimsolls.

  Jaq chuckled. Emma covered her mouth and turned away. A snort of amusement rising to a full-blown, belly-aching guffaw. Jaq joined in, her diaphragm heaving and eyes wet with mirth. An unfamiliar feeling, that tightening of the larynx from joy rather than fear.

  Jaq composed herself. ‘How are the kids?’

  ‘You’re wondering why I’m here instead of Johan.’ Emma squinted at Jaq from under her lashes.

  ‘I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘It’s okay, I understand. Johan is in the middle of a major contract, a corporate boot camp. His parents came over to help. Jade and Ben are fine with their grandparents. I wanted to come and get you. We all have skin in this game, remember?’

  ‘Emma, I’m so sorry—’

  Emma put a finger to her lips as the door opened and a woman entered, accompanied by a young man, both in uniform.

  The woman extended a hand. ‘Brigadier Marion Fairman.’

  Emma shook her hand. ‘We spoke on the phone.’

  Marion gestured to the man beside her. ‘This is our legal adviser, Major Thomas.’ The young man in uniform bowed, keeping his hands firmly at his side.

  ‘Legal adviser?’ Emma queried.

  Marion’s mouth pursed with apology.

  Major Thomas stepped forward. ‘We need to confirm Miss da Silva is not suffering from delusions as a result of her accident. Mental health is every bit as important as physical health.’ He stared at Jaq. ‘A condition of her release.’

  ‘Shall we begin?’ Marion unhooked the chart from the end of the bed.

  ‘Jaq suffered severe bruising and trauma to the chest and head. The broken ribs are healing, but there is swelling in the cerebellum and Jaq is to rest and continue the anti-inflammatory treatment. She should not fly for a few months, but otherwise she is physically fit to be discharged.’

  Major Thomas remained standing. ‘Miss da Silva, do you remember how you sustained your injuries?’

  ‘I jumped out of a helicopter,’ Jaq said.

  Emma gasped.

  Major Thomas shook his head. ‘Try again. You were in a motorbike accident.’

  The sun shone through the window. A beautiful day. Oh, for that warmth on her face, wind in her hair. Oh to be outside, away from this place.

  ‘I was in an accident. I don’t remember anything until I woke up here.’

  ‘Good, very good.’ Major Thomas nodded. ‘Do you remember who you were with?’

  Frank Good. And chances were, Frank was dictating the conditions of her release. Zagrovyl must be threatening legal action if she continued with her story. The ceiling pressed down on her, the walls closing in, the air heavy with bleach, sterile, suffocating, her throat tightening. She had to escape. Tell them about the journey with Petr. Give them what they wanted.

  ‘I was with a local guide. A mycologist. On his motorbike.’ Her voice caught in her throat. ‘He was killed.’

  ‘In the motorbike accident,’ Major Tom insisted.

  ‘So you tell me.’

  Emma laid her hand over Jaq’s.

  Major Tom continued. ‘You used to work for Zagrovyl, do you remember?’

  ‘I never worked for Zagrovyl. I worked for ICI.’ Jaq tried to pull her hand away, but Emma held on firmly. ‘I left when Zagrovyl bought the business I worked for.’

  ‘Zagrovyl sacked you.’ Major Tom flicked through a few pages. ‘It came at a bad time. Your marriage breaking up. The inquiry over unexplained deaths at work.’

  ‘The deaths were not unexplained.’ Jaq sat forward.

  ‘HSE vs Zagrovyl, case 4469245,’ Emma said. ‘Holiday death syndrome – three factory workers suffered fatal heart attacks. The men had become used to a level of nitroglycerine exposure. When Jaq modified the process to improve containment, men with undiagnosed angina died. Case dismissed. No prosecution.’

  Almost any change – even improved safety – can have unintended consequences, far-reaching and difficult to predict. Jaq was vindicated, but the private prosecution, brought by the men’s families, still dragged on.

  ‘You think this is revenge?’ Jaq asked. ‘You think I made up a story about Zagrovyl because I was miffed about losing my job?’ Jaq clenched her fists. ‘I left beca
use I couldn’t stand the company, their attitude towards their workforce, their values – or lack of them – their hypocrisy.’

  Major Thomas ignored her. ‘While recovering in hospital you suffered hallucinations. You claimed to have discovered a secret weapons complex supplied by Zagrovyl, inside the Chornobyl zone of alienation.’

  Emma squeezed her hand.

  ‘You now recognise no such place exists. You have been cured of your delusions.’ Major Thomas placed the sheet of paper in front of her. ‘Here is the statement I need you to sign.’

  Jaq read it and passed it to Emma.

  ‘And if I don’t?’ Jaq asked.

  Major Thomas frowned. ‘Then I’m afraid you’ll have to remain here until the treatment is complete.’

  Jaq turned to Marion. The doctor met her gaze for a moment, then dropped her eyes. ‘My hands are tied on this one, Jaq.’

  ‘Emma?’ Jaq pleaded.

  Emma stood and addressed the legal adviser. ‘This is a NATO establishment, right?’

  Major Thomas nodded.

  ‘And UN military law applies?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jaq, as a lawyer, I cannot advise you to sign any statement you do not believe to be true.’ Emma sat back down and hugged Jaq, leaning close to whisper in her ear. ‘But made under duress, it won’t stand up in any court, so sign whatever it takes to get us out of here.’

  Us.

  Emma said us. A rush of guilt swept over Jaq as she admitted to herself how much she had wanted Johan here. Someone physically strong and fearless to bash the bad guys. But Emma was exactly the person she needed, deceptively soft-spoken with a razor-sharp intellect and finely honed legal mind.

  Us.

  Jaq had put Emma and her children in danger. She didn’t have to be here, she was free to leave any time she wanted, but she had thrown her lot in with Jaq.

  Emma believed her.

  Jaq grabbed the pen dangling from the medical chart and signed three copies.

  ‘Come on,’ Emma said. ‘Time to leave.’

  Saturday 9 July, Wrocław, Poland

  Boris sang along to the Bowie compilation as he drove.

  The music was interrupted by a call. Mario. Angry Mario. ‘Where the fuck are you?’ he shouted.

  Boris clenched the soft leather of the steering wheel. Where the fuck were you while I was locked in that cell? I was right. Silver took the bait. My trap worked. You did it my way, but you left me caged. Payback isn’t far away, Mario, just you wait. I’ll take my time. Finish the job. And then . . .

  ‘On my way,’ Boris said.

  ‘You are too fucking late. She’s gone.’

  Not gone as in dead. Otherwise The Spider would be ringing to discuss his bonus instead of Mario chewing him out. Gone as in moved on. Kurva, how did that happen?

  ‘Gone where?’

  Mario exploded with rage. ‘That’s for you to find out, fuckwit.’

  A crackle as Mario cut the call and Bowie’s plaintive tones came back on the stereo.

  Boris pulled over to look up the number for the hospital in Terespol. Some military stuffed shirt with a broom up his arse gave him the runaround. It took several calls before he was able to get through to a Czech orderly, who confirmed that Silver had left that morning. He asked after her health.

  ‘Still pretty weak.’

  Good.

  ‘A friend is driving her back to England.’

  Boris pulled out the atlas of Europe. Terespol to England. A twenty-hour drive to the Channel. They’d have to stop somewhere. He spun a lengthy story about driving all the way to see her, his disappointment at missing her. ‘Do you have a mobile phone contact?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  Sakra! ‘I have something for her. It’s important. Any idea of the route they might take?’

  A door slamming, machines beeping, voices in the background as his contact consulted others.

  ‘Hang on.’ A rustling of paper. ‘They asked about hotels near Łódź. One of my colleagues made a booking for them at a guest house.’ He gave the details.

  Silver and her lawyer were heading west. Boris was heading east. And when they met, he would finish this once and for all.

  The track changed. ‘Ashes to Ashes’.

  Boris spun the wheel and pressed the accelerator to the floor.

  Saturday 9 July, Łódź, Poland

  Emma drove west. The wrong direction. Jaq closed her eyes. Plan, plan, you need a plan. To fail to plan is to plan to fail. To fail, fail, fail . . . When she woke, they were drawing into the car park of a guest house.

  ‘We’ll stop here, I’m expecting a call,’ Emma said.

  The guest house lay on the outskirts of Łódź. A cottage with a large garden, beautiful and productive. Mature fig, walnut and nespera trees – the large, dark green leaves still hiding some brown-spotted orange fruit – created a windbreak for a more delicate orchard. Plum, peach, cherry, laden with ripening fruit. An arch of wisteria formed a long, shady tunnel from the back door, delicate pale green fronds and hanging purple clusters of tiny flowers. The back of the house was a riot of brightly coloured bougainvillea, crimson and pink.

  They paid for two rooms and asked for coffee in the guest sitting room with French windows opening out on to a busy vegetable patch.

  ‘So, tell me everything,’ Emma said.

  The time for secrecy was over. She’d hit rock bottom and had no reserves left. Running on empty, it was time to put pride aside. ‘I need your help,’ Jaq said.

  The words tumbled out – her search for Sergei, starting with his personnel files in Snow Science; the awful death of Stefan Resnik, and her incarceration in the women’s prison at Ig. She skirted over the escape to Lisbon and the meeting with Elena in Minsk, describing the first sighting of Frank in Kiev, the Chornobyl tour and watermelon sickness, finding the Tyche tracker and losing it to Frank, going back into the zone with Petr. Her voice broke as she described Petr’s murder and Camilla’s perfidy. For the first time since the crash, the sequence of events became crystal clear in her mind. She gave a vivid portrayal of the complex, Frank’s rescue, the helicopter escape and nerve gas attack.

  Emma wrote everything down on a ruled yellow legal pad. A lemony scent wafted in through the open window, nature in abundance: artichokes – little crowns on long, woody stalks; beans climbing a cane trellis – bright red flowers; an unruly bunch of sorrel. Through the door of an old wooden shed, the tools – spades and hoes – stood to attention, ready to wrest bounty from nature. On a shelf lay the chemical helpers – packets of treated seed and a half-open bag of fertiliser with the familiar Zagrovyl logo.

  Emma followed Jaq’s eyes. ‘You want the good news or the bad news?’

  Jaq sat up straight. ‘How bad is the bad?’

  ‘Depends if you are Sergei Koval.’

  ‘You found him?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Emma said. ‘They finally identified the body in the Snow Science warehouse.’

  Stomach twisting, nauseating recall. The bone and flesh and blood. The body blown to smithereens. She would never meet Sergei. A good guy. What a waste.

  Emma extracted a newspaper report from a folder and read aloud. ‘Helicopter pilot and avalanche safety expert Sergei Koval was identified from his dental records several months after a tragic accident—’

  ‘Accident, my arse.’ Jaq smashed a fist into her palm. ‘It was a booby trap.’ Semtex in the coffee machine.

  Emma continued. ‘Sergei’s employer, Snow Science, commended Sergei for the pioneering work he did on snow safety.’ She handed Jaq the newspaper cutting. A photograph of the funeral. Laurent was there, and . . . could it be Karel? No mistaking the bright curls or the way he stood, legs apart, shoulders back, chin forward. What was Karel doing at Sergei’s funeral? She shook her head. There were more pressing issues to consider.

  ‘Am I still a suspect?’

  ‘I contacted your lawyer. He’s waiting for the toxicology report on Stefan Resnik. If it sh
ows ergotamine then we are in trouble, and you will definitely face trial in Slovenia. And the English police still want to talk to you about the drowning of Bill Sharp.’

  ‘So, I’m about to be arrested?’

  ‘Major Thomas didn’t do his homework. If he had waited a couple of days, he could have handed you straight over to Interpol.’

  ‘Is there any good news?’

  A scuffling noise. Emma pressed a finger to her lips and flung the door open. A small grey cat bounced in and rubbed itself against Emma’s boots.

  She closed the door and continued. ‘You remember the new contract I told you about, the corporate boot camp?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jaq reached out a finger to the cat. He sniffed and then jumped onto her lap. The soft, silky fur, the way his whole body vibrated when she stroked him, brought a temporary calm.

  ‘Guess which company wanted an intensive programme of team building through extreme outdoor activity?’

  ‘Not—’

  ‘Zagrovyl. A Frank Good initiative to instil some discipline into his UK team. Your friend Frank couldn’t make the first course.’ Emma referred to her notes. ‘Probably because he was in a freezer in Chornobyl at the time.’

  Jaq smiled and tickled the cat behind the ears.

  ‘The rest of his team didn’t seem too disappointed by his absence. In fact, when Johan changed the course to better suit their abilities, a couple of them became positively loquacious.’ Emma reached into her bag and extracted a slim paper binder. ‘Shelly, Frank’s former PA, provided full details of all the shipments to Snow Science and some very interesting information on Tyche.’

  ‘Tyche? As in the company that made the Tyche tracker?’

  ‘Tyche was more than that. It was a non-profit dedicated to destroying chemical weapons.’

  ‘Why have I never heard of it before?’

  ‘It had to be discreet. Governments had been lying for years about what stocks they actually held – mustard gas, nerve agents. Tyche was so discreet, even terrorist organisations sent material for destruction.’