NH3

by Stanley Salmons

  NH3

  STANLEY SALMONS

  NH3

  STANLEY SALMONS

  Rickshaw paperback

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Rickshaw Publishing Ltd, 102 Fulham Palace Road, London W6 9PL

  www.rickshawpublishing.co.uk

  Copyright © Stanley Salmons 2013

  The right of Stanley Salmons to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-0-9565368-6-0

  All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.

  Cover designed by Michic. Cover photo by Timbo

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Rickshaw Publishing.

  Printed and bound in Great Britain for Rickshaw Publishing Ltd by Print CPI Group

  This hasn’t happened – yet

  PROLOGUE

  The river flowed slowly, smooth as glass, deep brown fading to the colour of tea at the margins. Under the trees on the opposite bank it was all reflections, a tangle of inverted grey limbs. A curled brown leaf glided slowly through them like a miniature galleon, the only evidence of movement.

  He scanned the water, shifting his gaze to the left, following the flow. A submerged rock scarred the surface with a long V and in a few more yards the water was criss-crossed with oyster-shell patterns across its width as it encountered a bed of shingle. The wavelets became more agitated, cresting with white foam as they splashed over the pebbles. Then the river gathered its skirts and flowed on down towards the village.

  One September a lovely trout rose to his floating fly here, ambushed as it slipped quietly under overhanging branches, then heavy with foliage. No chance of that tomorrow; with the leaves just breaking it was too early in the season to rely on surface activity. He’d have to sink the flies – but without snagging a hook on the stony river bed. That was one reason the Welsh Rivercast Competition was such a challenge.

  The late afternoon sun cast his shadow along the bank, long and thin. The shadow withdrew towards him as he lowered himself to the grass and sat, cradling his knees in his arms, savouring the tranquillity, looking forward to the next day.

  He frowned. Something was wrong.

  For a long time he sat there, looking and listening.

  The river burbled across the shallows; the trees sighed, stirred by a breath of wind.

  Then it dawned on him.

  Where were the birds? No crows arguing in the topmost branches; no clucking of ducks as they sculled around the bend; no feathery flutter from a curious robin; no clatter of alarm from a blackbird; no raucous rattle of a magpie.

  Even in April the surface of the river should have been dimpled by the touch of dancing midges; geese should be flying home; squirrels should be looping across the ground and spiralling up the trees.

  Everything was unnaturally still.

  For a moment he closed his eyes, straining to heighten his awareness. There were the expected scents of the countryside: a faint whiff of cow dung; the sweet, wine-soaked smell of silage; the cold, metallic air that rises near to fast-running water. But something else was there, too, something that did not belong. It was hard to place.

  He shook his head, got up from the river bank, and walked briskly back to where he’d left the car at the side of the road. He strode past it, up to the old bridge. It spanned the river at its narrowest point, where the flow funnelled into a rock-strewn ravine. The tightly fitting stones blushed orange in the setting sun and a shaft of light strayed inside the mossy arch, its path a rectangle of vivid green.

  The banks on either side were steep. He edged down a short way and watched the rushing water as it tumbled noisily over the rocks and hurried under the bridge. Something silver caught his eye, in a foaming eddy at the foot of the opposite bank. It was a small fish, floating on its side, rocking gently. Dead.

  The smell was more pungent here than it had been on the bank further upstream.

  Ammonia!

  Ammonia?

  Ammonia. A colorless, pungent, suffocating, highly water-soluble, gaseous compound with the formula NH3. B.p. -33.5˚C. Forms salts with most acids. Employed in refrigeration and in the synthesis of pharmaceuticals and commercial chemicals, including fertilizers and explosives. Although widely used, ammonia is caustic and hazardous to health.

  Stoddard’s Technical Dictionary, 2007

  CHAPTER 1

  Dr. Terry McKinley returned to his car and drove across the bridge towards the village. A few minutes later the road became the High Street, Stryd y Fawr. Normally there’d be a banner stretched from side to side of the street to welcome visitors to the competition and people would be strolling or chatting on the pavements, but there were neither banners nor posters and the village seemed strangely deserted. He pulled into a small cobbled courtyard at the side of the Black Lion, an old-fashioned, privately owned inn with two or three rooms that were small but cheap, and comfortable enough for a few nights’ stay. He’d been here often enough to get a friendly reception.

  Daffydd Morris came out as Terry was opening the boot.

  “Hallo, Doctor, welcome back!” They shook hands. “Here, let me take that for you.”

  He lifted Terry’s suitcase out and led the way to the rear entrance. Their shoes echoed on the wooden staircase, blackened over the years by successive layers of polish. There was a faint odour of lavender. Daffydd opened a door off the uncarpeted landing and ushered him into his room. He put the case down on a threadbare rug in the middle of the floor and turned to him. He was a good deal shorter than Terry, and broad in the chest and arms, but his waist had thickened in recent years and he was breathing heavily.

  “It’s good to see you again, Doctor. I suppose you came here for the competition, then?”

  “I did indeed, Daffydd, but I just took a look at the river. Seems to me to be in very poor shape.”

  The man shook his great head sadly.

  “Terrible, terrible. I would have said something about it when you booked but Ewan kept saying ‘No, you mustn’t do anything to discourage our visitors, Daffydd, not yet, not while we still have a chance.’ You remember Ewan Maddock, do you? He’s organizing this year.” He sighed. “They had to cancel in the end, all the same.”

  “Cancelled? What, altogether?”

  “Ay, afraid so. The river’s dead, you see.”

  “Oh for God’s sake. It would have been nice if somebody had told me. What happened?”

  “Best if he tells you himself. Maybe you could pop round there in the morning?”

  Terry felt the heat rising to his face. “Actually, I think I’ll head over there right now.”

  Terry knew the Maddock farm; it was off a narrow road that branched away from the high street at the other end of the village. He was angry when he emerged from the Black Lion but as he walked he began to take a broader perspective. The Welsh Rivercast Competition was the one time of year when the village filled up with visitors: competitors, onlookers and press. All the bed-and-breakfast accommodation in the village was fully booked. The sandwich bars and the two tackle shops did a roaring trade during the day and the two pubs were in full swing every night. For many of the villagers it was a significant outside source of income. Cancellation was disappointing for him; it would be financially disastrous for them.

  Terry opened the gate, walked up a short path, and knocked on the door of Maddock’s cottage. It was answered by Ewan’s wife. She was a dumpy, busy woman, well-known to the visitors for running a vi
rtual conveyor belt of tea and refreshments during the competitions. There was a brief light of recognition in her eyes as she wiped her hands on her apron.

  “You’ll be wanting Ewan, I expect,” she said.

  “Is he around?”

  “He’s just moving the cows to another field. Come and sit down – won’t you? – he’ll only be a minute.”

  He followed her into the kitchen and she indicated a bench alongside the table, which was almost white with constant, daily scrubbing. As he sat down she said:

  “Can I get you a cup of tea?”

  “No, I’m all right, thanks.” He didn’t feel like accepting hospitality.

  “I’ll just get on, then,” she said, turning back to the big stone sink. “I was in the middle of something.”

  He looked around the kitchen. The quarry tiled floor and heavy oak furniture probably hadn’t changed since the small cottage was built a few centuries before. It was not unlike the cottage in Northumberland where he’d grown up.

  There was a heavy thump of boots being discarded in the porch and Ewan entered the room. He was a big, red-faced man with surprisingly blue eyes. He was still wearing his cap and a high-necked wool jersey under his jacket which was full of holes.

  “Visitor for you, Ewan,” his wife announced.

  He extended a powerful hand.

  Terry shook it without warmth. “Terry McKinley,” he said, and added pointedly, “I was here for the competition.”

  “Oh, Mr. McKinley, you had a wasted journey! I’m sorry, didn’t you hear? We had to cancel the competition.”

  “Yeah, I know that now. Why didn’t you contact me?”

  “I tried – left several messages for you on your answering machine.”

  “Answering machine? Not voicemail?”

  He shook his head. “Answering machine. I recognised your voice.”

  Terry winced. They’d been phoning his flat and he’d been at a conference in Cardiff for four days. He had a mobile phone but they probably didn’t have the number.

  Ewan’s wife broke in.

  “I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?”

  “Please, cariad. You’ll join us in a cup of tea, Mr. McKinley?”

  “Er, yes. Thanks.” It seemed churlish to refuse now.

  Ewan lowered himself to the bench opposite Terry, gripping the edge of the table with fingers like fat red sausages.

  “I’ve been down to the river,” Terry said. “I smelled ammonia. What was it, some sort of spill?”

  “Must have been. We had the water people down and they checked the river and they said it wasn’t from the factory but nobody believes that, do they? There isn’t another factory for miles. Accidents do happen but they should have been made to clean it up – and pay proper compensation. If you ask me there’s been a bit of the old...” He gave Terry a meaningful look and rubbed finger and thumb together.

  River inspectors on the take?

  “What about the Salmon and Trout Association – did someone alert them?”

  “Yes, and they flagged it up with the Environment Agency Wales. They said they were already looking into it. Not a word since.”

  “When did all this happen?”

  “October last, just at the end of the season.”

  Terry looked at him in surprise. “As long ago as that?”

  “Yes. Someone saw a couple of dead fish washed up by the bank. But that was only the start of it – a few weeks later the place was littered with them. Stank to high heaven, it did. We went down there and scooped them up and I buried the lot in the field out there.” He jerked a thumb behind him at the window. “Might as well use it for fertilizer, I thought, but it broke my heart to do it, all the same. Some lovely fish, there were.”

  Mrs. Maddock served the tea in an earthenware cup and saucer for Terry and a large mug for her husband.

  “Would you like some biscuits?” she asked.

  “Not for me, thanks,” Terry replied.

  Ewan gulped down a mouthful of tea. “It was a good competition last year. You missed it, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, too busy unfortunately. I would have missed this year’s too, but I thought I could fit it in on my way back from Cardiff.” He paused to take a sip of his tea. It was hot and strong. “So what happened after the fish died?”

  “Ah well, we didn’t panic,” he said. “We had six months for the river to come back. To be honest, I still don’t understand why it hasn’t. Two weeks ago the committee met. We’d have done anything not to cancel. We agreed to put in some stock fish – took every penny we had in the competition coffers.” He leaned forward, placing a hand flat on the table, and dropped his voice. “Died, every last one of them.” He sat back again. “We had to give up then. You can’t have a fishing competition where there’s no fish, can you?”

  Back at the Black Lion Terry hung up his jacket, tossed his suitcase on the bed, and opened it. Pushing aside the dirty washing that had accumulated while he was in Cardiff, he took out his toiletries bag and some casual clothes and set them out on the chest of drawers. He had a quick wash, dressed, and went downstairs.

  There were already a few regulars in the bar. They stopped talking as he entered and he stood for a few moments in the heat of their stares. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of them half rise, only to be pulled back by restraining hands. You didn’t have to understand Welsh to hear the truculence in his voice and the placatory noises from the others. It was understandable. A stranger like himself was quite possibly a water inspector or an employee from the factory and neither one would be welcome here at the moment.

  Daffydd Morris appeared behind the bar and Terry walked over. Daffyd indicated the menu chalked on a small blackboard at the side of the bar.

  “Now, what can we get you, Doctor?’

  “I’ll just have a pint of bitter and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, thanks Daffydd.”

  “Are you sure? Got some lovely pie fresh out of the oven.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not actually that hungry.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Daffydd poured his drink and got his crisps from a box behind the bar. Terry thanked him and took them upstairs, away from the disgruntled regulars.

  He perched on the side of the bed but got up again almost immediately and paced the room.

  Ewan had said the pollution started six months ago. To have continued this long it had to be more than an accidental spill: there must be an ongoing leak. Why hadn’t it been identified and stopped? Had there really been collusion?

  Local people always referred to that place as “the factory”. He’d seen it often enough: the shabby Victorian block fronted on the river about a mile upstream from the main road. There was a small metal pedestrian bridge, presumably erected by the current owners, but he’d never ventured across it, deterred by the sound of dogs barking in the distance. Most anglers avoided that stretch of the river, preferring to fish upstream or on the prime run down towards the old stone bridge. So far as he knew it wasn’t an unproductive spot, merely unattractive, and they viewed with suspicion the large-diameter, aluminium-clad pipe work that emerged from the brick wall and disappeared under the surface of the water.

  He paused at the window. The small, uneven panes gave a distorted view of the courtyard where he’d parked his car but it barely registered. He continued to stare sightlessly, taking an occasional pull at his beer, drifting back twenty-two years to his first visit to the village.

  It had been “Hugh” and “Marjorie” for as long as he could remember. “Uncle” and “Aunt” seemed somehow too formal and they wouldn’t have been comfortable with “Dad” and “Mum”.

  They weren’t churchgoers but Marjorie was a strong believer in Providence. It was Providence, she used to say, that Terry was pulled, unmarked, from the wreckage of the car in which both his parents had been killed. Her own marriage had been childless, and for her it was an unexpected blessing to be entrusted with her late sister’s baby.

&nb
sp; Hugh and Marjorie. The only family he’d ever known.

  The idea for the fishing trip had taken shape when Hugh was rummaging in what they called the stock room, looking for a motor to power their latest Meccano model. In a trunk he found a fishing satchel, and Terry, watching him from the door, heard him muttering, “Well, well, well.” A further hunt uncovered a green linen bag, which he declined to open, saying it was all going to be a surprise. He and Marjorie were already planning a touring trip of Wales in his small Rover. It required just a small diversion to incorporate a few days in a village recommended by one of his retired architect friends.

  They’d left Marjorie selecting wool and knitting patterns in the tiny but well-stocked craft centre, a short walk down the High Street from the bed-and-breakfast where they were staying. Hugh stopped off at the Post Office to get a licence and a permit, and then, at last, they were heading down to the river. The time had come to undo the ribbon ties on the green rod bag. Hugh unsheathed two shiny black carbon sections and fitted them together. Terry’s excitement gave way to consternation as he looked into the fishing bag. There seemed to be an awful lot missing.

  “Um, Hugh, aren’t you supposed to have coloured floats and maggots and stuff like that?”

  Hugh smiled. “This is a different sort of fishing, Terry. This is what we use.”

  He opened a tin box, revealing row upon row of tiny hooks, tied with feathers and fluff so as to resemble flies. Many of the hooks were rusty.

  Hugh clucked his tongue. “Haven’t used these for a while.” He poked around with a finger. “This one looks okay, let’s tie it on.”

  Hugh wasn’t much of a fly fisherman but once he’d explained the rudiments Terry began to cast tolerably well. It was a source of wonder to him that a fluffy confection not much more substantial than a dandelion seed could be delivered for yards across the water. That day he caught a small trout and it wasn’t just the fish that was hooked…