Alchemist

by Peter James

  He opened the circle with his sword and stepped out of it. Then, Daniel Judd stood on a chair and placed the box safely out of sight on top of his wardrobe.

  34

  London. Thursday 10 November, 1994

  The Chief Executive’s intercom rang, one muted warble. He lifted the black receiver without breaking his concentration on the report from Conor Molloy that he was reading. The report summarized the prospects of successful US patent applications for Dr Bannerman’s work on identifying and controlling the genes of a string of chronic diseases, including psoriasis, arthritis, asthma, arterial disease and stomach ulcers, as well as a key gene involved in the human biological clock.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Dr Crowe, there’s a Ms Zandra Wollerton waiting downstairs in the lobby to see you. She has no appointment and won’t say why she’s here.’

  Crowe laid the report down on his desk, recognizing the name instantly from his meeting with Major Gunn last night. He swivelled to face his computer terminal, still holding the phone to his ear. ‘How do you spell her name?’

  As his secretary gave him the spelling, Crowe typed the reporter’s name, then hit the search key. Gunn had wasted no time since last night: on the screen appeared her full name; age 21; curriculum vitae and family history. This was followed by details of the circulation and ownership of the Thames Valley Gazette. It came under the umbrella of the news conglomerate Central & Western Publishing Plc.

  Bendix Schere had spent just over one hundred thousand pounds advertising its over-the-counter pharmaceuticals, baby food and hospital services with Central in the previous twelve months alone. A reasonable spend, he reflected, but less than he’d hoped to find. The threat of withdrawal of advertising might work – no one liked to lose advertising revenue; but for a company the size of Central, it was not a major amount, and the ploy could backfire.

  He had half an hour before his lunch appointment. Bringing Rorke in on this might be sensible, he thought. Rorke knew everybody and if the chairman of Central was a friend of his they might be able to kill the story dead in the water.

  ‘Bring her up,’ he said into the receiver.

  ‘Major Gunn rang while you were on the line. He’s in his office.’

  Without acknowledging his secretary, Crowe disconnected, then got the Director of Security’s internal secure line.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ Gunn said when he heard Crowe’s voice. ‘I thought you’d like a quick update on Bannerman’s daughter.’ He took Crowe’s silence as a cue to continue. ‘The reporter we were talking about last night went to see her in hospital this morning – we’d fixed the bugging problem and heard everything. Miss Bannerman’s fine, in my view; she wasn’t rising to any of it. My assessment is that it was Seals who told her about the Cyclops connection – and Seals also stirred it up with this Wollerton woman.’

  ‘You’ll have your answer if she tries to get any more of the Maternox batch, won’t you?’ Crowe said sharply.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So keep close tabs on it.’

  ‘I’ll find a way, sir.’

  ‘Miss Wollerton is on her way up to see me now,’ Crowe said.

  Gunn sounded worried. ‘Want me in with you?’

  ‘No, I can handle her.’ Crowe replaced the receiver and behind the glossy black expanse of his orderly desk and the squat back of the papier-mâché frog, he carefully composed his thoughts.

  A few moments later his secretary ushered a young woman into his presence.

  Crowe watched Zandra Wollerton walk towards him without raising his chin from the bridge of his interlocked fingers. ‘Take a seat,’ he said dryly, fixing his eyes on one of the two wing chairs in front of his desk.

  The reporter sat down, crossed her legs, switched on her tape-recorder and faced him defiantly.

  ‘So what can I do for you, young lady?’

  ‘Are you aware, Dr Crowe, that three women who took your company’s fertility drug, Maternox, have died during childbirth, and that all three gave birth to babies deformed with Cyclops Syndrome?’

  ‘You took the trouble to inform our Medical Information Department of this a fortnight ago, I believe, Miss Wollerton. Do you have something new to add?’

  ‘I’m interested in your opinion as Chief Executive of Bendix.’

  ‘We monitor any reports sent to us from doctors on possible side-effects from our pharmaceuticals. I understand we’ve received no such reports from the doctors of these three women, and would assume therefore that they do not share your view as to any connection. Do you have medical training yourself?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You may be interested to know that worldwide last year, thirteen million women became pregnant thanks to Maternox. The drug has been on the market for nine years without one single side-effect notification from any doctor anywhere in the world.’

  ‘Fifteen million women if you include sub-licensed versions.’

  Crowe was surprised by her thoroughness, but did not let it show.

  ‘Dr Crowe, a Chief Lab Technician in your Genetics Research Division died yesterday morning,’ she continued. ‘Presumably there is no connection between his death and that of the three women? I mean, I understand that he was originally a senior technician in the lab where Maternox was developed.’

  ‘I would be very careful, Miss Wollerton.’

  ‘Ms,’ she said with a disarming smile. ‘And I’m always very careful. Now, you are presumably aware that all three women who died had taken Maternox from the same batch number: BS-M-6575-1881-UKMR.’ She recited it like a child in class.

  Crowe was aware that he was crushing his knuckles together, despite himself. ‘On what information are you basing that statement?’

  ‘I happen to know it’s accurate,’ she said, with an arrogance that made him want to shake her.

  She glanced round the office, at the grey walls unrelieved by any photographs or prints that would give anything away about its occupier. ‘Don’t you find it oppressive in here without windows?’

  ‘I’m not interested in discussing architecture, Ms Wollerton. Perhaps you could answer my question?’

  ‘I never reveal my sources.’ She widened her eyes in defiance.

  Crowe made a mental note to phone the Legal Department the moment she left and have them contact her paper. This young woman was a wild cannon, dangerous. Too smart for comfort. And what the hell was her source? Seals? It must have been. Employees knew the strict rules forbidding any contact with the press other than through Public Relations.

  ‘You are aware, I assume, Dr Crowe, of quite how rare Cyclops Syndrome babies are in Britain?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not a walking encyclopaedia of medical statistics.’

  She smiled, unfazed by his aggression. ‘Then I think this will interest you: there’s an average of two a year. So three within two months is a little startling. Particularly when the only link between them is that the mothers all took the same batch of your fertility drug.’

  ‘And you would like to infer something conclusive from that?’

  ‘No, but it’s enough to go to press on. And the death of Mr Seals, with his connection, adds some interest to the story.’

  He sat up straight and laid his fingertips very lightly on the edge of his desk. ‘And that’s why you wanted to see me, to tell me this? I would have thought if you were so confident in your story you needn’t have bothered.’

  ‘I’m very confident. I just thought it would be fair to give you the chance to comment. Bendix Schere is obviously concerned – if they weren’t they wouldn’t have threatened the publishers of my newspaper with advertising withdrawal.’

  The remark almost pulled the rug from under him. Who the hell had been on to the paper? Gunn! His thoughts flailed. What the hell did that jumped-up paratrooper think he was playing at, barging in like that! Gunn’s judgement used to be good – more than good, in fact – brilliant. But if he was losing it now …

  With great effort
the Chief Executive of Bendix Schere switched to a conciliatory tack, and his vermilion lips parted into a smile. Creases appeared like cracks in the porcelain white of his face. ‘Maternox has helped many millions of infertile women to enjoy motherhood, and neither they nor their babies have suffered any above-normal percentage of health problems. If you want to go to press with wild allegations for no other reason than to gain column inches for your career, I advise you to think hard about the greater consequences.’

  Ms Wollerton stared closely at her tape-recorder, checking that it was running, then pointed it in his direction again. ‘Dr Crowe, at this moment there’s a pregnant woman in Intensive Care at University College Hospital suffering from an unidentified virus, accompanied by a psoriasis-like rash, and her condition is deteriorating. She took Maternox for infertility problems – from the same suspect batch number. It will be interesting to see if her baby is all right, won’t it? They’re planning a Caesarean section next week if her condition hasn’t improved. I shall be at the hospital.’

  He waited some moments before replying, ‘I have fond memories of University College Hospital,’ he said. ‘From my post-doc days.’

  She switched off her recorder and stood up. ‘Let’s hope they stay fond,’ she said. ‘The Thames Valley Gazette might bow to threats, but Fleet Street won’t.’

  She turned and walked out of the office. Crowe immediately pressed his intercom button.

  ‘Sir?’

  Crowe leaned forward and spoke to his secretary quietly, not that there was anyone to overhear him. ‘I need a photographic print of that young lady. Just her face.’

  ‘I can have one pulled off the security video in the lobby, sir. Would that do?’

  ‘It would do nicely,’ Crowe said.

  35

  The clock on Bill Gunn’s screen told him it was 4.32 p.m. He raised a cup of coffee to his lips and blew the steam off; he had lost track of how many cups he had drunk since arriving at the office at 6.50 that morning, having left it only three hours earlier. He closed his eyes for a few seconds to try to relieve a throbbing headache. Then he scrolled through the report that had just come through on his computer screen, checking it carefully.

  The thirty-four hours since Jake Seals’ death had been a nightmare, and he was in no mood for another lambasting from Crowe. Privately Gunn had to admit the Chief Executive was right – up to a point. It was true that he had been distracted by Nikky, and was distracted by her again right now, this moment, as an image of her long auburn hair draped across one of her bare breasts flashed into his mind, making him, in spite of his tiredness, and in spite of having made love to her for an hour when he had finally got home early that morning, feel sharply horny.

  Nevertheless he pressed the line button through to Crowe, and picked up the receiver. He was rewarded almost instantly with an irritable ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve found out how this Wollerton woman got her info on Maternox, sir.’

  There was a pause as Gunn waited for a response. When none was forthcoming, he continued, awkwardly. ‘The information was supplied to her by an employee at Reading called Walter Hoggin. He’s the one who was Chief Lab Technician at Bannerman Genetics Research and who was moved to our Reading plant. He’s been put on Quality Assurance there.’

  ‘An outsider? You let an outsider come straight on to Quality Assurance?’

  Gunn lifted the receiver away from his ear as the Chief Executive’s voice raised in pitch to a near scream. ‘Have you taken complete leave of your senses, Major Gunn?’

  The Director of Security did not like being attacked unjustly, but at the same time he wanted to avoid a confrontation. He reverted to the time-honoured ploy of passing the buck. ‘I’m afraid it was Sir Neil Rorke’s instruction, sir.’ Gunn moved on quickly. ‘We’ve questioned Mr Hoggin and he claims he’s never heard of any Zandra Wollerton.’

  ‘The man’s lying.’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir. He claims he was asked for the info by Dr Linda Farmer, our Director of Medical Information. We checked with her, and she had not made any such request. I took a look at her phone log and she was telling the truth –there were no calls from her office to Mr Hoggin. But when we checked the incoming log at Reading, we found two calls to Hoggin from a mobile phone registered in the name of the Thames Valley Gazette. The receptionist logged both calls as coming from Dr Farmer. Gunn eyed the report as he spoke. ‘My conclusion is that this reporter duped Mr Hoggin – she saw Dr Farmer a couple of weeks back, so she would have known her voice and a little bit about her.’

  Crowe calmed down a little into a tone of quiet fury. ‘Hoggin is a senile old fool. Sir Neil wanted him reinstated somewhere to appease the Bannerman woman, but it was totally against my advice.’

  ‘It seems you were right, sir,’ Gunn said unctuously.

  There were a few moments of silence, then Crowe said tersely, ‘I think you’d better come up to my office.’

  36

  After her meeting with Vincent Crowe, Zandra Wollerton’s office called on her mobile, telling her to get an interview on the problems of toxic waste with the London secretary of the National Farmers’ Union.

  She finally left town after seven, and found herself in a stop-go jam on the Westway. The newspaper’s white Ford Fiesta pool car was brand new, with 238 miles on the clock. She wound down her window and breathed in the damp, misty air, then closed it again rapidly as a truck pulled alongside, belching diesel fumes.

  She pressed the buttons on the digital radio, trying to fathom how to tune it, heard a smattering of foreign languages, the hiss of static, then the tail end of a commercial for a life assurance company. There was a tape sticking out of the cassette slot and she pushed it in, then ejected it rapidly as she heard the twang of Dolly Parton singing country and western.

  ‘Yech!’ she said to herself, wondering which of her colleagues had left it there.

  The car clock showed 7.38 and Zandra was becoming increasingly anxious. The traffic showed no signs of easing and she had a date tonight with Tony Easton; the Tony Easton who had his own current affairs chat show on Radio Berkshire. They had met while covering the toxic-waste story on Monday afternoon, and next morning he had rung her at the office and asked her out. He was dishy, popular and successful. And, she thought, really nice.

  He was in his early thirties, and she had never been out with anyone so mature before. He was taking her to dinner, to a Thai restaurant – she had even bought a new dress, a knitted black piece that clung to her body and looked, she had to admit, pretty good.

  He was picking her up at eight from her flat, and she had no way of contacting him to let him know she was going to be late – and at this rate very late. Shit!. Would he bother to wait if he turned up and got no reply? No, of course not. He’d think: Stupid bitch, she’s stood me up!

  Had to get off this carriageway and try the back roads; if she drove like stink and got lucky with the traffic, she could still make it. The car inched forward. There was a large road sign ahead pointing to Ickenham and Ruislip. Then the traffic stopped again.

  Come on, please come on, don’t do this to me! She drummed on the steering wheel with the palms of her hands. Shift it, you morons! She revved the engine uselessly; a siren wailed somewhere in the distance. Why the hell does someone have to go and have an accident now? she wondered irrationally. Why the hell couldn’t they have it some time when there’s no traffic? Stupid, selfish senile bastards!

  Christ, calm down, girl, she thought.

  The image of Dr Vincent Crowe’s face suddenly flashed into her mind involuntarily. And I’ll get you, you smug bastard, she thought. Get the lot of you.

  She thought about the young woman, Montana Bannerman, wondering irrelevantly why she was named after a state in America.

  There had been a distinct change in Montana Bannerman’s attitude when she had last met her. The first time, on Tuesday afternoon, she had got the impression of a woman who was guarded but genuinely interested in what sh
e had to say to her. At the end of that meeting, Montana Bannerman had promised to let her know if she heard anything that might be of interest regarding Maternox.

  But at their second meeting, this morning, she was quite different, unwilling to say anything. Perhaps that was because she was in shock; or maybe it was because she was afraid – that seemed much more likely. Zandra had picked up distinct fear vibes. Montana Bannerman knew more than she was letting on and was scared to talk. Give her time, she thought. Give her a few days to calm down and she would have another go at her.

  There was a story here that went way beyond a simple lab accident; all her instincts were telling her to dig further. And she needed a good story that could hit the nationals, needed to build up her portfolio to make the leap to London. Bendix Schere could, if she played it right, be her first really big break. Crowe looked like a man who was hiding something.

  And anyhow, it wasn’t merely her own hunch, not just the wild whim of a twenty-one-year-old cub. It was her news editor who had put her on to the story. Hubert knew something was going on. He knew. Three deaths from Cyclops Syndrome. The lab technician. It stank.

  The slip road finally came up and she turned on to it, then navigating with her A-Z drove madly down the side streets, heading towards the end of the suburban sprawl and the start of the Berkshire countryside.

  7.46. She was ducking and weaving down a straight dual carriageway. Jumped a light that was just turning red, then another, then to her dismay saw the traffic backed up for what looked like miles ahead.

  Shit.

  She braked hard, turned left into a side road and floored the accelerator. The engine was sluggish, tight, still too new and the speedometer needle climbed agonizingly slowly. 40 … 50 … 60. Come on! It was a 30 m.p.h. limit, but she ignored it, hurtling at over seventy, then screeched up to a roundabout and saw the sign she wanted. ‘High Hamnett.’ She took the exit on to an unlit rural road that was almost free of traffic. 7.51. Might just make it yet. Might! Tony was bound to be a few minutes late. People always were, it was polite.