Susan maintained her expression of concern. ‘I see,’ she said gently, not seeing very much at all. ‘You, er – ’ She grappled with her available ideas. ‘It was a good cause, was it?’
He told her. He explained it fully, from the beginning, although afterwards she realized it wasn’t quite the beginning, because he didn’t disclose his real interest in the chemical called Silveron, not until a little later.
He told her about Catch and what they were trying to achieve with the Octek project, how the boy in Scotland had got sick, how several other forestry workers had been affected. How he had provided the funds on the condition that no one knew of his involvement.
A million pounds, a hidden laboratory: the extravagant whims of a rich man. The images were like breaths of excitement.
‘I asked for total secrecy,’ he murmured bitterly. ‘I should have known.’
As if to emphasise the press interest, the phone rang. They waited for the unseen housekeeper to silence it. It rang again almost immediately and, with an exclamation of impatience, Nick jumped to his feet and took the receiver off the hook. He returned to the rug.
He went on, his voice thin and rough. He told her, haltingly, circuitously, why secrecy had been so important to him, and finally she understood. It was all about his wife. He thought this chemical had killed his wife.
He lit another cigarette, and she saw that his hands were trembling slightly.
‘And now, just to put the lid on everything, they’ll brand me a vivisectionist!’ he cried painfully. ‘Bloody great! Bloody terrific!’
She put a hand on his arm and squeezed it. ‘They’ll understand, once they know your reasons for doing it.’
He twisted his body away to look at her incredulously. ‘Know my reasons?’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m not bloody telling them. Christ, no! It’s bad enough them having this, without giving them …’ He couldn’t say it. ‘No, I’m not going to tell them anything.’
She wanted to say: But they’ll work it out for themselves. Perhaps he realized the inevitability of it, because all the energy went out of him and, turning back to the fire, he slumped his arms on his knees. His shoulder came up against hers. ‘You mustn’t tell them anything you don’t want to,’ she said reassuringly. She stroked a finger across the back of his hand, very lightly, as she had done for Camilla when she was small. ‘Poor darling,’ she murmured. ‘Poor love.’ It seemed to pacify him. She slipped her hand over his, and clasped it. He didn’t pull away.
‘What about a statement?’ she suggested. ‘To give your version.’
‘I’ve done it,’ he said exhaling smoke slowly downwards. ‘I just told David what to say.’
‘So there’s nothing more to be done?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then.’
But he wasn’t quite talked out yet, and it was another ten minutes or so before his despondency finally bordered on resignation.
She said again: ‘Well, then.’ He was very close. With her free hand she brushed the back of her fingers lightly across his cheek, once, and again.
‘Poor love,’ she breathed. A warmth hit her stomach, her heart fluttered nervously.
For a moment neither of them moved, then he flicked his cigarette into the fire. He closed his eyes, tightened his lips and, dropping his head, pressed his cheek against her fingers.
‘Poor love.’ She heard her voice from a distance, deep and uneven.
He twisted his head slowly towards hers, his eyes still closed; she turned her cheek to meet his. They stayed like that for a moment, their cheeks touching, then she reached up and put a hand on his neck and stroked it gently.
‘Poor love.’
He moved first; she met his lips as they turned to find hers. He had moved first, and the triumph roared in her ears.
‘Miss Field, would you mind?’ The inspector leaned in through the open door and beckoned outwards. ‘Something I’d like to discuss.’
Daisy pushed the remains of her cold hamburger back in its carton and climbed stiffly out of the police car. The inspector turned and led the way through the slanting rain into the Octek compound, past the last remaining fire engine, the flattened hoses, the piles of charred furniture. A group of workmen were hammering boards over the gaping holes that had been the doors and windows. On the outside walls the taunting graffiti stood out garishly, its lettering untarnished.
Inside, a fire officer was waiting for them. He introduced himself as a senior investigator and led the way into B-Lab, or what remained of it. Half the roof had gone, and most of the contents, blackened, pulverised or otherwise destroyed.
‘Very methodical,’ said the fire officer. ‘Smashed everything first. All the glass, all the equipment, then stacked the combustibles in the centre here. Very methodical. Axes, from the look of it, like they used on the front doors. Then an inflammatory agent – undoubtedly petrol. You can see the way everything burnt outwards from here.’ He indicated the concentric circles of water-soaked ash and debris.
‘And the animal quarters …’ interjected the inspector. ‘Took every cage out – they were clipped down, you said?’ – this to Daisy – ‘Now that couldn’t have been done in a hurry.’
The inspector’s name was Brent. At the beginning of the long day, when she was still in a state of numbness and shock, she had misheard his name and called him Bent.
‘They took their time,’ commented the inspector enigmatically.
He was waiting for Daisy to draw some great conclusion. A gust of wind rattled through the remains of the roof.
‘Did they?’ she echoed dutifully.
With the air of someone grudgingly revealing a valuable card, Brent said: ‘The alarm sounded at 0235 hours. We have a resident on the other side of the main road who can confirm that exactly. In the bathroom at the time, he was. Heard it go off and looked at his watch. Then a couple of minutes later, looked out of his window and saw the glow of the fire. Phoned the fire brigade straight away. Got here in six minutes.’
She still hadn’t made the great connection. ‘So? I’m sorry …’
‘The fire was already well away when he looked out. Which means it was already burning when the alarm went off.’ The inspector looked at her as if this explained everything. Catching her expression he continued heavily: ‘Which suggests our friends got in well before it went off – must have done, to have got all this work done. Unless the alarm was faulty. But you said you had the security firm check it a month ago, so it doesn’t seem very likely, does it?’
There was a pause. Rain dripped off a beam and spattered noisily onto a curl of charred roofing felt. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I don’t see …’
‘Seems like they got in without setting off the alarm.’
She waited.
‘Like they had access.’
He was watching her carefully. Ah, she was beginning to get the idea now. It was an insurance job. She herself had set it up for the money.
‘There was very little insurance cover, Inspector. Certainly not enough to make it worthwhile.’
He absorbed this impassively, then ignored it. ‘It makes the job very professional, Miss Field.’
Wherever this was meant to be leading, she really couldn’t guess. ‘But I thought animal rights groups were professional nowadays,’ she said. ‘You know, all geared up …’
‘Not so professional that they’d reset the alarm as they were leaving so as to make it look as though they hadn’t got past it in the first place.’
‘I’m not sure of what you’re getting at – ’
The rain had formed a droplet on the end of his nose, which vibrated as he spoke. ‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me, Miss Field.’
Guessing games. She shook her head firmly to show she wasn’t going to play. ‘There’s nothing I can tell you, Inspector.’
Perhaps dusk had been coming on for some time and she just hadn’t noticed, but when she walked back along the side of the building the firemen had rigged up a floodli
ght on the forecourt to help the workmen fix the last of the boards to the windows. The cast of the light gave the graffiti on the front wall a new prominence, like an advertisement for a coming attraction. Animal Liberation! End Experiments! Looking at it again, she noticed the lettering which, like everything else, was rather professional.
Professional … Why shouldn’t activists be professional? Wasn’t everyone nowadays? Charities, muggers, beggars … masters of their various arts.
She noticed that the stringer from the local paper, a spotty-faced young man in a Dick Tracy raincoat, had returned and was loitering near the police car. By the way he perked up at the sight of her, it wasn’t hard to guess who he was waiting for.
But Mabel, Octek’s office factotum, reached Daisy first. She brought a phone message from Jenny, who had managed to track Mabel down to her home nearby.
The message was succinct. It read: Adrian Bell taken into care at eight this morning under place of safety order. Social services, police. Nothing anyone could do. Children’s panel hearing in a week.
Daisy felt a lurch of bitter disappointment. Needing to be alone, she walked rapidly through the gate and out of the compound.
‘Miss Field, may I have another word?’
She walked on blindly.
‘Miss Field?’
The raincoat bounced along at her side; she realized with sinking heart that, leech-like, it had attached itself to her and would have to be driven away. She hissed: ‘I’ve nothing to add to what I said this morning, Mr – Bishop.’
‘Brown, actually. Wayne Brown.’ He took a couple of skips to get ahead of her as, turning, she went in the direction of her car. ‘We’ve had a report come through, Miss Field,’ he said, walking rapidly sideways. ‘I was wondering if you’d care to comment. It’s about Octek being involved in the unlicensed testing of chemicals – ’
Unlicensed? God, where had this come from? ‘No, no – I have nothing to say,’ she insisted, digging into her pocket for her keys.
‘The report says the financial backing came from Nick Mackenzie, the rock star. Is that right, Miss Field?’
She faltered, almost lost her balance, stopped. She stared at him. ‘What?’
‘Nick Mackenzie,’ he repeated with awful certainty. ‘According to the report, he put up the money for this place. Could you confirm that, Miss Field?’
She managed to shake her head.
‘Are you denying the story, then?’
‘No … I mean – no comment. No comment!’ Her head was light and bursting. She twisted round, momentarily disorientated, and looked for the car.
‘Would you confirm that he was involved?’
‘No.’ She fastened on the car, and made for it, head low, blinking rapidly to clear the smarting from her eyes. Keys – where the hell? She scrabbled in her bag.
‘It’ll be all over the nationals tomorrow, Miss Field. All over. It’ll look strange if you don’t comment.’ He ducked his head, trying to catch her eye. ‘When did Mr Mackenzie become involved, Miss Field? Was it his idea? What were the animals involved? What exactly was being tested here, Miss Field?’
Her throat was dry, her head pounding. Keys, keys. Turning her frustration on her bag, she upended it on the car bonnet and shook it mercilessly.
Wayne darted forward ingratiatingly. ‘Can I do anything?’
Extricating the keys, she jammed them into the lock and, losing her grip on her temper, told him tersely in words of four letters what he could do with himself. Looking aggrieved, he retreated. ‘It’ll all be out by tomorrow,’ he echoed reproachfully. ‘You’ll be sorry you didn’t give me your story.’
Shaking, still dangerously close to violence, she scooped up the contents of her bag and drove away. A hundred yards up the main road she swerved into the side and stopped, reaching for breath. She jammed her hands against her face and muttered furiously: ‘God, God …’ as the realization sank in: this was the end of everything – Octek, Adrian’s freedom. Nick.
She groaned aloud as the full horror of Nick’s position dawned on her. The papers – she could imagine the sort of line they would go for. Rock star’s secret lab attacked by animal libbers … Singer’s animal laboratory inferno … Protest star silent on vivisection slur … As far as the animal-loving Brits were concerned, they might as well call him a child murderer and be done with it.
All he had asked was silence, a degree of protection, and she had let him down. For some reason she was certain it was she who had let him down. Somewhere, somehow she had let this happen. Somewhere, somehow she had trusted someone too much.
She blew her nose and angled the rear-view mirror downwards. She dragged at her eyes blindly, smearing the dampness away, and thought: Who? She realized it hadn’t been so long ago that she’d asked that very question in relation to the leaking of Peasedale’s involvement in Octek.
Who?
She reached Kensington just after eight. The rain had eased off. It took her a while to find the address, which was near Holland Park. It lay in a dark tree-lined street of ambassadorial residences with well-camouflaged house numbers. Nick’s place was towards the end, a substantial house set behind a high wall. Above a screen of tall shrubs gothic gables rose sharp against the sky; no lights showed.
Beside the solid wooden gate there was a video-phone with a glowing buzzer. When she pressed it a light sprang on. She stared resolutely at the camera lens, her heart high in her chest.
The wind rattled the leaves of a nearby shrub, a branch creaked, a walker’s heels clacked rhythmically along the other side of the street. The light went off with a slight click. She had the sensation of momentary disconnection, then, coming to, she reached up and pressed the buzzer again.
‘Gone abroad.’ A voice from behind, bored, knowing.
She twisted round. The man was close, but he had his back to the streetlight and she couldn’t make out his face.
‘At least that’s what they’re saying.’ He shifted slightly then, stiffening, squinted at her. ‘It – er – wouldn’t be Miss Field, would it?’
‘No comment.’
‘No need to be like that,’ he chuckled triumphantly. ‘No need at all. I’m from the Sun. We’ve been good friends of yours in the past, Miss Field, very good friends, haven’t we? And of Mr Mackenzie’s – I think he’d agree about that, in fact I’m sure he would. Knows we can be relied on to give a fair quote. What about a quote, Miss Field? Can you tell me – ’
‘Get lost.’ She stabbed at the buzzer, then, in a fit of desperation, left her finger on it.
‘Miss Field – I’ll take your words down verbatim. No aggro. You can say as much or as little as you like. No pressure. I’m good with the human angle. My speciality, you might say. They always give me the victims – ’
A voice barked out of the video-phone. Hurriedly, guiltily Daisy jerked her finger off the buzzer as if it had stung her. It was a male voice, staccato, edged with fury. Nick.
For an instant Daisy stared vacantly at the camera before putting her mouth to the grille. ‘Daisy. Daisy Field.’ As she pulled back the reporter moved closer, coming in for Nick’s response. Daisy slapped her hand over the grille as if that could prevent Nick’s voice from emerging, and, parting her fingers, added hastily: ‘Let me in – ’ She almost said Nick, but stopped herself. ‘There’s a guy bothering me.’
A pause, a silence, she thought for a moment that he wouldn’t let her in, then the door-release sounded. She pushed her way through into the garden and slammed the gate behind her.
No lights showed at any of the windows, nor at the door just visible at the end of a short path. She waited on the doorstep. A bolt shot back, a lock turned. The door opened and he stood there in a pool of yellow light, barefoot, hair tousled, an open shirt pushed haphazardly into the waistband of his jeans. He didn’t speak but moved back a step and indicated with a small jerk of his head that she could come in. His expression was grim.
He pushed the door closed behind her, and stood the
re, feet apart, arms folded. She didn’t have to ask if he’d heard what had happened, it was written all over his face.
‘Well?’ he demanded, and his tone was like ice.
‘I … just wanted you to know that I have no idea how the press got hold of this … I wanted to say – I’m sorry, really sorry …’
‘Is that it?’ he asked caustically. ‘If so, then – ’ He moved to open the door again.
‘No – I … Please. I wanted to explain.’
‘Explain? You’re joking!’ He gave an ugly laugh. His gaze was unwaveringly hostile.
‘But it’s not the way it looks!’ she pleaded. ‘If you’d just let me explain.’
He hesitated, then, with the heavy air of someone overcoming his better judgement, moved away from the door and briskly refolded his arms. ‘So?’
‘It was …’ She grasped at a half-formed idea, something that had taken root during the journey from Chelmsford, and developed it rapidly. ‘I think the whole thing was planned. I think they knew all about Silveron, all about what we were doing, long before the raid. And the story about you – they leaked that specially, to get at you. To discredit you – ’
‘Well, they did a bloody good job, didn’t they?’ he interrupted bitterly. ‘I’m for the slaughter tomorrow, and that’s for sure.’ He made another move for the door.
‘No, no, you don’t understand – ’ She gabbled slightly in her rush to explain it to him, to get the idea straight in her mind. ‘The animal rights people – we were meant to think it was them – but it wasn’t! The police said it couldn’t have been – too professional. The burglar alarm had been disconnected, and they said the animal people aren’t up to that sort of stuff. Disconnected and reconnected, in fact – so it wouldn’t go off until the fire started. That way they had time to wreck everything and get the fires going and get away before anyone knew …’ Not certain that he’d absorbed the enormity of what she was saying, she explained: ‘There were no animal rights people! They never existed. They were just a front, for someone else. Someone who wanted to stop what we were doing.’
Requiem Page 56
