by William Boyd
Adam smiled to himself as he turned off Ladbroke Grove looking for the number of Ivo’s house—there it was, tall white stucco, off-street parking. Two men were carrying a large abstract painting in through the front door. Adam pulled up across the street and pretended to be checking his A—Z street map. There seemed to be a CCTV camera mounted above the front door—he would have to be careful. He accelerated off—he was on the night shift at St Bot’s again. He needed his days free at the moment, the only disadvantage being that he hadn’t seen Rita since their night together…He would call her—they had spoken every day—and he beguiled himself as he motored east through London with images of her naked body flashing pleasingly through his mind’s eye. It was time for another date. She didn’t realise it yet but he had some need of the Nashe family in his emerging plan.
“How does that look to you?”
“Ideal.”
It was a small memo pad of the sort that classier hotels place by the phone or on writing desks: one hundred leaves, a stiff cardboard back, and printed across the top of each page in blue-black ink, upper case, was the name ‘INGRAM FRYZER’.
“You’d have been better off ordering at least a dozen,” the girl in PrintPak said to Adam. “We’d have given you a discount. Seems very expensive for such a little pad.”
“It’s a present,” Adam said, handing over a twenty-pound note. “I may be back for more.”
He was leaving the shop when his mobile rang.
“Hello?”
“Primo Belem?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Aaron Lalandusse here. I got your intriguing message.”
“Can we meet?”
“Do you really have all that material?”
“Yes, I do.”
Lalandusse suggested a pub in Covent Garden, not far from his magazine’s offices in Holborn and Adam said he’d be there. It was beginning to come together. He called Rita and asked her if they could meet at the Bellerophon.
“My dad will be there.”
“I know. I need to have a word with him.”
50
“DO YOU WANT A bite to eat? A drink?” Alfredo Rilke looked in his hotel room’s mini-bar. “I can offer you chips—or ‘crisps’, as you call them—some chocolate, a nougat biscuit.”
“Is there any white wine in there?” Ingram asked, suddenly feeling the need for some alcohol. Rilke had taken a floor of the Zenith Travel Inn near Heathrow airport and had summoned Ingram there, necessitating an inconvenient journey out in the rush hour at the end of the day. What was wrong, Ingram thought, with Claridge’s or the Dorchester, for heaven’s sake?
Rilke unscrewed the top from the wine bottle and poured out a glass for him. Ingram could tell as he accepted it that it wasn’t nearly cold enough. What was the point of being the fourteenth richest man in the world, or whatever he was, and choosing to live in this style?
“Cheers,” he said, raising his glass, “very good to see you, Alfredo.”
“I’m basing myself here for the next few days.”
“Excellent. You can come to our press conference.”
“I’ll be there in spirit, Ingram.” He paused, and re-set his face as if he had serious news to impart. “I wanted you to know that I just heard, unofficially, secretly—an hour ago—that we’ll get our PDA licence. Zembla-4 is going to be approved.”
Ingram inhaled, needing more oxygen. He felt his hand tremble and put his glass down.
“To say that’s ‘good news’ sounds mean-spirited. That means the MHRA won’t be far behind.” His mind was going fast. “But how do you know? It’s unofficial, you say?”
“Yes. Let’s say word has reached us. Our people have managed to learn enough about the reports, their content and recommendation. The advisory committee stage will be very positive, also. We heard it on the grapevine, as the song has it.” Rilke smiled. “Don’t look so worried, Ingram. We’re not selling heroin. We’re not smuggling weapons-grade uranium to rogue states that sponsor terrorism. Zembla-4 will save millions of lives over its licence period. It’s a boon, a blessing to mankind.”
“Of course.” Ingram tried to make his features relax. “Obviously I can’t even hint at this at the press conference.”
“No, not even a tiny word. Just the business of the day. But I’ll make sure you know our final buy-out price in plenty of time. It’ll be very generous. Some analysts may even say more than generous. But not so generous as to prompt curious questions.”
“I see,” Ingram said, not seeing, wondering where this was leading.
“And then we get the PDA approval.” Rilke spread his hands as if to say: look how easy it all is.
“The ex-shareholders might feel a little irritated.”
“They’ll be happy enough. We’ll make a good offer. They’ll have some Rilke stock to comfort them.”
“But when they hear about the Zembla-4 licence they’ll suspect we knew.”
“But how could we know? The Food and Drug Administration guards its deliberations under utmost secrecy. Nothing is certain. The PDA refuses one out of four applications.”
“Yessss…Where will we manufacture Zembla-4?”
“Leave that to me. It won’t be your company any more, Ingram. The days of these complicated, tricky decisions will be over. In fact you’ll probably want to retire and enjoy your money.”
“I will?” Ingram queried—and then quickly made it a statement. “I will. You’re quite right.” He drank some more of his warm wine. ‘Rilke Pharma bags Calenture-Deutz’, the headline would run somewhere in the financial pages, Ingram thought. Not a headline, no big deal until the Zembla-4 news is announced. Then more plaudits for Alfredo Rilke’s uncanny acumen—somehow cherry-picking a twenty-year licensed blockbuster drug for a few hundred million. A billion dollar revenue stream guaranteed for two decades. What would that do for Rilke Pharma stock? Not that Ingram cared, he would be enjoying his modest share of Zembla-4 royalties. True, he thought, if I were an institutional holder of shares in Calenture-Deutz, happy to accept Rilke Pharma’s generous offer, I might be somewhat aggrieved to know that I wasn’t going to participate in that revenue stream or see its benefits. I might even start asking uncomfortable questions. Why sell a company when its new drug is up for approval? He looked back at Alfredo, who was at the window contemplating the traffic on the M4.
“My argument to the shareholders would be—”
“That you cannot guarantee a licence for Zembla-4. Not all applications succeed—only a few dozen drugs a year get a licence. Rilke Pharma’s excellent offer is too good to pass up. Take your profit now rather than risk having an unlicensed drug on your shelf with all the costs of its development unreturned. Shrewd business sense.” Rilke wandered over and put his big hand on Ingram’s shoulder. “No one will query your decision, Ingram, believe me. You are just being a prudent CEO. Everyone will make a nice profit. Your more astute shareholders will have taken Rilke stock rather than cash—these people won’t want to ask many searching questions. And, of course, no one knows about our little arrangement.” Rilke smiled. “Which is one of the reasons I meet you in these charming hotels.”
“True. Yes…” Ingram encouraged his excitement to bubble up again and sipped his wine—no, it was too disgusting. He put it down. In fact he was feeling a little nauseous. He’d open something decent when he returned home, celebrate properly. Then an unpleasant thought arrived, rather spoiling the party.
“We never found that Kindred fellow,” he said. “Pity about that.”
“It doesn’t really matter any more,” Rilke said with a reassuring smile. “Now we have the licence in the bag, Kindred’s moment has gone.”
“That’s very reassuring,” Ingram said. “Actually, is there any brandy in that fridge?—I’m feeling a little off-colour.”
51
THE FRAMED POSTER WAS for an exhibition of Paul Klee paintings—‘ANDACHT ZUM KLEINEN’ was its title—held in Basle in 1982 and there was a reproduction of a
Klee watercolour, a pointed-roofed house in a moonlit landscape of stylised pine trees with a fat white moon in the sky. At the bottom of the watercolour was Paul Klee’s signature and the painting’s title written in his scratchy copperplate handwriting: ‘Etwas Licht in dieser Dunkelheif.’
Rita looked at Primo, who was studying it carefully.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“It’s lovely, thank you,” he said and kissed her.
“A flat-warming present,” she said. “This flat needs more warmth.” She handed him another package.
“You shouldn’t do this,” he said, tearing the paper off to reveal a small hammer in a box and a picture hook.
“No excuses,” she said.
They chose a wall in the sitting room and he hammered in the picture hook and hung the poster.
“The place is transformed,” he said, stepping back to admire the poster. “What does ‘Andacht zum Kleinen ‘ mean?”
“I looked it up. I think it means ‘Devotion to small things’.”
Primo considered this for a second or two. “Very apt,” he said. “Let’s have a drink to celebrate.”
They had stopped for a pizza on the way back from Battersea and had bought a bottle of wine to bring home. They sat with their glasses on the leather sofa, watching the ten o’clock news on television, Rita leaning up against him.
“We’ve got to change this sofa,” she said. “It’s like a gangster’s sofa. What made you buy it?”
“It was going cheap and I was in a hurry,” he said. “We’ll change it, don’t worry.”
Rita wondered if he was picking up the subtext to this discussion.
“How was Dad?” she asked. “I thought it was best to leave the two of you alone.”
“I put a proposition to him—I need his help with something. He said he’d give it serious thought.”
“What proposition?”
“Something to do with the hospital. About a new drug. In fact I gave him a present. I’ve bought him a share in a company, a drug company.”
“You’re trying to turn him into a capitalist, aren’t you?”
“He seemed quite pleased.”
“As long as it’s legal,” she said, turning to kiss his neck. “Let’s get naked, shall we?”
52
IT CAME UP ON the screen: INPHARMATION. COM, black and red, the PHARMA letters pulsing an orangey-crimson. Adam registered, logged in—his nom de plume was ‘chelseabridge’—and he went to the thread for Zembla-4- He read a few of the posts, mosdy pleas from asthma sufferers who had seen the advertorials and were wondering when and if the drug would be available. And then he made his own post, typing in the names of the dead children and the hospitals where they died, adding that they were all participating in Zembla-4 clinical trials when they had suddenly died and then left it at that. He was following Aaron Lalandusse’s instructions precisely: make your first post, then add others every two or three days. Watch it build.
Aaron Lalandusse was an unshaven, bespectacled, thirty-something, with a tangled mop of curly hair. He looked as if he’d slept in his clothes but his voice was deep and sonorous, counterposing the image of geeky adolescence with maturity and gravitas. He had looked with close scrutiny at Adam’s list of names and his other documentation making little popping noises with spittle on his lips as he did so.
“Mmm…Yes…” he said, then, “bloody hell.”
Adam had mentioned nothing about Philip Wang’s death, explaining that he had come across this list during his routine work at St Dot’s and,—worried about what it implied, had decided to have it checked out further.
“This is highly combustible stuff,” Lalandusse said. “I mean, if you’re wrong, then the litigation will be monstrous, unprecedented.”
Adam pointed to the cryptic annotations beside each name. “This is the handwriting of Dr Philip Wang, I believe, the late head of R and D at Calenture-Deutz. I don’t really know what they are.”
“I would say they’re dosages, times,” Lalandusse ventured. “But I’d need to do a bit of checking.” He held up the list. “This is a photocopy—I’d have to see the original. I can’t write anything without seeing that.”
“I can get it for you,” Adam said.
They had met, as agreed, in a small, dark, wood-panelled pub in Covent Garden. The blazing evening sun obliquely struck the pub’s engraved, frosted windows and made the rear snug bar where they were sitting seem so crepuscular that they might have been in a basement. A good place to hatch a conspiracy, Adam thought, as Lalandusse went to the bar to buy them two more bottles of beer.
Lalandusse had then told him about the potency and reach of the bloggers on Inpharmation.Com and had outlined the road ahead, as he saw it. First, set hares running on the internet and see what came back—perhaps someone who had worked on the de Vere wings in the other hospitals had some information. Or disgruntled or ex-Calenture-Deutz employees might want to contribute. At some stage the volume of the Chinese whispers of the internet rumour-mill would be such that Calenture-Deutz would have to issue a press release.
“You know the sort of thing,” Lalandusse said. “Complete outrage, irresponsible, disgraceful, reluctant to dignify malignant smears with a response, etcetera.”
“What then?”
“Well, then I can write my story in the Bulletin—precisely because it’s become a story.” He thought for a moment. “Perhaps we can break the habit of a lifetime and print a facsimile of your list.” He smiled with genuine enthusiasm, the boy in him overcoming the cynical journalist. “Then the shit really would hit the fan.”
Adam smiled as he logged out and exited the site. He was in a large internet café on the Edgware Road. Lalandusse had told him only to use large cafes with dozens of terminals and to keep changing café, and only to pay cash. “They’ll try and find you,” he had said. “You’ve no idea what’s at stake with a new drug like this. How much money.” He laughed. “They’ll want to kill you.” He stifled his laughter. “I’m only joking, don’t worry.”
Adam parked his scooter on the pavement, locking it to the railings, and then climbed over the fence into the triangle, pushing his way through the low branches and the bushes towards his clearing. It was late, almost eleven o’clock, and the rows of bulbs on the superstructure of Chelsea Bridge glowed brightly in the navy-blue night—four brilliant peaks, like the lights on a circus’s big top. He unearthed his cash-box and folded Philip Wang’s original list carefully before slipping it into his jacket pocket. He saw he had about £180 left from his original stash and decided to take it—the days of the triangle were over, he realised, now that he had re-entered society as Primo Belem. He stood up and looked around, thinking back to the weeks when this small clearing and its overarching trees and bushes had been all he could describe as his home. He wondered if he would ever come back—perhaps he would: on some nostalgic pilgrimage in the future.
He climbed back over the fence, smiling at this notion, and unlocked his helmet from its box on the rear of the scooter.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my old churchgoing chum, John 1603.”
Adam felt his heart jolt with pure shock and turned slowly to see Vincent Turpin step unsteadily from the shadows. He walked towards him, smiling.
“You have no idea how many nights I’ve spent down here at Chelsea Bridge, hoping to catch a sight of you. No idea…Night after fucking night.” He was close now and Adam could smell the alcohol on his breath. “Almost didn’t recognise you, mate, what with the hair all shaved down, like, different beard and that. Yeah, did a double take. That’s John, I said to myself. Sure as shit: John 1603. Remember that night we came down here, first time? You sort of ducked and dived, didn’t—want to let me know where you kipped down?…Well, you didn’t see me, but I saw you—hopping over the fence. Stuck in my mind, luckily.”
“Nice to see you, Vince,” Adam said. “But I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“Spare a couple of minutes for a c
hat with old Vincey, yeah? Look at you: little scooter—voom, voom—all spruce and modern young bloke, suited up. Must be doing well, John.” Turpin linked arms with him and turned him round, heading back towards the bridge, where there was a wooden bench with a view of the Lister Hospital on the other side of the traffic lights at the wide crossroads. Adam sat down, feeling the saliva leave his mouth.
“What can I do for you, Vince?” he said.
“Somebody’s looking for you, mate. A right nasty customer. Big bloke with a deep cleft in his chin. Ugly bugger. He came to the church, asking about you.”
“Don’t know him,” Adam said, his heart weighing heavy suddenly, thinking: he’d traced me to the church—maybe that’s how he got on to Mhouse.
“He says you’re a good friend,” Turpin continued. “Says you’ve come into a bit of money. Says he’ll pay me two grand if I can find you.”
Adam thought: all I need to do is run away. I’m safe.
“But I don’t want to do that—if you don’t want me to,” Turpin said.
“I’d appreciate that, Vince.”
“Thing is, there’s no point in fobbing off old Vince Turpin with a load of bollocks and thinking you can just disappear.” Turpin smiled again. “Because when I saw you arrive on your smart new little scooter I took the trouble to write down the licence plate number. Committed it to memory.” He put his hand on Adam’s arm. “If I give that number to Ugly Bugger—who seems a capable bloke, ex-copper, I’d say—I reckon he could track you down in a jiffy.” Turpin now gripped Adam’s arm and pulled him close to his big seamed and folded face. “If Ugly Bugger will pay me two grand, something tells me you might pay me four to keep my mouth shut.”
“I haven’t got four grand.”
“I don’t want it all at once, John 1603. No, no. I’d blow it, spendthrift arsehole that I am. I want it bit by bit, once or twice a week, like a sort of retainer. A hundred here, two hundred there, keep old Vince ticking over, keep the Turpin head above water.” He paused. “Keep the Turpin lips zipped.”
