by CJ Carver
‘Snowbank.’ The word came on an explosive outbreath triggering a massive coughing fit that shook the old man’s frame like a tornado.
‘Project Snowbank,’ Dan repeated, leaping out of his chair and tearing for the door but Sophie had already flung it open and was calling for a nurse. Dan stood aside as the nurse affixed an oxygen mask over Rafe’s face but it didn’t seem to help much. He continued coughing, his eyes closed, tears coursing down his withered cheeks, and then he suddenly fell quiet and his body went limp.
Dan felt a moment’s horror.
‘It’s OK,’ Sophie quickly assured him. ‘It’s what happens when he talks too much.’ She ushered Dan outside. ‘He’ll be out of it now for at least a couple of hours. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’ He touched her shoulder.
‘There’s not much point staying.’ She glanced up and down the corridor. ‘I’ll just say goodbye to the nurses. See you in reception.’
The receptionist was occupied on the phone, booking a taxi for someone, so under the pretext of signing himself out, Dan checked the previous week’s visitors in the reception folder. His father’s bold handwriting jumped out at him. He’d visited Rafe last Tuesday, twenty-eighth of August. The same day he’d seen Olivia. Three days before he died.
He looked up Project Snowbank on his phone to find nothing but pictures and YouTube videos of huge banks of snow in America. He put his phone away when Sophie appeared.
On the journey back she was distracted, unfocussed, her driving not as sharp, and he knew she was far more distressed by her father’s illness than she let on. He didn’t want to bother her but he didn’t see he had a choice.
‘Soph, can I ask . . . where did your father work?’
‘Oh. TSJ. TarnStanleyJones. In their life science wing.’
Although he’d heard of them – they were in the top FTSE 100 – Dan looked them up on his phone. A science-led global healthcare company, their banner was that they were a company with a mission to help people to live better and enjoy an enriched quality of life as they aged. Age well. Live well.
Dan felt a wave of pity for Rafe, his strong body ravaged by age and disease.
Wish I’d died . . . years ago.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lucy had just parked outside the Duncaid Environmental Research Centre when Mac called.
‘Hi,’ she answered brightly.
‘I thought we had an agreement.’
‘Ah.’
‘Ah?’ His voice rose. ‘You’ve sent me three texts, Lucy. The last one was on Tuesday. It’s now—’
‘Thursday. Yes, I know. I’m sorry.’ Inside, she kicked herself for being so slack. Mac would happily let her do her own thing but only if he believed he was in the loop.
‘So,’ he said. ‘What gives?’
She filled him in as she watched the latest deluge through her windscreen. Being a Londoner, Lucy wasn’t used to so much rainfall and couldn’t think how people managed to keep their spirits up with this amount of grey. Grey skies, grey stone houses, grey rivers.
She finished by telling him that an autopsy on Connor had been done. They were waiting for the results.
‘They suspect foul play?’ He sounded incredulous. ‘Why? He was a thirteen-year-old boy!’
‘I know it sounds crazy, but . . .’ She nibbled her lip as she considered whether to tell him about the listening device or not.
‘But, what?’
She sighed. She couldn’t withhold something so important.
‘Come on, Lucy. Spill it.’
‘I found a listening device in the Bairds’ car,’ she confessed. ‘Dan’s concerned it’s professional.’
A silence ensued, during which she knew Mac would have a huge scowl on his face.
‘You two . . .’ His words were strangled.
‘Three,’ she corrected quickly. ‘Don’t forget Grace. She’s working with us too.’
He muttered something she thought sounded like God help me, but then he said, ‘What about the local police?’
‘Everyone’s pushing for suicide.’
‘There might be a reason for that,’ he remarked testily.
Lucy remained quiet.
‘OK, OK,’ he relented as though she’d been arguing for hours. ‘Just keep your nose clean, OK? And when you’re back, let’s talk it through over a drink. Or is your boyfriend so possessive we have to do it in the office?’
Mac and alcohol? She didn’t think so. Alcohol lowered her inhibitions and sure, it helped make her more relaxed but it also made her do some really stupid things. ‘The office is my preferred option,’ she told him.
‘Oh, he’s the jealous type, is he? I wouldn’t have thought you’d take too lightly to having a controlling—’
‘Ooooh, Mac,’ she rode over him. ‘My interviewee has just turned up, gotta go.’
She hung up. Stared some more at the rain-washed windscreen. She wasn’t sure how long she could keep up the pretence that Nick Baker was her boyfriend. She hadn’t actually lied outright to Mac, but it was as near as dammit. She realised they were both trying to keep things professional, at least she was, but Mac kept pushing that little bit more, winding her up about Nick, pushing for a drink . . . Why couldn’t he find someone else? That would distract him nicely. She’d heard he’d been seeing someone a couple of months back – had they split up? If so, why?
Lucy spent the next few minutes trying to make a plan on how to deal with Mac, most of which involved her tearing his clothes off and making love with him on his desk, in her flat, in his house, on the moors, on the beach, and by the time she climbed out of the car she was almost cross-eyed with sexual tension. Maybe she should just give up and jump back into bed with him and see where the cards fell, but that little voice of self-preservation wouldn’t let up.
If I let him get too close, he’ll see who I really am and I can’t let that happen.
She pushed open the door to the Duncaid Environmental Research Centre to be welcomed by the smell of freshly made toast. Lucy loved toast almost as much as she loved chips and could eat it any time of the day, preferably with lashings of butter. As she crossed the little reception area, empty aside from a modular reception desk and swivel chair, her mouth watered.
‘Hello?’ she called out.
She rang the chrome desk bell. ‘Hello?’
Seconds later a woman of Chinese appearance, dressed in a white lab coat, appeared. She was licking her fingers. ‘Sorry,’ she said, looking abashed. ‘You caught me—’
‘Making toast,’ Lucy said with a smile. ‘Smells delicious.’
The woman brushed her hands together. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I’m Lucy Davies. I’m here because I’m a friend of Christopher’s and—’
‘You’re looking into Connor’s death.’ The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Yes, he told me.’ She held out a hand. ‘I’m Jasmine. His lab assistant.’
Lucy did her best not to show any surprise. She’d expected Jasmine to be more glamorous, maybe even beautiful considering Christopher’s affair with her, but she was plain-featured and surprisingly dumpy. Lucy tried not to flinch as they shook hands. The woman had the handshake of a sumo wrestler.
‘It’s been awful.’ Jasmine pulled a face. ‘Poor Christopher. Poor Connor. I can’t believe he’d commit suicide.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Jasmine repeated the litany Lucy had heard over the past few days; that he was a positive boy, popular with his friends, and that he had lots to look forward to.
‘He wasn’t too happy about little Dougie,’ Lucy remarked. ‘With a new baby in the house I’ve heard he wasn’t getting the attention he was used to.’
Jasmine put her head on one side and studied Lucy. Her gaze was cool, assessing. She said, ‘That didn’t bother him. Not really. It was his father’s affair with me that really did the damage.’
Inside, Lucy applauded Jasmine for being so honest. It would make her job a lot
easier than if she had to drag a confession out of the woman.
‘Come inside.’ Jasmine was brisk. ‘I’ll make us tea.’
The smell of toast increased as they stepped into a corridor with a long window that overlooked a laboratory where three people were working. Long benches were covered in glass beakers, flasks and test tubes and stands.
‘We’ve got several PhD researchers here,’ Jasmine told her. ‘As well as a Research Fellow.’
‘What is it that you do exactly?’
‘Crop science. Agri-technology. Finding crops resistant to pests, that are more efficient, grow faster and give a higher yield. Christopher’s done some incredible work here.’ Her eyes brightened. ‘Has he told you about his Mǐ quiáng? Strong rice?’
Lucy shook her head.
‘Oh.’ Jasmine pulled a face. ‘I can understand it, I suppose with everything that’s going on . . . but the thing is, he’s been researching C3 and C4 plants, developing a strain of rice that isn’t just incredibly resilient but grows faster and has higher energy too. So you can eat say one bowl of rice where you used to eat two and actually get more energy and nutrients than before.’
‘You’re talking GM?’ Lucy asked. ‘Genetically modified rice?’
Something in the woman tightened slightly. ‘You have a problem with GM?’
‘I don’t know enough about it,’ Lucy responded neutrally.
‘Most people don’t realise they’re eating GM foods every day,’ Jasmine sighed. ‘The supermarkets are full of it. Apples bred to the right shape, root ginger without the knobbles, tomatoes with less pips. It’s all about getting the most out of your harvest, whatever it may be. And that’s what Mǐ quiáng is all about. That’s why I’m here. I want to help Christopher bring his strong rice to the world.’
‘Wow,’ said Lucy, impressed, but inside her mind was buzzing. The subject of GM was highly contentious, inciting powerful emotions and arguments both for and against. She’d once arrested five people at a GM talk in London where a scientist had lost his rag against a ‘bunch of pig-ignorant, lefty do-gooders that needed a map to find their own arses.’ Insults were returned, hotly followed by some scuffling, a couple of punches thrown, nothing serious, but the hatred that had flared between the two sides was as dark and violent as any religious disagreement.
‘Was Connor for or against GM?’ asked Lucy.
Jasmine looked surprised. ‘I have no idea. I’d rather assume he’d be pro, with the work his father does.’
Lucy knew that may not necessarily be the case – not every kid followed their parents’ beliefs – but she didn’t comment. Instead she said, ‘How many of you work here in total?’
‘Seven including Christopher and me. Part of our research is funded by the EU. Who knows what’s going to happen with Brexit. We might have to shut down.’ She looked depressed.
Lucy followed her into a tea room just around the corner. A couple of chairs, a table with stacks of scientific magazines mingled with dirty cups and plates covered in crumbs.
‘Sorry.’ Jasmine scooped up the dirty dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher set to one side. Next to the kettle sat a plate with a slice of half-eaten toast. Jasmine flipped it into the bin.
‘Sorry to interrupt your toast,’ Lucy told her.
‘No matter.’ Jasmine put the kettle on and brewed tea in a delicate pot the colour of cornflowers. Matching cups.
‘They’re beautiful,’ Lucy remarked.
‘My auntie sent them from Fouzhou.’ She pronounced it Foochow. ‘My childhood town.’ She’d come to the UK when she was twenty to attend university and over the next ten years had only been back for the odd holiday. ‘I like it here,’ she admitted. ‘Less poverty, more freedom.’
Lucy turned the subject back to Connor.
‘He came and saw me,’ Jasmine said. ‘He wanted to know if his father and I were going to get married. Live together. I told him absolutely not.’ She lifted her chin and levelled a steady brown gaze at Lucy. ‘I don’t want to live with anyone, let alone get married. I like my independence too much.’
Just as Christopher had said.
‘How do you and Christopher get along now?’
Jasmine’s expression turned distant. ‘We rub along. We’re not the friends we used to be but we’re OK. I like the work here. I’m good at it, and Christopher appreciates that.’
Pretty much everything tallied with what Christopher had told Lucy, except for one thing. ‘When did Connor come and see you?’
‘Last Saturday.’
The day before he’d died.
‘Where?’
‘Here. Everyone knows I work Saturdays. It’s quiet and I can get on, undisturbed.’
They both turned when a Chinese man stuck his head around the door. Swarthy, blocky body, fleshy lips. He took one look at Lucy and barked something in Chinese – Mandarin? Cantonese? – at Jasmine who snapped something back in the same language. The man flushed.
‘Sorry,’ he said. His English was heavily accented. It came out as Sow-ee.
‘This is Bao Zhi,’ Jasmine introduced them. ‘He’s from the Kou Shaiming Company in Beijing. Bao Zhi is helping test Christopher’s strong rice with a view to possibly taking it to China.’
‘It’s that far advanced?’ Lucy asked.
‘Oh, yes.’ Bao Zhi nodded, his face suddenly alight with enthusiasm. ‘It is looking very good. It will help many people.’
With a strangely formal little bow, he left the room closing the door behind him with exaggerated care.
‘Do you want to see Christopher before you go?’ Jasmine asked as she walked Lucy outside.
‘He’s here?’ For some reason Lucy was surprised. She hadn’t seen his car outside. Nor had she thought him capable of functioning in the lab.
‘He finds work helps.’ Jasmine’s hands lifted then fell in a helpless gesture.
After they’d said goodbye Lucy climbed into her car and checked her phone to see she had two missed calls. One from Grace and one from Dan.
Since Dan had called just two minutes ago, she rang him first.
‘Lucy,’ he said. Something was wrong with his voice. It sounded strangled, as though he was having trouble speaking.
‘What is it?’
‘Grace just rang me with Connor’s autopsy results.’
Bloody hell, she thought, that was quick. Elena Crofton must have worked through the night, which wasn’t surprising considering she had Gordon Baird breathing fire down her neck.
He cleared his throat. Lucy saw Bao Zhi watching her through the window of the research centre. She gave him a little wave which he returned tentatively before ducking back out of sight.
‘They found phenol in his system.’
Lucy’s mind fired a single crimson rocket along her synapses.
‘It’s what the Nazis used to execute individuals and small groups of people in World War II.’
Jesus Christ, she thought.
‘Approximately one gram is sufficient to cause death. The toxic effect of phenol causes sudden collapse and loss of consciousness. It’s pretty immediate, I’m told.’
She fixed her gaze on the granite-grey wall ahead of her.
‘He was injected in his thigh. Someone tried to mess up the injection site but the pathologist said her findings were conclusive.’
‘He was murdered,’ said Lucy. Her voice was faint.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. But I want you to find out, Lucy. Fast.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
With Aimee at school, and wanting to give Jenny a bit of space, Dan went to Chepstow for a lunch of fish and chips and half a pint of bitter. While he ate he opened his father’s laptop and had a look. He purposely didn’t think about his murdered godson. He’d delegated the hunt for Connor’s killer to Lucy not just because he knew she’d do an exemplary job but because he trusted her one hundred per cent. Dan didn’t trust people lightly but knowing Lucy was on
the case released him to concentrate on finding his father’s killer. Once that was done he’d turn his attention back to Connor.
Carefully, Dan checked his father’s email and Internet browser history to see he’d been in regular touch with Gordon, Rafe and Arne, but that was nothing new. Their subjects ranged from electro-magnetic weapons, whether they were morally acceptable or not, to the pros and cons of euthanasia, which had turned fairly heated recently, particularly between his father and Rafe. Rafe was violently in favour of assisted suicide, his father against.
There was a long history of emails between his father and Olivia, and smatterings of chats between more friends. Nothing to do with newspaper articles or anything that Dan could think might scare his father so badly. He turned to check his father’s Internet browser and the bookmarks he’d made, occasionally lifting his gaze, and it was only because of sheer luck that he saw her.
He felt a bite of alarm.
She was stepping out of the pub door. If he hadn’t looked in that direction at that precise moment he’d never have spotted her. Today she wore a blonde wig and a big blue baggy sweater over faded jeans. She looked much younger, almost in her teens, which he guessed was the idea. He recognised her by the curve of her face, the lightness of her step. He was glad he’d memorised her so well all those days ago.
Mouse Woman.
He stared at the space she’d vacated. She had to have followed him here from his house.
She knew where he lived.
Pushing his food aside, Dan sprang to his feet, grabbed his father’s laptop and shoved it inside his satchel. Slinging the satchel across his chest he ran for the door and yanked it open.
An icy wind snatched at his hair as he walked quickly through the car park, glancing around, trying not to look as though he was searching for her. If he lost her he didn’t want her to know she’d been pinged.
There!
He spotted her blonde wig moving between a panel van and a Mazda MX-5. He broke into a low run, the scar across his stomach a taut line of pain as he tried to keep a short profile. He used parked cars as cover but to his dismay, as he ran past the back of a blue sedan, she turned her head and looked right at him. He didn’t slow down. He accelerated hard and fast straight for her. Her expression turned to fright. She spun round and at the same time he heard two beeps and saw the MX-5’s hazard warning lights flash as the driver’s door opened.
