Know Me Now

by CJ Carver

  Dan drove away from TSJ to a public car park in town. He parked at the far end, between a transit van and a Range Rover. Fairly certain he was out of sight, he removed the tracker and affixed it to the Range Rover’s petrol tank.

  Tracker free, he worked his way out of the city, passing Old Sarum’s iron age hill fort, then Old Sarum Airfield. His was the only car as he approached the government military science park, fields on either side.

  Porton Down had been formed to combat the threat of chemical weapons in WWI. It used to be called The War Department Experimental Ground and had a long history layered with myths and misconceptions. Known for using British military personnel in human experimental research into chemical and biological warfare agents, it was one of the leading weapons laboratories in the world. It focussed on all modern weaponry, from advanced ballistics and protection for armoured vehicles to researching nerve agents, plague and anthrax. It also had an active research programme on Ebola.

  All this was to protect the United Kingdom and its military from threat. Today it was as open as it could be without giving vital research away, but its past was murky and dotted with tragedy. Like the death of Leading Aircraftsman Maddison, who died after being involved in a trial for the nerve agent sarin.

  Dan drove to the front gate where he was checked and processed before being given an ID badge with his photograph printed on it. A soldier accompanied him in the passenger seat of his car, directing him to a whitewashed building with a grey slate roof that was, he was told, just over a hundred years old.

  Dan parked and followed the soldier inside the building and through an echoing hall with a wooden staircase and wood panelled walls. It would have been a handsome space except for the linoleum flooring, which hinted at slashed budgets and giving the public ‘value for money’.

  The soldier showed him to a room that reminded Dan of an old, rather tatty army mess. More wood panelled walls, lots of green carpet, a variety of faux leather armchairs. The view was of a fiercely mown lawn with a couple of trees and behind a neatly trimmed hedge stood a row of green aluminium sheds.

  ‘Please, wait here.’

  Dan didn’t have to wait long. Barely five minutes passed before a man said, ‘Dan.’ His voice was filled with warmth.

  They shook hands. Although the man was diminutive, barely five four and tiny-boned, his grip was strong.

  ‘Professor.’

  ‘Call me Charlie, please.’

  ‘Charlie. Thank you for seeing me, especially . . .’ Dan gestured at his surroundings. ‘I hadn’t expected –’

  ‘It’s the least I could do, to show you where your father used to work.’

  Dan could feel the shock on his face.

  ‘Ah, so he never told you.’

  ‘But he joined the marines.’ Dan’s tone was strangled.

  ‘Yes, but not before he’d been here for a year or so. Come, let us sit.’ He led the way to two armchairs. Dan sank into his, feeling oddly weakened. His father had worked at Porton Down?

  ‘It wasn’t for him though,’ Charlie went on. ‘Working in a laboratory full time. Bill was too active. Too bullish. When he joined the marines he became a great ally to Rafe and the team by reporting from the ground, giving them an honest assessment of what the armed forces really needed in order to protect it.’

  ‘Why didn’t he tell me?’

  Charlie put his head on one side like a bird. ‘Back in the day nobody advertised the fact they worked here. Not many people would admit to experimenting on animals, let alone humans. And don’t forget the work was extremely controversial as well as top secret.’

  He pointed at an old tin sign that hung above the door.

  IF YOU WOULDN’T TELL STALIN, DON’T TELL ANYONE.

  Dan stared at the sign, still reeling from the fact his father had hidden a chunk of his life from him.

  ‘So, Dad worked here.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Did he work on this Project Snowbank?’

  ‘Yes. We were all involved.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Murray Peterson lived in a three-storey featureless block of flats that blended into the granite surroundings perfectly. Grey pavement, grey road, grey breeze blocks, grey roofs, grey sky. There was one tree at the end of the street and that looked grey as well. The only bit of colour came from the bright blue P on the resident permit holders sign.

  Mac nodded at the cops in the patrol car keeping watch outside and went to buzz the intercom system. Before he reached the front door, however, it was already opening and a man was stepping outside. Thread veins showed he either drank a lot, or smoked, or had rosacea, but whatever the cause, it had the unfortunate effect of making him look rough and seedy.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the man asked.

  ‘I’m looking for Murray Peterson, the journalist.’

  Although he’d seen the man’s picture online and was ninety-nine per cent sure he was looking at Peterson, Mac still wanted the man’s ID confirmed.

  ‘Well, well.’ A broad grin spread across Peterson’s face. ‘The big man’s come himself, has he?’

  Mac hadn’t a clue what Peterson meant, but didn’t say anything.

  ‘How the hell did you find me?’ The man glanced at the patrol car on the street. ‘Ah. Your father said you were something in the security business. Are you a cop?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The man looked at Mac’s hands, then behind him. ‘You brought the money?’

  ‘Remind me, exactly what will I get for it?’

  ‘The story.’

  ‘“The Secret to a Long Life”?’ He’d read the article Murray had written for the Mail on Sunday, published just over two weeks ago, and couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. He had to have seen dozens of features like it over the past few years.

  ‘Yes, yes. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? What your father wanted?’

  With no idea what the man was going on about but not wanting to stop what might turn out to be a lead he wouldn’t otherwise get, Mac made a non-committal gesture.

  Murray peered at him, the first inkling that something wasn’t right finally permeating his brain.

  ‘You are Dan Forrester, aren’t you?’

  Mac reached into his pocket and withdrew his warrant card. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘No.’

  For a moment, Murray looked as though he might weep. ‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here then? You’re a long fucking way from Stockton-on-Tees, aren’t you?’

  ‘I want to know what’s happened to a colleague of mine who went missing last night. You were probably the last person to see her. Outside the Fiddichside Inn. Around seven o’clock.’

  At that the man’s eyes widened. ‘You’re kidding me. That wee lassie was a cop?’

  ‘DC Davies. Yes.’

  ‘Fuck.’ His eyes widened further.

  ‘We want to know where she is.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘I wish I could help you but I can’t. Sorry. Last I saw of her she was walking to her car in the car park.’

  A gust of wind brought a flurry of leaves inside the hallway.

  ‘Look,’ said Mac. ‘Can we talk inside?’ He glanced at the patrol car to make his point that if Murray was difficult, he might be looking at having the same chat at the police station.

  ‘I guess so.’ The man looked defeated.

  Murray’s flat was surprisingly neat if bland. The only items of interest were the framed newspaper and magazine articles on the walls. STUDENT, 21, DEMANDS LIFETIME SUPPLY OF BREAD BECAUSE SHE HAD NO MAYONNAISE IN HER SANDWICH.

  ‘Got good money for that one,’ Murray said.

  Although he was itching to ask about Dan Forrester – he was going to punch that man squarely in the face for endangering Lucy – he kept his cool. Lucy was his priority.

  ‘You last saw DC Davies . . .’ he prompted.

  Murray told him about the meeting set up between him and Dan, and how Lucy had been sent to the Fiddichside instead.


  ‘I didn’t realise she was one of your lot. Sorry.’

  Once Mac had ascertained Murray didn’t know anything that might help him find Lucy, he asked about Dan and the money. He could tell Murray was reluctant to talk by the way he hedged and coughed, and finally said, ‘Look, I don’t have time to beat around the bush. You were the last person to see DC Davies, and I can pull you in to the station for more questioning or you can tell me what happened between you and Dan Forrester. And his father,’ he added.

  ‘Ah, hell.’ Murray went and stood by the window looking out at another grey vista. He heaved a sigh. ‘I always keep an eye on the obits, you see. That’s what got me started. I just wanted to know why this town on a Hebridean island had such incredibly long-lived inhabitants compared to those in Duncaid. Whether it was the water or the whisky that kept the islanders so fit and well into old age. That kind of thing.

  ‘So I wrote the article, “The Secret to a Long Life”. I’d ended it saying we should do some genetic testing on the two places to see if there are scientific answers. People wrote in about it, offering to be the Mail’s guinea pigs. I could see this story expanding into a serial and the Mail began to show real interest . . . And then I had a visit.’

  Mac waited.

  ‘From a businessman.’ Murray sighed. ‘He wanted me to stop any potential serial. He was adamant he didn’t want any mention of genetic testing in Scotland ever again. He offered me . . . quite a large sum to put the story to bed.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Put it this way, it was substantially more than I used to earn in a year when I was at the top of my game.’

  Since Mac had no idea how much that might be, he said, ‘And that would be?’

  ‘Fifty grand,’ Murray sighed.

  ‘Did he give a name?’

  ‘No.’ Murray interlaced his fingers and squeezed them together, cracking his knuckles. ‘He transferred the money straightaway. He’d brought a computer with him, and did it with me in the room. So I knew he was serious.’

  Mac studied the subtle way the man’s body language had changed. He said, ‘He frightened you.’

  Murray swallowed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  Mac brought out his notebook and made notes. Long face. Dark eyes. Polite. Well dressed. Thinning dark hair. Fifties.

  ‘And so you kept quiet,’ Mac eventually prompted.

  ‘Yes. When Bill Forrester contacted me I tried to fob him off, but he was persistent. Then he offered to recompense me for my time. He said he’d be generous . . . We were all set to meet when he got back from some trip to Europe, but he never turned up. Then on Saturday his son emails me and says he wants to talk.’

  ‘You were hoping he’d pay you for your time as well.’

  Murray hung his head a little. ‘A writer doesn’t earn much, not considering his long working hours.’

  He could have been a criminal, unable to resist earning easy money, except he hadn’t done anything illegal that Mac could see. Morally, accepting the payoff stank, but he hadn’t broken any laws.

  ‘Weren’t you worried that your mystery man might get wind of the fact you hadn’t in fact put this story to bed?’

  ‘Yes. Which is why I used a code name. Firecat. I also went to meet Dan Forrester well out of Aberdeen.’

  ‘Except you met my colleague, DC Davies, instead.’

  ‘Not really.’ Murray bit his lip.

  ‘You wanted to meet “the big man himself”,’ Mac guessed, ‘and brushed her off.’

  The journalist stared outside. ‘Sorry,’ he said again.

  ‘Do you think this mystery man may have done her harm?’ Mac’s tone was tense. ‘Would you think him capable?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Murray’s expression turned grim. ‘He had a killer’s eyes, that one.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  ‘Can you tell me about Project Snowbank?’

  Charlie mused for a moment. ‘It’s not public knowledge, but it’s not top secret either. It’s something that was quietly dropped in the 1960s when there was a change of government.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘You have to understand where the United Kingdom was after the war. The country was broke. Food rations didn’t end until 1954. Life was still a real struggle but the baby boom had just started.’

  Charlie looked outside as a pair of rooks hopped across the lawn, looking for grubs.

  ‘Project Snowbank was started between the War Office and the Ministry of Health. Their concern was a burgeoning elderly population that would prove impossible to care for in the next century. Euthanasia wasn’t being discussed back then, and the idea was to give the British people another option from a potentially endless, demeaning old age.

  ‘What if you could have a sudden, painless death instead? A death that came without warning some time after you turned sixty? There would be no long-term dementia to suffer, no shameful body degradation and no pressure on family members to look after you. You could also plan your finances to a perfect T if you wanted.’

  All the hairs on Dan’s arms stood bolt upright. Rafe, he thought. I wish I’d died years ago.

  ‘The incentive?’ Charlie looked straight at Dan. ‘The State would guarantee to pay you a monthly stipend. You wouldn’t get rich on it, but you’d never go hungry either. And you’d have to commit when you turned eighteen.’

  Dan guessed that in those days when you were eighteen, sixty would have seemed ancient, but today it was shockingly young.

  ‘For those opting out of Snowbank,’ Charlie continued, ‘you might live a healthy, lively life until a hundred, or you might spend the last thirty years of your life miserably incapacitated in some kind of hospital institution. And you’d have no monthly stipend to see you through any rough times during your working life.’

  Dan watched the rooks fly away.

  ‘Snowbank expected people with inherited diseases, from Parkinson’s to multiple sclerosis, to sign up, but also those frightened of Alzheimer’s and those who didn’t want to become a burden on their families. Snowbank called upon pharmaceutical companies and religious groups, and at one point it was a relatively well-known project.’

  ‘The pensions and insurance industries wouldn’t necessarily have been best pleased,’ Dan remarked.

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘And the project was dropped due to a change of government?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Whose idea was Snowbank?’ asked Dan. ‘Who dreamed it up?’

  ‘It wasn’t your father, if that’s what you think. He wasn’t a great fan of Snowbank, to be honest. He thought it smacked of a totalitarian regime lording it over a dystopian society.’

  ‘Was it Rafe?’

  ‘No.’ Charlie shook his head. ‘It was formed well before your father and Rafe came here. That said, Rafe would have loved to have been Snowbank’s creator. He championed it well into the 1960s. He was furious when it was abandoned, which is one of the reasons why he left. He hoped to start up something similar in the private sector, but it never happened. He left all his research papers with his colleague, Arne Kraus.’

  Dan’s heart began to pound.

  ‘Arne?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes. Arne left maybe a year after Rafe. Like Rafe, he treasured Snowbank and was bitterly disappointed at its failure.’ Charlie glanced outside, thoughtfully. ‘He’s doing rather well, I’m told, with his Klinic in Isterberg.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  It was late afternoon and Lucy hauled herself up off the ground and began hobbling to keep her circulation moving, but her limbs had stiffened and gone numb. The pain from her face came in waves.

  She looked at her patch of sky to see that the light was beginning to fade. Soon it would be completely dark. The thought of spending another night in this hole made her want to cry again, but she’d told herself not to cry anymore, she was stronger than that. So she made another list of things to do when she got out of here.
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  First, make love to Mac.

  Second, see her mum.

  No, let’s amend that.

  First, have a long hot shower. Then make love to Mac.

  After seeing her mum, she’d try and find her dad. She wasn’t sure why she’d been thinking of him – probably because she was looking at dying pretty soon – but she wanted to know why he’d left her. Left her mum to bring her up on her own. He was living in Australia now, but whether he was still in love with the Aussie yoga teacher he’d run off with, God alone knew. Her memories of him were vague and distant, not unpleasant, except for the ones where he’d lied.

  Her dad was a champion liar. He’d lie about where he’d been, what he’d been up to, he’d lie until you didn’t know what was truth and what was fiction.

  She wondered if he’d changed. What he was up to now.

  If she got out of here, maybe she’d find out.

  Meantime she had to survive a second night out here. She’d made a burrow with the debris on the floor and when the time came, would heap it over and around her to keep warm. It was only twelve hours until morning. Help would come then. Mac would be searching for her.

  Her mind kept chewing over conversations, questions she’d asked about Connor’s death, until suddenly she’d see Mac’s face, the way his brows drew together when he was puzzled and trying to work something out, or when he was angry, furious with her for something she’d done, like not telling him about her meeting with Firecat.

  She could see him smiling at the breakfast table, could almost feel the warmth of his hand as he reached over and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The warmth of his kiss. The tenderness in his eyes.

  ‘God,’ she said out loud ‘if you get me out of here, I’ll tell him I love him. I swear it on my life.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Dan spent two hours making sure nobody was following him. Only then did he slip to Dungeness. The man he’d arranged to meet had big shoulders. His hair was blondish, cropped close, and his handshake was hard.

  ‘Julia’s told me about you,’ he said. ‘That you know Philip Denton as well as boats, and that you pay well.’