Hooley thought there was no arguing with that and his mind turned to more down to earth matters, all this talk of where they went to eat had made him feel hungry. “We need to sort out a restaurant for tonight. That Italian I mentioned is just a short walk from the flat. If I let Spike know we could head there if you fancy? It’s perfect for a glass of red and a bowl of pasta.”
“What if I don’t want pasta?” asked Roper, with a slight frown.
“Don’t worry, they do have other choices. I was just trying to make a point that it is a lovely place and very relaxed. I am quite sure you will like it….”
Hooley tailed off. He was now talking to the top of Roper’s head, the younger man having lost all interest once he had heard there were other choices and returned to studying his computer screen. The DCI rang the restaurant to make the booking for 8pm; he was about to ring off when a thought occurred to him, “Not near the window please.”
39
Dan Sykes carefully placed his phone on the desk. There were times, like now, when he wished he could do without it. How much simpler would life be if he could just get on without being disturbed? But he had lost the right to make his own decisions when he had sold out to Tommy Burton, and that was why he was sitting in Mayfair waiting for his boss to decide to show up. He’d said five minutes half-an-hour ago.
Sykes stopped staring at his mobile and instead switched his attention to the CCTV cameras that monitored the front of the property. He settled back in the chair as he watched the street scene outside. At precisely 11am a black Range Rover pulled up directly opposite the front door, blocking access for any other vehicle. The front passenger door opened and a man jumped out, scanning the surrounding area before opening the rear passenger door. Burton was a big unit, just over six feet three inches tall and heavily built with the shoulders of a professional boxer. From previous meetings Sykes had guessed his weight to be slightly north of two hundred pounds, with no trace of fat. He had piercing blue eyes and his thick brown hair was trimmed short. He was also a sharp dresser. That made-to-measure suit must have set him back mid-four figures.
He walked to the front door glancing up at the camera as he approached. Although it was the briefest look, it was ample time for the extra-ordinary charisma he possessed to be projected through the lens. Sykes was not a man easily impressed but there was no doubting his boss had an aura about him. With a brilliant smile that showed off an impressive set of teeth, it was hard to reconcile the welcoming image with the reality. As Sykes was acutely aware, this man was one of the most cold-blooded people he had encountered, as capable of ordering a killing as he was requesting a cup of tea.
A few seconds later Burton was pushing open the door to the office. He paused on the threshold and carefully looked around, as if he was checking for a trap, then apparently satisfied he stepped into the room. Sykes was already standing, careful to signal his respect. He had learned long ago that allowing any sign of rebellion to show was a mistake, especially with men as finely tuned to insult as Burton. It was odd how many alpha-male types could be so thin skinned. He waited patiently, his arms crossed in front of him. He was usually able to read people’s body language but he could never do that with this man. Burton appeared totally self-contained and never gave away the slightest hint of his true feelings. Sykes had read somewhere about psychopaths having a remarkable ability to mask their emotions. They could be at the point of murdering someone and the victim would never suspect anything was wrong. He thought it helped explain Burton.
Sykes himself was making such an effort to maintain a neutral expression it was making his face ache. But he was determined not to let discomfort show. The silence between the two men continued to grow. It was starting to feel like one of those TV shows where the presenter overdoes the big build-up to announcing who would be departing this week. Finally the man made a small movement, tilting his head ever so slightly to the left.
“They know who you are”
It wasn’t what he had been expecting to hear. Not because he didn’t expect to get recognised but because he hadn’t expected to hear it from this man. He was momentarily confused as he failed to make sense of the remark, then his brain worked out what had just been said. Sykes ground his teeth. Damn the man and his stupid mind games.
“I take it you mean the police,” he managed to speak calmly. He gathered his thoughts. “They were always going to get my identity off the CCTV. I suppose the only surprise is how fast they’ve been.”
“It was Roper who worked out you must have been ex-military. It seems your ‘little' attempt to knock him off his stride failed to have the desired effect.”
The way he emphasised little left Sykes in no doubt that he was being reprimanded.
“The problem now is that they have protection in place so you can’t try that again.” Burton jabbed a finger at him to underline the point. Sykes kept silent. As far as he was concerned, the effectiveness of any protection was determined by the ability of the people doing it. But if he got into that conversation Burton might well start commenting on his effectiveness. While he was thinking, his boss had clasped his hands behind his back and turned to walk over to the window before executing a neat about-turn and pacing back to stand in front of the desk again. Sykes just managed to keep a sneer off his face. Did the prick think he would be the slightest bit impressed by this show of grand-standing? It was a long time since he’d been on a parade ground.
Burton stared at him. “I want to move the schedule up again. You now have two weeks to get everything done.”
Sykes had been told he had four weeks just the previous day. Something must be going wrong to suddenly speed things up. He’d love to know what, but knew better than to ask. He wouldn’t give the man the opportunity to tell him he was too junior to need to know the answer.
“We can handle that,” he said, with considerably more confidence than he genuinely felt. There was a lot to do and two weeks would leave no room for delays or mistakes. Then he realised his boss was making no attempt to leave. There must be something else. He waited patiently and was proved right.
“One of the researchers needs picking up. I’ll explain why later but she must be treated carefully. Under no circumstances is she to be harmed, at least not yet.”
Before he turned to leave his boss reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a photograph which he tossed on the desk.
“This is her. I’d like it done in the next two days.”
After his boss left Sykes picked up the photograph. He saw a young woman, not pretty but with a nice smile. He wasn’t given to sentimentality, but she reminded him a little of his sister’s daughter. While his niece was a few years younger, she shared the same self-confident appearance. Sykes shrugged as he flipped the picture over. The woman’s address was on the back so that saved him having to dig one out. It made no difference to him what happened to her. He just needed to think how he was going to play this one.
40
The pretty house boasted a bay window and a tiny front garden just big enough to accommodate a pair of terracotta pots filled with a mix of pale-pink geraniums and blue lavender. The three-bedroom property was part of a mid-Victorian terrace in the triangle of streets created by drawing a line connecting the tube stations at Barons Court, West Brompton and Parsons Green. Years ago this would have been described as Yuppie central, and it still spoke of money. Most of the properties in this street had remained family homes rather than suffering the indignity of being chopped into flats. Many, including this one, had been extended into the roof, creating a third floor.
‘French’ Pat was sitting in a blue Ford Mondeo parked a few doors away. It gave him a clear view of the front door. Dan Sykes had given him all the details and just after 6pm his target, Tricia Williams, had arrived home and let herself in. Although it was mid-summer, heavy, dark clouds overhead made it gloomy for the time of year and he was able to mark her progress from the lights she turned on as she headed upstairs.
He noted she spent several minutes on the third floor, before the light went off and moments later she stepped out of the front door dressed in running gear. Unaware of her watcher she went into a vigorous stretching routine that was much admired. He thought she looked fit and lithe and he liked the way she kept her hair cut short. It looked boyish and suited her high cheek bones. The stretches over, she headed out of the gate and turned right in the general direction of Fulham Broadway. Setting a good pace she rapidly disappeared from view.
‘French’ Pat decided this was his moment. He walked up to the door, careful to look like he belonged. It really was amazing what people failed to notice if you were confident about your actions. His set of picks made short work of the lock and he was inside. He waited for the tell-tale beeping of the alarm counting down but there was silence. Experience had taught him that home-owners often didn’t think to re-set their alarms when they were going out for a short period. He checked the ground floor but the place was as empty as he had suspected from his surveillance so he made his way upstairs. Two bedrooms and two bathrooms on the second floor and then he climbed the newly installed staircase to the top floor. He stepped out into a large space with low ceilings and windows built into the eaves. He looked around. Miss Williams had done well for herself to own a house like this, especially if she was the only one living in it. Sykes had mentioned something about family money.
The top floor was clearly the master suite as there was a huge bed made up with white linen bed sheets and duvet cover. On one side was an en-suite shower room and built in cupboards had been slotted into the space available along one wall, with a large chest of drawers in the other. He was certain this was her room and an examination of the top drawer confirmed it. It was full of bras and knickers. He spent longer than he needed touching these, even holding some items to his nose but all he picked up was the smell of her washing detergent.
But he thought the best news was the bed. It was made from a solid frame of light pine. Nothing IKEA about this. It was designed with this room in mind, he was quite sure. What he appreciated was the gap which he could fit under. Perfect. He sat on the edge of the bed and waited to hear her coming back, which 30 minutes later she did. By the time Tricia had reached her bedroom he had slithered out of sight.
He watched her feet come into the room as she sat on the bed to peel off her running gear, tossing it onto the floor before heading to the shower. He had a glimpse of her shapely calves. Then he listened to the shower coming on and carefully eased his way out from under the bed. She couldn’t see anything so he went up to the bathroom entrance. He would wait until the moment she turned the shower off; people seemed to be at their least attentive at that point. He carefully prepared for his next move. She was too athletic for him to make a mistake in subduing her.
41
“I hope I die peacefully in my sleep like my father and not screaming like his passengers.”
Hooley stared hopefully at Roper but not a flicker of a smile touched his face.
“Why?” said Roper.
“Why what?” said the DCI, suddenly thinking this exercise of trying to teach Roper about humour was going to prove more challenging than he had anticipated.
“Why were his passengers screaming?”
Hooley held his head in his hands as he mumbled. “Because the man who died peacefully was driving a car, maybe a bus, or even piloting a jet.”
Roper’s frown showed he was giving this some serious thought. “So you’re saying that when your father died there was an accident and the passengers were killed?”
Hooley didn’t look up from under his hands. “Well yes. I mean obviously. But it wasn’t really my father that was just for the joke.”
There was a silence which stretched on. Hooley couldn’t resist any longer; he had to look at Roper. The man was sitting very still. Finally he spoke. “So that’s the whole joke then? There’s nothing else?”
The DCI nodded mournfully. His original plan had been to introduce the joke as a brief distraction from their work. Now he was hoping he hadn’t done something that would consume the rest of the day. He tried to make his escape by placing the cup of coffee on Roper’s desk. He hoped this would bring the conversation to an end but his attempt at avoiding further interrogation proved futile.
“So how funny is that joke?”
Hooley’s heart sank. The more he thought about it the less amusing it became.
“Look Jonathan. Jokes stop being funny if you worry away at them. You either laugh straight away or you don’t. If you treat it like a complex puzzle that needs solving you will miss the point of it.”
Roper suddenly beamed. “That’s quite helpful. You’re saying that humour is something you get straight away or not at all. I’d never realised that.”
The DCI just stopped himself from saying that ‘humour is a serious business.’ He took a few appreciative sips of his own coffee and saw Roper was back in work mode and decided to get the conversation back on to the investigation.
“Anything new come up?” he asked.
“Yoghurt.” came the reply.
Hooley displayed rapid eye movement. It was clearly going to be one of those days. He would just have to wait until what Roper said caught up with what Roper was thinking.
After almost two minutes of silence - Hooley had been looking at his watch - Roper spoke. “In 2010 the President of Kazakhstan asked his scientists to find a way of allowing him to live longer. He was in his 70’s at the time. Two years later they came back with the idea of a yoghurt drink. They said it could “improve the quality of life and prolong it.”
Hooley was intrigued.
“So how come I haven’t heard of this before? I could even be tempted myself.”
“That’s because it’s not true.”
“Oh,” said Hooley, who was experiencing the strange feeling that came from drifting between moments of comprehension followed swiftly by moments of incomprehension. He wondered if this was a bit like the early stages of dementia.
Roper was ploughing on. “People have been claiming yoghurt will let you live longer for more than 100 years. In the early 1900’s a leading doctor gave a lecture talking about yoghurt and how it was linked to good gut health. People started thinking yoghurt was a wonder food and family doctors were actually prescribing it as an elixir of life.”
“But you’re saying there is no evidence that drinking yoghurt makes any difference.”
“That’s right. The digestive system is incredibly complex so just eating yoghurt is not going to make a difference.”
“OK,” said Hooley, anxious to keep this toe-hold in the conversation. “So how does this tie in to bio-technology?”
Roper gave him one his slightly impatient looks.
“The point is that it may be possible to engineer a new type of yoghurt which could have benefits.”
Hooley retaliated with a stern look of his own.
“Why do I get the feeling I’m missing something?”
Roper looked at him with a slightly puzzled expression, went back over the conversation and was struck with an insight.
“You want me to explain.”
“That would be helpful,” said Hooley, his face carefully neutral.
“There is something in yoghurt that some scientists have got very interested in. It’s a protein called Spermidine and, putting it in simple terms, it’s supposed to help the cell system to regenerate. In other words, keep the cells healthier for longer.”
Hooley wondered what the next surprise would be.
“So there’s a catch?”
“Not exactly a catch, just there’s not enough evidence to say it does work that well. At a simple level the science may be on the right track but there’s plenty more to do. Also, you can’t just eat lots of yoghurt and get enough Spermidine to have any effect, so it has to be engineered. But it was reading about yoghurt that led me on to some really interesting stuff about living longer.”
He stopped talkin
g and picked up his coffee and drained it in one go, a move that made Hooley wince as it was still pretty warm. Apparently untroubled Roper shuffled in his chair to make himself more comfortable.
“I’ve never really thought about getting old before. I just sort of assumed it would happen one day. I mean look at you. You’re much older than me and you will die before me because that is what happens.”
Hooley paused in sipping at his own drink.
“You do recall the conversations we’ve had about giving people too much personal information? Well talking to someone about their impending death comes under that category.”
Unabashed Roper pulled out the battered old note-book he carried around with him. He called it his book of ‘people stuff’ and he used it to record observations about social behaviour. As well as being his own reference book, it served as a sort of security blanket. He carefully wrote down what the DCI had just told him and then put the note book away before continuing.
“Some scientists are starting to challenge the view that nothing can be done to stop you getting old. They say we should view ageing as a disease because it takes function away, like your eyesight getting worse or muscles getting weaker. From that it follows that if we can work out what the disease is, or how it starts, we can find a cure for it or maybe improve function.”
Hooley raised one eyebrow. “Well a cure for old age is something we’d all like to hear about. Especially those of us who are a bit further along the road than others.” He studied Roper but there wasn’t even a flicker to show that he understood the mild rebuke. “But how is collecting all this information going to help you focus on the bio-medicine companies that have links to Sir James?”
Roper was nodding. “It will but I will also need my Rainbow Spectrum. It’s a major field of science and highly complex. I don’t think I would be able to get anywhere without it.”
Going Underground (Jonathan Roper Investigates Book 1) Page 13
