His phone buzzed and he glanced at the number – Sophie Clark, the heiress. He grabbed his phone and slipped into the corridor, away from the thumping music.
‘Frank, am I disturbing you?’
‘Not at all.’ He’d never been more delighted to leave a topless bar. ‘In fact, I was about to give you a call. To see if you’d like to go out for dinner sometime.’
The silence at the other end went on too long, broken by a small voice. ‘It’s too soon, Frank.’
Too soon for what? Was there some sort of unwritten protocol? The number of days or weeks after a funeral before you could resume normal activity? And if it was unwritten, how was he expected to know?
‘Of course, Sophie.’ He tried again. ‘I’ve been thinking about you, worrying about you.’ Thinking and worrying about your money. ‘I’d love to help you through this difficult time.’
‘I know. It’s why I called.’ Sophie sighed. ‘I need some advice on the joint venture.’
The Chinese operation. ‘But of course!’ Frank still had a sizeable investment in Charles Clark’s business. Time to get it back. With interest. Frank grinned. Happiness is when your interests and those of your target align. ‘How can I help?’
Frank listened to the outline of Sophie’s problem.
‘What about getting an expert to visit the factory and find out precisely what the Chinese partner is up to?’ he asked. ‘Then you can negotiate from a position of strength.’
‘Oh, Frank. That’s such a good idea. Do you know any factory experts?’
Frank clenched his free hand into a fist.
‘Well, as it happens,’ he said, ‘I think I know exactly the right person for this job.’
Durham, England
The mist from the river Wear enveloped the city of Durham in a cold, grey blanket.
Jaq left the bookshop and walked across the Elvet Bridge. She continued through the centre of Durham and up the hill to CCS – Chemical Contract Services. Not the snappiest of names, it made her think of latrines, but then Vikram was not the most imaginative of entrepreneurs. Solid and dependable, exactly what she needed right now.
A young man sat at reception.
‘Dr Silver to see Vikram Dhawan.’
‘He’s expecting you.’ He stood up and pointed. ‘Straight through to the boardroom.’
The CCS office was a no-frills affair. The top floor of a flat-roofed concrete office block that had seen better days. She passed the drawing office and a server room, before the door at the end of a dimly lit corridor flew open to reveal Vikram in the doorway. Silver hair, copper skin, a striking man in his sixties, Vikram had made his fortune in the oil industry before returning to the town of his birth.
‘Jaq!’ He pumped her hand in enthusiasm. ‘Good that you could come at such short notice.’
A morning of updating her CV and LinkedIn profile and telephoning all her local contacts had yielded a disappointing response. No one in Teesside had any work to offer her, although she suspected the problem was her reputation rather than the lack of vacancies. The call from CCS had taken her by surprise. Durham was only thirty miles from Middlesbrough, but clearly isolated from the jungle drums of Teesside gossip.
She’d first met the owner of CCS at a charity fundraising ball. In a sea of hypocrites, his passion for philanthropy, coupled with a refreshing transparency on how the networking benefited his business, had turned a dull evening into an enjoyable one.
‘You’re between jobs?’
They sat at either side of a table made up of three desks that didn’t match: not in colour, not in width and not in height.
‘Yup.’ She handed him the CV she’d cobbled together.
He flicked through, muttering as he read. ‘Chemical engineer . . . ICI . . . process safety . . . Teesside University lecturer . . . explosives licence.’ He looked up. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘A good rate.’ It paid to be straight with Vikram.
‘Can you travel?’
‘I’d prefer to stay in the UK for a while.’
‘Explosives-related?’
‘No.’ She suppressed a shudder at the memories of the last explosions. One had killed a murderer. Another had saved Giovanni. If anyone knew what she’d done on either of those occasions, her licence would be swiftly withdrawn. And never reissued. ‘I’d prefer something else.’
He tapped the CV with a manicured fingernail. ‘You’ve run manufacturing sites, led capital projects, worked in research groups, taught process safety – seems to me you’re a bit of a Jaq of all trades.’
She laughed as if no one had ever made that joke before.
‘How do you feel about project management?’
A damp patch on the ceiling caught her attention as she murmured something non-committal. Johan claimed that for an engineer to become a project manager, they first had to undergo a lobotomy. Otherwise they couldn’t live the lie of compressed schedules, reduced budgets and shrunken teams. Mind you, since leaving the army, Johan felt that way about most forms of management, indifferent to the reality that it paid much better than engineering.
‘No problem.’ Who cared, so long as the rate was enough to pay all the lawyers Emma was lining up? ‘D’you have something in mind?’
‘Leave it with me.’
Back in Yarm, she sat at her computer and searched for flights to Lisbon. A visit to her only surviving relative was long overdue. No direct flights from Teesside airport, so she’d have to go via Amsterdam or drive to Manchester. A spreadsheet of options was called for, the ideal displacement activity, perfect procrastination. LinkedIn was buzzing with notifications. She scrolled through, discarding most. A few gems from ex-students. One, Tarun Nayaran, was getting married. Another, Ning Dan, was changing jobs. She sent them both messages of congratulation then checked the BBC news, flicking past a story about a brutal knife attack.
CHELSEA MURDER INVESTIGATION
The victim of last night’s fatal stabbing has been identified as Bernard Ashley-Cooper, aged 33, a fine art auctioneer.
Emergency services were called to Mr Cooper’s opulent Chelsea home, worth over £1 million, after neighbours reported a disturbance involving animal cruelty.
A spokesman for Scotland yard said . . .
Her phone rang. Vikram. That was quick.
‘I have a project management role that might interest you.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Shetland.’
Remote and peaceful; exactly what she needed. And a long way from London, where people were stabbed in their own homes. She knew Shetland well: the northernmost islands of Scotland harboured the main terminal for North Sea oil.
‘Oil or gas?’
‘Neither. A new wind farm.’
The march of new technology, clean technology.
‘What’s the salary?’
Vikram named a generous hourly rate. Jobs on Shetland attracted a premium. More than enough to keep the wolf from the door.
‘Sounds ideal.’
‘Before you decide, I have a potential new client. One I’m rather keen to secure. Would you join us for lunch on Friday?’
‘Why me?’
‘Jaq of all trades.’
She laughed.
‘Look, you’d be doing me a massive favour. All my senior technical people are out on jobs. I need someone credible to stand in. Just for lunch, OK?’
‘Who’s the potential client?’
‘Krixo.’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘An ICI sell-off. It changed hands a few times and then there was a management buyout.’
No surprise there. Most ex-ICI companies in the area had been through several changes of name. She had colleagues from Seal Sands who had changed employer half a dozen times without ever changing workplace.
‘Where do they operate?’
‘UK and China. The UK head office is at the Wilton Technology Centre in Teesside. Manufacturing is in Shingbo, Shandong Province.’
>
A LinkedIn notification popped up on her screen, a reply from Dan. Serendipity.
She sent him a new message, adding, Do you know anything about a company called Krixo in Shingbo?, attached her private electronic business card and signed off.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes, sorry. What do Krixo do?’
‘Green energy stuff. Superstrong magnets for wind turbines. Batteries for electric vehicles. That sort of thing.’
‘I’m not interested in going to China.’ Too crowded, too noisy, too unpredictable. Peace and solitude were what she craved more than anything else. ‘Shetland sounds just right for me.’
‘I know, but I think you might enjoy the lunch . . .’ Vikram named a Michelin-starred restaurant.
‘Wow, you must really want to impress them.’
‘They’re paying.’ He laughed. ‘I could really use your help on this one, Jaq.’
She clicked back to the airline page. There was a cheaper flight on Saturday.
‘Just lunch?’
‘Just lunch.’
‘And after that?’
‘After that, I put you forward for the Shetland job. Sole candidate. It’s a shoo-in.’ So, lunch was a precondition? OK then. She adopted her smoothest tone.
‘I’d be delighted to have lunch with you and your client.’
Because that was the sort of reply a good project manager would give.
She hung up the phone and booked a return flight to Lisbon.
Thirsk, North Yorkshire, England
A fire roared in the grate, glittering coals shifting to release tongues of azure and tangerine flame. The retired metallurgist sat back on the sofa and opened his book, adjusting the reading light to inspect a coloured map.
His wife stuck her head round the sitting room door, white hair curling under a woollen hat. ‘John, you do know I’m going out tonight?’
He frowned, a flicker of irritation passing across his brow. ‘Book group?’
‘Every Wednesday.’
‘What nonsense are the girls discussing tonight?’
‘It’s not just for women, you know.’ She came into the room, their dog trotting along behind her. ‘You could come along too.’
‘I could.’ He gazed up at her. ‘But I don’t like the novels you read.’
The dog padded across the room towards her basket.
‘Then suggest something else.’
He held up his book. ‘Such as the latest monograph on Australian ore deposits?’
She sighed. ‘It would do you good to read some fiction for a change.’
He shook his head. ‘A waste of time.’
She bent to kiss his forehead. ‘Will you be OK?’
The little dog turned round and round in her basket, flattening some invisible bumps, before settling in front of the fire.
‘Jenny and I will be just fine, thank you, darling.’ The dog sighed in agreement. ‘Drive carefully.’
*
He must have nodded off, which was unlike him, whatever Kay claimed, because suddenly the fire was low, and Jenny was no longer in her basket but scratching and barking at the front door.
The bell rang again. It took two goes to hoist himself to his feet, a groan of pain escaping as ankles and knees and hips took the weight. Kay must have forgotten her house keys.
He opened the door wide, stepping back in surprise at the sight of a young woman on the doorstep. She held an ice-blue velvet roll in her small hands.
‘Professor John Tich?’ she asked.
‘Tench,’ he corrected. ‘Good evening, miss. And you are?’
‘May I come in?’ She spoke so softly, and with such a strong Chinese accent, that he understood her question more by lip-reading. Perhaps she had been one of his students, though he didn’t immediately recognise her, but then he had never been very good at names or faces.
Jenny barked a warning, but he ignored her. It was cold in the doorway and he needed to put his hearing aids in and his spectacles on if he was to find out what she wanted. Such a slight young thing, she hardly posed a threat.
‘This way. There’s a fire on in the library. Can I get you a cup of tea or a glass of sherry?’
Teesside, England
The restaurant was nothing much to look at. A former drovers’ inn on the main road between Darlington and Barnard Castle, the cramped eating area looked more like an austere living room than a palace of fancy nosh.
Sophie Clark and Vikram Dhawan were already seated by the time Jaq arrived. The boss of CCS had failed to mention how young the managing director of Krixo was. Or how beautiful. Early twenties, blonde, five foot two – one metre fifty-seven in new money – immaculately turned out in a tailored pink dress, kitten heels and a jaunty fascinator. She reminded Jaq of the cardboard cut-out dolls that you could adorn with paper clothes using little folded tabs to hook the garments onto the shoulders and hips. Clothes that you coloured in first.
Sophie was certainly coloured in. Her fair lashes were dark with mascara, the matching bruises of purple eye shadow above her amethyst eyes mirrored by kohl below. The natural blush of young healthy skin glowed through a light foundation and dusting of powder. Her perfect rosebud lips shone with crimson gloss.
Vikram dragged his gaze away from Sophie long enough to make the introductions.
‘Dr Silver.’ Her voice was surprising, deeper and more nuanced than Jaq expected.
‘Call me Jaq, please.’
A waiter appeared with three flute glasses. He filled them from a bottle of English sparkling wine, accompanied by a long and involved explanation of the provenance.
They clinked glasses.
‘To business!’ Sophie announced.
The first of twelve courses arrived. A single scallop, topped with grapefruit, ponzu and micro-herbs, served on a tiny white porcelain stand. One slurp and it was gone, the taste of the sea so intense and fresh that Jaq could almost hear the crashing waves and smell the salt air.
Sophie wrinkled her nose at the raw seafood. She seemed keener on the paired wine, calling for another glass of the English champagne.
‘Where are you living now, Sophie?’ Vikram asked.
Sophie beamed. ‘Wynyard.’
Home of Premier League footballers and business successes.
‘At least until probate is sorted out. Then I’m thinking of the Bahamas.’
Jaq disconnected from the conversation and scanned the room. A middle-aged couple with heads close together, lost in intense conversation. A quiet family group, three generations from wrinkly to pimply, who seemed comfortably familiar with staff and surroundings. A trio of businessmen more interested in their mobile phones than the food or one another.
She reconnected with the pros and cons of buying off-plan in Barbados as new wine arrived with the quenelles of offal wrapped in artichoke. Jaq followed the server’s instructions and popped it into her mouth, a savoury Baked Alaska bursting with meat juices. Gone in a few seconds, leaving a taste of land. Earthy and surprising, and utterly, utterly delicious.
Sophie drank her wine, nibbling at the edges of the little parcel of food on the smooth wooden platter. Their host’s continuing discomfort at the unusual fare perplexed Jaq. What had Sophie imagined a Michelin-starred tasting menu would serve? Or had she chosen the most expensive restaurant in the area in order to impress? Impress who – Vikram? A waste of money. Vikram would be equally happy eating in a pub. How on earth had Sophie managed Eastern food?
‘Have you spent much time in China?’ Jaq asked.
Sophie nodded. ‘I helped my father set up the joint venture. He was a brilliant scientist, but I brought the business acumen.’ Again, that defiant tilt of the chin, as if to say that’s my story and I’m sticking to it; you want to fight about it?
Jaq sipped her wine and allowed a tiny glimmer of sympathy to slip through her instinctive distrust. Poor unhappy Sophie. It must be boring being quite so beautiful. Perhaps she really was a business whizz. How tiring it must
be when people only saw the superficial charms and ignored the brains underneath; how infuriating when they assumed it was her father who had built the business rather than this tiny, fierce young woman. OK, she would cut Sophie a little slack. Innocent until proven guilty. Capable until proven otherwise.
‘Did you like Shingbo?’ Jaq asked.
Sophie wrinkled her nose. ‘I based myself in Shanghai.’
Aha, that explained it. The most Westernised city in China. Quite possible to live on McDonald’s burgers and Kentucky Fried Chicken. You could probably even get a parmo and chips.
Not here, though. Three rustic earthenware dishes appeared, each containing a single Lindisfarne Oyster, cooked, as the server informed them, in a sous vide at 62º centigrade and garnished with English wasabi. Back to the sea, with the meltingly smooth texture of barely denatured protein, delicate and fresh, followed by a whack to the back of the head as the myrosinase metabolised. Tsuun!
Intent on her own food, Jaq pretended not to notice when Sophie slipped the oyster into a napkin she raised to dab at her lips. What a waste. She waited until their host made her excuses and minced to the bathroom. Presumably to dispose of the scallop and oyster concealed in her expensive handbag.
Jaq turned to Vikram. ‘Who suggested this restaurant?’
‘Sophie, of course. Good, isn’t it? Glad I’m not paying though.’
‘She’s not eating anything.’
‘Watching her figure?’
Jaq gave a snort of irritation. ‘No, but you’re doing plenty of that.’
Vikram grinned. ‘I love my job.’
‘What does she want?’
‘Why don’t we ask her?’
Clicking heels on parquet floor – short steps, restricted by her tight skirt and pointy shoes – announced Sophie’s return in time for the signature dish: razor clams with almond and celeriac, dotted with tiny brown shrimps. The wine was Japanese, lemony and sharp – who knew that the Japanese produced such fine wine?
The Chemical Reaction Page 7