The Chemical Reaction

by Fiona Erskine

  Better not be late. She dressed, pulling the Shetland hat over her wet hair, and left the hotel, heading towards the Bund, Shanghai’s famous waterfront, admiring the Gothic, art deco and beaux arts buildings, the nineteenth-century banks, custom houses, shipping lines, insurance brokers, consulates and boutique hotels on the Puxi side of the river: Old Shanghai.

  Initially a British settlement, it was one of the five treaty ports conceded after the First Opium War in 1842, giving the British the right to continue creating Chinese addicts with poppy from India and Afghanistan. Other nations followed, and Shanghai soon became an international trading settlement.

  New Shanghai now towered over the old. Giant skyscrapers reared up from the Pudong side of the river. The old stone buildings lurked, conventional, squat and dim in comparison to the new neo-futuristic architecture, a glorious extravaganza of cutting-edge engineering. Europe in decline; Asia ascendant. Exactly as her students, like Dan, had predicted.

  Checking her watch, she walked briskly to the rendezvous, a café on the riverside with open windows. The clientele were mainly elderly tourists with a few younger Chinese people, most of them female. No sign of Dan. She waited outside for a few more minutes, then dialled his number.

  A Chinese woman inside the café sprang to her feet and hurried out towards her.

  ‘Dr Zliver?’

  ‘Silver, Jaq Silver.’

  ‘I’m Dan’s sister, Lulu.’ The young woman marched back into the café, turning her head and beckoning. ‘Come.’

  Jaq followed. No sign of Dan. Perhaps he was parking a car and had sent his sister on ahead.

  ‘Sit down.’ She spoke with a strong accent but the command in her voice was unmistakeable.

  ‘Is Dan coming?’

  ‘No.’ Lulu’s face crumpled. ‘He’s vanished.’

  Jaq sat down opposite her. Lulu wore her hair in a short bob, a glossy black frame for a striking face – high cheekbones, small nose, thin lips, pointed chin. Difficult to judge age, but she looked to be in her late twenties. Small and slim, she wore a frilly white blouse, a short tartan skirt, opaque turquoise tights and wedge-heeled shoes. No obvious family resemblance, either in features or fashion sense. But then Dan was a boy who wore the same clothes – jeans, T-shirt and padded anorak with fur-lined hood – for the four years he had spent at Teesside University.

  ‘Vanished?’ Jaq put her hands flat on the table. In the last few hours? Since he replied to her message? ‘Today?’

  A waiter approached, and Lulu ordered green tea for them both.

  ‘Two weeks ago.’

  Two weeks ago? ‘So, it wasn’t Dan who asked to meet here?’

  Lulu shook her head. ‘It was me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought you might know something.’

  ‘But I’ve just arrived.’

  ‘You see, he went on a day trip to Shingbo and didn’t come back.’

  ‘For work?’

  The expression in Lulu’s eyes was hard to read. Hostile. Almost accusatory. Why?

  The tea arrived in glass beakers, the dark leaves unfurling slowly, rising and swelling before falling.

  ‘He was very happy.’ Lulu stirred sugar into her tea. ‘He’d received a message from his professor . . .’

  It took a moment to realise who Lulu was talking about. When had she sent a LinkedIn message to Dan? Almost three weeks ago.

  ‘Asking him to visit a factory.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Stay calm. An innocent request for local information. Krixo might have been in the news. Dan might have ex-colleagues working there, or his company might use the same specialist contractors. ‘I asked a general question. Did he tell you why he was going to Shingbo?’

  ‘No.’ Lulu shrugged. ‘That’s what I was hoping you would tell me. Why did you send him?’

  Jaq shook her head. ‘I didn’t send him anywhere.’

  ‘Then why did he go?’

  Jaq took a sip of her tea. A leaf stuck to her upper lip and she removed it with a small, thin paper napkin.

  ‘I have no idea, I’m sorry.’

  ‘I called his work. In case they’d sent him on to Ningbo or somewhere else.’

  That would explain things. A sudden change of plan.

  ‘They hadn’t heard from him either. He didn’t go to work on Monday. That’s when I started to get worried.’

  More alarming. Dan had a strong work ethic. ‘And then?’

  ‘I checked his computer. No activity. He hasn’t used his email or WeChat or anything. I saw your message on LinkedIn saying you’d arrived.’

  And pretended to be Dan to meet me. The actions of a desperate sister? Or something more sinister? An invisible band tightened around Jaq’s throat.

  ‘And then I looked back through his LinkedIn messages and saw that it was you who’d sent him to Shingbo.’

  Jaq sighed. No point in repeating that she’d done nothing of the sort. Lulu appeared fixated on the idea.

  ‘Does he know you have access to his computer? His passwords?’

  ‘We share a flat.’

  ‘But he could have other profiles, for private stuff.’

  Lulu scowled. ‘I called all his friends. No one has heard from him.’

  ‘Does he have a girlfriend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  Lulu shot her a look laced with venom. ‘No.’ Emphatic. ‘I called the police.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘They told me I had to wait a month before they’d log a missing persons report.’

  ‘And his phone?’

  ‘Turned off. Goes straight to voicemail. I’ve left messages, but he doesn’t call back.’ Lulu looked away.

  ‘What about your parents?’

  ‘You don’t know?’ Lulu dropped her gaze. ‘They died last year. Within a few days of each other.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Jaq extended a hand in comfort. Should she have known? How could she? She didn’t even know that Dan had a sister. When did the one-child policy start in China? Around 1980? Although rural parents were allowed a second child if the first one was a daughter. Perhaps Lulu was a little older than she appeared. No wonder she was so brittle. She’d lost both parents and now her brother had disappeared.

  ‘Why did he go to Shingbo?’ Lulu persisted.

  ‘Look, Lulu, I can’t believe that Dan’s disappearance is related to an innocent question about a chemical company, but I’m going to Shingbo tomorrow morning. I’ll try to find out whatever I can.’

  Lulu nodded. ‘I will come with you.’

  Jaq shook her head. ‘Thanks, but it’s not necessary.’

  ‘How will you communicate? Do you speak Mandarin?’

  ‘It’s all arranged.’ Jaq fished out the card Vikram had given her. SEITA: Sino-Euro Interpretation and Translation Agency. ‘I’m meeting my translator tomorrow morning.’

  Lulu’s phone beeped. ‘I have to go.’ She shouted something to the waiter, who brought the bill.

  Jaq paid. ‘How do I contact you?’

  Lulu gave her a card and a long stare: direct, hard, almost angry. ‘Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.’

  Shanghai to Shingbo, China

  Jaq slept deeply, and was woken by her alarm at 7 a.m. She ordered breakfast in her room and checked her messages. One was from Lulu, reiterating her offer of help.

  When breakfast arrived – boiled eggs with no egg cup, fruit and black tea – it came with a message in a solid silver clip.

  SEITA regret to inform Dr Silver that the translator has been taken ill and no replacement is available.

  Merda. How was she going to manage? The translator had been meant to arrange the train tickets and travel with her.

  Midnight in the UK. Too late to call Vikram? But what choice did she have? He had chosen SEITA. He was ultimately responsible for the cock-up. He’d have to fix it.

  She rummaged in her bag for her business card holder, a slim silver envelope, dimens
ions slightly larger than a standard business card with a picture of the Transporter Bridge and her initials embossed on one side, a magnetic flap on the other. At the front were her new cards. Dr Jaq Silver, CCS, Project Director. A meaningless title if ever there was one.

  At the back were the cards she had collected recently. Lulu’s plain white card with nothing more than her name and number. Lulu was desperate to help, but far too emotionally invested in her brother’s disappearance to be objective. It wouldn’t be fair to ask her. The SEITA card was not there – had Lulu given it back? Not that it was any use. The translation and interpretation service promised everything but delivered nothing. She paused at the thick, glossy card with a purple border, smiling at the idea of Timur as interpreter, imagining a trip to Shingbo with the Master of Disguise. He was looking for work, after all. No, not that kind of work. Don’t be absurd. Get a grip.

  Her fingers closed around Vikram’s card and she punched the number into her phone. No answer. She dialled again. This time, a sleepy voice answered.

  ‘Jaq, do you know what time it is?’

  ‘Sorry to wake you, but I need help.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Translator has bailed. I’m sure I can get to Shingbo on my own, but not sure how useful it will be without someone who speaks English.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  Vikram rang back ten minutes later.

  ‘The Shingbo Development Corporation are sending a car. They have their own translator – he’ll meet you when you arrive.’

  Jaq switched her phone to silent and went back to bed.

  A grey limousine pulled up a couple of hours later, the young male driver impeccably turned out in a well-cut black uniform with gold braid, sunglasses and peaked cap. He introduced himself as Pang Mo, and although he spoke limited English, his hand gestures were perfectly eloquent.

  It took forever to get out of Shanghai, the traffic nose to tail on the corkscrew expressway that led to a river crossing. Jaq checked her phone. A missed call from Lulu. And a text.

  Everything OK?

  Jaq texted back. Everything fine. On my way to Shingbo.

  Once they were free of the megacity, the ride was smooth and the air began to clear. As they rose up out of the mist that fringed Hangzhou Bay, she had a clear view of the offshore windmills: slim metal columns topped by three blades, rotating slowly. With the old technology, it would have taken thousands of these monsters to generate the same amount of power as the smallest conventional power plant – coal, gas, even nuclear. But with rare earth magnets, the technology was changing fast, and with it the promise of clean energy, green energy, wind energy.

  A colleague at Teesside University had explained the economics of wind power to her. The trouble with the first wind turbines was the speed. The huge blades describe a full circle every three to six seconds. A conventional generator, the bit that turns the wind energy into electrical energy by spinning magnets inside copper coils, had to run ten times faster than the blades. So, a gearbox high in the nacelle converted the low speed of the windmill into the high speed demanded by the generator. But it’s not easy to maintain high-speed bearings on top of a hundred-metre structure several miles offshore. In a place specially chosen because it is very, very windy. Despite design improvements, the wind–electricity conversion rates remained low, the maintenance costs high. Huge subsidies had been required to produce green energy.

  Then came the superstrong magnets. So powerful that the generator could rotate at the same speed as the blades and still produce a satisfactory electrical current. Direct drive meant no gearbox, lower weight meant a lighter structure, simpler design meant less maintenance. Net result – cheaper wind farms, improved conversion efficiency, and suddenly green energy need not be impossibly expensive energy.

  Just one catch.

  The new magnets needed new metals, rare earth metals. The rare earth metals are never found in a concentrated form. You need to shift an awful lot of rock to get a few grams of neodymium and praseodymium, dysprosium and terbium.

  Which was where companies like Krixo and their advanced recycling technology came in.

  Ping.

  The electronic box on the car windscreen beeped, and Jaq blinked at the white light of a flashing camera as the car passed smoothly through an electronic tollbooth. As they crossed the Qiantang river and descended from the expressway towards Shingbo, she could see the vast sprawl of an industrial estate reserved for high-technology investment. Some of the plots were already occupied. She pulled out the Krixo brochure and checked the location graphic. It was a conceptual rather than an accurate map, but the Krixo factory would sit beside the river, on the seaward side of this bridge. The car slid to a halt, joining a queue to exit the toll road. She thrust the brochure towards the driver, pointing at the location dot and the Chinese address for Krixo. He smiled and nodded and once they were through the toll road, he made a sharp left and drove along a wide, empty road between the industrial estate and the shoreline.

  Down by the estuary, the mist rolled in. After a few kilometres she saw the first signs for Krixo through the fog: three green recycling arrows inside a triangular flask. A line of lorries queued up by the side of the road, wooden shipping crates on their flatbed trailers. The car slowed to a halt outside an elaborate wooden gate, replete with sinuous carved dragons, brightly painted in red and gold. She peered through the extravagant arch to the factory inside.

  Visibility was poor, but she could just make out four buildings around a small lake with a vigorous fountain – the cooling sink and fire water reserve. Each building was about thirty metres long and six storeys high, the exterior walls painted a light pink with a terracotta roof. Perhaps Sophie had some say in the colour scheme? A gust of wind blowing in from the sea made the grey fog swirl and clear. She looked up to see wisps of steam emerging from a tall chimney, the tip painted red and white, towering over a double extraction column and a row of stainless-steel tanks, each with KRIXO stencilled in large red letters in English and Chinese. The fog thickened again, and the letters disappeared. So far, so conventional; it looked like any other high-tech chemical plant. Most of the sophisticated recycling activities must be kept out of sight, inside the large pink buildings fanning out north, south, east and west from the central turquoise fountain.

  Another gust of wind, the fog thinned and she saw that dark blue utility sheds and warehouses formed a secure perimeter. Yellow cranes were busy at one corner of the site. What were they building? Perhaps Sophie was right to be concerned about the secretive behaviour of the joint venture partner.

  Not a soul in sight. She checked her watch: midday. It must be lunchtime. All the workers would be in the canteen, eating the main meal of the day and then preparing for a short siesta. China might be the hardest-working country in the world, but lunch was lunch.

  The driver got out of the car and opened her door.

  The site was fenced, but the security didn’t look unusually heavy. Could she go and take a closer look? Better not draw attention to herself. She was here for a week. Plenty of time to visit Krixo under the official auspices of the development agency. With a translator.

  Jaq shook her head at the driver. She waved her itinerary and pointed to the address of the hotel. The driver nodded and got back into the car.

  As they drove away, a pair of uniformed security guards emerged from the factory and stared at the retreating car before the mist closed in again.

  Teesside, England

  Take time for yourself, the doctor said. What did that even mean? Frank was used to working eighty-hour weeks, racing across Europe, making things happen, meting out reward . . . and punishment. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy his own company – he was by far the most cultivated and interesting person he knew – but he preferred seeing himself through the eyes of others. Adoring or fearful, it was all the same to him. Without a social mirror, he was already bored. It was time to get back to work.

  He picked up th
e phone and dialled.

  ‘Nicola.’ He imagined the scowling face, the shithouse-rat eyes of the dumpy HR director. ‘Frank here.’

  ‘Frank? I’m sorry, Frank who?’

  If it was designed to irritate, it certainly had the desired effect. ‘Frank Good.’ Your old boss, as if you didn’t remember.

  ‘Ah, Frank. I was just about to write to you.’

  Write? Why the bureaucracy?

  ‘We’d like you to attend a disciplinary interview, that is, if you’re well enough.’

  Disciplinaries were always the most fun. They must have missed him. Perhaps they had saved up some juicy sackings for him to administer. A good way to get back in the saddle.

  ‘Fighting fit,’ he said.

  ‘You have the right to bring a trusted colleague.’

  Why would he want to bring a trusted colleague? The epitome of an oxymoron.

  ‘In any case, we would advise you to seek legal advice.’

  ‘Legal advice?’ He sniffed. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s all in the letter,’ Nicola said.

  He could get nothing more from her and hung up, confused.

  Frank didn’t want to think about what was in her letter, so he opened the local newspaper.

  VICTIM OF KNIFE ATTACK DIES

  North Yorkshire police have launched a murder investigation following the death in hospital of an elderly academic assaulted in his own home. Professor John Tench (76) succumbed to the injuries inflicted in a frenzied knife attack.

  Police spokesmen refused to confirm that the victim had been tortured, but an RSPCA spokesman confirmed that a dog belonging to Professor Tench was killed during the attack.

  Frank shuddered and turned to the business news. Aha, here was something more interesting: Graham Dekkers, President of Global Operations for Zagrovyl, was visiting the Teesside factory. A straight-talking South African, Graham owed Frank a few favours.