The Chemical Reaction

by Fiona Erskine

  There was little point in arguing. Perhaps they had twigged that she was working for Sophie, the joint venture partner. If nothing else, she was now certain that Sophie was not being paranoid. Wang, the Chinese joint venture partner, was clearly up to something. Why else would they try to hide? In that sense, her trip had already been useful and her work for Sophie was done. She had no real interest in Krixo. Except for the strange story from Dan’s sister. Perhaps Mr Smiles could help her. Change of tack.

  Their drinks arrived. Jaq stirred her luminous yellow pineapple juice – more tartrazine than fruit – and the ice cubes clinked against the glass.

  ‘You know I worked as a university lecturer for a time?’

  ‘You are a teacher.’ He made a little bow of respect.

  ‘I had many students from China over the years. One of them has gone missing.’ Jaq handed him Dan’s LinkedIn profile photo that she had printed before leaving Shanghai. ‘Ning Dan. Last seen on his way to catch a train from Shanghai to Shingbo.’ She gave the date and times. ‘I’m sure there is a simple explanation, but his sister is worried about him.’

  ‘I see.’ He bit his lower lip. ‘What is his connection to the factory you keep talking about, this Krixo?’

  ‘His sister believes that he was going to visit it.’ The factory you say doesn’t exist.

  ‘Why?’

  The million-dollar question. Had he felt the need to travel to Shingbo on her behalf? All she’d asked for was information. Had he found something that made him curious? Compelled him to make the journey? To visit Krixo in person?

  ‘I don’t know. Will you show the photo to that policeman who took my brochure?’

  Mr Smiles shuddered. ‘That would be a very bad idea.’

  She looked at him, surprised.

  ‘Why?’

  He waved a hand, vaguely. ‘Better if I ask around. On one condition.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You stop asking questions about Krixo.’

  Damn you, Vikram. Damn you, Sophie. She’d done what they’d asked her. Given the communication difficulties, it wasn’t too hard to agree to stop there.

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  She had no interest in Sophie Clark’s joint venture, other than reassuring herself that Krixo had no connection with her student’s alleged disappearance.

  Her only concern was for Dan.

  The temperature had fallen overnight, but the day dawned bright and mild, a clear sky over the fast-expanding town of Shingbo.

  Jaq had slept badly, finally giving up before dawn. She retrieved a one-piece swimsuit, hat and goggles from her suitcase. The hotel had a decent-sized lido, not the sort of overheated footbath that often masqueraded as a pool in international hotels. She swam for an hour.

  After a breakfast of noodle soup, she searched the chandelier-infested lobby for her driver, but it was a new chauffeur who arrived with the sour-faced female translator. They drove first to a technical college, touring every classroom before lunching with the principal and some local business leaders, none of whom spoke any English, or at least admitted to it. Next was a half-built hospital where Jaq was invited to admire the cutting-edge medical technology not yet installed, before a driving tour of power stations and effluent treatment plants. The final visit took her to a white goods assembly line. Her request to see some chemical plants had been accepted with smiles and nods and then completely ignored.

  The final dinner was to be another lavish banquet, attended by hundreds of people, with a formal signing ceremony. Vikram had instructed her to sign a Memorandum of Understanding – an empty set of promises to work together in partnership. There was nothing more she could do. The next phase was up to others.

  All she had discovered was that Krixo was super-secret. So sensitive that the development corporation preferred to deny its existence rather than explain why she was not allowed to visit. But she had seen the factory with her own eyes.

  She was no further forward in finding out what had happened to Dan.

  In the car, she tried Mr Smiles’ number. When he didn’t respond to a text, she tried calling him, but there was no reply.

  As they entered the banqueting hall, she scanned the room. No sign of Mr Smiles, and when Vinegar Face took up position behind her seat, her heart sank. It looked as if he wasn’t coming.

  Jaq turned and smiled. ‘Will I have a chance to say goodbye to . . .’ She paused and searched for Mr Smiles’ name. ‘Lai Lang?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The other translator.’

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’

  ‘Please.’ She touched the woman on the arm.

  Vinegar Face got up and moved to an adjacent table, interrogating a white-haired man. A hand flew up to her mouth and then her shoulders sagged, her body language still eloquent with shock as she slumped back into the seat behind Jaq.

  A lively conversation ensued. The table seemed divided on something. Debating what to tell this nosy foreigner. Her heart sank. How bad could it be? Had he been sacked? Was it her fault?

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  The deputy mayor spoke, and Vinegar Face translated.

  ‘I regret to inform you that our colleagues, Lai Lang and Pang Mo, were in a traffic accident.’

  Jaq’s mouth became dry. ‘Are they OK?’

  ‘It’s bad.’ Vinegar Face’s eyes widened, like a rabbit in headlights. ‘They are both in hospital.’

  Darlington, England

  A flutter of yellow leaves drifted down to join triangular nut husks prickling the mossy bank. The row of mature trees, smooth grey trunks supporting a continuous yellow canopy, lined either side of a private road leading to the stables of a vanished stately home. Refurbished as a boutique hotel and spa, glass corridors connected the modern wings to the original stone structure, now crowned by a helipad. A small white ball soared above the Georgian stone before disappearing back to the lush green golf course nestling between the hotel and a wide bend of the river Tees.

  Frank Good put his foot down and accelerated along the avenue of beech trees, speeding over smooth new tarmac before braking sharply in front of the grand entrance. He tossed his car keys to the uniformed doorman, nodded at the smiling receptionist and strode towards the library.

  The door stood slightly ajar and Frank took a moment to appraise the man sitting beside the fire. Polished: from his shoes, through his buttons, to the light tan on his broad forehead.

  ‘Frank!’ Graham sprang to his feet, right arm extended, shaking hands with an iron grip. ‘Good of you to drop by.’ He spoke with a languid Afrikaans drawl, but there was nothing lazy about the Zagrovyl president of Global Chemical Operations.

  One last chance. Important to take the lead here.

  ‘I heard you were visiting,’ Frank said. ‘I wanted to give you my news in person.’

  Graham gestured to the leather sofa facing the fireplace, at right angles to his wing-backed chair. On a low walnut table stood a glass cafetière with two green and gold cups on matching saucers.

  ‘Coffee?’ Graham pressed the plunger and the scent of roasted beans mingled with beeswax and woodsmoke.

  Frank removed his raincoat, handing it to the waiter who had followed him in, and barked an order over his shoulder. ‘Peppermint tea.’

  As he took his seat, Frank glanced dismissively at the bookshelves above the fireplace. Colour-coordinated book spines sold by the metre: Dickens, Thackeray, Walter Scott. All Fake. A log toppled to one side of the grate in a shower of sparks. The open fire was genuine, at least.

  ‘So, Frank.’ Graham filled one coffee cup. ‘How are you?’

  Careful. The one thing to avoid was any taint of the loony bin, the slightest suggestion that his prolonged absence was anything but the physical recovery of a wounded hero. Frank stretched his legs and sat back, letting his suit jacket fall open to emphasise his excellent physical shape. He’d worked out on the retreat, spent hours in the gym, lost weight and gained musc
le. He was looking better than ever.

  ‘Fighting fit, and ready to get back to work.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Graham’s expression belied the words, or perhaps the coffee he was sipping had an unusually bitter taste. ‘I was thinking . . .’

  Never a good sign.

  The waiter interrupted, bringing a silver pot of hot water. From a wooden box of individually wrapped tisanes, Frank made his selection, tore open the plastic packet and extracted a gauze bag containing dried leaves before opening the lid of the silver pot. He slipped the packet of overpriced herbs into the water and let the lid fall with a metallic ring. Red hot. He waved his burning fingers in the air. Bloody awful design.

  ‘Maybe it’s time for something new . . .’

  Something new? So, they didn’t want him back in Teesside, running Zagrovyl’s European Chemical Operations? Good. A change of scene, a new challenge, that was exactly what he needed.

  ‘In Special Projects, perhaps?’

  Frank bit his lip. Special Projects. The lame duck brigade, the department stuffed with the broken, the useless, the has-beens, the delusional – blind to the writing on the wall, deaf to the warnings of colleagues, shunted towards meaningless tasks, then gardening leave until finally they got the message that some faces just didn’t fit.

  Not the case here.

  ‘You understand that I was sent to Teesside to turn things around,’ Frank said. ‘Lasting change takes time, and results can get worse before they get better.’

  ‘The Teesside results are fine. In fact, the operation seems to have turned a corner in the last few months.’

  The last few months? Since he’d been forced to take sick leave? He crumpled the wrapping and hurled it at the fire. It bounced off the grate and plopped onto the granite hearth.

  ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘Chuck can explain.’

  Chuck, Frank’s American boss, was a lily-livered lickspittle of a man, slave to company policy, cautious to the point of paralysis, incapable of grasping an opportunity, unable to take a calculated risk: one useless tosser.

  ‘Chuck’s a nice guy.’ Frank spread his hands and waggled them a little to illustrate the lie. ‘But we all know who makes the real decisions.’

  ‘You’re out of line, Frank.’ Graham put down his cup with a firm clatter. ‘Look, I’ll level with you. The team seem more productive in your absence.’

  Frank snorted. ‘Who’ve you been talking to?’ Not that he needed to ask. Graham would have toured the Billingham site with Eric, the wannabe engineer, a man unable to construct anything except towers of paper excuses, and would have looked at financials with the pessimistic bean counter, Robin, a man who could only see the downside to every row of numbers. ‘I’m a tough guy, exacting when it comes to performance, ruthless on delivery. That won’t have won me any friends in the factory.’

  ‘An understatement.’ Graham frowned. ‘There have been serious complaints from the female staff.’

  Not hard to imagine who. There would be an HR report from value-pack-knickers Nicola, based on whimpers from Shelly, his one-time PA, and vitriol from Raquel, the frigid dyke who replaced her. Maybe even wild accusations from Dr Jaqueline Silver. And what would those complaints all have in common? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

  ‘Best to make this clean.’ Graham leaned forward and flicked the little ball of packaging into the fire. It flared, green and violet. ‘Perhaps a new opportunity outside of Zagrovyl?’

  Frank’s jaw dropped. They thought they could fire him? Seriously? After all he’d done to protect this bloody company. After risking his life for Zagrovyl. He stared at Graham and saw that the top man didn’t know the truth.

  ‘What about the ongoing threat?’

  ‘Threat?’ Graham’s cool grey eyes appraised him. ‘HR have plenty of experience in dealing with harassment claims of this kind. Thank you for your concern, but we can handle things internally.’

  ‘Not that.’ Frank took out a handkerchief, wrapped it round the metal handle of the teapot and poured pale green liquid into his cup. ‘The plot to defame the company. The misuse of Zagrovyl chemicals. We need to be prepared for an investigation.’

  ‘A police investigation?’

  ‘With OPCW.’

  Graham raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘The Organisation for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons,’ Frank explained. ‘You might prefer to have me on your side than on theirs.’

  Graham stared at him and blinked once, twice before springing to his feet. ‘Excuse me.’ He had his phone out before the door closed behind him.

  Frank sat back and sipped his mint tea. Disgusting. The doctor had advised him to avoid all stimulants including coffee, tea and alcohol until he’d finished the treatment, but this was testing the limits of his control.

  He opened the newspaper that Graham had been reading before his arrival.

  AUCTIONEER NAMED AS MURDER VICTIM

  The man murdered in his exclusive £3 million Chelsea home on Wednesday has been named as Bernard Ashley-Cooper. Ashley-Cooper (34) was not married and lived alone in the two-reception-room, three-bedroom house.

  In a statement, the Met said: ‘Police and animal welfare officers were called at approximately 22.21 hours to reports of a violent disturbance. Officers attended along with the RSPCA. The victim, who has been formally identified as Bernard Ashley-Cooper, was found in his own home with multiple stab wounds. An ambulance arrived at 22.51 hours, but despite the best efforts of medical teams, he was pronounced dead at the scene shortly after 23.00 hours.

  ‘A post-mortem will take place in due course.

  ‘Detectives from the Homicide and Major Crime Command are investigating. A crime scene remains in place. No arrests have been made at this early stage, and enquiries continue.’

  A high-profile art historian, Ashley-Cooper gained recent notoriety as the auctioneer presiding over a controversial auction of ancient Chinese artefacts with the September sale grossing over £100 million.

  The Chinese government launched a challenge to the sale, alleging that the ancient artefacts were stolen during ‘periods of confusion’ in China, and should be returned.

  Wealthy expatriate Chinese are increasingly investing in ancient Chinese paintings, porcelain and sculpture, and the value of these items has soared.

  A police spokesman refused to speculate as to whether the victim had been tortured before he died, but the RSPCA confirmed that a dismembered cat, which was believed to belong to the victim, was also found at the scene of the crime.

  A three-million-pound mansion in Chelsea. That’s what his old flat in London would be worth by now if he hadn’t had to sell it. The unfairness still rankled.

  A movement in the corner of his vision made him turn towards the fire. A spider crawled out of the basket of logs and made its way towards the oak skirting. About the size of his hand, with spindly black legs and a glistening brown bulbous body, it ascended in quick, jerky movements. The scar on his left leg began to throb. Beads of sweat formed on Frank’s brow, dripping over his eyebrows and running down his temples. He closed his eyes, fingers trembling as he fumbled for the tablets in his inner jacket pocket. He swallowed three and counted out a fugue. When he opened his eyes, the spider was gone. The doctors might not be able to stop the nightmares, but their magic tablets vanquished the daytime panic attacks. Mustn’t let anyone see him like this. The handkerchief felt hot against his face as he wiped away the telltale rivers of sweat.

  By the time Graham returned to the library, Frank’s heart rate had returned to normal.

  ‘Sorry for the interruption.’ Graham stopped and peered at him more closely. ‘Everything OK, Frank?’

  Frank suppressed a shiver. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  ‘It seems that there was some important information kept from me.’ Graham’s sunny bonhomie had been replaced by tightly controlled anger.

  ‘That’s exactly what I feared.’

  ‘I think you�
��d better start from the beginning.’ Graham poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’

  Frank steepled his hands, his long fingers forming a Gothic arch.

  ‘I discovered Zagrovyl materials going missing from the Smolensk factory in Russia, diverted by a previous employee named Pauk Polzin.’

  ‘The Spider? But you hired him.’

  Should he come clean and admit that The Spider had tricked him? Best not. Frank tapped the side of his nose. ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Once The Spider thought he was on my team, he became careless and I was able to track the missing materials to an operation in Ukraine.’

  ‘Chernobyl.’ Graham shivered. ‘Isn’t that still radioactive?’

  Frank nodded. ‘That’s exactly why The Spider chose it as a base for a chemical weapons factory. The tracer signals, designed to prevent misuse of stolen chemicals, got lost in the zone. I went in after him.’

  Graham nodded slowly. ‘Wasn’t that dangerous, Frank?’

  ‘I did what was necessary to protect Zagrovyl’s reputation.’

  ‘What happened to the illegal factory?’

  ‘Closed down.’

  ‘And The Spider?’

  Frank smiled. His master stroke. His silver bullet. Dr Jaqueline Silver.

  ‘That’s what I’ve been so busy with these last few months. Helping to find him.’ A slight exaggeration; he hadn’t been involved directly, but he had provided the means for Jaqueline to go and sort things out by lending her his yacht, the Good Ship Frankium.

  ‘The army cocked up the first mission and The Spider escaped. But thanks to my help, he’s now been apprehended. Last news I received, he’s in Turkey under NATO custody, awaiting extradition to The Hague for trial.’

  ‘I heard something of this, but no one made me aware of your role in resolving it.’ Graham leaned forward and put down his coffee cup. ‘So, even after all this, you prefer to stay with Zagrovyl?’

  ‘I dread to think how OPCW would view it if you let me go.’ Tantamount to an admission of guilt.

  ‘You think there will be an OPCW investigation of Zagrovyl?’