by Karla Forbes
“Does that matter now?” Rowland asked, impatiently.
“It might do,” Nick said, pulling the wet matchbox from his pocket, “especially if it looks anything like this.”
As conversation-stoppers go, it was a good one. Nick’s own dismay was mirrored and amplified in the horrified expressions of the other men.
“What’s in that box?” Anson asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“A strange metallic residue,” Nick told him. “It was in a bowl in Fox’s kitchen.”
Less than five minutes later, with sirens wailing and blue lights flashing, he was on his way to the nearest hospital.
***
In the pub in Chatham, Cathy Roberts was running ragged trying to do several things at once. The children were looking forward to the party, but the regulars still expected to be served. She was finding it hard to combine the two and still keep her good humour intact, but it was worth making the effort. It was good for business. Many customers preferred an organised event where the display was good and the beer was close to hand, rather than their own back gardens where the entertainment was less impressive and the lager came out of cans.
“If you’re going to get under my feet, you can give me a hand,” she snapped at her youngest son. “Start taking the food out to Auntie Jane. She needs to get started on the baked potatoes.”
“Aw, mum,” he complained, “can’t Sophie do that? I want to help with the fireworks.”
His mother shook her head. “Oh no you don’t, young man,” she said emphatically. “You stay right away from them. Fireworks are dangerous.”
“Only if you don’t know what you’re doing,” he argued. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”
“Yes, I know you will,” she agreed with a grin. “You’ll be carefully helping your Auntie Jane with the food. Now scat.” She lunged at him, giving him a pretend swipe with the tea towel, but he was quicker than her and ducked out of reach.
“That’s stupid,” he grumbled. “Fireworks aren’t dangerous, not really.”
Cathy turned back to the barbecue sauce she was preparing. “Fireworks can kill,” she said over her shoulder. “Just remember that.”
It was then that she remembered the box that had been left in the pub, and she hurried to retrieve it from where she had stowed it under the stairs. As she scooped it up, she ripped off the note that had been stuck to the outside. It read:
A few more fireworks for your display. I hope you enjoy them.
***
Hubner lounged in the chair, his contemptuous expression masking his inner turmoil. He had just one card to play. If he lost the game, he knew he would be going back to prison for the rest of his life. He had refused the offer of a solicitor, knowing that his fate lay in his own hands. His only hope now lay in blackmail, not the skills of the legal profession.
Facing him across the desk were Detective Chief Inspector Shepherd and Inspector Mason, the two most senior detectives available at short notice. They had been interviewing him for nearly half an hour, but so far the only thing that Hubner had admitted was his name, and he could sense Mason’s growing irritation. He made no effort to suppress a smirk.
“You’ll be going down for a long time,” Mason said brusquely, “unless you do yourself a favour and tell us where the plutonium is.”
Hubner threw him a look of scorn. “How will this be doing me a favour? I tell you about the plutonium, and then you’re free to try and hang four murders on me.”
“We’ve got you for the murders anyway,” Shepherd pointed out.
“You think so, do you?” Hubner said artlessly. “Your witness, Sullivan, will tell you that it was Dave, not me, who killed the man on the boat. It was Malcolm’s DNA on the Feltham woman, not mine. It was unfortunate how Malcolm tripped and fell by the riverbank, smashing his face against the side of the boat. I tried to save him, of course, but it was hopeless. Dave threatened me with a gun. His prints on the grip will confirm that and British law allows me to defend myself if my life is being threatened. You could arrest me for doing nothing to stop the murders, but my defence will be that I was intimidated by Dave and Malcolm and I was scared for my own safety.”
“Are you mad?” Shepherd said with amazement. “Who’s going to believe that bullshit?”
Hubner gave him a sly smile. “That depends on how you interpret the evidence. If you want to know where the plutonium is, I’m sure you’ll see things my way.”
“Forget it,” Shepherd said. “You’re going down for all four murders. You’ll only make things worse for yourself by not telling us where the plutonium is.”
Hubner laughed derisively. “If I’m going to serve a life sentence anyway, why should I care how many more people have their lives ruined?”
“Have you no conscience?” Mason said, shaking his head with disbelief.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Hubner retorted. “All you have to do to ensure that no one else dies is hand over the diamonds and allow me to board the next plane out of here.”
“You are mad,” Shepherd told him.
Hubner inclined his head. “If you say so; you’re entitled to your opinion. But what is more insane: buying the safety of several thousand people with a few paltry diamonds, or allowing them to die and be faced with a multi-million-pound cleaning bill, for no real reason apart from saving face?”
“Get this into your head,” Shepherd said, stony-faced. “We’re not doing a deal.”
“Then get this into your head,” Hubner replied mildly. “I won’t be telling you where the plutonium is.” He shook his head with theatrical regret. “Such a tragic waste of life, when it could be so easily avoided.”
Shepherd sprang to his feet and leaned menacingly towards Hubner. “You won’t be so tough when you’re spending the rest of your life in solitary confinement, too scared to turn your back even to take a piss and knowing every time you eat that someone has gobbed into your food.”
Mason hurriedly reached out and held him back with a restraining arm, but Shepherd angrily shook him off, sat back down again and took several deep breaths.
“Are you trying to threaten me, Chief Inspector?” Hubner said mildly. “Perhaps I should have that solicitor after all. My faith in British justice has obviously been misplaced.”
“You want a solicitor now?” Shepherd asked, appalled.
Hubner smiled smugly. All three men understood the implications. Bringing in a solicitor at this stage would only delay things further. Legally, the interview would have to be suspended while they waited for the solicitor to arrive, and only Hubner knew whether that meant they were going to run out of time. It was his last card, and he was playing to win.
***
Shepherd fell silent as he contemplated the unthinkable: recommend doing a deal with this man to avert a nuclear disaster. He knew that officially it couldn’t be done. But unofficially…? That was a different matter. He looked up and caught Hubner smiling at him, as though sharing his thoughts.
“For the benefit of the tape,” Shepherd said, glaring at his watch, “the interview is being suspended at eighteen-twenty-four.”
He stood up and walked out into the corridor, gesturing to a uniformed officer to wait with Mason. He needed to get out of the room and give himself a moment to think. He was leaning against the wall, his head in his hands, when Detective Constable Gaskin hurried towards him, panting from the exertion of running.
“What is it?” Shepherd asked sharply.
Gaskin handed him a note. “This just came in. It’s a transcript of a statement made by Sullivan. He thinks he knows how and where the plutonium is going to be released.”
Shepherd read it through twice, his expression impassive. When he had finished he looked at Gaskin intently. “How reliable is Sullivan?”
“Right now, he’s all we’ve got.”
Shepherd turned back to the note, looking thoughtful. “I’ll hit Hubner with this and see how he reacts. Oh, and give the duty solicitor
a call.”
He walked back inside, gesturing to the constable to leave, and sat down again, ignoring Mason’s look of curiosity.
“A solicitor is on the way,” he told Hubner. “Are you OK with the duty solicitor, or would you rather have your own?”
“The duty solicitor is fine,” Hubner said cautiously, as though sensing that something had changed.
Shepherd sat back, forcing himself to relax. “Do you want a cuppa while we’re waiting?”
“No thank you,” Hubner said guardedly. “I never learnt to appreciate the British habit of putting milk in tea. Can I smoke?”
Shepherd fished in his pocket for a packet of cigarettes, took one out and slid the rest across the table. “Officially it’s a non-smoking building, but we won’t tell anyone. Help yourself.” He lit his cigarette and sat back, watching the smoke drift towards the ceiling. “Were you aware that Sullivan had been following you for quite some time?”
Hubner tossed the match carelessly to one side and inhaled deeply. “Have you resumed the interview, Chief Inspector? If so, I feel I should point out that not only is the tape switched off but my solicitor isn’t present.”
“I realise that,” Shepherd said innocently. “I’m just making conversation while we wait.” He noticed a vein twitching at Hubner’s temple; perhaps he wasn’t as calm as would have liked his interrogators to believe.
Heartened, Shepherd pressed on. “I gather that Sullivan had been following you for several days. Are you surprised to hear that?”
Hubner stared through him, saying nothing.
“When Fox and Wilson drove off to London,” Shepherd continued, “Sullivan had to choose between sticking with you or following them. Guess which he did?”
Hubner sat very still, watching Shepherd with hooded eyes. “Is there a point to this, Chief Inspector?”
“Not really,” Shepherd said non-committedly, “apart from the fact that Sullivan has supplied a detailed list of where Fox and Wilson went.” He pulled the note out of his pocket. “Let’s see now: Streatham Common, Clapham Common, Roundwood Park and Wimbledon Park. Does that sound about right to you?”
“What an excellent memory he has,” Hubner said coldly.
“Mm,” Shepherd agreed. “Four different locations, nothing to link them except for one thing; they are all venues for public firework displays this evening. Strange that, isn’t it?”
As he spoke, he was watching Hubner intently. If he hadn’t he might have missed it: the hatred and despair that flared briefly in the other man’s eyes before quickly being extinguished. Shepherd knew that he had hit the target. They had found the plutonium.
“Squad cars are on their way now,” he continued. “There are going to be a few disappointed kids around London this evening, but that’s better than contracting leukaemia.” He smiled with triumph. “As I said before, we won’t be doing any deals. Now, are you sure you wouldn’t like that cup of tea? You can have it without milk if you prefer.”
***
Hubner was aware of a cold trickle of sweat working its way down his back. He had played his only card and lost. He knew now he would be given several life sentences without hope of parole. He thought of the endless years stretching ahead of him with nothing to do but plan his escape. The opportunity wouldn’t come straight away. First he would keep his head down and do what he was told, building up their trust until finally they stopped noticing him. Only then would he make his move.
In the meantime, he had just one consolation: Shepherd had mentioned four locations. They had overlooked the pub.
For the first time ever, Hubner felt grateful to Fox for the personal vendetta which had resulted in the last-minute substitution. It would be a source of great comfort to him, lying in his hard narrow bed night after night, to know that a silent killer had been unleashed as a final act of revenge on a government that had refused to co-operate. No one would know. A few people might wonder why the cancer rate in that part of Kent had risen sharply, but even that wasn’t certain. The people whose DNA were going to be irretrievably damaged this evening would most likely be living elsewhere by the time they became fatally ill. It was something for Hubner to cling on to and sustain him during the long wretched years ahead.
***
Mason was watching Hubner intently. Like Shepherd, he too saw the look of rage and despair, but then he saw something else. It was unsettling. Mason couldn’t put his finger on what, exactly, it was. It was several minutes later that it came to him. It was a look of someone who knew they had lost the battle, but who had still managed to inflict a serious wound on their enemy.
He asked to be excused from the room, slipped outside, and hurried away to find Gaskin. He caught up with him lounging around the coffee machine.
“Where’s Sullivan?” he snapped. “Something’s not right here.”
Gaskin shrugged. “No idea, Guv. I just handed over the message.”
Mason spun on his heel chewing his nail. If he were wrong, he would look a fool in the eyes of his superiors. Did he really want to take that chance? He had already damaged his reputation with the debacle of the Sullivan affair. But what if he was right and he said nothing? He couldn’t do that. He hurried to the control room.
“Put a call out to Assistant Chief Constable Rowland,” he said. “Tell him I need to speak to him urgently.”
Less than three minutes later he was voicing his concerns. “I think you might need to speak to Sullivan again, Sir,” he said. “There’s a chance he might have missed something.”
“Then go back and talk to Hubner,” Rowland said, irritated. “You’re interviewing him, aren’t you? Put more pressure on him.”
“The man’s made of flint,” Mason protested, “and we’re running out of time. We’d be better squeezing Sullivan some more.”
Rowland wasn’t convinced. “I’m on my way back to the station, and Sullivan has been taken to hospital. If this is another of your hunches…” The threat hung unspoken between them.
Mason swallowed hard. “I guess it is. But can we take the chance?”
Rowland sighed heavily. “Very well, I’m nearer the hospital than anyone. I’ll go there myself.”
***
Nick was suffering from déja vu. This was the second time in as many weeks he had turned up at the hospital soaking wet with nothing else to wear but a hospital gown. He promised himself that from now on he would travel everywhere with a spare set of clothes.
The doctor was a mountainous middle-aged woman whose efficient manner belied her tired expression and crumpled green scrubs.
“So, Mr Sullivan,” she said, probing gently around the gap in his teeth with a gloved finger, “can you remember when you first started feeling ill?”
Nick pointed to his mouth and she hurriedly withdrew her hand, allowing him to speak.
“I don’t know,” he said unhelpfully. “I had a headache, but I can’t remember when it started.”
“Was it before or after you touched the bowl?”
Nick pondered. “After… I think. Are you telling me I’ve got radiation sickness?”
She ignored the question and asked one of her own. “And after that, how did the illness progress?”
“I felt sort of weak… lacking in energy… and then I started to feel nauseous.” “Were you sick?”
“Several times. I asked you if I’ve got radiation sickness.”
The doctor pumped up a vein and slid in a needle. Nick watched with wary fascination as the syringe quickly filled with dark red fluid. “Did you have a raised temperature?” she asked as she withdrew the needle.
“When I wasn’t shivering, I was sweating.”
“Aching in every joint?”
“Yes.”
“Diarrhoea?”
“Not really. I puked everything up before it got that far. Will you please answer my question? Have I got radiation sickness?”
She dropped the syringe in a bag, labelled it and put it to one side.
“Any other symptoms?”
“Sore throat, wheezing, pain in my chest, breathlessness, and apparently an inability to get a simple answer to a relatively crucial question. Am I or am I not suffering from radiation sickness?”
The doctor pursed her lips. “I can’t say for sure until we get the results of your blood tests, but I do know that plutonium can only enter the body via inhalation, ingestion, or a cut in the skin.”
Nick became very still. He had to know, but he dreaded asking the question, suspecting that he was going to hate the answer. He swallowed hard.
“Am I going to die?”
She sat back with her hands in her lap and looked at him impassively. “Eventually, yes.”
He wasn’t sure what to say. His mind raced, thinking about all the things he had done and all of the things he still wanted to do. He thought of Annelies, Ed, and the rest of his friends. He thought of Tim and his wife and felt no animosity towards either of them, only regret that he had lost them both. He thought fleetingly about the three men who had come into his life and effectively killed him. He knew he should be bitter, and couldn’t understand why he felt only sadness. He wondered if he would have done things differently had he known how short his time on earth was going to be, and he decided that he wouldn’t have changed any of it. He also knew with absolute certainty that whatever happened, however much longer he still had left to him, he wasn’t going to waste another minute of it working for a bank.
“How long?” he asked at length.
The doctor raised an enquiring eyebrow. “How long what?”
“How long have I got before I die?” Nick asked, slightly irritated. It seemed to him that the doctor wasn’t handling the giving of bad news very well.
“Well, how do I know?” she said, sounding puzzled. “Do you smoke? Do you drink to excess? Do you engage in dangerous sports? Does longevity run in your family?
Nick shook his head to dispel the confusion that was rapidly setting in. “What?”
“You might live to be a hundred. On the other hand, you might get run over by a bus tomorrow.”
“But you said I was going to die,” Nick pointed out distractedly.