Reflux

by Paul Watson

  Andy called Mike Baker. ‘Mike, something’s happened at the Tichi factory, have you got any contacts over here?’

  ‘Wait out front. I’ll get back to you.’

  Ten minutes later, a man dressed in white overalls, about fifty years old, came out of the building and over to Andy. ‘Are you Mike Baker’s boy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Pat Greene. I can’t let you into the building, but your man’s over there.’ Greene pointed over to a police van in the corner with a man sat in the cage. ‘Jackson’s got a girlfriend in Sligo who works at the plant; his wife and kids live in Dublin. Jackson arrived at the girlfriend’s house this morning and asked for a lift to the factory. He’s a real catch this man, knows how to make a woman feel special on a Sunday morning. The girlfriend came with him and called us when she got here.’ Andy listened. ‘There’s a guy in the freezer, rigid, not messy; a strong man could have got him into the waste bins by himself. Looks like the girlfriend followed Jackson in, saw the body and made the right call.’

  ‘Can I speak to him?’

  ‘Don’t see why not.’ Greene padded to the van in his blue overshoes, and Andy followed. ‘My friend here wants a quick word with you, Mr Jackson.’

  Andy stared at Jackson until their eyes met.

  ‘Tell me about this man.’ Andy held out his phone with the image of Roberts on the screen.

  Jackson said nothing.

  Andy didn’t blink, his eyes bored through Jackson’s skull. Andy spoke with a quiet, even voice, and slowed his words. ‘Roberts kidnapped my son, maimed a police officer in England, killed Garda on the motorway, are you sure you don’t want to talk?’

  Greene spoke. ‘We’ll have you in the station soon Mr Jackson, and we’ll get you legal representation, a coffee, and record our conversation. For the moment though I’ll let you have a private chat with this man, you need a piss do you?’

  ‘No, I’m OK thanks.’

  ‘You can take a piss behind that wall over there, we’ll leave you in cuffs, but I’m sure you’ll manage.’ Greene and another officer hauled Jackson up and held him under his armpits. They took him behind the wall and left him on the floor with his arms cuffed behind his back, and his ankles cuffed too. ‘You’ve got five minutes.’

  The Garda left Andy alone behind the wall with Jackson.

  Andy took only one minute. Andy pinched the top of Jackson’s ear between his thumb and forefinger and pulled. Jackson used the wall to help himself stand.

  ‘Good, now we’re communicating,’ said Andy. ‘I’ll ask you one more time, and I’ll rip your ear, I’ll ask you two times, and I’ll rip the other ear. Tell me about Roberts.’

  Silence.

  Andy placed his left hand on Jackson’s forehead and pulled the ear with his right hand, a vicious jerk. Andy tore Jackson’s ear, not off, but there was a nick.

  Jackson spoke.

  ‘They’ll kill me, and they’ll kill you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Roberts works for a company called PKL, over in the UK. They’ve sent him to collect a drug they need.’

  ‘What are PKL? Another pharmaceutical company?’

  ‘It looked more like a data warehouse when I met them there for the briefing.’

  ‘Keep talking; I want to know everything, from the beginning: how they contacted you, who you met, everything you saw there. Don’t hold back; I won’t interrupt. Another couple of tugs on that ear, and you’ll lose it.’ Andy pressed record on his phone.

  Jackson breathed and relaxed a little; he was glad to share with someone. ‘We built an extension to this place three years ago, the main contractor was a company called Ranto, based in the UK. It was their first project in Ireland; it’s hard for them to compete against the locals over here. At one of the project meetings they said they had an opportunity for us; another of their clients needed a new drug synthesising. Me and our head of research and development flew over to the UK and met with them in a big industrial unit. I met with a man called Laws and a woman, Dr Julia Matthews.’

  Greene popped his head around the corner and was about to join them. Jackson stopped talking. Greene disappeared back around the edge of the wall.

  With no saviour in sight, Jackson continued. ‘They had the complete formulae of a set of chemicals for us to synthesise. I declined right there in the meeting. A man called Murray escorted us out; he had a real menace about him, they said they’d be in touch. I heard nothing for a week until our next project meeting with Ranto. Bill Rand, the boss, came and said they would stop work on the extension. We’d had to suspend operations for the construction work, and delays would have cost us, and eventually put us out of business. Rand offered to complete the works on time and add more space where new freeze-drying equipment would go. We agreed, and we produced the chemicals for PKL. Rand’s goons would collect from us; something went wrong with the last batch though.’ Jackson took a breath and continued. ‘Rand told us to meet a journalist who’d been snooping. He said to give the guy enough information, so he’d go away and write a simple story about pharmaceuticals. Bradley was drunk and hid a batch of the drug in the journalist’s bag when we met on Friday. Bradley hated Rand and wanted to see how investigative this journalist could be. Roberts showed up this morning, the first time I’ve ever met him, and I brought him here.’

  A drop of blood fell from Jackson’s lacerated ear, onto his shoulder, as he finished the story, ‘I drove him up here, and we synthesised the new batch of the chemical. I used an Easter egg mould to form it. Roberts must have killed Bradley while I was up on the pressure vessel. Roberts dropped me off in town and drove towards the airport.’

  Andy stopped recording. ‘I’ve got a few more questions for you.’ Jackson was sweating and had gone a little pale. ‘Did you ever form the drug into a toy duck shape?’

  ‘Yes, I used a mould that my little girl got for Christmas to make bath bombs. Rand wants shapes like that, harder to detect than a pouch of white powder.’

  ‘What does the drug do to a person?’

  ‘I don’t know, as I’ve not seen it tested; we only synthesise it. It’s a stimulant and sedative mixed; it makes the brain active but asleep, speeds up synapses, and gives you wild dreams.’

  ‘Does it wear off, is there an antidote to it?’

  ‘It doesn’t wear off, the first few versions did, but they changed the formulation and changed the sedative. There is an antidote though, they call it Reflux. The latest batch is with Rand; it’s a cricket ball shape. Rand collected it himself on Friday.’

  ‘How do I find him?’

  ‘Rand’s in the UK Monday to Friday; his office is in Essex somewhere. Rand spends his weekends in Cork, at an apartment in the city.’

  ‘Do you have Rand’s phone number?’ Greene said.

  ‘It’s in my call log.’

  Andy and Greene left the young officers to get Jackson back in the van and apply first aid to his ear. Andy sent the recording to Baker.

  ‘Can I get a copy of that?’ said Greene.

  ‘Sure. Send me Rand’s number, would you?’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Jamie sat in his hospital bed. The bay opposite was now empty; a nurse removed the oxygen cylinder. The wound in Jamie’s side hurt, but the headache had subsided. Mike Baker sat in the visitor’s chair.

  ‘We’ve had a match on the car Jamie. It’s parked over at Stansted. We’ve sent a forensic team there.’

  Jamie had left Amy to sleep; he’d tucked the sheet under her chin and kissed her on the head; she’d smiled.

  ‘I want to look at the car Mike.’ Jamie sipped water from the glass at the side of his bed.

  ‘No need. The car’s registered to a company called PKL, up in Lincolnshire. We’ve nothing official on them, but we could inquire about the BMW.’

  ‘What makes you think they work Sundays?’

  Mike played the recordings of Jackson from his phone.

  ‘The man sounds in bad shape,’ said Jamie. ‘Where
did you get that recording?’

  ‘We’ve got a very motivated man helping us; you met him at the pub on Friday night.’

  ‘The kid’s Dad?’

  ‘We wouldn’t have got that through questioning at the station. Get your clothes on Jamie; Frank can stay here; you’re with me.’

  ‘I’ll need help with the shirt.’

  ‘Never heard you ask for help.’

  Jamie dressed and walked, unaided, up to the women’s ward. He wore jeans and a t-shirt, and he’d put on a jacket too. It was too warm for a jacket, but he needed the pockets to hide a pair of handcuffs.

  Amy was awake, smiling and flicking through her phone. Amy showed it to Jamie. There were hundreds of messages from her friends, with images of rings, and cakes and bells.

  ‘My mum has already booked the venue.’

  ‘Have you told her?’ Jamie looked down at Amy’s stump.

  ‘Not yet, I want to get them into full swing organising mode before I break the bad news.’

  ‘I’m going with Mike to look into something. It’s nothing dangerous; a check on a company.’

  ‘Can’t you rest and get yourself better?’

  ‘This is the best way for me to get better.’

  The couple hugged and kissed. ‘Call me later,’ Amy said. ‘Don’t make me have to rescue you again.’

  Mike sat behind the wheel in the police car, and called an old colleague in Lincolnshire, out of courtesy, before departure. There was no traffic on the A1, and they reached Peterborough in around an hour.

  Then they stopped as the motorway was closed. With blue lights and two tones, they drove up the shoulder and found units already on scene, dealing with a crash about five miles down the road. A truck had jackknifed and blocked two of the carriageways. The accident didn’t look a bad one; everyone was standing up, and vehicles filtered through the remaining roadway.

  As they continued, the landscaped flattened, and the temperature dropped a few degrees. Two hours later they cruised down the track towards the gate of the PKL building. Mike got out and pressed the buzzer on the gate.

  There were a few cars parked outside the front, near the reception area of the building. Over a row of trees, Mike saw a small stadium surrounded by a high green fence. A noticeboard showed Ranto had rebuilt the sports venue, a concession to get planning permission for the PKL building. Mike pressed the buzzer again. ‘This is the Police, open the gate.’ The gate opened a few seconds later.

  Mike parked next to a grey Corsa, and a blonde haired woman with a huge smile greeted them at reception. ‘Are you here about the car, thanks so much for coming fast, I’m Julia Matthews.’ Jamie glimpsed her feet. Blue overshoes covered her trainers. ‘I know, not the most fashionable, but I was working in the clean room; I got the suit off and rushed up here to open the gate.’

  ‘Anywhere we can talk?’ Mike said.

  ‘Will here do?’ Julia pointed over to a pair of sofas in the reception area. ‘Do you want a drink, we have a machine there.’

  ‘Do you mind if I use your bathroom first please,’ Jamie said.

  ‘The gents are on the right through that door.’ Julia took the pass from around her neck and tapped it onto a sensor next to the door.

  Mike got a coffee from the machine. ‘Thanks for seeing us on a Sunday; you must be up against it to be in over the weekend?’

  ‘Yes, we’re on a deadline, I’ve not worked a Sunday in a few years, but it’s all hands to the pump at the moment.’

  ‘What do you do here?’

  The floor of the corridor was wet; a mop and bucket leant against the wall, with no yellow sign to alert Jamie to the hazard. Jamie paused outside the gent’s toilet but entered the Ladies toilets instead. There were two cubicles inside, and Jamie opened both doors. The first was empty. Something caught his eye in the second cubicle; there was a bin in the corner, and a small piece of protruding blue polythene jammed the lid. Jamie opened the container and pulled out the polythene; it was a jacket and trousers that matched the blue overshoes.

  Jamie scrutinised the protective clothing; the jacket was wet, and a few drops of water fell as he shook it. Jamie took out his key fob and located the small torch Amy had given him. A forensics officer had gifted the torch to Amy, but she had thought it too geeky and passed it on. Jamie shone the flashlight over the jacket and a pattern reflected in the blue light. The recent rinse had not removed all traces.

  Jamie stuffed the jacket and trousers into the bin, left the bathroom, and shone the torch on the corridor floor, which showed a few blobs of reflected colour. He followed the blobs to the elevator and pressed the call button. When he exited the lift at level 2, he no longer needed the torch to follow the trail; there were visible red stains on the carpet. A dog barked; it seemed to be coming from a room on the right.

  Jamie recoiled as he opened the door.

  He had visited bad scenes before, fresh ones. The most blood he’d ever seen was from a suicide he’d attended as a probationer. A man had stabbed a screwdriver into his neck, all by himself. The guy had gone through the carotid artery, and his heart had done the rest, pumping him dry and redecorating all four walls plus the ceiling.

  The scene in the PKL office was not as bad, and not a suicide. A fat man sat in a chair at the desk, with a hole in his temple and the dog nuzzling up to his leg. Brain tissue splattered the wall, but the stench was a mixture of dog faeces, dead skin and body odour. There was blood spatter in front of the desk.

  Jamie returned to reception; Julia was laughing with Mike, and she touched Mike’s knee as she spoke.

  ‘Is there anyone else around today?’ Jamie said.

  ‘No I’m by myself.’

  ‘I’m arresting you for murder, my grounds are that there is a dead body upstairs and you’re the only person here. There is blood spattered protective clothing in the ladies’s toilets and you’re wearing protective overshoes.’ Jamie pulled Julia up from the sofa and cuffed her hands behind her back. ‘I’ll search you, as we’ve no female officer present.’

  Jamie ran his hands from the neckline, around the shoulders, under the armpits and down to the waist. He found the gun tucked into the waistband of Julia’s jeans.

  Jamie handed the gun to Mike.

  ‘I’ll call the local police and ask them to come down here,’ Mike said. Mike took out his phone but got no signal.

  ‘Abysmal reception around here,’ Julia said. ‘There’s a landline on the desk at reception if you need it.’

  Mike walked over to the reception desk and picked up the phone. No dial tone. ‘What number do you dial for an outside line?’

  ‘I can’t remember, I don’t make calls much, instant messages these days. There is WIFI.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you know the code do you?’

  ‘Do you know what, I don’t, but I could call the IT man?’

  ‘Let’s get her out of here Jamie; we’ll get her down to the local station and then come back.’

  Jamie took a firm grip of Julia’s arm and pushed her towards the exit.

  ‘Could I use the bathroom before we go?’

  ‘No.’

  Julia fell to the floor and sat there.

  ‘I won’t make it easy for you.’

  ‘Can you pick her up Jamie?’

  Jamie bent his knees and tried to haul Julia to her feet. Julia was light, but the wound in Jamie’s side opened a little, and he got a stinging sensation in his neck. ‘I’m sorry Mike, but I can’t lift her.’

  ‘No problem son, here you take the gun. I’ll do real work for once.’ Mike grabbed Julia under her armpits and heaved her upright. She thrashed and wriggled and exhausted Mike.

  The pain in Mike’s lower back niggled like a sleep-deprived toddler. Mike dragged her through the doors, and at the base of the steps let her go, as she head-butted his nose with the back of her head. Blood spurted over his shirt; Mike took a deep breath and forced Julia over to the car.

  Jamie opened the door.

 
‘Mind your head.’ Jamie lifted Julia’s feet, and he and Mike both shoved her into the rear of the car.

  ‘You’d better drive Jamie; I’ll sit in the back with her.’ Mike sighed, sweat dripped from him; he wiped his nose, got into the rear passenger door and wrapped Julia in a bear hug, as she thrashed around again.

  Jamie pushed the accelerator as a van smashed through the gate, and into the front of the police car. Jamie’s head hit the steering wheel. Powerful arms ripped Jamie from the driver’s seat and pinned him to the ground.

  ‘Cleanup crew,’ said Mackey, looking over at Julia. ‘Sorry, we’re late.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  The sun dipped in the West. Kimnel joined his boys and Roberts in the field. Kimnel bent his knees, footed the last piece of turf, and placed it in the stack.

  ‘Well done lads, a good day’s work. Same again tomorrow; but no hired hands.’

  ‘Roberts is an animal dad, just like Eamon,’ said the smallest of the sons.

  ‘I think we can say you’ve earned your ticket. I need to update the Ferry booking, can you come with me up to the house?’ Kimnel slapped Roberts on the back.

  Roberts doffed his cap to the brothers. His back ached, and his thighs burned, but he felt a tinge of guilt leaving them; he wanted to stay and finish the job. Eamon came over and gave him a big hug. ‘Take care Mr Roberts; you drop by anytime.’

  Roberts returned the squeeze and imagined them going for a beer together and cursing the turf.

  ‘Good to meet you Eamon. You keep those little brothers out of trouble.’ Roberts fetched his rucksack from the cab and followed Kimnel up the grassy bank to the house.

  There was a terraced garden in front with a dazzling display of hydrangea and agapanthus in a circular stone planter. Kimnel watched Roberts admiring the garden. ‘We always get the rain, but we got the sun this year too.’

  The house was of stone construction, and smoke rose from the chimney.

  ‘So that’s what you use the turf for?’ Roberts pointed to the smoke.