After the spiel about oxygen masks, escape chutes and lifejackets, which half convince me we’re actually going to have to use them, I open the FT and read the article about Harkness while we taxi out to the runway.
Seems the US Justice Department has opened up a new line of attack. Thirty-nine doctors in the States – yeah, thirty-fucking-nine – have been charged with taking bribes from Harkness Pharmaceuticals to prescribe some painkiller called Fenextris to patients suffering from back, neck and shoulder pain when it should be reserved for cancer and really serious stuff because of its addictiveness. Medicare spending on Fenextris soared 75 per cent last year and cost the system more than $280 million. Two hundred and eighty million. Jesus. Harkness really doesn’t do things by halves. Some neurologist in Indianapolis racked up $6.7 million in Fenextris prescriptions all on his own. He’s pleaded guilty and is ‘cooperating with the authorities’. Sounds to me like more big trouble for Harkness, though a company spokesman’s naturally denied bribing anyone to do anything.
I’ve asked myself before and now I’m asking myself again. Why has Harkness resorted to jacking up his profits illegally and siphoning money out of his own company? He’s been rich for years – richer than anyone needs to be. Why run the risk of spending the rest of his life in a US jail when he’s never going to be able to spend more than a fraction of his wealth? It just doesn’t make any sense.
I suddenly realize we’ve taken off. The plane’s climbing into the sky. I look past the people beside me and see the sunlight gleaming on the reservoirs near the airport as the pilot banks and turns.
I’ve never been so far off the ground. There are houses below me, strung around looping avenues and cul-de-sacs. They look so small from up here, so delicate, so fragile. It reminds me, just a little, of what Harkness said about the Earth seen from space. All our vulnerability is so obvious from up here.
My ears pop as the plane goes on climbing. I glance down at Harkness’s photograph in the paper. It’s a picture they’ve used before. He’s hurrying into the court in London, gazing past the camera and smiling slightly, as if he can see something no one else can, behind everyone’s backs, very nearly out of sight.
He’s got plenty to worry about. But he never looks worried. He looks like a man with a plan. A plan that’s working, just exactly as he intended.
There’s an answer waiting for me in Switzerland. I know there is. I just do. And I’m going to find it. I just know that too.
Don stopped at Exeter Services, as he had before. He needed petrol, the loo and something to eat and drink. He calculated Blake would be landing in Zürich soon and hoped she would remember to text him from the airport.
Meanwhile, as he sat in the MG in the farthest corner of the car park after filling her up, he phoned Pawley, but only got his secretary, who knew nothing. He tried Pawley’s mobile, but there was no answer, so he left a message and headed for the shops.
He only checked the Financial Times in WHSmith because he wondered if Harkness had done a bunk on account of some turn in the case against him. He reckoned he might be right when he saw the headline. Bribery allegations against Harkness Pharmaceuticals spread to encompass addictive painkiller prescriptions. He bought a copy – the only copy, as it happened – and went off to the café to read it.
A hundred minutes in the air and we’re there: touching down at Zürich Airport. I can’t quite believe I’m actually in Switzerland. But there are adverts for expensive watches and Swiss cheese to remind me and the immigration officer who checks my passport looks like he operates by clockwork.
Don’s credit card takes its first hit when I buy some Swiss francs. Then I go to the tourist office and ask about cheap but decent hotels. They recommend the Marta – five minutes from the main railway station – and phone the place for me before I catch the train into the city. Two nights for two hundred francs. They say it like it’s a bargain and I suppose it is. They give me a street map and helpfully mark the Marta – and the Marriott – on it with red crosses. Then I’m on the train.
It’s a short ride. Zürich looks big and grey and clean. I call Gareth, but his phone’s on voicemail. I leave a message telling him my number and saying I’ll call again soon. Then I text Don to say I’ve arrived. We cross a river and I see trim blue and white trams moving along orderly, rain-smeared streets. I guess Zürich is how I imagined it: cool, calm, contained.
The train reaches Zürich Hauptbahnhof. Everyone gets off in a jumble of suitcases and rucksacks. I walk along the platform and on to the crowded concourse. According to the map, the Marriott’s almost as close as the Marta, but I head for the Marta first to check in and drop my bag.
Outside the station, there are more trams and lots of people on a busy riverfront. I follow the mobs across the bridge to the other side of the river and trace my route by the map to the Marta.
It takes me all of about ten minutes to check into my small, spotless, functional room. I call Gareth again. Still no answer. I look at the map again. The Marriott’s just a short walk away. I may as well go and see if he’s there. I head out, free of my bag now, moving fast. We need to talk, Gareth and me.
Don got Blake’s text message when he was most of the way through the FT article, read over two cups of coffee and a toasted sandwich. Well, she was all right so far, which relieved him to a ludicrous degree. But what happened next? That was the question.
As for Harkness, his lawyers would presumably go on denying everything. But that would not spare him eventual extradition. And once in the coils of the US legal system, God help him. So, maybe he had done a runner.
That, at any rate, was Don’s working assumption as he swallowed the last of the coffee and made for the exit.
The Marriott’s just what I expected: a smart muzak-and-marble chain hotel. Gareth probably chose it because of the superior WiFi connections. He’s a wired kind of guy.
The woman on the desk, like everyone else I’ve met in Zürich so far, speaks perfect English. She’s cool but friendly. I ask if Gareth Lawler’s in. She asks me to repeat his name, which is the first off note, because she looks like she knows exactly who I mean.
‘Gareth Philip Lawler?’ she says, eyebrows arched. Her voice has tightened. What’s with the middle name? I wonder. That’s the second off note.
‘He’s a friend of mine,’ I explain. ‘From England. He arrived yesterday.’
‘Ah.’ Deep frown. ‘Yes.’
‘You have got a record of him, right?’
‘Jawohl.’ The switch to German is strange. And it continues. ‘Herr Lawler.’ She closes her eyes for a second.
‘What’s the problem?’
She licks her lips nervously and looks straight at me. ‘I am sorry. There has been … an accident.’
‘What kind of accident?’
‘Traffic.’ She points past me. ‘Out there. But … I was not here. Hold on, please.’ She picks up the phone and speaks to someone in German while my mind races. An accident?
A door opens behind the desk and a middle-aged man in a suit comes out. He’s fingering his moustache like he’s thinking hard.
‘Ah,’ he says, rounding the desk to speak to me. ‘Miss …?’
‘What’s happened to Gareth?’ I ask, cutting off any idea of introducing myself. Which I reckon is kind of unwise at the moment.
‘There was a traffic accident this morning. I regret Mr Lawler was hit by a truck. Right outside the hotel. A terrible thing. Yes. Terrible.’
He’s not exaggerating. I’m speechless. My mind can’t seem to compute what this might mean. In the end I say, lamely, ‘How did it happen?’
‘We, er, think he forgot traffic drives on the right here. Just, er, an awful mistake.’
‘You say this was right outside?’
‘Yes. Let me show you.’
Moritz – well, that’s the name on his lapel badge – escorts me over to the revolving door, where there’s a view of the street. It’s a busy riverside highway, with fast-moving traffic. I walked here
along a quieter street on the other side of the hotel.
‘Mr Lawler took a telephone call during breakfast and left right away, by this door, still using his phone. When he tried to cross the road, it seems he looked the wrong way. Right, not left.’ Moritz sighs. ‘Tragic. And unnecessary. There is an underpass nearby. It leads direct to a bridge into Platzspitz Park. Maybe that was where he was going.’
‘But he was hit by a truck?’
Moritz nods dolefully. ‘Yes.’
‘How badly is he hurt?’
‘It was serious. He was not conscious and … it looked … not good.’
‘But he’s alive?’
‘Yes. He was taken to the University Hospital. I called the hospital later to ask about his condition.’
‘What did they say?’
‘They said he was in surgery. They could not tell me anything.’ Moritz strokes his moustache. ‘I do not know any more. I am sorry. Very sorry.’
Don was most of the way across the car park when he realized a man was leaning against the MG’s tailgate, gazing into the middle distance. He was wearing a baseball cap, tracksuit and trainers. His arms were folded. A bulging leather bag was on the ground beside him. He looked relaxed and idle, like someone contentedly killing time in the middle of a journey.
A few more strides brought a sudden realization to Don. He knew the man. He had never met him before. But he knew him – from his photograph in the newspaper.
Harkness seemed to register Don’s arrival only when they were a few yards apart. He pushed himself upright and smiled, but said nothing.
‘You’re Jack Harkness,’ Don said, not bothering to disguise his surprise.
‘Yes.’ Harkness went on smiling. ‘And you’re Don Challenor.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for a lift, actually. To Cornwall. Going my way?’
I walk out into Platzspitz Park. There are rivers on both sides. They meet at the sharp end of the park. I look around at the trees and the benches and the swings. I can hear children’s voices and adults’ footsteps on the gravel paths. I think about Gareth and the phone call that got him hurrying out of the Marriott. He should’ve used the underpass and the bridge, like I did. Instead he headed straight across the road, looking right instead of left. It must’ve been an accident. Surely. Unless the phone call was a trap. But how would that work? No one could know – no one could plan – the route he took.
Was he coming here, like Moritz suggested? ‘Meet me in the park, just across the road from your hotel.’ Was that the message? ‘Meet me there right now.’
I have to find out how he is. Maybe he’s conscious. Maybe he can tell me exactly what happened. The University Hospital – Universtätspital – is marked on my map. It’s not far.
I start walking towards the Hauptbahnhof at the other end of the park.
Don eyed Harkness warily. He should have been pleased to see him. He had badly wanted to speak to him earlier that day after all. But as Blake had said more than once, Harkness was serving no one’s agenda except his own. He was where he was because he wanted to be. He knew – he always knew – exactly what he was aiming to achieve.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be banned from leaving London?’ Don said at last.
Harkness looked breezy and happy and confident. The idea of anyone banning him from doing anything was patently absurd. ‘You mean the electronic tag?’ He hitched up his trouser-legs to reveal unfettered ankles.
‘How did you manage that?’
‘With a little help from an expert quarter. But listen, Don, shouldn’t we get started? We’re going to Cornwall for the same reason. And it won’t wait.’
‘What reason’s that?’
‘Come on. Fran. I’m guessing French phoned you as well. We’ve got to get down there and do something. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
‘Did you follow me?’
‘No, no. This is what they call a chance meeting. I left my car in the long-stay at Heathrow Airport, where I took good care to parade myself in front of the CCTV cameras inside Terminal Five. I’m hoping that’ll convince the authorities I’ve left the country. I’ve been reliant on lifts since then. Rather fun, actually. It’s like reliving my student days. I saw this car and knew it had to be you.’ Harkness patted the roof of the MG. ‘Recaptured youth or what?’
‘How’d you know what car I drive?’
‘I think Fran mentioned it.’
‘Really?’ Don found that hard to believe.
‘How else would I know?’
How indeed? But Don sensed pursuing the point would be futile. ‘You expect me to drive you to Cornwall?’
Harkness nodded. ‘I do. And if Fran’s welfare is your primary concern at the moment, as it is mine, you will.’
‘French wants to know where the money is.’
‘I know.’
‘Will you tell him?’
‘I think I can get Fran out of this in one piece, OK? That’s all you need to know for now. Except that I have to be in Cornwall to do it and I’m technically a fugitive from justice at present, so I could use a little help to get there without attracting too much attention. Are you going to give me that help, Don? Or shall I try my luck in the lorry park?’
‘All right.’ There was no point arguing any further. Don did not trust Harkness one inch. He was unsure if the man really cared about Fran at all. But for Fran’s sake he had to assume they were in this together. He moved to the passenger door and unlocked it. ‘Get in.’
‘Thanks.’
By the time Don had circled the car and climbed in, Harkness was settled in his seat, turning the handle to wind the window up and down.
‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘Just lovely.’
Don started the engine. It growled into life.
‘Wonderful,’ purred Harkness.
They pulled away, following the signs for the exit.
‘Where’s Blake, Don?’ Harkness asked suddenly.
‘I don’t know.’
He drove down on to the roundabout beneath the motorway and stopped at a red light.
‘Where is she, Don?’ Harkness asked again.
‘No idea. She said someone was going to pay her a lot of money to steer clear of your affairs and that’s what she intended to do.’
‘So, boarding a flight to Bangkok even as we speak?’
‘Could be.’
The lights changed. Don accelerated away and joined the slip-road up on to the southbound M5.
‘I hope she really has taken the money and run,’ said Harkness. ‘It’s just a pity I can’t quite bring myself to believe you.’
‘That’s your problem.’
‘Where’s she gone?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘You’re not a great liar. You know that? It’s kind of surprising. For an estate agent, I mean.’
‘Here’s one for you,’ Don countered as he slipped out into the traffic. ‘What’s in the panic room at Wortalleth West?’
‘There’s no panic room.’
‘But there’s a secret room of some kind.’
‘Is there?’
‘What’s in there, Jack? French thinks you may have used it to store some of the stolen money, but that doesn’t make any sense.’
‘True. Even if there were any stolen money, which there isn’t.’
‘It’s all yours, to do with as you please. Right?’
‘Exactly right.’
‘Quintagler Industries don’t seem to agree with you. Nor does the US Justice Department.’
‘I see you have today’s FT.’ Harkness glanced over his shoulder at the paper, which Don had tossed on to the back seat next to Harkness’s bag. ‘Something about me in it, is there?’
‘You and Fenextris and thirty-nine bribed American doctors.’
‘These sawbones, eh? What can you do with them?’
‘You tell me.’
‘There’s no hidden pile of cash, Don. At Wortalleth West or
anywhere else.’
‘Spent it all, have you?’
‘What if I have?’
‘You’re not going to get away with it, y’know.’
‘Am I not?’ Harkness’s confidence was undented. He looked and sounded like a man without a care in the world. ‘We’ll see.’ He peered suspiciously at the speedometer. ‘This is a V8, isn’t it, Don? For God’s sake put your foot down, will you? The clock’s ticking.’
And so it was. Don could not deny it. He flicked the indicator and moved smartly into the outside lane.
I take a funicular most of the way up the hill to the University Hospital. I’ve never actually been on one before. Another new experience for me. The hospital’s a sprawl of buildings, some old, some modern. I go in the main entrance, where there’s an I for Information sign. But the guy on the desk redirects me to another entrance round the corner. He draws the route on a map for me and writes the name of the department I want in capitals. NOTFALLSTATION. Emergencies.
The guy at Emergencies is a bit less helpful, but looks up Gareth’s name on his computer and says he’s in the Intensive Care Unit. That means no visitors. But maybe I can go there and find something out from the nursing staff. He draws a second route on my map and adds another word in capitals. INTENSIVSTATION. Off I go.
I pop into the loo halfway to splash some water on my face. I’m sweating and I’m nervous. I don’t want them to tell me Gareth’s a mental vegetable or paralysed or whatever. I hardly know him, but the accident – if it really was an accident – seems totally crazy. Besides, with him out of the game, what exactly the fuck am I going to do? Everything’s on a knife-edge now.
I step out into the corridor. I see the sign INTENSIVSTATION. I follow the arrow.
The corridor’s long and straight. There are echoes of voices and footsteps from either end. The afternoon light falls in brilliant splashes across the floor, spaced by the distance between each window. There’s one person walking towards me. No one else, behind me or ahead.
She’s a slim, middle-aged woman in jeans, white shirt and light tweedy jacket. The footwear’s serious and thick-soled. It hits the floor solidly. She’s not carrying a handbag, or any bag at all, which makes me think, subconsciously, that she works here. And that makes me consider, just for a moment, asking her to help me.
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