‘Is everything okay?’
‘Not really.’
His eyes filled with tears. Tears? Gregor? Ironman. Had he transformed into a sentient human being since leaving her?
‘There are some problems.’
‘For Cecile?’
‘No.’ He sighed. ‘For the baby.’
Jaq took his hand and led him to a chair. She sat beside him and let him talk while outside the snow fell.
‘Intensive care.’ He launched into a long and rambling story about the difficult birth, the emergency resuscitation, the removal of the baby to a specialist paediatric hospital. ‘They are still running tests, but it doesn’t look good.’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t look good at all.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She squeezed his hand.
‘I’m not good at this,’ he groaned. ‘They won’t tell me anything, won’t let me do anything. Cecile and her mother. Will you come to France? Come to the hospital with me?’
Her mouth fell open in astonishment. Was he serious? His ex-wife hated her, his daughter resented her and they were in the middle of a family crisis when the only thing that mattered was the new baby. How could she possibly help the situation? Cecile was a daughter by marriage. What did that make Jaq? Did a stepmother become a step-grandmother? In a marriage that was soon to be dissolved? Could you be an ex-step-grandmother? And how could she possibly help? Wait. Who was this really about? ‘Did Cecile ask for me?’
He averted his eyes and studied the floor. ‘No, but—’
‘Where have you been, Gregor? Since you turned up at my flat a week ago?’
‘Skiing.’ He covered his mouth and coughed. ‘I had to clear my head.’
Bastard. So much for his concern about his daughter. She bit her lip. No point in starting a fight. He wasn’t worth the energy. ‘Go back to Cecile, Gregor. She needs her father right now, not me.’
‘But I need you, Jaq.’
Just as she thought. This was all about Gregor. When had it ever been otherwise? ‘No, you don’t.’ You had your chance. You blew it. ‘You need to sign the divorce papers and move on.’
His upper lip curled into a sneer. ‘You certainly moved on pretty fast.’
Aaah, the discovery of Karel in her flat had riled him. Good. Maybe now he had some idea of what betrayal felt like. It wasn’t Jaq who had broken the marriage vows first.
‘Deal with it.’ Soft eyes belied the harshness of the words. ‘Send Cecile my love. Let me know if there’s anything practical I can do.’
‘I’m so tired.’ Gregor put his hands over his eyes. ‘So weary. I need to sleep.’ He looked at her through his fingers. ‘Can I stay over tonight, in your flat?’
The cheek of the man. ‘I’ll book you a hotel room.’ Because, right now, I have my own problems to address.
‘So, you won’t help me?’ He shook his head sadly, as if he had always known she would let him down. ‘In my hour of need. Then this was another wasted journey.’ He stumbled to the door and cast a reproachful last glance at Jaq. ‘God knows why I ever married you.’
The sentiment was mutual. How could she have thought this older man was the mature and reliable rock she could tether her chaotic life to? Just another man-child who viewed the world through the lens of his own needs, indifferent to the feelings of everyone around him. She said nothing.
‘I should have known. They warned me you were a cold, unfeeling, unnatural bitch.’
She let the jibe wash over her. Gregor was ill-equipped to deal with this family crisis, and he was a father, a grandfather, in pain. No point in rising to the insult.
‘Goodbye, Gregor,’ Jaq said. ‘Send my best wishes to your family.’
After he left, she stared out at the snow. Poor Cecile. As if the agony of childbirth was not enough to deal with, to then have the baby taken away for its own good. Jaq bit her lip and clenched her fists. She knew exactly what it felt like – a thousand miles and two decades away – and there was nothing in the world that would ever lessen the pain. God’s punishment for her sin, they said. Jaq lost her faith right then.
Cars were moving across the gravel outside. Jaq was dimly aware of the tail lights by the little rays of crimson that danced and sparkled in her eyes. Do not cry. Not here. Not now. She clenched her fists, jammed them against her eyes and did what she always did. Locked it down. Locked it in.
When she uncovered her eyes, it was to see the chairman leave the building with Gregor, his arm around her ex-husband’s shoulder. They embraced, and without a backward glance, Gregor got into his car and swept away down the long drive.
Wednesday 9 March, Kranjskabel, Slovenia
After a restless night, Jaq rose early and walked from her flat to Snow Science, the cloudless sky changing from soft pink to baby blue as she climbed. By nine o’clock she was waiting in the panelled anteroom, but it was another hour before she was called back into the inquiry.
A new member of the panel sat next to the chairman. A slight man, thirties perhaps, clean-shaven, green eyes and wispy fair hair. He was not introduced.
‘Dr Silver.’ The chairman fixed her with a frown of compassion. ‘I understand you received news of a family emergency, yesterday. Would you prefer to adjourn?’
‘No.’ Jaq met his eyes.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Then are you able to answer more questions?’
She held his gaze. ‘Yes.’
The chairman made a moue of disgust, as if he would have preferred her to break down in hysterics.
‘In that case,’ he shuffled his papers, ‘we would like to go back a little further. Can you tell us about the events of Friday 25 February?’
Jaq stared at the ceiling and thought back. Four days before the break-in, eight days before the explosion. ‘That was the day I prepared the experiment for the north corrie. We’re trying out high-energy explosives, remote subsurface blasting to keep explosives out of the helicopters and—’
‘Just the warehouse activities, please,’ the technical director interrupted.
What had changed? Was she imagining a new, undisguised hostility? Even Sheila, someone she counted as a friend, would not meet her eyes. ‘I locked up at about 6 p.m.’ No time to wash, barely time to change into her party clothes.
‘Was anyone with you in the warehouse?’
‘The blasting crew. I gave them refresher training on the safe handling of nitroglycerine.’
The chairman turned a page in the logbook.
‘So where were your keys, for example, last Friday night?’
‘With me. There was a delivery due on Saturday so I took the keys with me.’
‘And where did you spend the evening?’
Jaq sighed. She should have seen this coming. ‘What difference does it make? The keys were with me at all times.’
‘Answer the question.’ The chairman’s voice had lowered, threatening.
‘I went out with the Snow Science team.’
‘With the keys?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘Karaoke City.’
A murmur from the panel.
‘It was a late Christmas party, organised by Dr Visquel,’ Jaq said. Two months late. Cheapskate. They must already know this.
‘And then?’
Jaq sat back in her seat and put both hands in her lap. ‘How is this relevant?’
‘We have already interviewed Laurent.’ The chairman consulted his notes and frowned. ‘You drank heavily and left the party at Karaoke City on Friday night with a man who was not your husband.’
Good Lord, was there no end to Laurent’s pettiness? Hell hath no fury like a boss scorned. The keys were in her bag. Her bag stayed under the bed. Could Karel have deliberately lured her back to his flat, waited until she was asleep and then taken the keys from her bag and copied them? It was possible, but hardly plausible. They barely slept all night, too engrossed in one another’s bodies. Surely she would have noticed if Karel had left the apartment? And how many key-cutting
shops were open in the middle of the night in Kranjskabel?
‘Yes, I had a few drinks and left the party with a man,’ she mimicked the chairman’s language and spiteful tone, ‘who was not my husband.’ She spread her hands. ‘Why do you ask me if you already know?’
The chairman glared across the table towards her. His mask of control slipped, fury and disgust bubbled close to the surface.
‘I am asking the questions here, not you, madame. And unless you answer openly and honestly, I am going to record that you deliberately obstructed this investigation.’
Jaq curled her fingers and let her ragged fingernails dig into her soft palms.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘This man, had you known him long?’
‘No.’
There was a meaningful exchange of glances between the HR director and the chairman. The rest of the panel scribbled again on their notepads.
‘How long?’
‘I met him that evening.’
More furious scribbling.
‘I see. What is his full name and address?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
There was a collective gasp, and every member of the panel stared in frank astonishment.
‘Pardon?’
‘We didn’t do much talking.’ And how. She smiled.
There was a distributed murmur. The commercial director, a short fat man, appraised her with a leer.
‘And in the morning, Saturday, you went straight to work?’
The technical director coughed. ‘Records show that the truck arrived at 8 a.m.’
‘No.’ Jaq shook her head. ‘That is wrong. Stefan called at about 4 p.m. The truck was leaving as I arrived.’
More collective murmuring. Shuffling of papers. ‘The delivery was booked in at 8 a.m.,’ the technical director insisted. ‘Here is the consignment note.’ He waved the paper at Sheila, who fetched it and laid it in front of Jaq.
Jaq stared at the document. Saturday. Eight a.m. Stefan must have got the time wrong. It was definitely late afternoon when he called. She turned it over. Curious. The automatic timestamp confirmed it: 08h03m17s. And even more curious, delivery of twenty pallets, not two. She checked the batch numbers. There were eighteen more in the same series. Why had Zagrovyl delivered twenty pallets instead of two? When had the extra eighteen been removed? She had a sudden memory of the dark squares in the snow.
‘There must be other transport notes for that day?’ she said.
The technical director shuffled a pile of documents. ‘No more deliveries, one return.’ He passed her a sheet of paper. She recognised the name of the haulier. SLYV. The lorry she had seen disappearing down the hill as she arrived at 4 p.m. According to the consignment note, they should have picked up the wrongly delivered eighteen pallets. Except they had got it wrong. Loaded one that should have remained and left a reject pallet behind.
The technical director drummed his fingers against the pile of papers. ‘Who had access to your keys?’
Jaq snorted in irritation. ‘Did you ask my boss that question?’
The chairman referred to his notes. ‘Laurent Visquel’s keys were handed over to the police after the break-in.’
He looked over at the green-eyed stranger who nodded and said, ‘On the morning of the explosion, Dr Visquel’s keys were locked away in the police safe in Jesenice.’
So, he was a policeman. Good; there was something behind the incident that was far too serious to be handled by Snow Science alone.
‘The keys,’ the chairman insisted. ‘Who had access to your keys?’
‘No one,’ she said.
‘Let us return to Saturday morning.’ The commercial director was addressing her. ‘The delivery lorry came at 8 a.m., and yet you didn’t arrive until 4 p.m.?’
He had a point. Why hadn’t Stefan called her? Why had he waited eight hours before contacting her? Waited until after a new lorry had come to pick up the excess material? She opened her mouth to tell them again about the unusual pallet, the samples she had taken, the fact that they had been destroyed, when the commercial director interrupted.
‘You slept in, perhaps? Or were detained?’ He was practically salivating at the thought.
‘I would like to register a protest at this line of questioning. I simply cannot see how my personal life is relevant to the accident.’
The chairman closed his file with a snap.
‘And I would like to register my disgust that someone entrusted with the care of high explosives could be so lax in her personal habits and thus endanger the security of the depot.’ He shook his head, a lank strand of hair falling across his face. He wrinkled his nose. ‘Drunken parties. Shacking up with strangers. You are a grandmother, for goodness’ sake!’ He smoothed the hair back into place. ‘See where it has led. Madame, it is my opinion that you are unfit to hold an explosives licence.’
Jaq jumped to her feet. ‘How dare you!’
The collective gasp in the room grew from a whisper to a roar.
The chairman gathered up his papers. ‘Dr Silver, you are hereby suspended from all duties pending a disciplinary hearing.’ He addressed Jaq. ‘Sheila will deal with the formalities, and then the police,’ he nodded at the green-eyed man, ‘would like a few words.’ He rubbed his palms together, washing his hands of her.
Chair legs screeched against the floor, and the inquiry committee stood to leave.
‘I’m sorry, Jaq.’ Sheila couldn’t meet her eyes. ‘I need your pass. And your keys.’
In a daze, Jaq opened her briefcase and unzipped the inner pocket. She detached her two personal keys from the ring and slid the other ten over on her pass. Sheila entered all the serial numbers onto a form and handed a copy to Jaq before scuttling out of the room after the chairman.
Jaq remained sitting, her anger visible by the way she held herself bolt upright, unnaturally still, every muscle tense.
‘Good morning, Dr Silver.’ The policeman held out a hand. ‘Detective Inspector Wilem Y’Ispe of the Specialna Enota Policije.’
The Specials. Slovenia’s FBI. Jaq ignored his hand. She began to cough.
The inspector dropped his hand and picked up her empty glass. He filled it and passed it to her.
Jaq sipped the cool water, letting it soothe her dry throat, and reappraised him as he talked. Young for a detective inspector. Intelligent eyes. His spoken English was fluent, barely a trace of an accent. Educated abroad.
‘Am I under arrest?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘But I could use your help.’
Thursday 10 March, Moscow, Russia
Frank sat in the executive lounge of Sheremetyevo airport waiting for the flight to be called. He brought a glass of Octomore to his lips, savouring the smoky taste on his tongue. Ah! The Scots. Whisky was the only good thing to come out of their freezing, rain-lashed, dismal country.
Raquel’s report from the Smolensk factory lay unopened on the table. Whenever he had something tedious to do, Frank ran through one of the Brandenburg Concertos in his head. He selected No. 6 today, a particular favourite thanks to the absence of violins. Frank started playing at an early age, becoming the finest violinist in the school. But his talents went unrecognised. The day Bradley was appointed leader of the school orchestra, Frank smashed his own violin. If he couldn’t be top, he didn’t want to play. He focused on the piano, gravitated to the harpsichord and finally the organ, where he could be leader, conductor and master of his own orchestra.
He tapped out a lively rhythmic opening, gliding into the first melody. Once he’d laid down the warp, the development began, weaving those golden threads of the weft, a sound tapestry on the loom. Now for the puzzle of the canon, the challenge, the resolution. He sat back with a sigh: glorious!
Frank stretched his legs. A large flat screen television above the bar flickered with the ticker tape of financial news, numbers running across the bottom of the screen. The Spider was right. Better than any drama, the story was in the numbers
.
He drummed his fingers on the cover of the report.
An armoured limo had taken Frank and Raquel from Moscow to Smolensk. He wasn’t flying fucking Aeroflot again – pilots high on aviation fuel, stinking peasant passengers and ramshackle planes. He’d planned to while away the journey getting intimately acquainted with Raquel, but the ice queen continued to resist his blandishments. He might have tried more forceful persuasion if the driver hadn’t been a woman, and bigger than him. She was pug-ugly, with the sort of neck muscles that suggested a shot-put or javelin career prior to security. Women together were unpredictable, feral cats, scratching each other’s eyes out one minute and ganging up on you the next. You just never knew when the hairy armpit sisterhood would club together and attack. He took a power nap instead, opening his eyes as wooded hills and snowy fields gave way to a walled city with gold and blue cupolas. The factory was visible several miles beyond, a ramshackle sprawl of sheds and towers wreathed in a pall of yellow smog.
Ivan came out to meet them. He’d made some effort to look like a company executive, suit and tie under his fur coat and hat, but he couldn’t hide his background. An ex-boxer gone to seed, lines of anxiety spreading over his crumpled, misshapen features. A face assembled from spare parts, leftovers that didn’t quite fit together. How many times had that nose been broken, that cheekbone fractured, that jaw dislocated?
In the conference room a photo of Frank breaking the ground for the production expansion took pride of place. It was a good picture – he could give Putin a run for his money when it came to Action Man poses. Frank had the advantage of youth and strength, which must have annoyed the Russian president standing next to him, grimly applauding. Ivan’s misshapen face was obscured by the spade handle in the picture, but the familiar deep voice of the former boxer rattled on as he confessed that they hadn’t started up the new production line.
The Chemical Detective Page 9