‘Mummy!’ Ben screamed at the top of his voice.
The boat rocked as the little boy stood up. Careful now. Don’t spoil things by drowning too soon. All in good time.
The boy was wailing like a banshee as the boat took on water. A noise in the trees. Footsteps. Someone running down the path.
Silver was coming.
And Boris was ready.
Tuesday 15 March, Cumbria, England
Sunlight dappled the mountain, the sphagnum moss springy underfoot, little jets of water squirting around her trainers, throwing up tiny rainbows as she passed.
Fell running required total concentration. On an indoor track you could let your thoughts wander, free mind from body as the muscles contracted and relaxed in a regular rhythm. But the mountain was littered with hazards: flakes of smooth grey-green slate that slid over each other; narrow ravines of fast, glittering water that cut deep into the turf; a sudden squelch of bog cotton and frogspawn among twisting hummocks of coarse grass and moss; and sharp, loose rocks. One false step could spell a twisted ankle, knee sprain, bursitis. A fall could fracture a rib, a collarbone, break an arm. Or worse, concussion with no one for miles except the bleating sheep.
Beynnn, they bleated. Memmmmy . . .
At the first false summit, she stopped to catch her breath. What now? Carry on a bit longer, or head back to help Emma? Freedom or responsibility?
Jaq chose freedom. Every time.
She pushed on, dropping down out of sight of the lake into a mountain valley, getting into her stride, pushing herself hard, welcoming the burning sensation in her muscles.
‘Mummy!’ The scream carried across the water, up the mountain and into the valley, echoing between the cliffs.
That bleating sheep again, high-pitched but this time a word. ‘Ben!’
Jaq raced to the next ridge and looked back down at the lake. A tiny boat rocked in deep water, just beyond a beach hidden by the cliff. A life jacket, a yellow dot bobbing on the blue water, floated away from the boat, trapped by a wooden cross formed from the abandoned oars. Why was the boat rocking on such still water? Diabos me levem! Was that a tiny figure moving inside? Surely not?
Jaq ran straight down the mountain, ignoring the path, jumping over rocks, squelching through bog, leaping across streams, sliding over scree, cutting through every obstacle, running a straight path to the lake. Feet flying, lungs burning, arms pumping, running faster than she had ever run before.
‘BEN!’ No mistaking it this time. That was no sheep bleating, it was Emma shouting. Muffled, distorted. Where the hell was she? ‘JAQ, HELP!’
Ó meu Deus. Faster.
Getting closer now. No doubt about it. Ben alone on the water. On the deepest part of the lake. Little Ben who couldn’t swim yet. In a boat without a life jacket. Without oars. A boat that was tilting dangerously.
‘Ben!’ she shouted. ‘Stay still, I’m coming.’
‘Help!’
The boat was listing. Credo! The boat was sinking.
‘Emma, where are you?’
The bleating came from the farmhouse garden. ‘Jaq, I’m . . . I can’t . . .’ The words lost behind some barrier. A baby crying in the farmhouse. Jade. Why was she not with her mother? No time to deviate. Time to calculate. Fastest way down? Ben didn’t have much time. Only one option.
Jaq sprinted to the cliff above the hidden beach. No time to kick off her trainers. No time to stop and measure the height she would fall, the width she had to jump, the depth of the water if she cleared the beach. No time to hesitate, assess the risk, take the slower path down. No time to lose. Now or never.
Running at full speed towards the overhang, Jaq launched herself in a running jump, spinning forward as she tumbled through the air.
The thought experiment was instant, calculation without words. Acceleration due to gravity: after one second her vertical speed would be 9.8 metres per second, after two, 19.6 metres per second, after three, 29.4 metres per second. Terminal velocity 50 metres per second, but she’d never reach that – the cliff couldn’t be much more than 30 metres high. A 2.5-second fall at best. Horizontal speed at launch? Sprinting speed. World record on a track: 100 metres in under 10 seconds. Ten metres per second tops. The clifftop was not track. At half that speed, and assuming no resistance from the air, she would continue moving at running speed for 2.5 seconds. At 5 metres per second it gave her 12 metres horizontal travel before she hit the ground. It’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the sudden stop. Was the beach too wide? Could she make it to the water?
Oh, Ben. Ben.
Jaq hit the water in a shallow dive, her fingertips stretched to cut the water first, scraping her legs on the pebbles as they followed, surfacing and gasping at the shock of the cold water. Alive. Exhilarated.
‘Help!’
Hurry! Fast crawl towards the boat, the trainers swelling with water and slowing her down. No time to untie them. Keep going. Adrenaline pumping. She grabbed the life jacket as she passed it, hooked it over her shoulder, heading for the boat.
Suddenly nowhere to be seen.
‘Ben!’ she screamed.
A little tousle of fair hair bobbed up ahead. Graças a Deus. The boat was under the water, but Ben was still clutching the prow, shivering with cold and terror.
‘Good boy. Hold on. I’m coming. I’ve got you.’
He threw out his arms, grabbing her round the neck, choking her, pulling her down.
Gasp. Breathe. Tread water. Kick, kick. Breathe. Gasp. Disentangle. Gently now. Kick, kick. Gasp. Breathe. He may be small, but he could drown you. Prise his cold hands away. Not so gently now. Yank him loose. Life jacket over his head, on his back, on your back. Swim for shore. Kick. Kick. Breathe.
Christ, how had the boat travelled so far? The beach didn’t seem be getting any closer. And Ben had stopped struggling. Stopped moving altogether.
‘Ben. Come on, kiddo. Swim with me. I need your help!’
How to keep him conscious, keep him warm? His cotton T-shirt billowed through the life jacket, too loose to preserve any heat, his denim jeans sodden and heavy, his little shoes lost in the lake. She supported his tiny body, the soft skin so cold against hers. What did he weigh? Less than fifteen kilos. A metre or so tall. How long had he been in the water? He would lose heat fast. Surface area to volume ratio so much greater than hers. And she was moving, straining every muscle to get him to the shore, to get him to safety, to get him warm, as fast as humanly possible.
She heard the cry from the middle of the lake before she spotted the kayak.
‘Jaq!’
The red ripper sliced through the water, the single paddle flying so fast that it formed a continuous halo around the kayak. Johan. Thank God.
‘Ben! Is he OK?’ His deep voice boomed across the lake.
What to tell him? The child was cold, so cold. Still, so still. She couldn’t even stop to check his breathing. And what could she do? CPR impossible in the water. His father was still too far away to help them. Swim. Swim. Don’t answer him. Save your breath. Swim. Swim.
The flashing blue light ahead gave her renewed energy. Oh God, let it be an ambulance. Please let it be an ambulance. Please let there be a paramedic able to take this tiny, cold body and breathe life back into it. Getting closer now, finding her feet on the pebbles, thankful for the shoes she had cursed in the water, sodden trainers that now let her fly across the submerged pebbles.
A policeman appeared on the beach with a hacksaw and axe in his hands, followed by Emma.
‘Ben!’ she screamed.
The frozen puppet stirred in Jaq’s arms.
‘Mummy!’
Oh God, he was alive. Ben was alive!
As Emma enveloped her son in a warm embrace, Jaq collapsed onto the stone beach and looked back at the lake.
To see Johan in his red kayak dragging a body though the water.
Tuesday 15 March, Cumbria, England
The police car crunched over gravel, heading back towards Ulvers
ton. Jaq glanced at the lake, now crimson beneath the setting sun, and the anger boiled up inside her. Volcanic, incandescent, flaring anger.
Anger with herself. How could she have been so selfish? Running to Johan because men were following her. What had she been thinking? Had she considered the consequences? For Johan, yes. Johan was ex-army, he could handle anything. But how could she have ignored the danger she was bringing to his wife, sweet Emma, his children, Ben and Jade? What sort of monster had she become? Disgorging her own trouble, vomiting it onto innocent children.
Anger with the man sent to kill her. She recognised him. The man spying on her in Yarm must have followed her to Cumbria. He was leaving now, in an ambulance with a police escort, straight to the morgue.
Anger with the police. She was the last to be interviewed and she told them everything: the explosion at Snow Science, Camilla Hatton’s disappearance, Frank Good’s lies, his henchmen following her, Zagrovyl’s curious connection with Snow Science. As if a dam had burst, the torrent of words, suspicions, certainties flowed freely. Better than tears, better than anger, it was such a relief to unburden herself that she barely registered the police reaction. All that mattered was that they left with a promise to contact Interpol and OPCW – the Organisation for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons.
The gate clunked closed. Johan stood in the garden, his back to her, staring at the sunset. Her anger dissolved into shame. Despite the dry clothes, the hot shower, the sweet tea, she welcomed the shivering that racked her body, the throbbing ache in her temples and the gripping nausea in her stomach; they all gave physical form to her guilt.
She shrugged on her coat and went out to him.
‘Emma’s taken the children to her mother’s.’
‘How’s Ben?’
‘Temperature back to normal. A few bruises. Otherwise physically unharmed.’
‘And Jade?’
‘She was asleep for most of the drama, safe in her cot inside the farmhouse.’
‘How did you know to come back?’ Her jaw ached with the effort of keeping her teeth from chattering.
‘Emma called me from the woodshed. And the police. She had her mobile with her. I was teaching at the other end of the lake – I took the quickest way back.’
‘Will she ever forgive me?’
Johan put an arm round her shoulders. ‘You saved our son, Jaq.’
Jaq ducked, twisting away from him. ‘Don’t.’ She put her head in her hands. ‘Coming here was a mistake. I put you all in danger. I’m so sorry.’
‘Did you kill him, Jaq?’ Johan asked. ‘That man in the lake. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.’
‘No!’ How could he think that of her?
‘Then what happened?’
‘What did Emma see?’
‘Nothing. She went to get wood for the fire and next thing she knows she’s locked in the shed and Ben is crying outside. She’s sure she heard a man’s voice, sure it was the man in the lake.’
‘What did Ben say?’
‘He won’t talk about it. He’s still in shock. The police insist he must have locked his mum in the shed as a prank and gone on a solo boating adventure that went horribly wrong.’
‘What about the body?’
‘The police theory is that a passer-by tried to rescue Ben and drowned. Only the autopsy will tell.’
‘And you, do you buy the police theory?’
‘Of course not. It’s ridiculous. I told them so. Ben can be a tearaway, but he obeys his mother. And he understands boats and water, has a healthy respect for danger. Christ, Jaq, he’s four years old.’ Johan’s voice broke. ‘Ben can barely reach the padlock on the woodshed, far less force it shut.’ He blinked hard. ‘Did you see anything?’
Jaq shook her head. ‘I went for a run. Emma, Ben and Jade were all in the farmhouse. Next thing I know, there’s a boat sinking in the middle of the lake with Ben in it.’ She shivered. ‘The man who drowned, I recognised him. I know he was sent to kill me. Make it look like an accident. But something went wrong, and Ben raised the alarm. He’s a hero.’
‘I’ll tell him that.’ Johan jangled his car keys. ‘I’m going to my in-laws now.’
Of course. He wanted to be with his family. Time to move on. ‘I’m heading off, too.’
‘Back to Teesside?’ Johan didn’t try to dissuade her. ‘Whatever happened today, the man who followed you is dead. The police are on your side. You’re safe now.’
Jaq wished she could be so sure.
Wednesday 16 March, Teesside, England
The rain pelted the police car, the north wind driving the droplets at a 45-degree angle, soaking the passenger as the uniformed officer opened the door. Detective Inspector Dias unfurled a golf umbrella, coloured triangles of green and purple plastic straining against the light metal frame, and hurried towards the sliding doors of the Zagrovyl headquarters.
Frank Good’s assistant, sharp cheekbones and well-cut suit, greeted the policemen and whisked them past the blank-faced receptionist, away from the public area with its black leather sofas and revolving trophy cabinet, to the private conference suite where the Zagrovyl director of European operations was waiting.
Introductions were made, coffee dispensed – black for DI Dias, no sugar, thank you, white for Sergeant Prosser, two lumps, please – before the four men sat down, the policemen facing the wall, the Zagrovyl representatives facing the glass door.
‘Now then, Officer, you said it was urgent.’ Frank placed his hands on the table. ‘How can I help you?’
DI Dias slid a photo across the polished surface. ‘Do you know this man?’
Frank considered his options. Nothing to be gained from concealment; the police must already know.
‘A private investigator. Bill Sharp.’
‘Working for you?’
‘He does occasional odd jobs for me, yes.’ Frank sat back and opened his legs. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Found dead yesterday morning. Drowned in Lake Coniston.’
‘I see.’ Frank scowled and then corrected himself, making an effort to appear to care about something other than the dammed inconvenience. ‘Poor Bill, how dreadful. What happened?’
‘Too early to say. Do you know a Dr Jaqueline Silver?’
Maybe she was dead too; that would solve a few problems.
‘Not well. I met her only once. She came to this office last week. Friday, wasn’t it . . .?’ He looked over at his assistant for corroboration.
‘I can check the visitors’ book, sir.’
The useless mannequin, all full lips and pointy shoes, remained seated. Nicola had advised against him at interview, which was precisely why Frank had hired the sharp-suited lad. But what fucking use was an assistant if they couldn’t back you up when you needed them?
‘You do just that,’ Frank said. When the fashion lump didn’t move, he waved his hand. ‘Off you go.’ He waited until the moron got the message before returning his attention to the detective inspector. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘She has made some rather serious accusations.’
So, she wasn’t dead, but still alive and causing trouble. What was her part in Bill’s untimely demise? Frank narrowed his eyes. ‘Can you elaborate?’
‘All in good time.’ The DI coughed and pulled out a notebook. ‘Perhaps you could tell us what . . .’ he checked his notebook, ‘odd jobs . . . the late Mr Sharp was doing for you?’
Frank took out a white cotton handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘Are you married, Detective Inspector?’
‘Divorced.’
A man after his own heart. ‘This is a little embarrassing, Detective Inspector.’ Frank put his handkerchief away. ‘I first hired Bill at a troubled time in my marriage. I suspected my wife of . . .’ He dropped his eyes and let the silence imply infidelity. He certainly wasn’t going to elaborate on the real trouble with garrulous mistresses which led his first wife to sue for divorce.
The DI shook his head. ‘Let’s focus on the present, shall we,
sir?’ His tone was one of manly understanding. ‘Why was Mr Sharp following Jaqueline Silver?’
There was no point in denying it. ‘I asked Bill to keep an eye on her and warn me if she came back. I was concerned as to what she might do, might be capable of.’ He let that land. ‘Not for myself, you understand. For my family.’ Which family? He had a choice of three. ‘Just until I could get a restraining order in place.’ Which, now he thought of it, merited a call to his lawyer the moment this interview finished.
‘What caused this concern?’
Frank met his eyes. ‘You are aware of her history?’
‘Whose history, sir?’
‘Jaqueline Silver. She was accused of manslaughter – did you know?’
The DI raised an eyebrow. So, he hadn’t done his homework. Good.
‘Multiple deaths. But she got off on a technicality.’ Frank raised his eyebrows in exaggerated exasperation. ‘The families of her victims never gave up – they brought a private prosecution. Still ongoing, still unresolved.’
DI Dias whispered something to his sergeant, who excused himself and left the room. Two down, one to go.
‘There is a history of mental illness in her family. Zagrovyl tried to help, but in the end, we had to fire her.’ Frank shook his head in a display of sorrow. ‘Before my time, but she took it badly. Very badly. Still very bitter. Towards Zagrovyl. Towards me.’
‘Why towards you, sir?’
Frank puffed up his chest. ‘I guess I am the public face of Zagrovyl.’
‘And how did she manifest this . . . bitterness?’
‘Burst in here. Threatened me.’
‘Threatened you, sir? About what?’
‘God knows, she wasn’t exactly rational.’ Frank groaned aloud. ‘Oh, poor Bill. I will never forgive myself if . . .’ He slapped his forehead as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘Inspector, is there any chance Jaqueline Silver knew that Bill was following her? Confronted him? There is no knowing how she would react if . . .’
The Chemical Detective Page 14