What about Laurent’s keys? Would he have a file on himself? Sure enough, there it was. Some interesting correspondence with a Ladhaki foundation. Dr Camilla Hatton had been telling the truth about that at least. She flicked on until she found the form. His keys had an earlier serial number. She took a photo of the three pages, side by side.
Just as she thought. Sergei had vanished, taking his keys with him. There was a third set of keys out there.
The sensation of weightlessness caught her off guard, her head suddenly spinning. The vice of self-doubt sprang open, the pressure of responsibility released. It didn’t have to be her fault that someone had breached security. It certainly wasn’t her fault that they died in the explosion.
But she needed more evidence to convince the authorities to investigate Zagrovyl. And that bastard, Frank Good, who sent men to kill her.
At least one person knew more than they were telling. She found his file and photographed the address.
Time for an honest talk.
Thursday 17 March, Kranjskabel, Slovenia
Jaq barely noticed the stars as she ran down the hill from Snow Science, an urgency in her step driving her on. Next stop, Stefan Resnik, the security guard.
His flat lay on the outskirts of town, behind a shopping centre on the main road between Snow Science and Kranjskabel. She stopped at a supermarket and selected a card with wishes for a speedy recovery. He’d been unimpressed by her last gift of fruit. Whisky would be more bloody use. Get the man what he wanted, and maybe he’d tell her what she needed to know. She bought a single malt in a presentation tin.
Jaq cut across the supermarket car park, narrowly missing a van that skidded on the snow near the exit steps. Careless idiots. Stefan’s flat was in the basement of a run-down block. The lights were on, but there was no response when she rang the bell. Jaq checked the address and peered into the depths. Maybe he had gone out and left the lights on. Or maybe he wasn’t answering.
A van idled at the corner; the engine revved. The same black van that had almost run her over in the car park. Not in such a hurry now. Come to apologise? The windows were tinted, but she could make out three shapes hunched behind the windscreen. She raised her phone and snapped a picture, and another one of the number plate. Moving forward to get a better shot, the van roared into life and sped away.
It was too cold to hang around outside on the street. She pressed each of the bells on the other flats in turn until someone answered.
‘I have something for Stefan Resnik,’ she said. A blind rattled upwards on the third floor and a lozenge of yellow light spilled on to the street. Jaq held up the bottle in salute, and after a minute the door buzzed open.
Jaq descended into the cold, dark stairwell, using the torch on her phone to inspect each of the four flats in the basement. Stefan’s name was on the door of the last one. She placed the bottle behind a utility metering cabinet tucked away out of sight and tugged off a glove to write directions to it on the card. As she bent to slip the envelope under the door, a shadow moved behind the fisheye.
The door flew open. Stefan stood in front of her in a pair of joggers and a string vest. Thinner than before, his face gaunt and unshaven, grey stubble contrasting with the clean white surgical dressing on his head.
His eyes moved from side to side, following her as she retrieved the hidden bottle of whisky. ‘Come in, quick.’ He grabbed her arm and dragged her into the flat, closing the door behind them.
He ignored her greeting, continuing to peer through the fisheye into the basement corridor. ‘Did anyone see you?’ he growled. ‘Does anyone know you’re here?’
‘I brought you a card,’ she said. ‘And a bottle of whisky.’
He locked and chained the door and led her to his living room. A battered sofa stood at right angles to a newer reclining chair which faced a large flat-screen TV across a small patterned rug. A dresser in the corner held a set of mismatched glasses and a strangely incongruous tea set: fluted china cups and saucers in a floral pattern with a gold rim. The table next to the comfy chair was piled high with paperback thrillers, a mug with reading glasses balanced precariously on the top, the metal frames glinting under a floor-mounted reading lamp. The room was heated by a small black stove. The walls were bare, but discoloured squares on the magnolia paintwork hinted at pictures recently removed. A single window high on the wall gave a view of a cinder block wall, well below street level.
Jaq offered him the envelope and bottle.
Stefan threw down the card, grabbed the whisky and took it to the dresser.
‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he said. ‘It’s not safe.’
She remained standing. ‘What do you mean, not safe?’
‘There are bad people out there, Dr Silver.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘And I don’t want to find out.’ He reached into the dresser and drew out two glasses. He poured a couple of fingers of whisky into one and pushed it towards her.
She shook her head. ‘No, it’s for you.’
He downed the amber liquid in one gulp, sighed and poured another shot. ‘I’m not coming back to Snow Science.’
What did he think of her? That her visit was to coerce a sick old man back to work? She wouldn’t put it past Laurent to do that, but she wasn’t here to do her boss’s dirty work. ‘You take all the time you need.’
‘I’m quitting. Retiring. Going to live with my daughter in the south.’ He nodded at a framed picture on the mantelpiece. ‘You should quit too,’ he added.
‘I’ve been suspended,’ she said.
‘Because of the explosion?’ He tutted. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’ He took another swig. ‘Anyone could have broken in. Sergei was careless with his keys.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He said they were too bulky and heavy to carry around. When he wasn’t in a snowsuit, Sergei only ever wore jeans and a fitted leather jacket, the kind of man who wouldn’t be seen dead with a handbag.’ He snorted in disgust.
Unlike Laurent. ‘So, Sergei returned them to the office safe?’
‘Fat lot of use that would be. Since when did the avalanche teams only work office hours?’
‘What did he do with them?’
‘He kept them hidden under a drain cover.’
Minha nossa Senhora! ‘Where?’
‘Helicopter landing circle. Outside the warehouse.’
Cabrão! ‘Who else knew?’
‘Everyone except Dr Visquel.’ Stefan shrugged. ‘All those stupid rules, totally impractical. Dreamt up by idiots.’
Would anyone believe it? The whole basis of security, bypassed for want of a manbag? ‘Will you tell the police what you just told me?’
‘I don’t care who knows now, I’m not coming back.’ Stefan craned his neck towards the window, peering up at the road. ‘Did you see that van when you came in?’
Jaq followed his gaze. The van was back, parked in the street, snow tyres and a rusty undercarriage.
‘A delivery van, I saw it in the supermarket car park.’
‘How many men inside?’ The tremble started in his voice, quickly spreading to his thin body.
‘Three.’
He groaned; his face was grey, etched with lines of pain. He fumbled with his pocket and pulled out his angina spray. Pssst. Pssst.
Jaq guided him to his chair, shocked at how frail he had become in the three weeks since the delivery that had started all this trouble.
He pointed to the bandage on his head. ‘Can you get my tablets?’
She found a blister pack of painkillers – paracetamol – and brought them to him together with a glass of water. He took two tablets.
Jaq waited until he’d stopped trembling. ‘Do you want me to call a doctor?’
‘No,’ he said and grimaced. ‘Another whisky, please.’
‘I’m not sure—’
‘I’m sure.’
She poured a finger’s worth and laid it on the t
able beside him. As the colour returned to his cheeks, the shaking stopped. Jaq sat down opposite him. ‘Stefan, I need to know what you know. Who broke into the warehouse?’ She needed to know a lot more than that. What caused the explosion? Who died? What were Zagrovyl trying to hide? Don’t rush him. One step at a time.
‘I don’t know anything.’ He ran a hand over his head, pushing the wispy grey strands away from the dressing.
‘Where is Sergei?’
Stefan adjusted his vest. ‘Long gone,’ he said. ‘Back east.’
‘Where?’
‘Ukraine. A big construction project near Kiev.’
‘Has he been back? Could it be Sergei . . .?’ She hesitated. Will-O’-the-Wisp Y’Ispe had impressed upon her that news of a body must not be leaked until the police announced it at a press conference. ‘Could it be Sergei who broke in? Sergei who set off the explosion by accident?’
‘No.’ Stefan shook his head. ‘Sergei knew what he was doing when it came to explosives.’ He finished his whisky. ‘A tough guy, but loyal.’ He touched the bandage on his head. ‘Sergei wouldn’t hurt me.’
Jaq knelt on the floor in front of him and took his hand. ‘What happened, Stefan? You can tell me. Who broke in? Who attacked you?’
And why? What is all this really about?
‘Best if you go.’ Stefan squeezed her hand and then disentangled his. ‘Thanks for the whisky.’
‘If you tell me, maybe I can help.’
He closed his eyes. ‘I’m tired. I’m going to take a nap now.’
‘But you’ll talk to the police?’
He nodded. ‘I might need their protection.’
Stefan wouldn’t speak to her after that. She tried for a while, but when he began snoring, she called a taxi. She waited until the car was outside the window before letting herself out. The black van was nowhere to be seen.
Thursday 17 March, Kranjskabel, Slovenia
The flat had not changed in Jaq’s absence. The same white walls, the same woodchip ceiling, the same Paula Rego ceramic tile depicting a woman leaping over fire, the same books and an orange rope that she’d forgotten to return to Snow Science, neatly coiled on her desk.
But Jaq had changed. She’d blown away the cloud of disgrace that had been hanging over her, banished the black fug of injustice. With this new evidence, the pictures from Sergei’s file and Stefan’s testimony she had tangible proof of her innocence. Now Will-O’-the-Wisp would have no choice but to investigate Zagrovyl.
She called the detective, but his number was engaged. She left a message for him to call her back.
Her mood shifted. The brief elation was dashed by the prospect of saying goodbye to Karel. She dreaded the approaching discussion, explaining why they had to go their separate ways. How to avoid hurting the beautiful young man who had brightened her life for a while? How to avoid wounding his pride? Perhaps she flattered herself. Had he reached the same conclusion in her absence? Perhaps he was girding his loins, searching for the courage to tell her the same thing. They both knew it was over. A future couldn’t be built on great food and mind-blowing sex alone.
While she waited, Jaq flicked through the pictures of Sergei’s file to distract herself. What had she missed? She paused at Sergei’s life insurance form, zooming in on the contact number for his next of kin. No name, but a telephone number with country code 375. Ukraine? She looked it up on her phone: Belarus, Minsk. Did Sergei’s family live in Belarus now? Parents? Partner? Children? Only one way to find out. Her fingers flew over the keys as she entered the number. Then she hesitated. What was she going to say? Just ask for Sergei Koval and see what response she got?
She jumped when the phone rang.
‘Hi, have you eaten?’ Karel asked.
That flutter in her stomach might be hunger. ‘Not yet, but—’
‘I’ll pick something up. With you in thirty minutes, OK?’
‘OK.’
Thirty minutes. Enough time to tidy up, wipe down the kitchen surfaces, dust, run the vacuum cleaner over the carpet, put her clothes away, change the sheets, scrub the bathroom floor, take a shower. Or . . .
Jaq dialled the number on Sergei’s life insurance form.
A woman answered immediately. ‘Slooshayoo.’
Belarussian or Russian? The two languages were close.
‘Zdravstvuyte,’ Jaq began.
‘I speak English.’ The voice was gruff, the accent thick. ‘What do you want?’
Jaq swallowed hard. ‘I need to speak to Sergei Koval.’
There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end. ‘Camilla?’
Result! Play it safe. ‘Camilla,’ Jaq repeated. Not lying exactly, not claiming to be someone she was not. Just trying to keep the conversation going.
‘Thanks God. I begins to worry. Key is here.’
His keys. Damn. If they were in Minsk, how could they have been used for the break-in?
‘Where is Sergei?’ Jaq asked.
‘Sergei is bad boy. It is too much, too dangerous. People ask questions, get suspicious. I will destroy it.’
‘No, please don’t—’
‘Then you come. Bring the money.’
‘What money?’
‘The money Sergei promised. He calls me his Elena, he ask me to do many things. I do them, but he never pay.’
At last, a name. ‘Elena, I’m sorry, but—’
‘Come to Minsk, to the nightclub on Ultisa Shishkina.’
A rasp of a match striking and the crackling puff of a cigarette was followed by a long exhale. Elena coughed and then continued. ‘Bring a carton of English cigarettes, the gold ones, and a bottle of good foreign vodka. That way, I know it is you.’
So, Elena hadn’t met Camilla.
‘Ask for the fat Russian whore.’ Elena chuckled. ‘Come soon, or I destroy it.’
‘No, don’t do—’
The line went dead.
A Russian prostitute in a Minsk nightclub. So not Sergei’s wife, then. Or perhaps it translated badly. Maybe it sounded better in Belarussian. And why did Elena say a key – singular, when Sergei’s bunch must contain eight to ten keys – plural? Perhaps it was just her English. Or perhaps Elena was talking about a different key, the thing that Camilla claimed to be searching for.
Or perhaps it was a trap.
One thing was certain: Jaq was not travelling to Belarus to impersonate Camilla and recover any keys. Time to get a grip on things. Camilla had vanished, presumed dead. If Camilla was to be believed, Sergei had also vanished. Only a complete fool would follow in such precarious footsteps. Whatever they were involved with, whether alive or dead, she’d had enough of it. This was too big for her. She was handing everything over to Detective Y’Ispe – Elena’s details, Sergei’s file with proof that an extra set of keys existed, Stefan’s confession about the lax security and her theory that Snow Science was being used by smugglers connected to Zagrovyl to launder intermediates for chemical weapons. This was all too serious for a lone engineer. It warranted a major police operation. A job for OPCW and Interpol.
Karel would be arriving any minute. Best to make their last evening together count.
The moment she turned on the shower, the phone rang. She let it go to voicemail. Steam came in clouds from the shower cubicle. She stripped and stepped in. Aaah. Nothing quite like the flow of warm water over cold skin. Through the pitter-patter of the shower on the plastic tray, the phone rang again.
Karel was on his way. Despite her best intentions, a quiver started from deep inside her, a wave of desire pulling at her nipples and making the corners of her mouth turn upwards as well. She rinsed her hair and bent for the soap, lathering her skin, enjoying the sensation, the anticipation.
Noises on the staircase outside. When the door flew open, she was half turned away. A rush of cold air, the unfamiliar smell of stale cigarette smoke, made her whirl round and drop the soap. Her hand flew to her mouth. Two men stood in the doorway to her bathroom.
With guns.
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Thursday 17 March, Kranjskabel, Slovenia
The tiny bathroom offered Jaq no place to hide. No shower curtain, no cubicle door. A shower head jutted from the wall beside the basin and the water ran into a drain in the corner opposite the toilet. Jaq stood naked, facing two complete strangers. One of them waved a gun at her.
She grabbed a towel from the rail, covering herself as she pressed her back against the tiled wall.
‘Get out!’ she said.
The men didn’t move. One was square and heavyset; he stood with legs apart, chin on chest, the air of a nightclub bouncer. The taller one stroked his short red beard. He spoke in Russian.
‘Priyti bistro.’ You’re coming with us.
What could she use to defend herself? They stood between her and the kitchen knives. Perhaps just as well. One semi-naked woman against two armed men. Not such great odds. Was this what had happened to Sergei? A visit from strangers with guns? Followed by . . . what? She shuddered under the towel. ‘Who are you?’
‘My zadadim voprosy.’ We’ll ask the questions. Redbeard chucked a random assortment of clothes in her direction. ‘Odet’sya, potoropit’sya.’ Get dressed. Hurry up.
She dressed slowly under the towel. Pants, jeans, shirt. Was that a noise at the door? Karel must be on his way. All she needed was a distraction. They were bigger, but she was faster. Come on. Play for time. She discarded the first pair of socks and asked for another.
‘Bystryy.’ Bouncer grabbed her arm. He hauled her towards the door.
If she left with them, would she ever be seen again? Would her Snow Science file end like Sergei’s? The fear descended – a glacial mist, freezing her blood, locking her joints, hardening her muscles. She fell forward, her bare feet dragging across tiles and onto the carpet as Bouncer barrelled forward. The painful heat from the acrylic fibre against her skin catalysed a rush of adrenaline. She opened her mouth to scream, but Redbeard clamped a hand around her face before she had reached top C. She bit down hard on his hand and stabbed an elbow into his diaphragm.
‘Blyed!’ he yelled as she twisted free and made a dash for the door.
The Chemical Detective Page 17