The Chemical Detective

by Fiona Erskine

  What did the map show? Disposal of nuclear waste from Chornobyl? Or worse, trading fuel for nuclear bomb-making? But Katya said there was no uranium or plutonium left in Chornobyl apart from the material trapped in smouldering Reactor Four. And the really serious stuff was dull to detection, easy to shield in a lead casket, stable until you stuck it in a superheated environment and bombarded it with neutrons. A lump of weapons-grade plutonium was less likely to set off a Geiger counter than a crystal of cobalt destined for a radiotherapy machine, or a sliver of americium in a household smoke detector, or a truckload of bananas, rich in a naturally occurring radioactive isotope, potassium 40.

  But if not plutonium, then what? Low-level radioactive waste sold for dirty bombs? The end destinations didn’t denote typical terrorist flashpoints. In fact, they represented centres of industry, but the blobs were big and the countries small, and she could only zoom in so far.

  She moved on, swiping across the touchscreen. After the map there were a series of tables, line after line, column upon column of numbers.

  The final screens were maps again. One journey per map, by the look of it. This time there was no mistaking the starting point. A faint green spot on the border between Ukraine and Belarus, north of Pripyat. Chornobyl. Then a series of blobs of increasing depth of colour as something moved through Slovakia, the Czech Republic, Germany, the Netherlands, the UK . . . and her heart stopped as she zoomed in. The final bright green blob sat in the centre of Teesside, the heart of UK manufacturing, right at the gate of Zagrovyl.

  Was this what Camilla had been investigating? Why the people at Zagrovyl pretended not to know her? Sergei had collected evidence of radioactive material moving from Chornobyl to Teesside through Snow Science. He had requested a meeting; had told Camilla he had the key. And here it was.

  What did it all mean? And what the hell was she going to do with it?

  Jaq jumped at the knock on the door. With trembling fingers, she moved the Tyche tracker onto the bed and covered it with the quilt. A shuffling noise outside. The squeak of trolley wheels.

  ‘Domashnye hospodarstvo.’ Housekeeping.

  ‘Nyet,’ she shouted, no thanks, and held her breath until the noises moved away.

  She tossed the quilt aside and flicked back to the map. There were two options. The first was highlighted. She toggled to the second and pressed return. The map changed. It zoomed out and became a world map. The green dots disappeared and now there were dots of many colours. Each ribbon of coloured light connected Chornobyl to a different place: Grozny, Bilbao, Palermo, Belfast, Srinagar, Jaffna, Aleppo, Karachi, Kabul and Pyongyang.

  This time the dots were best defined closest to Chornobyl, growing smaller and fainter as they moved further away. The routes were far from direct. They meandered backwards and forwards, making great loops.

  Jaq stood and stretched. It was dark outside, the street lights glowing orange, the green and gold onion domes of St Sophia’s church lit up from below. The thinning traffic wound its way down the hill, out to the suburbs. People going home. People who had homes to go to. A pain in her stomach, a twisting ache. Was she going to be sick again? She hurried to the bathroom and turned on the tap as she bent over the sink. The pain continued but duller now, not the sudden sharp spasms of food poisoning. Her legs weakened at the memory, and she held onto the sink. Could it be hunger? She had barely eaten for thirty-six hours, hadn’t been able to face the prospect. But the idea was suddenly appealing.

  Jaq called room service. She ordered clear chicken broth, green tea and plain boiled rice.

  While she waited she flicked through the tables on the tracker. There were hundreds of them, but they all followed exactly the same format.

  240211 1845 54.597255, -1.201133, 800X, 0C, 800A, 0B

  250211 0608 51.126460, 1.327162, 152X, 648C, 152A, 648B,

  250211 1145 50.966220, 1.862010, 152X, 648C, 152A, 648B,

  250211 1904 48.585741, 7.758399, 152X, 648C, 152A, 648B,

  250211 2325 47.799400, 13.043900, 152X, 648C, 152A, 648B,

  260211 0606 46.502800, 13.794400, 152X, 648C, 152A, 648B,

  010311 0823 46.533200, 15.601100, 72X, 648C, 72A, 648B,

  030311 1641 47.45952 18.99284, 72X, 648C, 72A, 648B,

  040311 0207 51.532153, 29.575247 Error, Error, 72A, 648B,

  The first column had six digits: 240211. She scanned down; the first two numbers never went beyond thirty-one, the second two up to twelve, so day and month and the last two must be year. The next column was four digits: 1845, 0608 . . . easy – the twenty-four-hour clock format was instantly recognisable. So, the first two columns must be a date and time stamp. The next two columns had seven or eight digits, always six after the decimal point. A familiar format. She let her eyes go out of focus, tried to see the pattern behind the numbers. They snaked and coiled like the ribbons on the map. Maybe, just maybe . . . GPS coordinates? Jaq reached for her laptop, opened a maps application and typed in the last string. On the Belarus border due north of Pripyat. Gotcha!

  Were the tables the source data for the maps? Had each GPS location from the table been plotted on the map? It would take time and a fast internet connection to check, but it was certainly possible. Likely, even. But what about the rest of the table? What determined the colour of the dot? Or its size and intensity?

  A knock on the door made her jump.

  A male voice called out in English. ‘Room service.’

  That was quick. Her stomach rumbled. Time to eat. She covered the instrument with the quilt. ‘Just coming,’ she shouted.

  Jaq didn’t check the spyhole before releasing the chain. She opened the door expecting to see a uniformed waiter with the room service trolley. Instead, a man in a suit stood in the corridor. A familiar figure, but it still took a second to place him. A second in which he inserted a foot between the door and the frame. She gaped at the polished, hand-stitched Italian shoe. Then up, past his pearl-buttoned waistcoat to the pointed chin, the aquiline nose, the cold blue eyes. The first time she’d seen him was in the Zagrovyl headquarters. And with a rush of recognition she remembered the last time, the lift in the hotel lobby here in Kiev.

  ‘Hello, Jaqueline,’ Frank Good said.

  Thursday 2 June, Kiev, Ukraine

  Jaq placed her palms on the door and shoved it with all her might. Frank was too quick; he curled a hand round the outer edge. Principle of levers, force times distance, she had no chance of resisting, even with her shoulder against the door. She jumped back and the door flew open. Frank strode forward.

  Jaq placed her hands on her hips. ‘Mr Good. Please leave my room.’

  He smiled and closed the door, locking it with the chain and standing with his back to it, blocking her exit. ‘Not until you give me what I came for.’

  ‘I’m calling security.’ Jaq picked up the phone.

  Frank lunged forward and ripped the cable from the wall. ‘Just give it to me, and there need be no unpleasantness.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘The Tyche tracker. I know you have it.’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Get out.’

  Frank opened the desk drawer. ‘Where is it?’

  Hurry up with the soup. ‘I am expecting visitors.’

  Frank laughed. A short, scornful guffaw. ‘I cancelled your room service. There is no one coming, Jaqueline.’

  He advanced towards her and she backed away, crossing the room to the window and throwing open the curtains. No escape; the windows didn’t open. She banged on the glass, hoping to attract some attention.

  ‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ Frank said as he continued to ransack the room.

  She glanced over to the bed. The quilt was rumpled, the pillows misaligned. She looked away, but it was too late. He followed her gaze and strode to the bed, yanking back the covers to reveal the Tyche tracker.

  Frank held the instrument aloft, like a trophy. ‘I’ll take this. Thank you, Jaqueline.’

  ‘
Leave it alone. It doesn’t belong to you.’

  ‘Actually, I think you’ll find it does.’ He leered at her. ‘Zagrovyl acquired Tyche and all its assets some time ago. So that would include this tracker. But thanks for retrieving it for me. Personally, I didn’t fancy spending any time in a radioactive zone.’

  Jaq lunged at him, grabbed the tracker and sprinted towards the door. In the few seconds it took to remove the chain, Frank slammed into her from behind, trapping her between his body and the door.

  ‘Give it to me and no one need get hurt.’ His arms reached around her to take the Tyche tracker.

  Jaq let go of the machine and shot her hands above her head, leaning back to catch him round the back of the neck. She cocked her head out of the way and slammed his forehead into the door. Once, twice, three times.

  Frank cried out with pain as his nose connected with the raised ferrule of the spyhole. She twisted free, dropped to the floor and rolled away, kicking out at him.

  He stumbled, but recovered quickly, keeping hold of the tracker. ‘You want to play?’ He wiped away a trickle of blood dripping from his nose and frowned. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, you’re not my type.’

  Jaq backed away until she was at the window.

  ‘Although . . .’ He looked her up and down. ‘No, sadly, we really don’t have time right now.’ He laughed. ‘Some other time?’ He tucked the tracker under his arm. ‘I owe you one.’

  The door thudded as it closed behind him. Footsteps receded down the corridor. Jaq stood in the narrow gap between the window and the curtain and shivered. The ground was shifting under her feet. On the other side of the curtains, all was not as it seemed. Unstable reality.

  The anger rose up from somewhere deep inside her. She threw back the curtains with a roar. Frank’s aftershave lingered in the room and she gagged. Clothes lay strewn across the floor where Frank had rifled through her suitcase. The covers from the bed in a pile by the wall, the pillow on a chair.

  The overwhelming need to wash drove her, ignoring the mess, straight to the bathroom. She stood under the shower and let cleansing water pour over her. She scrubbed at her naked skin, washing everything away. The water flowed fast, endlessly hot. How did they power the city now the nuclear plant was gone? When the sun didn’t shine and the wind didn’t blow? Was it gas from Azerbaijan, fuelling the new generation of power plants, or coal from Siberia?

  Jaq dried herself and climbed into the other single bed, the one Frank had not touched.

  And slept.

  Friday 3 June, Kiev, Ukraine

  Sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains, moving across the wall until a shaft of light hit the twin beds. One was unmade, chaotic; the other contained a woman curled up in a foetal position, stirring as the light fell on her face. Jaq had slept all night and most of the morning, but now her gnawing hunger could no longer be ignored. She showered and dressed, ignoring the mess. Time to get out and find some food.

  She grabbed her bag and stepped out into the street in search of a café, mind blank, one foot in front of the other, one step at a time, stretching her limbs, warm in the sunshine, surrounded by people going about their ordinary business, people who meant her no harm, people who had nothing to do with Zagrovyl or Frank Good. She stopped and clenched her fists, a tremor running though her rigid body from scalp to heels.

  Don’t look back. Look ahead. Move forward. What next? Avoiding the street sellers in the park, nauseous at the thought of watermelon, she advanced towards an avenue of trees, walking briskly until she reached the Lavra Monastery, green and gold and white, sparkling in the sunshine. Last night’s rain had washed the city clean.

  At a tourist café she ordered black tea and dry toast. Sitting at an outside table, under the shade of a horse chestnut tree, Jaq observed the comings and goings, focusing on minutiae to keep dark thoughts at bay. A steady stream of tour groups – some on foot, some in buses, some with guidebooks and some with guides. The toast arrived; it crunched and exploded into insubstantial crumbs in her mouth. She chewed slowly. One step at a time.

  Above the pale green leaves, flower candles were blossoming: pearl-white buttons. A sneering face formed in the canopy, the palmate leaflets pointing at her like mocking fingers. Where was Frank Good now? Had he left the country? Or was he still lurking somewhere in Kiev? Still at the hotel? Should she confront him? Report him to the police? And what would she say? Frank Good assaulted me and stole something. And why did you wait until today to report it? I was tired. And how did you come by the object he stole? A prostitute in Minsk gave me a key to be used in the Chornobyl zone of alienation, and I found the tracker belonging to a Ukrainian explosives expert who went missing in Slovenia where I am wanted on murder charges.

  Yeah, right.

  It didn’t take long to locate the person she had come to find. Petr, the first guide from the Chornobyl tour, leading a group out through the gates of the monastery. She waited until he had ushered them onto their departing coach before standing up and waving.

  ‘Jaq!’ Petr rushed over, grinning from ear to ear.

  His delight was touching, but she clamped down on her own furtive fizz of pleasure. Strictly business. She indicated the chair opposite. ‘I believe I owe you lunch.’

  ‘A bit early?’ He checked his watch and then smiled. ‘But why not? Look, I know a better place, a short walk. You can tell me what happened on the way.’

  She paid for breakfast. They strolled side by side under an avenue of trees, the heady blossom wafting through the air, a sensual scent of new life, new beginnings.

  Petr listened as they descended the hill, never interrupting. She chose her words carefully, struggling to limit her story to the bare bones of watermelon sickness and overnight recovery. When she fell silent he asked her about herself. Evasion became harder, and she was grateful when they turned into a narrow alley and had to continue in single file.

  The restaurant, hidden between tall buildings, announced itself with mouthwatering smells. The owner, a rotund man with an impressive, curling moustache, greeted Petr like an old friend, clapping him on the shoulder and beaming at Jaq as he hurried them to the terrace. The outside tables, tucked under a wooden trellis heavy with vines, commanded a splendid view of the River Dnieper.

  ‘There’s something you aren’t telling me.’ Petr waited until the owner had bustled away. ‘What were you doing with that Geiger counter?’ He leant forward and made eye contact. ‘I honestly don’t remember you bringing one in.’

  ‘It’s a long story.’ She avoided his gaze. ‘Thanks for recovering it for me.’ No point mentioning that Frank had stolen it from her.

  ‘The least I could do after abandoning you in Pripyat.’ He gazed out over the river. ‘How are you feeling?’ He nodded at the menu. ‘Recovered enough to try one of Igor’s specials?’

  ‘I’ve barely eaten since the watermelon that caused all the trouble.’ She patted her stomach. ‘And now I’m starving!’

  A waiter pirouetted past with a bowl of steaming stew, delivering it to a man in dark glasses. The smell of pork and cabbage lingered. Her mouth watered.

  Petr followed her eyes and laughed. ‘Solyanka. Want to try some?’ He signalled to the waiter.

  When the stew arrived, she couldn’t get the spoon into her mouth fast enough. Cubes of seasoned, tender pork in an unctuous liquid thickened with potato. A potpourri of onions, carrots, swede and dense fresh and sour cabbage added at the last minute to keep shape and texture and a slight crunch. If it hadn’t been piping hot, she’d have gobbled it down faster. As it was she had to blow on each forkful. The more she ate, the hungrier she became. When she’d finished, she wiped the bowl clean with black bread. The waiter offered her more, but she shook her head and sat back.

  ‘So, Jaq, where are you from?’

  The passport she had used to book the Chornobyl tour was Portuguese. Best to stick with that.

  ‘I flew from Lisbon.’ Via Slovenia, Teesside and Belarus.

  �
��You don’t have a Portuguese accent.’

  ‘I studied and worked in England.’ Before Slovenia.

  ‘England, eh?’ Petr accepted a refill of stew. ‘That woman was talking rubbish.’

  Which woman? Surely not Katya, the guide. She stared at him for a clue.

  ‘It’s true, chornobyl is the name of a plant,’ he waved a fork in the air, ‘but it isn’t wormwood.’

  Ah, Megan, he was talking about mad English Megan.

  ‘It’s mugwort,’ Petr continued. ‘Some Russian started the rumour because he confused the English botanical names. Wormwood is polyn hirky – bitter artemis or artemisia absinthium. It’s what the French use to flavour absinthe. Mugwort is chornobyl or artemisia vulgaris. There are no biblical predictions about mugwort.’

  ‘Are you a botanist?’

  ‘Mycologist.’ He speared a cube of pork and held it aloft. ‘We’re studying fungi tolerant to radiation. Many new species thrive on it. They grow in the dark inside the reactor sarcophagus, using the energy from radioactive particle decay instead of the photons from light.’

  ‘Nature finds a way.’ Jaq leant to one side to let the waiter remove her empty bowl, shaking her head at the offer of dessert.

  ‘It’s an important discovery.’ Petr put his fork down and patted his belly, signalling to the waiter that he was also finished. ‘Could be a way to feed space travellers.’

  ‘What – atomic-powered spaceships with mushroom farms feeding on nuclear waste?’

  ‘Something along those lines. How about you? What did you study in England?’

  ‘Engineering.’ That usually stopped the conversation dead.

  ‘Nuclear?’

  ‘Chemical.’ She folded her napkin and steepled her fingers.

  ‘So, what are you working on?’

  ‘I’m between jobs at the moment.’ Sacked from one, suspended from another. Time to deflect him from this line of enquiry. ‘So how come you moonlight as a tour guide?’

  ‘I love my work, but . . .’ Petr rubbed his forefinger against his thumb, ‘. . . it doesn’t pay much.’