The Chemical Detective

by Fiona Erskine

  The noise woke her. Thump-thump-a-thump. A strange sensation from her feet, her heels drumming against the mattress. She opened her eyes and fought the giddiness, raising her head to squint at the end of the bed. It was hard to focus, the room was blurred, but there was nobody near; no one was forcing her legs to make those rapid, jerky movements, and yet she was powerless to stop. The mattress was soft and the little whoomph-whoomph noise her pounding feet made barely travelled. But her laughter did. It sounded peculiar even to her own ears. A cackling, dry laugh, high and raucous. Her face was wet. Why? She squeezed her eyes to find that the tears were her own.

  Her stomach cramped and spasmed, and she retched over the side of the bed.

  A blur of white resolved into a person. Feet first, then a mop swished across the floor. White trousers, white tunic with blue braiding, clean-shaven face. He was young, his uniform more military than hospital. When she lay back, he cleaned her face. The damp towel was cool and welcome against her flushed skin. He was talking to her, low, quiet words, but they made no sense. She tried to remember her Ukrainian.

  Voda – water. It came out as vodka. The harder she tried to correct it the louder the words shot from her mouth. VODKA! VODKA! She was laughing out loud again, her heart fluttering, completely elated. She was alive. Thank you. Spasiba. SPASTIC! SPACESUIT! SPAM! She roared with laughter, her whole body shaking.

  He sat next to her on the bed and tapped a syringe. The tears flowed as swiftly as the laughter had stopped. She grabbed the hand preparing to administer an injection and brought it to her cheek, clinging onto it, desperate for some human contact. He was talking to her again. A lovely cadence, a gentle rhythm, the voice of reassurance. Like a cassette played backwards. Entirely free of vowels. She released his hand and waited for the prick of a needle and release.

  The next time Jaq woke she was able to take in her surroundings. Hers was the only bed; a chair with a cabinet beside it and a sink opposite. She lay in a white room with high ceilings, a single door and two big windows. The bright green leaves brushing against the glass brought tears to her eyes. She bit her lip, determined not to cry.

  ‘Good morning!’

  Jaq hadn’t noticed the other door, flush with the wall. A woman in a military uniform, a stethoscope round her neck, closed it behind her and advanced towards Jaq with a broad smile.

  ‘How are you feeling today?’ she asked. English. No trace of an accent.

  ‘Where am I?’ Jaq asked.

  ‘You’re at the NATO hospital in Terespol, Poland,’ the woman replied.

  A hospital, not a prison. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I am Brigadier Marion Fairman. Also a medical doctor. Your doctor.’

  A doctor. She was sick. That was right, she felt wretched. Everything ached.

  ‘Can you tell me your name?’

  What an odd question. ‘Jaqueline Silver.’

  ‘And your profession?’

  ‘I’m a chemical engineer.’

  ‘And your home address?’

  Jaq glanced up at the ceiling. Where did she live? She had no idea. She stared into a dark abyss where her memory should have been. ‘Doctor, what is wrong with me?’

  ‘Do you remember what happened?’

  Jaq started to shake her head and then wished she hadn’t. It set off a battering on the inside of her skull. Bat-a-bat-a-bat.

  ‘You have suffered a major trauma. It looks as if you were thrown from a moving vehicle. No sign of internal bleeding, but you sustained a severe blow to the head. You arrived here unconscious, and we kept you in a medically induced coma until it was safe to bring you round.’

  ‘Will my memory come back?’

  ‘In most cases, yes. But we need to keep you in for observation to see if there is any lasting damage.’

  Why was she in Poland? Her head was stuffed with nonsense. ‘What happened to me?’

  ‘We were rather hoping you could tell us,’ the doctor said. She picked up a clipboard hanging out of sight at the end of the bed and flipped through the charts. ‘You were picked up in Belarus. Luckily for you, your Portuguese passport meant you were brought to us. I’m afraid you were rather distressed by the time you got here.’

  ‘When? How long have I been here?’

  ‘Several weeks.’

  Weeks! The panic swept over her. There was something important she had to do. She shivered and closed her eyes against the cold dizziness.

  ‘Get some rest,’ the doctor said. ‘Then we can talk again.’ She smiled brightly.

  ‘No,’ Jaq said. ‘You have to stop them!’ Stop who? Where? She was crying. What was happening to her? She never cried. When had she been given a personality transplant? She accepted the needle gratefully, anything to escape the awful confusion of reality.

  Jaq slipped into opiate oblivion.

  Thursday 7 July, Terespol, Poland

  The man from the embassy stared at Jaq, disbelief etched on his face. She saw herself reflected in his eyes. A sick woman in a hospital bed with partial amnesia. Was she mad? Had she invented this?

  Was she even sure any more?

  Yes, she was sure. Somewhere out there was a fully functioning chemical weapons factory. It didn’t matter about anything else – her past, her future – she had to ensure the factory was closed down.

  A man’s face swam into her memory, sandy hair, brown eyes, his features blurred. ‘There was someone with me.’ But who? Think! Forest smell, damp wood, mushrooms. A scientist guide. ‘A mycologist. He took me to Chornobyl.’ The bus tour. No, not then. A motorbike, the open road. The gentle man who kept his body from touching hers. Petr. Of course. The bracket fungi samples, the heat of the day, the helicopters. Jaq sat up suddenly and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Petr. They killed him.’

  Marion laid down her pen. ‘I see,’ she said gravely. ‘Were there any other casualties?’

  ‘Victor, the torturer. I killed him with tickle.’

  Marion stood up. ‘Jaq, maybe we should take a break.’

  ‘No. Please, it’s all coming back.’

  The man from the embassy suppressed a smirk. ‘All coming back, eh? Quite an adventure. You went mushroom-hunting with Petr in a radioactive zone and tickled Victor to death?’

  ‘Tickle! Titanium tetrachloride. TiCl4. In the secret weapons complex, I added it to water and made a cloud for us to escape.’

  ‘You escaped on a cloud?’

  ‘No, in a helicopter. With . . .’ Oh, what was his name? ‘I rescued the man who stole my Geiger counter. Well, not mine, Sergei’s. They were going to kill him.’

  ‘Who, Sergei?’

  ‘NO!’ So frustrating, so obvious. Why weren’t they listening? ‘The police blamed my handling of the explosives, but—’

  ‘You handle explosives?’

  ‘Yes, for skiing. It’s my job.’

  The man from the embassy coughed and stood up. ‘Doctor, I think this patient needs to return home for treatment.’

  ‘Jaq can’t fly,’ Marion said. ‘The swelling in the brain will take time to go down.’

  ‘I’ll contact her next of kin, see if someone can come and drive her home.’

  ‘No!’ Not Gregor. The last person she needed was her ex-husband. Jaq tore at her hair. ‘Johan. Call Johan! We have to stop them.’

  ‘Stop who, Jaq?’ The doctor’s voice was level, calm.

  She paused. Who indeed? Who were Bouncer and Redbeard working for?

  ‘I rescued a man. He can confirm my story.’

  Marion picked up her pen. ‘Can you remember his name?’

  What was his name? A contradiction in terms, that much she remembered. Honest Crook? Evil Weasel? Neil Humble? Bastard Bob? The long chin, the gaunt face, the thin lips curling into a sneer. After he shot the pilot, had he survived the helicopter crash?

  It came to her suddenly. ‘Frank Good,’ she said. ‘Zagrovyl. Find him.’

  ‘Frank Good?’ The man from the embassy laughed. ‘The European director of one of the to
p international companies?’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘I think I’ve heard enough.’

  After he left, the doctor remained, her brows knitted together.

  ‘Jaq, you need to rest.’

  ‘You don’t believe me either?’

  ‘It’s not a question of belief or disbelief. Your brain is recovering from a serious blow. Your memories are returning and you’re remaking connections.’

  ‘I am absolutely sure I was with Petr. We found a secret chemical weapons complex. The men killed Petr and were going to kill Frank. I rescued him, but we were gassed. Some kind of nerve agent made me think I could fly. I jumped out of the helicopter before it crashed. Then I woke up here. And now we have to find that complex and render it harmless.’

  ‘What you have described is a textbook reaction to Agent Fifteen,’ Marion said thoughtfully. ‘It causes an immediately debilitating effect on the central nervous and parasympathetic systems followed by full-blown delirium and paranoia. However . . .’

  A change in tone.

  ‘If you had been given quinuclidinyl benzilate,’ she continued, ‘even if it was weeks ago, there would still be traces in your bloodstream.’

  ‘So, we can do the tests to prove what I’ve been saying?’

  ‘We have already done every test in the book,’ the doctor said. ‘The analysis shows nothing, Jaq, absolutely nothing.’

  ‘So maybe there is a new nerve agent? An undetectable homologue. It was a highly sophisticated operation.’

  The doctor stood up. ‘Or perhaps there was no such operation. No such complex. There is no doubt you suffered an accident, a trauma. Judging by your injuries, you were in a vehicle crash.’

  ‘Please, check out my story. Talk to the Finnish doctor at the New Safe Confinement. They treated me for food poisoning. My computer and luggage must still be in a hotel in Kiev. Talk to the tour company, see if you can find out what happened to Petr.’ She choked back a sob. ‘And find Frank Good.’ Had he survived the helicopter crash? She gripped Marion’s hand. ‘Look, if there is even a small chance I didn’t make this up, then you must find out what happened to Frank Good.’

  Thursday 7 July, Frankfurt, Germany

  Boris shrugged off his jacket and tossed it into the passenger seat. He grinned as he slid behind the wheel of a Porsche Cayenne. The organic curves of the cream leather-lined cockpit contrasted sharply with the boxy cab of the articulated lorry he was leaving behind. He wouldn’t be sad to see the last of that beast. Moving on. Onwards and upwards. Oh, yes. He adjusted the mirrors, stretched his legs and paused to savour the moment, stroking his black beard as he investigated the console.

  Judging by the CDs in the glovebox, the previous owner’s taste in music tended to Latin funk; Boris was more of a metal head: Umbrtka, Salamandra. The square CD boxes clacked, plastic against plastic, until he extracted an acceptable compromise and slid a disc into the slot.

  Turning up the volume as he accelerated onto the autobahn, he sang along to David Bowie’s ‘Golden Years’ as the speedometer hit 200 km an hour.

  Forget the sluggish response and awkward handling of a juggernaut: life was taking him somewhere at last. This was the vehicle he was born to drive.

  And after this job, he would never drive an HGV again.

  Boris took full credit for delivering the Tyche tracker key to Sergei’s money-grubbing friend, Elena. It was a risk. A risk that had angered The Spider. A risk that almost cost him his life.

  But the trap had worked. Boris was back in favour. This job came straight from the top. And what a satisfying job. Payback time.

  While Mario had left him in that stinking cell, Silver had taken the bait, found the tracker. In the zone of alienation, just as he had predicted. Then stumbled into the Chornobyl factory and – he had to laugh at this – released her worst nightmare. Not Tickle – he was a chemist, he knew how to neutralise that – no, she had unlocked the very cell where he lay waiting for that bastard Mario to remember their deal.

  Silver was in a bad way, by all accounts, barely conscious in hospital. Dangerous places, hospitals. Full of sick people. Anything could happen. His job was to ensure it did.

  Silver was in a coma. What was the rush? He would make a detour, pick up new supplies, visit his mother. Picture her surprise when he turned up with these wheels. She’d know how to remove the bloody traces of the former owner. Imagine the admiring glances when he took her for a spin round the main square in Pardubice.

  They could eat at Pavel’s swanky new restaurant. Maminka wouldn’t be able to lecture him about his career prospects this time.

  Friday 8 July, Terespol, Poland

  The sun streamed into the room through the high windows. Jaq lay on her hospital bed and tried to identify the birds by their songs in the trees. A cuckoo – that was easy. A woodpecker. But what was the trilling song, la-la-la-la-la-laritzio? It rose on the final three syllables, repeated over and over again.

  Marion entered the room. An orderly followed, pulling a large television on a rolling stand.

  ‘Well, your story checks out, in part at least.’ The army doctor placed a hand on the sheet over Jaq’s knee. ‘There is no doubt you visited Chornobyl. The last person you were seen with was Petr, your guide. I have bad news. He died in a motorcycle accident in Belarus a few weeks ago. The bike went into a quarry and caught fire.’ She dropped her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry. All I can imagine is that you were a pillion passenger and were thrown off. Do you remember now?’

  ‘No.’ Jaq groaned and lay back.

  ‘It’s not surprising you don’t remember the crash. Even in patients who regain almost full memory, the trauma is often the one thing that remains a blank. Maybe nature’s way of protecting us from things too awful to face.’

  Jaq sat up straight and met Marion’s eyes. ‘I don’t remember a crash because it didn’t happen. Get the police to investigate more thoroughly. Petr was shot in the head. The accident was staged after he was dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jaq, but there wasn’t much evidence left. He wasn’t wearing a helmet.’ The doctor lowered her voice. ‘It took some time for the body to be identified.’

  Smash him up good.

  ‘The police said no other vehicles were involved. But someone must have found you and brought you here. Just as well. Brains are funny things – we understand so little about trauma to the head.’ Marion took her hand. ‘Look, Jaq, as you regained consciousness, you had a series of extremely vivid dreams, nightmares even. You are a highly intelligent woman. It wouldn’t be surprising if some of your dreams were . . . well, inventive.’

  ‘You think I imagined the whole secret weapons complex in some sort of delirium?’

  ‘Yes, and given your profession, it’s not surprising your delirium centred on chemicals, an area where you are a recognised expert.’

  Jaq bit her lip. It was pointless arguing like this; they were going round in circles. The more she remembered, the more specific she was, the more fantastic it sounded. Safety showers and eyewash stations among weapons of mass destruction. But why not? The criminal masterminds were not fools. Safety was good business. Injured employees would draw attention to the hidden factory. She could see the logic, but she doubted an outsider would. She needed to talk to someone who would listen, someone who would trust her judgement, believe her. She needed Johan.

  The doctor misread her silence. ‘I’m sorry, Jaq,’ she said. ‘I know this is hard to hear, but the brain is an extraordinary organ. You have lost whole weeks while you were unconscious, and then what seemed like hours of action in a dream may have been a few seconds as you woke.’ She stood up. ‘But I know something that might help you return to reality. You said you rescued someone?’

  Jaq nodded.

  ‘And that he could corroborate your story?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jaq, we found Frank Good.’

  Friday 8 July, Terespol, Poland

  The video-conferencing technology was better quality than Jaq was use
d to. It was as if Frank Good was present in the room.

  ‘You know Jaqueline, I believe?’ Marion asked.

  He turned his head to stare at Jaq. Would he deny all knowledge of her, of what they’d been through?

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  The relief didn’t last long.

  ‘I know she’s not to be trusted,’ he said. ‘She is an unbalanced troublemaker. She caused a scene at the Zagrovyl head office in Teesside and has been following me and trying to cause mischief ever since.’ He waved an official document at the screen. ‘I have a restraining order against her, taken out in March of this year.’

  You bastard. You didn’t mention that when I rescued you from your cell in the complex.

  Marion dropped her eyes to Jaq’s notes. ‘You were in Kiev recently?’ she asked.

  ‘I had a business meeting there.’

  ‘And in Chornobyl?’

  ‘Chernobyl? I went on an organised tour,’ he said. He puffed out his chest. ‘I think it is important for leaders of industry to be informed about the world around them.’ He pointed at Jaq. ‘This woman has been stalking me. She followed me there.’

  ‘And were you imprisoned in a secret weapons complex?’

  Frank laughed. A sneering laugh. ‘Did she tell you that?’ He made a circling movement with his forefinger against his temple.

  Jaq couldn’t stop herself. ‘I saved your life!’

  Frank sat back and crossed his arms. He raised his eyebrows to heaven.

  ‘I actually feel sorry for her,’ he said. ‘Is she seeing a doctor?’

  ‘I’m her physician,’ Marion said. ‘She’s under my care.’

  Frank uncrossed his arms. ‘Are you a psychiatrist?’ he asked. ‘Because this one is as batty as a fruitcake. And dangerous, too.’

  Saturday 9 July, Terespol, Poland

  Jaq sat on the side of the NATO hospital bed and waited. She stared down at the flowery plimsolls – the silver eyelets were empty, and the flaps hung loosely over the fabric tongue. Why had they given her lace-up shoes without laces? Would they give her the laces as a leaving gift? Or only when they judged that she was no longer mad?