The Chemical Detective

by Fiona Erskine

  Interpol couldn’t risk anything official, wary of upsetting Russia or the Ukraine, but they were willing to turn a blind eye to Jaq’s plan. If Pauk were to board the boat willingly, Lorenzo’s men could arrest him twelve nautical miles from the shore. Then the Frankium would cross the Black Sea, sail into the Mediterranean and return The Spider to the rule of European law.

  European law. A curate’s egg. Good in parts. The autopsy on Stefan Resnik showed no traces of ergotamine in his blood. Just alcohol and paracetamol. A review of the medical evidence concluded that he had suffered a heart attack while being suffocated – presumably with his own cushion, since fibres matching the one on his chair were found in his lungs. Poor Stefan. The forensic evidence from the investigation into Sergei Koval’s death included a set of keys, still intact after the explosion. Sergei’s keys. The tin under a drain cover used to conceal the keys was discovered and checked for fingerprints. One set matched those in Stefan’s flat. They belonged to a man held in custody by the Belarusian police, a man who had been interviewed by the Cumbrian police shortly after William Sharp’s death: Boris Cimrman. All charges against Jaq were dropped.

  Time to bring the ringleaders to justice. The fact that Frank Good was funding her to collect the evidence against him made the voyage all the sweeter.

  ‘Get some rest,’ Jaq said. ‘We go in tonight.’

  Jaq surveyed the terrain around Pauk’s villa. First from the sea. Her triceps and quadriceps were burning as she paddled the inflatable kayak, hauling it round the western headland, keeping her distance from the underwater jetty. Johan would have laughed at the clumsy craft – the blunt profile made it sluggish in the water – but for this mission stability and storage space were more important than speed. The villa remained hidden, the only clue to human habitation the noises coming from an old boathouse, the rattle and chug of a diesel generator. Judging by the continuous wisps of steam, Pauk was a heavy power user.

  Ideal.

  Jaq wrestled the kayak past the eastern promontory and came ashore in the next bay. She lugged it from the water and opened the air valve, hiding the deflated boat and its contents under branches and leaves. She laced up her hiking boots, slung a coil of rope across her chest and began her exploration on land.

  A cliff rose steeply from the forest: Jurassic limestone dotted with hornbeam, oak, maple and pine on the lower slopes, rising up to the bare, jagged white peak of Roman-Kosh, the highest mountain in the Yayla range. Pine needles snapped underfoot, and the burnt sugar scent of succulents rose from the ground as she climbed towards the road snaking up from an eastern port to the Crimean plateau. When she calculated that she was directly over Pauk’s villa, she scrambled down through flowering bushes and tangled creepers to the precipice. She lay down and edged forward. The agglomerate crumbled and little pebbles of friable karst tumbled towards the forest below. She slithered backwards. The villa was invisible from above, and the overhang was fragile.

  Perfect.

  She returned to the road and continued until she stood on the other side of Pauk’s bay. Somewhere here lay an outcrop of granite. Thank goodness for geological maps, for scientists, the patient factfinders and rigorous recorders of the natural world. A change in vegetation, as the soil became acidic, was all the clue she needed. The spine of hard rock was hidden under lush evergreen vegetation. Jaq tied the rope to an umbrella pine and abseiled down, towards the yacht moored in the western bay, avoiding the crumbly limestone on either side, keeping low until she had a viewpoint.

  The villa was completely hidden from the road, but hanging from a rope halfway between cliff and sea, Jaq had a bird’s-eye view. Constructed on three levels, the building was cleverly disguised to blend in with the forest, the glass windows of the top floor coated in a tinted film to avoid any glint from reflected sun. The windows of the lower floors were obscured by trees. This was someone who valued their privacy more than sea views.

  Three ways in and out. Air. Land. Sea.

  The main door was on the middle floor, a massive construction of oak and steel. A paved path led under a natural limestone arch into a huge sinkhole, where an ancient stream had pooled, dissolving the rock to create a sheltered helicopter landing pad at the west side of the villa. The chopper must come in from the sea and drop before hitting the cliff. It would require a skilled pilot to land in the sinkhole. Someone like Mario. On call 24/7. Escape by air.

  The helicopter garage was empty except for cigar butts. Definitely Mario.

  The second door led from the top floor, over a balcony, across the roof to a steep path, stone steps cut into the cliff behind. A heavy iron gate set deep into the rock marked the boundary, a narrow culvert heading to the road. An old stream bed, no one viewing it from above would guess it connected a villa to the road. Escape by land.

  The third exit was from the basement, a tunnel leading from the side of the house to the boathouse and underwater jetty. Escape by sea.

  Form follows function. The plan was taking shape.

  Jaq climbed back up the granite spine to the road. A warm tingle of anticipation quickened her movements as she hid the rope and dashed through the forest to the beach. She whistled to herself as she unpacked the explosives from the deflated kayak and got to work.

  Not long now.

  Giovanni made the broadcast at dusk, hacking into the satellite feed with pre-recorded images of a terrorist attack in Sevastopol and Yalta. The Crimean Liberation Front were shown calling their fellow Ukrainians to arms. Angry over the increasing Russian presence after the Kharkiv Accords, they called for closer ties with Europe, membership of NATO and a stop to the creeping Soviet presence in Crimea. The film cut real footage of Ukrainian politicians with stock scenes of marauding gangs and ended with a studio warning to all Russians to seek places of safety.

  Thirty minutes later the helicopter appeared, a dark, sinister insect flying across the bay without lights. The pulsating orange circle of a cigar end lit the pilot’s features as it banked overhead.

  The man who’d murdered Petr in cold blood: Mario.

  Riccardo sailed into the deep cove in front of Pauk’s villa and dropped anchor.

  Hidden in the woods, Jaq waited for the helicopter to land. Then she counted down.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  This one is for you, Petr.

  She pressed the detonator.

  The first explosion, a blue flash, severed the main cable from the generator, plunging the villa into darkness.

  The second explosion, seconds later, a thunderclap under the landing circle, destroyed the helicopter, smashing the fuel tank, igniting the heptane. Tongues of flame snickered into the dark sky.

  Lorenzo was right on cue, bellowing a warning from a foghorn overhead. Announcing the attack of The Crimean Liberation Front. Death to all Russians.

  Now Pauk would know the helicopter had not crashed by accident; the blackout was not a mechanical fault. He was under attack.

  The third explosion destroyed the cliff overhanging the villa. A muffled blast then a sigh as hundreds of tonnes of limestone hurtled down the cliff, smashing through trees, bouncing and rolling and clattering onto the roof of the villa. A distraction to allow Lorenzo and his team to abseil down and open fire.

  Bang, crack, whizz. More explosions, irregular, seconds apart, made it sound as if Lorenzo had an army with him. Never had firecrackers in trees been so effective.

  Pauk had only one escape route left. Towards the sea.

  The GOI medic manned the lifeboat. He switched on the searchlight and swung it towards the shore.

  A tall, thin man loped towards the jetty, followed by four armed thugs. He waved at the boat and shielded his eyes.

  ‘Rescue,’ Riccardo yelled from the yacht. ‘Quick, get on board.’

  One of the bodyguards raised a gun, taking aim at the medic in the lifeboat. Lorenzo was too quick for him. Darting out from the trees, he shot the thug through the head. Pauk screamed and ran into
the sea, leaving his bodyguards to fight it out on the beach.

  ‘Get me out of here,’ Pauk demanded.

  The medic hauled him into the lifeboat and sped back out to sea.

  As the lifeboat approached the yacht, Riccardo threw down a ladder. He held out a hand for Pauk.

  ‘Welcome aboard.’

  Thursday 1 September, Crimea, Ukraine

  Jaq surveyed the remains of the helicopter, a tangled mass of metal and glass. Somewhere in there lay the charred corpse of the pilot, cigar-smoking Mario. She bowed her head. Where was the elation? For all his crimes, he was a human being. A human being she had murdered. It wouldn’t bring Petr back. She turned away.

  ‘Come quick,’ Lorenzo shouted. ‘There’s a prisoner in the cellar.’ He radioed for the medic and dashed back into the building.

  Jaq paused at the top of the stairs. Below her, a woman sat cross-legged on the concrete floor, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, a heavy chain extending from rings round her ankles, through manacles on her wrists, to an iron ring in the wall. White hair, skin pale and drawn, the heavy black shadows framing green eyes which flashed as she raised her head. Jaq’s heart soared.

  ‘I should have guessed it was you.’ Camilla’s voice had lost none of its mesmerising gravitas. ‘You do have a rather distinctive taste in explosives.’ She held out her wrists for Lorenzo to unlock the irons. ‘Is it safe?’

  ‘Five X-rays neutralised, ma’am,’ Lorenzo announced. He beamed at her, proud rather than remorseful: the right man for the job. ‘Target secure in the bilges.’

  Jaq ran down the stairs and pulled Camilla into an embrace. The older woman trembled in her arms, lighter and frailer but very much alive.

  ‘Nice boat.’ Camilla raised her coffee cup in a toast. After a thorough medical she had been allowed to wash and rest, and now she looked almost restored. The twinkle was back in her eyes.

  ‘Simplest way to cross borders with explosives.’ Jaq refilled the coffee cups from a cafetière as Giovanni removed their breakfast dishes. ‘How long—’

  ‘In Pauk’s dungeon?’ Camilla shuddered and sank back into her seat. ‘Since the visit to the complex in June. Turns out I’m not very good at lying.’

  ‘Are you . . . okay?’

  ‘We go back a long way, Pauk and I. He thought he could extract information. But I wouldn’t give the bastard anything.’

  ‘Everyone thought you were dead.’

  ‘I would have been if you hadn’t come. Pauk was running out of patience.’ Camilla paused. ‘Did you find Sergei?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Jaq held her gaze. Brown on green. ‘Sergei died in the explosion at Snow Science.’

  Tears formed in Camilla’s eyes, spilled over and ran down her cheeks. Jaq sat beside her in silence, listening to the waves lapping against the hull while the woman wept.

  ‘He was a fine man.’ Camilla wiped her eyes. She ran a hand through hair that had grown long in captivity, smoothing it away from her brow. ‘The only helicopter pilot who managed to follow the tracer signals all the way to Chornobyl. Where they vanished.’

  ‘Was that when Sergei vanished, too?’

  ‘No.’ Camilla stared out at the sea, her voice low and desolate as she continued. ‘Sergei left Snow Science on my instruction, to plant a special tracker in the zone of alienation.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t trust you.’ Camilla turned away. ‘I forced Laurent to destroy the samples, threatened to pull his Zagrovyl funding if he didn’t comply.’

  ‘It was you!’

  ‘I needed the delivery to complete. I had to prove what was happening, trace it all the way. It wasn’t enough to pinpoint the weapons complex, I needed to track right to the end customers. Then, and only then, would there be enough proof.’

  ‘It worked, Camilla. Your tracer and tracker worked. OPCW got the evidence they needed.’

  ‘Tak Gud.’

  Jaq stood and walked to the opposite window. The sky had darkened. Heavy weather ahead. ‘There’s something I have to ask you.’ She inhaled deeply and let her breath out slowly. ‘Did you pay Karel?’

  ‘Who?’

  Jaq swallowed hard. ‘The ski instructor in Kranjskabel.’

  ‘Oh, you mean Sergei’s skiing friend.’

  Jaq spun round, eyes flashing as the last piece of the puzzle fell into place. Karel attended Sergei’s funeral. She hit her brow with the flat of a hand. ‘Karel Žižek was a friend of Sergei Koval?’

  ‘Yes,’ Camilla said. ‘He asked Karel to keep an eye on whoever took over from him at Snow Science, lent him his flat.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t imagine he expected Karel to get so deeply involved. By the look of things, it was no hardship to either of you.’

  Jaq frowned. ‘But the ergotamine?’

  ‘It was clumsy, I know, but I had to protect you from yourself.’

  ‘It was you?’ Not Karel.

  ‘They killed Stefan, they were coming after you next. Denouncing you for Stefan’s murder was expedient – it forced the police to act fast. I planted the ergotamine later, when you were in custody. The poison is connected to you through your scientific paper, but it’s easy to analyse for. Once they had Stefan’s toxicology the case would be thrown out and you would be released. I just wanted to make sure you were safe for a while. But once again, you took matters into your own hands.’

  Jaq bit her lower lip. Had she misjudged Karel? She’d escaped because she had no choice; leaving him to face the police, the courts, perhaps even to be charged as an accomplice to her flight, by omission if not by action. The affair was over, nothing would change that, but she owed him an explanation.

  Jaq returned to the seat opposite Camilla. ‘What about Frank Good?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He must have known what was going on.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Camilla held up a hand to interrupt her protest. ‘Frank hired Pauk to investigate the misdirection of Zagrovyl materials destined for Smolensk. Once he realised what Pauk was up to, he refused to deal with him. Frank is a poor judge of character – he picked the person masterminding the scam as investigator – but I don’t believe Frank was involved in supplying chemical weapons.’

  Jaq frowned. ‘Then why did Frank steal the Tyche tracker from me?’

  ‘Pauk told him you had information incriminating Zagrovyl. He was right.’

  ‘Frank denied you were ever a Zagrovyl employee.’

  ‘At my request,’ Camilla said. ‘I resigned the day after I met you. I asked Zagrovyl to destroy all trace of me. Frank got a private investigator to wipe my record clean.’

  Bill Sharp. The man who drowned in Lake Coniston. Mr Beige. Murdered by Boris.

  ‘I didn’t want to be associated with Zagrovyl and, more importantly, I had to stay under the radar to collect the evidence to catch and convict Pauk. Frank can be useful at times.’

  Jaq shook her head.

  ‘Frank needs to pay for his actions.’

  ‘He may not be a saint, but he respects the rule of law, at least insofar as it suits his self-interest.’

  ‘Frank lied.’ Jaq thumped a fist down on the bench. The padded leather sighed and wheezed as it resumed its shape. ‘He claimed he had never been in the complex, denied my role in his escape.’

  ‘Until you and your friends persuaded him otherwise,’ Camilla said. ‘And then he came clean.’

  Frank’s statement to the police had been a masterpiece in self-aggrandisement. He had managed to confirm the existence of the SLYV complex without in any way incriminating himself. Painting a picture of a nerve-agent-damaged, amnesiac hero.

  ‘Only to confirm the complex existed. And by then it was too late.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Camilla said. ‘Pauk did the dirty work of decommissioning for you. He is nothing if not efficient.’

  ‘How do we know SLYV won’t set up a chemical weapons factory elsewhere?’

  A thud and cry below deck. Lorenzo and Riccardo interr
ogating Pauk in the prison cell they’d constructed in the bilges.

  ‘Because Pauk Polzin is going to be locked up for a very long time. Without The Spider, SLYV is nothing.’

  Jaq paced the smooth wooden floor. ‘It doesn’t feel right to let Frank get away scot-free,’ she said.

  ‘If we expose Frank, Zagrovyl will sack him.’

  ‘Good,’ Jaq said.

  ‘Not necessarily. Someone else will take his place. Someone equally ruthless and rotten.’ Camilla sat forward. ‘The problem is not Frank per se, the problem is the way people are promoted and rewarded in companies like Zagrovyl. So long as boards try to manage complex organisations using simplified incentives, it’s the ruthless, immoral Frank Goods of the world who rise to the top.’

  ‘Maybe I can’t fix the system,’ Jaq said. ‘But I can ensure Frank is punished.’

  Camilla shook her head. ‘Pause for a minute. Think how useful he could be to us. He knows we can destroy him. If he continues in post, we can influence him, we can be his conscience.’

  ‘So what are you proposing?’ Jaq asked.

  ‘I’m proposing we do nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘For now.’ Camilla smiled.

  Inaction? Unthinkable. Infuriating. Even more so because Camilla was right. There were plenty of greedy, soulless Frank clones in Zagrovyl, jostling for power, barking and howling to be top dog. Better the devil you know? She didn’t like it. Her sense of natural justice revolted, but she could see the logic.

  ‘For now,’ Jaq said. ‘And then?’

  Giovanni ducked his head through the door.

  ‘Storm approaching,’ he said. ‘Last chance of fresh air before we batten down the hatches.’ He held out a hand for Camilla, but his smile was only for Jaq.

  The wind filled the sails and brought the smell of the sea. The salts of iodine and potassium, manganese and sodium have no odour. The scent comes from more complex chemicals – dictyopterenes, bromophenols, dimethylsulphide – the smell of seaweed and algae, the smell of nature.