David Trevellyan 03 -More Harm Than Good

by Andrew Grant

  “Clearly.”

  “And remember how Leckie told us two zones had been repaired again?”

  “The garden was one of them?”

  Melissa nodded.

  “But I don’t want you to worry,” she said. “When we tell the police to forget something, they forget it. This won’t come back to bite you, David. I guarantee.”

  “I hope not.”

  “It won’t. So. This fallout you mentioned. What was that all about?”

  I told her about Elvis.

  “Damn,” she said. “Five minutes with him and I could have gone home happy.”

  “That’s what I figured,” I said.

  “Oh well. Thanks for finding him, anyway. That was good work.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “What are the chances of putting your hands on him again, do you think?”

  “How quickly?”

  “Let’s say, before the sun rises?”

  “I’d say, somewhere between zero and zero.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. OK. So this is what we’ll do. I’m assuming Elvis Presley isn’t his real name?”

  “I’d say you were on pretty safe ground, there. Although, he didn’t sing anything, so I can’t be sure.”

  “Right. So, we’ll pull all personnel records for the maintenance staff. We can eliminate everyone who shows up for work in the morning. We’ll give the details of the others to the Met, and they can scoop them up, pronto. In the meantime the hazmat team will hopefully prove there’s no caesium missing. Then, if we can get Elvis to ID the fireman, that should get the job done.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  We chewed things over a little longer, and came to the conclusion that there was nothing to be gained by hanging around talking, and nothing to be lost by finding something decent to eat. It turned out that Melissa’s favourite food was steak and kidney pie, and she knew a little pub that made their own less than a quarter of a mile away. That wasn’t far, but she decided to abandon the wheelchair for the trip down the bumpy footpaths and narrow passageways that ran alongside the river.

  “My sister used a chair,” she said, when we’d been going for a little over five minutes. “I don’t know if I told you that before.”

  “Is that the place?” I said, nodding towards a half-timbered building at the corner of the next street. “The Frog and Turtle?”

  “She was in a motorcycle accident when she was seventeen. She never walked again. And I’d watch people looking at her, time after time after time, and only seeing the chair. They had no idea who she was. How smart she was. How beautiful she was. So that made me think. Any time I need cover, I’ll use a chair, too. And hey presto. I’ll be invisible.”

  “Is that the only reason you use one? Or is it a kind of tribute to your sister?”

  “That’s the only reason. It’s entirely practical.”

  “Is she younger than you? Or older?”

  “She was older.”

  “She’s no longer with us?”

  “No. She got hit by a fire engine, would you believe? Four years ago. Crossing the road. About a mile and a half from here, as it happens. It was late at night. A streetlight was broken, and it turned out the driver was just someone else who didn’t see her. Or the chair.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Melissa. Truly. That’s a terrible story.”

  “The Frog and Turtle?” she said, after a few seconds. “Yes, that’s the place. Strange name. Good pies.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me,” I said. “You can’t eat a name.”

  There were no free tables when we arrived at the pub, so we made our way over to the bar. A woman was sitting in the booth nearest the door. She was on her own. There was only a quarter of an inch of wine left in her glass, so I took my time to deliberate over the eight kinds of beer they had on draught, watching her in the big mirror on the wall. I finally bought a pint of Timothy Taylor for myself, and a bottle of hard cider for Melissa. The woman took a final sip of her wine, so we wandered across and loitered close by till she got up and left. Then Melissa slid her legs under the table and I settled in opposite her.

  The place was busy and the rumble of background conversation was correspondingly loud, but Melissa still leaned in close before speaking.

  “How long are you going to stick around?” she said.

  “Tonight?” I said.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “That’s not up to me. I’ll be here till I’m told to be somewhere else.”

  “Another country?”

  “Always is.”

  “Must be strange, never being in the same place very long.”

  “Must strange, always being in the same place.”

  She took a couple of long pulls on the cider, then turned back to me.

  “There’ll be more to this than just finding Elvis, you know,” she said.

  I nodded.

  “Hopefully he’ll lead us to the fireman, but that won’t be the end of it, either,” she said.

  I took a sip of my beer.

  “We’ll have to run his background,” she said. “Even if he’s a genuine firefighter it doesn’t mean it was a genuine misunderstanding with the door.”

  “It doesn’t,” I said. “And here’s another thing. You guys have been obsessing over whether this really was a robbery attempt. I guess that’s what your procedures set you up to do. But have you ever wondered whether actually stealing the stuff was never part of the plan?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It could be someone just wanted to do enough damage to cause a radiation scare. Even if none actually leaked out, it could trigger an evacuation. Of the hospital, maybe the whole area. Then, who knows what would be possible. Are there any high profile patients, who are normally guarded? What buildings are around here? What’s stored in them? What about access to infrastructure, that could be sabotaged? Perhaps the attack on the door is the tip of the iceberg, not you.”

  Melissa smiled.

  “All good points,” she said. “But we haven’t just fallen off some collective turnip truck. I told you, there’s more to our operation than meets the eye. Your eye, anyway. Remember all the phone calls I’ve been following up? Well, every patient; every employee; every structure, current and abandoned, above or below ground; every phone, power, gas, water, TV, and traffic signal network; every London Underground line; even the old pneumatic pipes the Post Office used to us - all of that’s been checked and risk-assessed. We’re not worried.”

  I shrugged.

  “But I am worried about starving,” she said. “Are you ready to eat?”

  I nodded.

  “My treat,” she said, and wriggled out of the booth.

  Melissa eased her way through the crowd at the bar, and realised I wasn’t the only one watching her. A couple of city boys liked the look of her, too. They were perching on stools with champagne flutes in their hands, with the rest of the bottle on the bar between them in a black plastic ice bucket.

  Melissa spoke to the barman, and while she was waiting for our drinks to be poured one of the city boys slithered off his stool. He straightened his tie, ran one hand through his hair, and sidled up to her. He said something to her and she moved half a step to her left, away from him. I could see her upper lip curling into an expression of distaste. He moved after her and said something else. She looked away. He leaned in close, and presumably kept up his pursuit in a more intimate tone. He’d have been better advised not to because she spun around towards him, shot out her right hand and took hold of his ear. I knew what was coming next. She was going to gouge her thumbnail into his lobe. It was a simple move. Innocuous, on paper. But agonising in the flesh. And judging by his scream, she executed it perfectly. She held on for a couple of seconds, then picked up our glasses and moved back to the booth.

  “The food’ll be here soon,” she said as she sat back down. “And I got you a pint of something called Old Peculier to go with it. I thought i
t would suit you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Good choice. And more popular with you than champagne, tonight.”

  She shrugged.

  “Morons,” she said.

  “Are we going to have trouble with them, later?” I said.

  “I doubt it.”

  I glanced across, and saw the barman filling their glasses from a fresh bottle of Krug.

  “They’re sucking down that bubbly pretty enthusiastically,” I said. “And the one you didn’t pinch is wearing a rugby club tie.”

  “Well, if he tries anything, I’ll give him a taste of my nails too,” she said. “And watch as he runs home crying to his mummy.”

  The conversation moved away from work when the food arrived, but Melissa paused half way through her pie with a thoughtful look on her face.

  “Interesting point you made about following procedures, before,” she said. “Because you’re right. There are so many, it’s easy to switch into robot mode. And it’s left me with this sick feeling that I’m missing something. And if I am, you know it’ll be blindingly obvious with hindsight.”

  “Easy to be wise, after the event,” I said.

  She nodded, and took another bite.

  “What if you were in my shoes?” she said. “How would you approach this? Have you dealt with anything like it before?”

  “Not really,” I said. “But you’ve discounted any idea of the whole thing being a diversion, you told me. Which means we’re stuck with an attempt to steal the caesium. So, what happens if you put yourself in the burglar’s shoes, instead? Assume you’ve done your homework, and you know the vault is basically impregnable. What do you do?”

  “Try a different vault?”

  “Could do. Or maybe you’d try and get this caesium moved to a different vault, where it’s easier to steal?”

  “Interesting. But that doesn’t work. The secondary site is equally secure.”

  “OK. But would the burglars know that?”

  “If they’d done their homework, they might.”

  “What about when it’s in transit?”

  “Between sites? It’d definitely be more vulnerable then.”

  “Maybe that was the idea, then. To make you move it, and snatch it on the road.”

  “Maybe. But if that was the plan, it failed. We haven’t moved it.”

  “What about after the inventory, tomorrow?”

  “I can’t see any need to move it then, either. Unless - I suppose it’d depend more on the prognosis for repairing the door. If that has to be taken out of service...”

  “If that happens, we should go with whoever moves the canisters. If I was going to steal them, that’s when I’d do it.”

  “We can’t ride in the hazmat truck. You’ll love this - procedures. But I could arrange extra escorts. And it’s unorthodox, but we could follow in a separate vehicle.”

  Melissa stuck her tongue out at me, took the last of my fries, and then nodded to the waitress to clear our plates. She came over straight away, and I noticed the city boys leering at her as she leaned over the table. The clientele had changed during the course of the evening – office workers stopping in for a quick drink on the way home had given way to people getting fueled up on their way out to the local clubs – and the atmosphere in the place had changed with them. I looked at my watch. It was pushing ten o’clock.

  “Do you want to get another drink here?” I said. “Or shall we try somewhere else?”

  “Actually, would you mind if we called it a night?” Melissa said. “Tomorrow’s going to be fraught, no doubt.”

  “That works for me,” I said.

  “I need to quickly powder my nose, then what? Meet by the door?”

  “Deal.”

  The city boys watched Melissa wriggle into her coat, and their eyes followed her as she made her way across the room. They exchanged a glance, nodded, and slid down from the their stools. The guy who’d approached Melissa earlier counted out eight notes - presumably fifties - and threw them down on the bar next to his glass. It still was half full. The other guy had a final try at draining the last drops of champagne from his, then they set off together. They both gazed at the sign to the women’s bathroom, but kept going towards the exit, slightly unsteady on their feet. I watched till they were safely outside, and kept an eye open in case they came back in.

  When Melissa was ready I held the door so she could go through first, but as soon as her feet reached the pavement she stopped moving. I came up alongside her, and could immediately see why. It was the two city boys. They were standing five feet in front of her, leaning against the wall. The one who’d spoken to Melissa was smoking a cigarette. The four of us stayed still for a moment. No one spoke. Then the guy levered himself upright and stepped forward, blocking our path. I’d guess he was bang-on six feet tall. He had a mop of blond hair, all unruly curls, which didn’t blend well with his conservative charcoal grey suit, white shirt, and striped tie. And it was picking up an orange hue from the streetlights, which made him look like a clown.

  The guy took another drag on his cigarette, then flicked the butt at my right foot. It missed, sending a little shower of sparks dancing across the pavement.

  “There’s nothing quite like trying to be cool, but falling a little short, is there?” I said.

  The guy glared at me, then turned his attention to Melissa.

  “My ear’s a little sore,” he said.

  “Why?” she said. “Did you feel a little prick when I grabbed it?”

  The guy’s eyes narrowed a touch.

  “I was thinking,” he said. “Maybe you want to kiss it better.”

  “That’s fascinating,” she said. “Do you seriously think there are any circumstances in which I’d want to kiss a part of you?”

  “Well, you better think of some circumstances, you bitch. It’s time to pucker up, and let me see you’re sorry. You’ve got thirty seconds.”

  “Oh, really? And if I don’t?”

  “If you don’t, I’m going to beat your boyfriend’s brains out on the pavement.”

  “That’s going to be a little tricky, you know.”

  “I don’t think so,” the guy said, looking me in the eye.

  I smiled back at him.

  “In fact, it would be impossible,” she said. “Because I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  Melissa shifted her position, readying herself, and the back of her left hand brushed against mine. I felt the hairs on my arm stand up all the way to my elbow.

  “I’m talking about him,” the guy said, nodding towards me.

  “Him?” Melissa said. “You’re threatening to beat his brains out? Oh dear.”

  “It’s not a threat,” he said. “It’s a promise.”

  Melissa had to stifle a laugh.

  “David?” she said. “How do you want to handle this? I’ve had a nice evening, up to now. I don’t want to end up dealing with the police again.”

  “There may be no way around the police,” I said. “Let me just check my understanding of the situation. This guy’s offered to beat my brains out. Is that right?”

  “It is. I heard him.”

  “And you confirm that?” I said to the guy.

  He nodded a little half heartedly, and I saw that confusion was starting to replace the anger on his face.

  “OK,” I said. “I accept your offer. Which means we just need one more thing.”

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out a handful of coins, and selected a penny piece. Then I reached out and dropped it into the breast pocket of his jacket.

  “Hey,” he said. “What are you doing?”

  “It’s called a consideration,” I said. “It’s a legal term. You haven’t heard of it?”

  The guy looked blank.

  “It means a form of payment,” I said. “You need an offer. An acceptance. And a consideration. Take those three things, and do you know what you have?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “A contract,” I said. �
��Legally binding, under English common law. So. Come on. Time to deliver.”

  He didn’t move.

  “Thirty seconds,” I said. “That’s the timeframe you promised, just now? Which means you have thirty seconds to beat my brains out, if my friend doesn’t kiss you. Otherwise, you’re in breach of contract. And I don’t know about you, but I take breaches of contract very seriously.”

  I held my left wrist out in front of me, pulled back my sleeve, and looked at my watch. Or at least pretended to. I was actually counting the seconds in my head, and focusing all my attention on the guy.

  He did nothing.

  I gave him an extra ten seconds, but he still didn’t react.

  “OK,” I said. “That’s it. You’re in default. Time to make the call.”

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket, dialed three consecutive nines, then looked the guy straight in the eye. And paused without hitting the green button.

  “Although, we do have one alternative,” I said. “We could think about an alternative form of penalty.”

  The guy stepped back towards his friend.

  “Stop,” I said. “I’m not going to hurt you. But I want to know how much money you’ve got in your wallet.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “How much?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Three hundred. Four, maybe. Plus credit cards.”

  “I don’t want the cards. Just the cash. Give it to me. Now.”

  The guy reached into his jacket and produced a shiny, black leather wallet. He opened it, took out a fat wad of notes, and handed it to me.

  “Good,” I said, putting my phone away. “I’ll consider that the first installment. Any time I see you in the future, you’re going to give me the same amount again. Understand?”

  The guy nodded.

  “Now leave,” I said. “And take your friend with you. I’m sick of looking at you.”

  We watched them all the way to the end of the street, and when they turned the corner Melissa set off in the opposite direction.

  “You coming?” she said.

  I had to pick up the pace to keep up with her.