Bad Intentions

by Matt Lynn

  'And you get these formulae from employees? People like me.'

  'Easiest way. You could break in, steal the formula, but it's a lot of work. We aren't law-abiding citizens, you see. Amateurs, like you, don't really understand the way a criminal enterprise works. The bottom line is we don't like to work too hard for a living. Don't need the hassle. Scaling fences, dodging security guards, running away from the dogs, all that. We can do it if we have to, but to be honest for all that trouble you might as well get a job. Night work, as well. Plays havoc with your social life.'

  'And it alerts the company,' said Jack. 'They will know it's been stolen.'

  'You catch on quick.' Shane turned the gaze of his cool, grey eyes directly on Jack. 'You have financial problems.'

  Jack paused. 'I have debts. Options. A few bad calls on the market. I lost a packet.'

  'How much do you need?'

  'Above a hundred thousand.'

  Shane whistled. 'Serious problems. What can you give me?'

  Jack paused. 'The formula for Zimetnant. The antibiotic. How much would you pay?'

  Shane creased up his brow. 'If I wanted it, I'd pay you £250,000. Laundered money, of course. Untraceable. Deposited in a bank account in an offshore centre of your choice.'

  'But you might not want it?'

  'I don't know if I trust you.'

  Jack hesitated. It had seemed to be going so well up until now. Easy. No trouble at all. But perhaps Shane was just playing him along. Perhaps he knew he was a plant. He paused, hoping to banish the fear from his eyes before continuing. 'You don't trust me?'

  Shane turned to face him, leaning forward slightly. His eyes no more than a foot away from Jack, peering into his mind, fishing for signs of nerves or betrayal. 'I'm not saying I don't trust you. All I'm saying is I don't know if I trust you.'

  Jack tried to compose himself. 'What proof do you need? A look at the formula?'

  Shane shook his head, swaying the whole of his torso as he did so. 'No,' he answered firmly. 'I need to know you. As a man.' His arm rested lightly on Jack's shoulder. 'We'll have some fun together. A night out. Then I might know you.'

  The invitation startled Jack, catching him off-guard. To refuse would seem awkward and might blow his mission. But to accept? How could he know what dangers he might be exposing himself to? 'OK,' said Jack eventually, hoping to disguise the nerves in his voice.

  Shane drove a silver-grey Mercedes 500SL, a two-seater sports model, with black leather seats and a CD player. Jack noted the car, and took it as a sign that the man had money. Together they headed towards a Japanese restaurant in Hampstead, a place Shane claimed was a favourite of his; it was a tense, almost silent, drive, during which Jack was too unsure of how to handle the situation to make much conversation.

  The choice of restaurant surprised Jack. Shane didn't have the look of a sushi type: more of a steak and chips and black forest gateau sort, he thought to himself. Or biryani.

  Throughout the meal, Shane talked and asked questions. About Jack's life, his parents, his family, his girlfriends, his work. And about money. Mostly about money. About how much of it there was, about how easy it was to acquire, about all the things money could do for you. And about the things people would do for money. Anything, in Shane's view. Anything you wanted. Particularly the women.

  The man was an unashamed materialist. Or so Jack decided early on in the evening.. But then what would you expect? He had willingness to betray it, his commitment to the organisation, his desire to progress within it, and so on. But no. This was a trade. A deal. The importance of the money was the only thing that mattered to Shane; the willingness of his prey to put himself up for auction was the only question that concerned him.

  'What kind of options, calls or puts?' asked Shane.

  They were back in the car now. Shane had paid for the meal. He told Jack that the night was young. There was plenty for them to do. And still fun to be had. 'Puts,' answered Jack quickly.

  Shane probed further. 'Equities, currencies or commodities?'

  'Equities,' answered Jack.

  'Which one?'

  Jack paused. 'GEC November 300p puts. About six months ago. I paid 26p. The price just kept sinking. Useless. The contract expired and I recovered nothing. I lost a packet.'

  Jack was feeling breathless. Extemporising, he thought. Winging it. This moment was unprepared. The line about losing money on options he knew, he had it figured, but he hadn't worked out which options and when. There was no point in pretending to have forgotten. Nobody forgot losing a hundred grand. It was the sort of thing that stuck in your mind.

  Am I through? he asked himself. Or does he suspect?

  He peered out of the window. They were heading east. Jack knew neither where they were, nor where they were going. Shane had not said, and he hadn't felt like asking. The journey could be taking them anywhere. Anywhere at all, thought Jack.

  The buildings around Old Street, on the fringes of the City, he started to recognise. This was not a part of London he knew well, but the grim turrets of concrete, and the brick warehouses and sweatshops were familiar. Just. It was a different kind of city around here, darker, poorer and older, a world away from the bourgeois suburbs to the north and west. A rougher city, where lives were shorter and harder. The car swung into the street along Spitalfields market, the green awnings of the traders' stalls shut now, the wide road empty apart from a few trucks and cars, and, in a corner, a late night van selling coffees and hamburgers. The homeless were lining up for a bite to eat, sitting on the steps of a church with their food. Shane slowed the car down, riding hard along the edge of the kerb. Jack glanced at his watch. Just before twelve.

  He noticed the women about ten yards up the street. Two of them, one wearing a short black skirt and a white T-shirt, the other thigh-high black boots, gold shorts and a black leather jacket. Their eyes followed the car as it pulled to a stop alongside the kerb. Silently, Shane beckoned to the girl in the boots. She swaggered across, a jaunt in her step, leaning over the side of the car as the automatic window slid down. Jack could feel the cool breeze of the night air drifting through the car. Her face was no more than a few inches from his, and he could smell the perfume. Cheap. She was wearing just a black bra beneath the leather jacket, and her large breasts swung in front of him. An OK body, blonde hair, dodgy complexion, reasonable features. Nothing special.

  'Business,' she said.

  Shane leant across Jack to speak to her. 'Back at my place.'

  'Both of you?' Shane nodded.

  'Sixty,' she said.

  'Let the lady in, will you, Jack.'

  Jack climbed out of the car and held the door open for her. He found he was already too numbed by the turns the night had taken to have much reaction to this latest twist. His emotions, for now, were stuck in neutral. She glanced up at him, flashing a smile. 'I could bring the other girl along if you make it a hundred.'

  'You'll do,' answered Shane.

  She shrugged, settling into the back seat. Shane pressed down hard on the accelerator, and the car spun away from the kerb. The three of them drove in silence, racing further east, into the murky swamp of docklands. Jack looked out of the car into the dismal streets and tried to judge whether they were being followed; Fuller had promised a private detective would be tailing him all night. There were a few cars around, but he had no way of knowing which one it might be. Or if it was there at all. Too late now, he reflected. Far too late.

  The Mercedes pulled to a halt outside a warehouse. It was a large, modern conversion, next to the river. One of many converted in the last decade. Shane led the way, opening the door, through the wood-finished lobby, into the lift. The whore dragged along behind, the heels of her boots clacking on the wooden floor, hands dug deep into the pockets of her jacket, shoulders slouched. Poor posture, Jack found himself thinking. The flat was bare and minimalist. The sitting-room had stripped boards, with a balcony looking out over the river. To the side there was a steel kitchen area, and
in the centre of the room a black leather and chrome sofa, with a smoked glass coffee-table next to it. Some magazines lay on it. Autosport, Classic Car, Penthouse. All boy's choices. At the end of the room there was a coal-effect fire, a thirty-one-inch TV, a video and a hi-fi. Not much else. An eighties leftover, thought Jack.

  Shane sauntered out of the kitchen with a bottle of whisky tucked under his arm, and a tray of ice cubes. He banged the ice tray down on the coffee-table, sending the cubes flying out over the table. Picking up three tumblers, he poured a large measure of whisky into each one. 'There's ice if you want it,' he said.

  The whore sat down on the sofa and took one of the Camels from the table. She was surveying the room, and there was a trace of pleasure in her eyes. Easily pleased, thought Jack. 'Which one of you wants to go first?' she said placidly. 'Or both together. We can do that. I don't mind.'

  'He'll fuck you,' answered Shane. 'I'll just sit here for now.'

  Jack eyed her cautiously. 'What's your name?' he asked.

  'Don't worry about her name,' interrupted Shane. 'It doesn't matter.'

  Jack sipped on the whisky, enjoying the bitter taste of it, steeling himself. And as he did so, he could feel a tingle of excitement. There was a ruthlessness to Shane's behaviour that some part of him found appealing. A sense of pleasure taken brutally and swiftly, and without inhibition or sentiment. He had never had sex with a prostitute before; nor had he ever made love with anyone watching over him. It was, he realised, a repulsive command, designed in part, he suspected, to humiliate him. But, in the immediacy of the moment, it was also shamefully exciting.

  The whore rolled her eyes towards him, the smoke from her cigarette drifting across her face. 'When you're ready, love,' she said.

  Go with the flow, Jack told himself. Take the plunge. He leant over and untied the laces on his shoes, kicking the black brogues away. He placed his jacket on the floor, standing up, unbuckling his belt. Taking great care he undid both cufflinks and dropped them in his jacket pocket. He threw down his shirt, and climbed out of his trousers. Behind him he could see Shane pulling a wad of notes out. He peeled off a pair of fifties and placed them on the table. 'Make it good,' he said.

  The whore put her jacket aside, and stood up, peeling off her shorts. She stood before Jack, wearing just her bra and her boots and her panties. They were black and skimpy. She reached down to her jacket and fished a condom from her pocket. Her arms reached out for him, caressing his chest, swaying her body in front of him as she did so. She rubbed her breasts into him, in a fast circling motion. And then she knelt before him, slipping on the rubber. Her tongue slipped forward, caressing him, teasing him. Her face disappeared into his groin while she sucked him noisily.

  After a couple of minutes, the whore sat back down on the sofa, spreading her legs open. Jack knelt before her, and she guided him into her, raising her legs as she did so. There was a blankness to her expression, Jack noticed. An air of distance. He caught her eye, but it communicated only a servile indifference to his presence. 'Is it all right?' she asked.

  'Fine,' answered Jack.

  'Do you want me to talk dirty?' she asked.

  Jack nodded. She writhed a little under him, bucking her hips. She rolled her head to one side, so that their eyes no longer connected. 'Fuck me,' she muttered. 'C'mon, fuck me hard.' She paused, as if wondering what to say next. 'That's it. Fill up my fanny.' Jack plunged into her while she was talking, and finished suddenly, unthinkingly. The whore stopped moaning, and reached down to guide him out of her. She felt for a tissue, and pulled the condom off, depositing the thing on the floor, leaving it lying next to the fallen ice cubes. 'All right?' she said.

  'Yes, thank you,' Jack replied.

  There was a formality to the situation that struck Jack as curious. He felt uncomfortable, unsure what to do or say next, ignorant of whether he should make conversation, or just let the woman lie there. Inwardly, he felt slightly ashamed of what he had just done. But then, he reflected, what choice do I have? There are worse things.

  The whore looked across at Shane, still sitting, still an impassive observer on the scene. 'Do you want to go now?' she said.

  Shane motioned towards the dining-table. 'Over there,' he said. The whore walked across to the table. There was just a trace of sweat around her brow, Jack noticed. She stood still as Shane walked across the room, standing next to her, running a hand up from her boots, along her back, before cupping one of her breasts and squeezing it tight. 'Bend over,' he said.

  The whore leant over the table, resting her elbows on to the glass, resting her face in her hands. She spread her legs slightly. With one hand, Shane was fondling her buttocks, then running it along her back and tousling her hair. Her expression was still empty, uninterested, her eyes staring straight forward, peering into the blank television screen.

  'Stand next to her,' commanded Shane.

  Unsure how to respond, Jack walked nervously towards the table. 'I might get her to take you in her mouth,' Shane continued, the edge in his voice becoming sharper. 'You might like that.'

  Unlikely, thought Jack to himself. Most unlikely. The whore rolled her eyes towards his stomach, and as far as Jack coud tell she didn't appear to have any opinion. Not an opinion she was able to articulate, anyway. He, however, was starting to feel more and more uncomfortable.

  Shane's hand started to play with the whore; her expression darkened slightly as he slipped a couple of fingers inside her. 'Closing time,' he muttered softly.

  With the other hand, Shane reached inside his breast pocket and pulled out a flick-knife. There was a small thud as he pressed the trigger and the thin, steel blade sprang to life. With his left hand Shane grasped a tuft of the whore's hair, yanking at it, tugging her head back in a sudden, brutal movement. A gasp came from her throat and her eyes swivelled, hoping desperately to see what was happening. She was trying to scream but no sound came out. His grip was already strangling her. Shane's right hand, armed with the knife, fell forward, and in one movement stabbed into the exposed flesh of her neck. He slashed, cutting the knife towards him, ripping through her neck as he did so. The blade sprang free from her neck, its work done.

  The whore fell forward on the table, slumped. Blood was oozing from her neck, swilling out on to the table. Her body twitched, once, twice, three times, and then fell still. Her knees buckled and gave way, and slowly she fell from the table, collapsing in a quiet, lifeless heap on the floor. Blood from the table dripped down, streaking her blonde hair with purple.

  Jack stood frozen to the spot, unable to move and unable to speak. The pit of his stomach was churning, and he could sense the acrid taste of vomit rising to the back of his throat. He fought it back, closing his eyes tightly, unable to look any more at the scene being played out in front of him.

  His nakedness left him feeling vulnerable and exposed, and for the moment all he could think of was his own safety. Me next, he wondered. Opening his eyes, he turned back towards the sofa, reaching down for his clothes. He pulled on his trousers, searching next for his shirt and his shoes. All the time, he kept his eyes peeled on Shane. Waiting for his next move. Wondering if he would have to fight.

  Shane walked to the balcony, and flung the bloodied blade far out into the river. Below, the sound of a splash echoed up to the apartment. He strode back across the room and stood close to Jack. Their eyes met. Shane pointed to the far corner of the room. 'Smile for the cameras, boy,' he said.

  Jack turned to the corner but he saw nothing.

  'Hidden,' said Shane. 'The whole place is wired. Everything. The whole thing is on tape.'

  Jack started to speak, but he found he was mumbling. The words would hardly come. They stuck somewhere in his throat. Trapped. 'Why?' he said at last.

  Shane patted him on the shoulder. 'Relax, old son. Relax.' Jack could feel his pulse race. His mind was a shambles.

  'Why?' he repeated.

  'Give me the formula,' said Shane.

  Jack reached into his
pocket and pulled out the envelope. Shane opened it and studied the three sheets of paper. 'Looks OK,' he said. 'I'll get our chemists to check it. So long as it works out, I'll make sure you get paid.'

  'Her,' said Jack. 'What was the point?'

  Shane took a step forward. He was standing right next to him now, leaning, looking down. 'Trust,' he said.

  Jack shook his head.

  'Think about it,' Shane continued. 'How am I supposed to trust a man like you. You're soft. Weak. If the police ever come to question you about the counterfeiting operation, if they pressure you, if they beat you, you'll crack. I know you'll crack. Your sort always does.' He turned and sat down on a chair next to the whore, no more than inches from her body. 'I could threaten to kill you if you betray me, but what difference would it make? You would never quite believe me. But this way is different. If I hand this tape to the police, you will be charged with murder. You were standing next to her, and it will be impossible to tell from the film whether the knife was in your hand or mine. They'll get you as an accomplice to murder, at least. Premeditated. Worth twenty years. Can you handle that, Jack? Can you take twenty years inside? Of course not. Too soft. After the first six months you'd be trying to kill yourself. You know you can't take it. And now you know that you mustn't cross me.'

  He stood up and walked across the room, leaning forward, his grey eyes slamming into Jack's face. 'You know it, don't you. In your heart. Loyalty. That is what this is all about.'

  NINE

  Tara checked first in Who's Who, but the name of Dr Zmitt was not listed, and she could feel the sense of disappointment shudder through her. The question of who this man was had been gnawing away at her since the previous evening. She had turned it over in her mind all night, the question making her restless, infuriating her. By morning it seemed like the key.

  She had skipped work. That, she decided, would have to wait until she resolved this question. Taking her new company Volkswagen, she drove into the centre of London, heading for the Wellcome Institute on the Euston Road. It was the one place she could think of with a complete collection of pharmacological reference works; and the one place were she could wander around freely, with no questions asked, and no suspicions raised. Kizog was the last place where she felt like being this morning. Within its glistening compound, beneath the stretches of corridors patrolled by security cameras, and behind its computer-controlled doors, too many people seemed to be watching her. She felt as though unseen eyes and silent microchips were stalking her every movement. Here she was just another Oriental student diligently working for her degree. Anonymous. Secure.