by Peter James
‘No?’
‘One of the problems with islands, dear. Too much sea; too much bloody sea.’ Then, shaking her head the old bat wandered off.
Monty went into an old-fashioned hall with a chequered floor and a lift in a brass cage. Somewhere above her she could hear the sound of hoovering. Ordinarily the old girl’s dottiness might have made her smile, but today it made her feel uncomfortable, just one more symptom of a world completely out of kilter.
She took the lift to the third floor, pulling the heavy door open with some difficulty when she got there, and stepped out into a corridor of aged grandeur, well in keeping with the downstairs hall. There was a red carpet, carved surrounds to each door, and Art Deco sconces along the walls – several of them with their light bulbs blown.
She stopped outside number 215 and stared, in surprise, at the gaping strip that was torn from the jamb. The thick oak door was slightly ajar, and as she looked closer she saw the reason why: it had been jemmied open, and the solid Banham lock was skewed in its mortise.
She tensed, her nerves sparking as if they were shorting out. Had it just happened? Was the intruder still inside? No, surely not in the middle of the morning. She’d spoken to the occupant only five minutes or so ago, ten at the maximum. It must have happened earlier. Somewhere further down the corridor in another flat she could hear the strains of a violin; its mournful sound made her feel even more uneasy.
Bracing herself for the unexpected, she rang the bell, and rang again when there was no sign of life. After giving it a full minute, she pushed the door further open, listening hard.
Complete silence greeted her. The entrance hall was dark and surprisingly high-ceilinged. Outdoor clobber of umbrellas and Wellington boots adorned an old mahogany coat stand, and a long passageway lined with doorways stretched ahead of her.
She took a breath, then called out tentatively: ‘Hello?’
She waited for a response, but heard nothing. Then she walked slowly forward, glancing back at the entrance every few moments, and stopped by the first open door – through which was a good-sized bathroom.
The cupboard doors hung open, their assorted contents scattered on the floor. Monty turned her head sharply, checking the corridor in both directions, instantly vulnerable.
Had the police been? Were they on their way? Fighting an urge to turn and run, she went on to peer through the next door into what looked like a master bedroom. It, too, had been ransacked, with almost every square inch of floor covered in clothing. This had not happened since she’d spoken to Charles Kingsley, she reasoned. Someone had spent quite a while in here.
An impression of new paint came from the next open door; it was a small child’s bedroom, with a spotless cot. Monty felt a lump in her throat as she looked at the wallpaper depicting nursery rhymes, at the mobile of coloured shapes above the cot, the pretty furniture, the unused carpet, and backed out. Whoever had turned the place over had not bothered with this room.
There was a grander door, slightly ajar, at the end of the passage. She stopped outside it, held her breath, then she pushed it open very slowly, braced for it to hurtle back in her face, or for a confrontation. But nothing happened.
Still holding her breath, her eyes darting wildly, she went through into a large drawing room, handsomely furnished with antiques, and in semi-darkness due to the curtains being drawn. She could see enough to pick out the drawers of a walnut bureau that lay upside down on the floor, their contents spilled around them. The rest of this room seemed untouched. Then she heard a sharp creak behind her. She turned, her skin crawling, and stood absolutely motionless.
The image of Dr Corbin with the metal shank embedded in his skull came back to her even more vividly than when she had actually seen it happen, and the horror squeezed her stomach like a sponge.
Christ, if I had tried harder to make him listen, she thought. If I hadn’t let him leave his practice. If I had delayed him by just one more second, the hook would have missed him.
She caught sight of her face reflected in the gilded mirror above a chiffonier and was startled by how pale she looked. Like a ghost, she thought. Then a shadow right behind her, darker than all the others in the room, suddenly moved.
She spun round, a silent scream of terror yammering in her throat, her brain seized up with fear. The shadow was in a chair, a deep, low armchair. But there was nothing threatening in the movement, she realized, after a long moment.
An arm raised itself, slowly, mechanically; there was a brief scrabbling sound, then a click and a weak pool of light from a table lamp that made her blink. She could see a haggard, unshaven face beneath unbrushed hair, staring at her the way a political prisoner long beaten into submission might watch a jailer bringing food.
‘I’m – sorry – I did ring – I –’ Her apology trailed as she stared at the man in pity now, rather than shock. He was about forty, squarely built, wearing a thick crew-neck sweater, corduroy trousers and moccasins. Black rings as deep as bore holes encircled his bloodshot eyes.
‘Ch – Charles Kingsley?’ she asked.
‘Over the weekend,’ he said quietly and disjointedly, slurring some of the words. ‘Thrr police said they do it often. They know when there’s a bereavement that people sometimes go away. I don’t know what they’ve taken; it doesn’t matter; I don’t care what the hell they’ve taken.’
A colour wedding photograph in a silver frame shared the small table beside him with the lamp. It was a happy family group, the men in top hats and tails, the women wearing hats and finery. Everyone was laughing. In the centre were the bride and groom, Caroline and a much younger Charles Kingsley, she presumed. The bride was pretty in a classic English gentry way, her brown hair pinned up in ringlets beneath her wedding veil. He was very much a male equivalent.
‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ she said. ‘But there’s something I need to ask. Your wife was taking medication for infertility prior to becoming pregnant, wasn’t she?’
He stared back at her in silence for a long while, before speaking again. He did not smell of alcohol and Monty wondered if he was on a heavy dose of sedatives. ‘Caroline, she didn’t – you see – didn’t want – people to know.’ He lapsed into silence again. Monty was about to prompt him when he continued. ‘She was very shy. She hid the pills. She thought even I didn’t know.’ He looked up and gave her a helpless, childlike smile.
Monty responded in kind. ‘She hid them from you? In a good place?’
He lowered his head and was quiet again. He seemed to be having difficulty holding his eyes open. ‘In a spice jar. I don’t cook, you see. She thought I wouldn’t ever find them.’
‘Are they still there now?’
But Charles Kingsley’s eyes had closed completely and his breathing became deeper. This time he had gone to sleep.
Monty tiptoed quietly back into the passage. She tried one door, which opened into a broom closet. The next one opened into a large, modern kitchen which had been untouched by the intruder.
She glanced hurriedly around the work surfaces, then she spotted a row of stone spice jars with wooden tops. Ginger, Garlic, Turmeric, Bay leaves, Chives, Oregano, Rock salt, Cumin, Basil.
The chances of any of the Maternox still being there were remote, she thought. If Caroline Kingsley had not wanted even her husband to know that she was taking the pills, she was scarcely likely to have kept them throughout the full term of her pregnancy. And yet, Monty knew, she herself had a habit of keeping pills for years after she had finished needing them.
She began to work through the jars, opening the tops of each in turn and rummaging inside. It was as her fingers rummaged deep among the bay leaves that they struck something hard and round.
It was a white plastic vial.
She lifted it out, spilling a few leaves in the process, and shook it. There was a light rattle. The prescription label around it was headed: ‘PriceSave DrugSmart, 297 Earl’s Court Road.’ In smaller wording beneath was printed, ‘Keep out of reach of
children.’ Then: ‘10ml Maternox, two capsules four times daily with food. MS CAROLINE KINGSLEY, 11 JAN 94.’
On the reverse side of the vial was the product licence number, followed by the batch number. ‘BS-M-6575-1881-UKMR.’
She twisted and prised off the childproof lid, and saw six blue and green capsules remaining in the bottom. She replaced the lid with trembling fingers, slipped the vial into her handbag and hurried, furtively, out of the mansion flat.
53
‘Mr Molloy, I apologize for disturbing you from your duties this morning, but I’d like to have a word about this report you’ve produced.’ Dr Vincent Crowe tapped the thick wodge of papers on his japanned black desk.
‘Yes, sir – about the prior art?’
‘Precisely,’ Crowe said with a smile as lean as his face. He sat very upright, checked the pink silk handkerchief that bloomed from his breast pocket, and looked expectantly at Conor. ‘I was most interested to find out just how much material there is.’
‘I’ve included everything published by Dr Bannerman during the past decade.’
‘On what? The whole range of his work?’
‘No – this is just on the psoriasis genes. There’s about twenty roomfuls of published material on the genetics research he’s been doing on other diseases.’
The Chief Executive’s lips pressed so tightly together they melded into one thin crimson line. In the chiaroscuro of the overhead spotlight, Conor could almost see the contours of his superior’s skull and the labyrinth of veins beneath his alabaster skin.
‘You understand the importance of the acquisition of Bannerman Genetics Research Laboratories to this company, Mr Molloy?’
‘I think so, sir.’
‘The patents of four of the six largest revenue earners for Bendix Schere expire within the next five years. We need to replace them with a new generation of international best-selling drugs that will see us through into the twenty-first century. Psoriatak could be one. One in ten people are affected by psoriasis at some time during their lives. The earnings potential for a drug that will eliminate, through gene therapy, the recurrence of a broad band of psoriasis complaints is, you will agree, very substantial.’
‘It won’t impress too many dermatologists,’ Conor said with a smile that withered rapidly under Crowe’s response of stony silence.
‘The invention of aspirin and penicillin didn’t put too many doctors out of business, Mr Molloy.’
‘No,’ Conor said, realizing that this was someone devoid of humour, and making a mental note never to attempt a joke with him again.
Crowe’s eyes slithered over the piles of papers once more, then returned to Conor. ‘I imagine your opinion is that there’s far too much published material for us to have any chance of obtaining a US patent for Psoriatak?’
‘Well, there’s too much published material for us to obtain patents in any country. We’d have no chance in the United Kingdom, or the European Patent Office. In my opinion it won’t fly.’
Crowe nodded very slowly, his cold grey eyes maintaining piercing contact with Conor’s. ‘So we have two possible solutions. Either we abandon Psoriatak and flush a substantial part of the purchase price we paid for Bannerman down the lavatory. Or –’ His lips formed a tight circle. ‘We have to be a little more creative.’
‘How do you mean, creative, sir?’
Crowe breathed in through his nostrils, weighing Conor up astutely. Then he tapped the wodge of papers. ‘By being a little selective with some of this.’
Conor tried to veil his disbelief. ‘You mean by “losing” some of it?’
Crowe pressed his fingers tightly together, so that the nails were pointing upwards, and studied Conor over the top of them. ‘We are not having this conversation – you understand?’
‘You want me to get rid of some published papers?’
‘Precisely.’
‘But – that would be –’
‘Yes?’
‘Very unethical. And illegal.’
‘You know your way around the United States Patent Office, do you not, Mr Molloy?’
‘That’s one of my fields of expertise, yes, sir.’
‘And you presumably have friends there?’
Conor shook his head. ‘I don’t know anyone there who is – bendable – if that’s what you’re suggesting. People seem to change when they start working there. Everyone I know says the same; you can be best buddies with someone at college – but the moment they start working at the Patent Office, that’s it; friendship over.’
Crowe ignored this reply. ‘The United States patent system works, like the British one, very much on trust, I believe. The US patent examiner will accept what you tell him, am I not correct?’
‘He will accept what I tell him, because he knows that as a lawyer, I face being struck off if I’m discovered lying.’
‘But unless someone complains and goes to very great lengths, there’s no reason why you should ever be found out. Even then, the US examiner would be loath to accept any such complaint, because it would show he had been inefficient – again, am I not correct.’
Conor found it hard to believe his own ears – particularly considering Crowe’s calibre and position. ‘Dr Crowe – may I remind you these are all published papers. They’ve appeared in respected peer review journals – like Nature etc., as well as all the usual national newspapers and books. We could shred all this stuff, but what about the records, not to mention the thousands – millions, sometimes – of copies that exist in print?’
Crowe remained calm. ‘That is not a problem. Once we have the patent, we are in a position of strength. Competitors might try to put out a similar product but they’d face taking us on every inch of the way. They’d have to find these published articles, co-ordinate them – and still they’d have no certainty of winning any action.’
He studied Conor. ‘It goes without saying that what you are being asked to do is beyond the obligations of your employment, Mr Molloy. If it makes you feel uneasy we could of course relieve you of your duties and assign you to something less demanding.’ He raised his eyebrows.
Conor thought quickly. It was vital that he kept his nose clean with the company right now, and not give them any shred of suspicion about his loyalties. He smiled back at the Chief Executive. ‘Dr Crowe, I have no worries; my loyalty is to Bendix Schere and I’ll do whatever I am asked without question.’
Crowe’s face visibly relaxed. ‘Good.’
‘The problem is going to be Dr Bannerman,’ Conor went on. ‘He has to sign the declaration for the patent examiner, and my experience of him is that he’s kind of flaky – I don’t know how we could deliver his signature.’
‘That won’t be a problem, either. The document he signs will state “Published papers as per attached”.’ Crowe gave him a knowing look. ‘He won’t see what you actually submit, will he?’
Conor hesitated. ‘I guess there’s no reason …’
Crowe smiled and stood up. ‘I’m glad we understand each other, Mr Molloy. You have a future with Bendix Schere. An excellent future.’
54
Monty walked through the foyer shortly after eleven, feeling nervous about the vial of pills in her handbag, as if she were carrying contraband which the security turnstile might somehow be capable of detecting.
All the lifts were in use and the indicators showed that the one nearest the Directors’ express would be the next to arrive. As she waited, she heard a faint whoosh and rumble from behind the Directors’ beaten copper door, but instead of stopping the lift carried straight on down. Then, a few moments later, to her slight surprise, there was a second whoosh, followed by a ping, and the Directors’ door slid open.
A tall, distinguished-looking man with dark wavy hair streaked silver at the temples, black rimmed glasses, and wearing a camel cashmere coat stepped out and walked swiftly past her.
There was another ping and now the door in front of her slid open. She stepped into the lift, puz
zled by the sound she had heard a few moments earlier. She had definitely heard the Directors’ lift descend below this floor; surely there wasn’t enough time for it to have stopped in the basement health hydro and come back up again?
She was still puzzling over it as she entered her office, then made an effort to switch her mind to the tasks she had to get done today.
A light was flashing on her phone, indicating she had a voice comm message waiting. She put the phone on loudspeaker, pressed the ‘Play’ button, and took off her coat.
‘Hi, Miss Bannerman, this is Conor Molloy. I’m afraid I have to blow out lunch; could you give me a call, please?’
The words left her feeling stranded. All weekend she had been looking forward to seeing him; originally to tell him the news about Caroline Kingsley’s death, but now, as well, to show him the Maternox capsules she had obtained. And she wanted just to see him anyway; he seemed like the only rock in her life.
She sat down, biting her lower lip in disappointment, and dialled Conor Molloy’s extension. He answered immediately.
‘Hi, how are you?’ he asked. ‘How was your weekend?’
‘OK, it was fine. How about you?’
‘You sound terrible – what’s up?’
‘Nothing, I’m – I’m OK – I’ve had a bad morning.’
‘Listen, I’m sorry, I have to rework a report for Dr Crowe which he wants this afternoon. I’m going to have to work through. Are you free later – for a drink or a meal or something this evening, instead?’
The knowledge that he was still on to meet today perked her up again. ‘I have to go to our old lab in Berkshire at half four – I’m meeting a man who wants to buy up all our office equipment down there. I could come back up after,’ she said.
‘No, you don’t need to do that. I’ll come and meet you somewhere. Berkshire, you said? What’s that, about an hour’s drive?’
‘Yes – depends on the traffic. An hour and a half in the rush hour, forty-five minutes outside it. When will you be through today?’