by Peter James
‘I don’t know – around seven maybe, with luck.’
‘Can I invite you down to my house? I’ll cook you something.’
‘Home cooking?’ He sounded genuinely delighted. ‘You know, that’s something I’ve really been missing!’
‘You’re on!’ she said, really pleased at the prospect of seeing him, and of having some company that evening. And she was desperate to tell him her news but dared not over the phone. Instead she gave him directions.
Feeling a lot better, she then went down the corridor in search of her father and found him sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves. In just the few weeks that he had been at Bendix Schere his large office was already as untidy as the cramped one he used to share with her.
‘Hi, darling,’ he said, looking up over the top of his bifocal glasses. ‘Where’ve you been? I tried to find you earlier.’
‘I – er – had to go to the dentist,’ she lied.
‘Problems?’
‘Just a filling.’
He frowned. ‘I’ve got some more stuff missing, can’t find any of my files on the diabetes genes – all the research material we shelved last year when we found the Wellcome Foundation were ahead of the game.’ He gestured in despair. ‘Can you think what we did with it all?’
She looked round at the chaos. ‘Do you leave all this stuff out at night?’
‘Of course.’
‘You know that’s against company rules?’
He grinned at her. ‘Nil illegitimi carborundum!’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It was an unofficial US army motto in the Second World War. Means, Don’t let the bastards get you down!’
‘I don’t think anyone could ever get you down, Daddy.’ She paused. ‘What do you need the diabetes files for?’
‘I’ve been asked by American Scientist magazine for some information on my research – they’re doing a feature on progress in identifying the diabetes genes, to tie in with the Washington Symposium.’
Monty looked at him warily. ‘Have you cleared this with Dr Crowe?’
‘Bugger Dr Crowe.’
She took a breath and spoke wearily. ‘Daddy, you’ve signed an agreement saying you won’t talk to the press without the written consent of Dr Crowe.’
‘Well, I can’t find the material anyway,’ he said petulantly.
‘Probably just as well.’
He drummed his desk with his fingers. ‘I think you’re missing my point, darling,’ he said. ‘The files have vanished – they didn’t just walk off by themselves.’
‘Well, they’re not down in Berkshire; I went through everything there with a toothcomb on Saturday. You’ve probably been looking in the wrong place. I’ve put all the files for everything that isn’t current down in the Stacks.’
He frowned at her again. ‘Are you OK, darling? You look as white as a sheet.’
She nodded. ‘I – I saw an accident on my way here. Very nasty, it shook me up.’
‘Road accident?’
‘Yes,’ she said, not wanting to tell him anything about Dr Corbin.
‘I thought I might take advantage of these palatial premises and go down to the hydro and have a swim and sauna after work. Want to join me? We could have a bite to eat afterwards? Might do you good to relax.’
‘I can’t, not tonight. I have to be back down at the lab at four thirty – the furniture chap’s coming. I have to haggle a deal with him.’
He screwed up his face. ‘I don’t think we’ll get much.’
‘But we’re allowed to keep whatever we do get – it’s in the contract. Every bit helps.’
‘Of course.’ He rested his chin on his hand and looked thoughtfully at her. ‘You’re a good girl, darling. But you’ve been working too hard recently, you need a bit of joy in your life.’
‘I’ll go down to the Stacks and have a look for the files for you, just in case they’ve been put in the wrong place,’ she said, avoiding the remark.
‘You’re an angel.’
She took the lift down to the floor below, and went into the massive archive area. On her previous visits she had always found the place rather eerie: it occupied almost an entire floor of the building, its tall, fireproof grey filing cabinets crammed so tightly that any visitors had to sidle through the narrow gullies of shiny linoleum between them.
This sanctum was presided over by a solitary archivist, a humourless female of indeterminate age who wore her greying hair in a drab bun, and pecked away relentlessly on her keyboard. Like a sentinel she watched, but never acknowledged, anyone who came in. Behind her was a row of computer terminals on which the records were held, as well as microfilm and microfiche booths. Although it was as well equipped as a university library, Monty had never seen anyone else using the Stacks.
She seated herself at one of the terminals and keyed in the name of the material she wanted, just to check it hadn’t been moved to a different area. The location appeared on the screen: ‘Row M. 2307-15.’ Then she made her way down the steel corridors, found the correct spot, pulled open the drawer of the cabinet and checked carefully inside. Her father was right, the files were missing.
She went back to the sentinel and asked if anyone had removed them.
‘Nothing is permitted to be removed,’ the woman said sharply. ‘Not without the written permission of the department head. If a document belonging to Dr Bannerman is lodged here, it requires authorization in writing from him before it can be removed.’
‘Would you have a record of anything that’s been taken out?’
‘Of course.’
Monty showed her the file number. The sentinel entered it into her screen and pressed the return key. A moment later Monty noticed a sudden curious reaction on her face.
‘There’s no record of them being removed,’ she said, raising her head but without actually looking Monty in the face.
She was lying. Monty could read the signals in her body language. Could read it in the sudden rapid blinking of the eyes, the way she seemed to stiffen and to be suddenly unsure what to do with her hands.
‘Someone probably put them back in the wrong place,’ she said huffily. ‘People do that all the time; it can take months to find something when that happens.’
Not wanting to antagonize her further, Monty agreed. ‘People can be so careless.’
She spent the next three hours in a fruitless search through the Stacks. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, but the mindless monotony of her task was exactly what she needed right now, still far too shaken to concentrate on anything more demanding.
She was haunted by what had happened to Dr Corbin. The hook dropping at just the wrong moment. Or was it the right moment? She thought back to the earlier incident on her way to the practice, when a falling block and tackle had narrowly missed a car. Coincidence. The word stuck in her mind like a tune as she worked.
There were files dating back to the 1880s: on every disease she had ever heard of; on every organ of the human body; on scientists; on universities; and on research institutes. She rummaged through them until she ran out of time.
Finally she gave up, thanked the archivist courteously and went back to her office to grab her coat, ready to head for Berkshire. Before leaving, she lowered her handbag under her desk and peered inside. The vial of Maternox pills lay inside a tissue. She pushed it further to the bottom, scooping the rest of the contents of her handbag over it.
It was now nearly three o’clock, and she was not sorry to close her office door behind her. But as she stepped out of the lift into the downstairs lobby she was surprised to see the security guard, Winston Smith, on duty.
She went up to his turnstile. ‘You’re early today – have you changed shifts?’
His eyes closed for a moment and he pressed a finger beneath his nostrils, stifling a sneeze. ‘Got to do extra hours –couple of people off sick, Miss Bannerman.’ Then he shut his eyes again and stifled another sneeze, hunting in his pocket for a han
dkerchief.
‘Cold still bad?’
‘Always bad, Miss.’ He pressed the balled handkerchief against his nostrils, his normal forlorn expression returning to his face.
Then he brightened. ‘That book you told me ’bout last week. I went to the library and ordered it. Must be popular – got three people waiting ’n front of me.’
‘Darling Buds of May? I may have a copy at home – I’ll have a look for you.’ She smiled. Then she lowered her voice. ‘Tell me something. Is there another lift here that we can’t see – some goods load that goes down into the basement or something? I’m sure I’ve heard it a couple of times.’
Beneath the peak of Winston’s cap, the large, yellowing whites of his eyes rolled warily to the right and left. He said nothing as two sharp suits, who looked as if they were from Marketing, strode by, then he leaned towards Monty and spoke quietly. She smelled tobacco on his breath and smiled inwardly, pleased to know that he wasn’t afraid of breaking the rules.
‘Ain’t no one gets that lift, Miss.’ He zippered his mouth with a finger, and Monty could see real fear in his face.
‘Why not?’ she prodded gently.
He stared her back full in the eyes. ‘This building ain’t what you think.’
She returned the stare and gave him a nod of encouragement. ‘How do you mean?’
He gave her a knowing look and spoke even more quietly. ‘I can’t say too much. But you might find it interesting to check out the plans of this building some time.’
‘Oh?’
‘Ever read Jules Verne, Miss?’
‘Yes, I used to love him. Very prophetic writer.’
‘Journey to the Centre of the Earth – that’s the one.’ He signalled again with his eyes, then added, ‘You mind you have a nice afternoon, now.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, and walked on past him, out towards her car, deep in thought.
55
Monty pulled out of the Sainsbury’s car park into the rush-hour jam on the Reading ring road. As the traffic halted, she stared at a massive illuminated billboard depicting a smiling mother in a cream dressing gown, hugging a naked baby. Along the top of the hoarding were the words:
MATERNOX – TAKING CARE OF THE FUTURE.’
And at the bottom was the proclamation:
‘Bendix Schere – The World’s Most Caring Company.’
A fat blob of rain exploded on the windscreen. It was followed by more in quick procession as the skies opened, rapidly blurring the ad. She left the wipers off, preferring it that way, and switched on the GLR six o’clock news.
‘… renewing hopes of a Christmas truce in Bosnia,’ said the newscaster. ‘Forty-seven pensioners have been injured in a coach crash on the way to a Christmas shopping spree. And a doctor has been killed in a freak accident on a London street.’
She listened to the rest of the bulletin, which brought all the horror of that morning’s drama flooding back, but it said nothing new about the death of Dr Corbin, and did not mention the full gruesome details that she had witnessed.
In an effort to switch her mind to something else, she tried to concentrate on her menu for that night. It would take her about half an hour to get home in this traffic, giving her just enough time before Conor Molloy arrived. She was going to give him coq au vin, followed by some brie and grapes. Not knowing what he drank, she had bought a bottle of Australian red wine and one of white.
Rain thudded on the soft roof of the car. She turned the dial on the radio, blipping in and out of several stations, then found some jazz and stayed with it. Louis Armstrong was singing ‘We Have All The Time In The World’. But as she listened her mind switched to the strange conversation she’d had with Winston Smith.
This building ain’t what you think.
Jules Verne, Journey to the Centre of the Earth …
What the hell did he mean?
Normally Monty loved nothing more than to turn off the main road into the silence of the farm track up to her cottage. But this evening, for the first time ever, the isolation and the bitumen blackness of the night felt threatening, and she found herself driving faster than normal along the rutted surface, fearful something was going to jump out of the hedgerow at her.
She slowed as she passed the large barn, looking hard into the cavernous interior, watching the shadows pushed along by her headlights slide over the two tractors, the trailer, the bales of hay, the broken ancient ploughshare.
The beam of the headlamps floodlit her peeling garage as she pulled into her drive. Normally she would have opened the door and driven in, particularly on a wet night; but, like the darkness around her, the garage suddenly looked enclosing and threatening.
She kept the high beam on for some moments after she had killed the engine, scrutinizing first the house then the shrubbery of the garden and relieved that, for once, Alice had actually left the lights on in the living room and an upstairs bedroom.
Without bothering to lock the MG, she hurried through the pelting rain into the shelter of the porch. For some reason, the key would not go into the lock. Cursing, she fumbled with it for some moments, then finally, and clumsily, she managed to push it in; but when she tried to turn it, it wouldn’t move.
Puzzled, she tried again, harder, but with no success. She slid it out and pushed it back in again, tried to twist it so hard it cut into her gloved fingers, but still it would not turn.
Then she sensed someone standing behind her.
She spun round, fear pulling at the hairs on her body like a magnet. Nothing there; just the darkness and the thudding rain, and the plat … plat … plat of water dripping from the guttering. Listening hard, trying to tune out the sounds of the rain, she stepped out of the porch and looked at each of the windows, scanning them for any sign of movement. Then she walked across the sodden grass of the tiny front lawn and around the side, past the dustbins, and stopped dead.
An unseen hand twisted her guts like a tourniquet.
The kitchen door was open. She kept it locked, always kept it locked with both the key and the two bolts, top and bottom.
It was a few inches ajar.
She took a step back, her head turning from side to side, her frightened eyes scooping every grain of light from the darkness. Her first instinct was to run; but it was a long way back to the main road and if anyone was waiting for her they would catch her. The car was the best bet, she thought, and she strode quickly over to it, jumped in, switched on the ignition and pushed the starter button.
The engine turned over but did not fire. She pushed the button again and pumped the accelerator hard. The engine fired then died. ‘Come on, please, please!’ she hissed through clenched teeth, pressing the starter button again, then again. The interior of the car filled with the stink of petrol. Shit. She knew that the flooded engine could take a quarter of an hour before it had evaporated enough to start.
Fearfully she peered through the rain-smeared windows into the darkness. She switched on the headlights, the beam giving her a crumb of comfort, and thought hard. If there was someone lying in wait, the noise of the starter would have flushed them out, surely?
She wound down the window and listened. Plat. Plat. Plat. It was a quarter to seven. Another hour at least before Conor got here, and probably longer. He was bound to get lost; in spite of her careful directions everyone got lost the first time they visited here.
Shivering with fear and feeling trapped, she climbed back out and stood stock-still.
Got to get a grip, she told herself.
Slowly she walked up to the back door and pulled it open wider, then held her breath. Silence. She took another step forward, then her foot struck something. There was a clink, then a sharp rattle that made her cry out in fright; something skittered noisily across the ground. Her mind worked feverishly, wondering if it was some kind of man-trap device.
Then she looked down at the milk bottles she had just kicked over, and felt a little foolish. She reached inside the door and snapped on
the light.
Her eyes scanned the Welsh dresser, the Aga, the fridge, the pine table; it all looked undisturbed, just as she had left it. The small vase of flowers was still on the table; the usual note from Alice weighted beneath a cutglass paperweight. The cats, where were the cats?
Christ, if anyone has harmed Watson or Crick …
She felt bolstered by sudden anger. Then her eyes went back to the full vase on the table; a mixture of late flowers she had picked herself on Sunday; in the mild November, several plants had flowered early, or for a second time.
Every flower in the vase was dead.
She stared at them in disbelief. They hung, limp and shrivelled, their stems already turning brown. Couldn’t be the heat in here, she thought, surely? Then she realized there was no heat at all; the kitchen felt like a cold store. It was warmer outside than inside. Puzzled, she touched the Aga. It was hot, the black line of the temperature gauge showing normal. Why the hell was it so chilly in here?
Then the door to the hall moved. Her heart thrashed. Four emeralds glinted at her from the darkness of the corridor. There was a snarl, then a hiss. The cats came into the room abreast, stopped in the doorway and looked at her as if she was a total stranger.
‘Hello, boys,’ she said, her voice trembling.
Crick arched his back and stiffened. Watson hissed again. The sound sent a shiver down Monty’s skin. ‘Boys! Hello, boys!’ She took a tentative step towards them. Both cats took flight, dashing past her and out of the door, as if they couldn’t get out of the house quickly enough.
She looked back into the dark corridor, and then, somehow, she walked the few yards into the hall and switched on the light. The morning’s post lay neatly stacked by Alice on the table. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed.
Had Alice been taken ill or something? Or perhaps she’d had a mental blank-out, making her forget to lock the kitchen door? Monty peered up towards the top of the stairs, listening hard again, beginning to think that’s what must have happened, when her eyes fell on the front door.
A piece of bent wire was protruding from the Yale lock, and the safety chain had been put on.