Alchemist

by Peter James

  Conor glanced down at the newspaper on the table, distracted by something in it, then addressed Monty again. ‘I think the most likely thing is that Research and Development are trying to crash a modification of Maternox through. God knows what. I mean – the whole concept of using infertile women as unwitting guinea pigs is gross, but it does happen in this industry.’

  ‘And you think there might be a legitimate argument for letting sleeping dogs lie? For swallowing the fact that four women are dead and that my best friend might be next? I’m not going to sit around and let that happen.’

  He squeezed her wrist lightly. ‘I’m not going to either, Monty, I promise you that. But we have to get someone to do an analysis on those goddamned capsules before we can make an intelligent decision, and there’s one obvious person who can do that.’

  Their eyes met. ‘My father?’

  ‘Charley Rowley tried to get some more Maternox. He was spooked by how many waves it created, to the point of reckoning he was being followed? There’s no one in the company we can trust. Except your father.’

  ‘Don’t you have any friends in the States who could do the analysis? Or couldn’t we go to some outside lab here in England?’

  Conor took out another cigarette. ‘In all four of the women who died, an unidentified rash of pustular psoriasis type occurred at five months. So whatever it is that’s happening to the mothers, it starts around or prior to that point. Your friend’s baby is due 10th June. It’s now 26th November. So she’s two and a half months pregnant right now. If that foetus is carrying something that’s going to transmit to the mother, every new day makes the danger worse – assuming it’s not already too late.’

  He puffed on his cigarette. ‘There aren’t that many molecular biologists capable of doing the analysis we need and these tests are a slow process. We’re talking about a good fortnight to get any kind of result. Sure I can start looking for someone else – I have to go to Washington some time soon, but we don’t have the luxury of time.’

  Monty nodded, thinking hard.

  He leaned back in his chair and blew a thin plume of smoke at the ceiling. ‘Bendix Schere are not about to alert your friend, or anyone else, to the danger, that’s pretty evident.’

  ‘Surely the medical profession is going to put two and two together at some point?’

  He shook his head. ‘You have a very slow reporting system over here. It could take a couple of years before your civil servants reach any kind of connection.’ He shrugged. ‘Ten, maybe fourteen cases spread over a year. And don’t forget Maternox has a brilliant safety record around the world – numerous other factors could be seen as the problem. Like pollution. Even if they had enough evidence, no one’s going to stick their neck out and risk a lawsuit from Bendix Schere over a puny number of figures like that.’

  ‘But a journalist like Hubert Wentworth armed with a copy of what’s on your computer could.’

  They faced each other in a charged silence.

  ‘What you have in that machine is dynamite, isn’t it, Conor?’

  ‘Plutonium.’

  ‘Have you got a printout for safety?’

  ‘I’ve backed it on to a floppy disk which I’ve hidden in my apartment.’

  ‘Judging from the break-ins that have been going on, don’t you think we ought to lodge a printout somewhere, maybe with a lawyer?’

  ‘I haven’t actually got a printer – I use the one at Bendix if I need to. Obviously I don’t fancy doing that with this, in case anyone sees it. How about giving a disk to your guy?’

  ‘Isn’t that dangerous in another way – Wentworth might decide to go to press with it.’

  ‘You think he’s on the level?’

  ‘Yes, in as much as I can judge. He’s driven by a demon, but I think he’s genuine.’ She pulled a face. ‘I don’t really know him – I’ve only met him a few times.’

  ‘He’s not the editor of the paper, right?’

  ‘No – he’s deputy news editor.’

  ‘OK – well, that Medici File isn’t on Bendix headed paper, there are no names and no signatures. In theory anyone with a grudge against the company could have invented it. For it to stand up as a story, his editor would want pretty strong corroboration from some other source.’

  ‘What sort of corroboration?’

  ‘With something like this, I’d think at least a sworn affidavit from myself as an employee of the company. You see the problem? I’m thinking about our own backs, too, Monty. Just in case the going gets rough.’

  She tacitly acknowledged his point.

  ‘Do you have a home number for this Mr Wentworth?’ Conor asked next.

  ‘Yes, it’s on his card.’

  ‘I think we should try and see him tomorrow.’

  She looked at her watch. ‘I could ring him now – I don’t think he’d mind.’

  ‘No, don’t phone from here. We’ll use a pay phone some place in the morning.’

  She looked alarmed. ‘You think the phone here is bugged?’

  ‘I checked both your instruments on Monday night. They’re clean.’

  ‘You what? You’re pretty thorough, aren’t you?’ She said it half in jest, half in anger.

  ‘We need to be thorough, you and I right now, Monty. Your phone’s clean, but there could easily be a wiretap somewhere on your line – the cable runs above ground; someone could pick up your conversations just by sitting in a parked car and pointing a beam at the wires. And if the company did have anything to do with the death of one of Wentworth’s reporters, they could well be tapping his home line; so even from a pay phone, you should say very little. And try to avoid giving your name.’

  Monty’s head was pounding again, as it had been that morning, and what appetite she’d had was gone. She went over to the answering machine and switched it on.

  There was a call from Anna saying there was a play in London she very much wanted to see and perhaps they could go either next week or the week after. There was a garbled message from Alice, her daily, saying she’d lost her key but had found it again now. The last call was from PC Brangwyn. He apologized that they’d had no luck with the lead he had been following up regarding her missing scarf, and he hoped she’d be getting in touch with the Crime Prevention Officer.

  Conor, who had absorbed himself in The Times, looked up. ‘Scarf? Did he say scarf?’

  ‘Yes, well it’s a shawl, actually – I noticed it was missing after the break-in. Except I can’t be sure – I may have left it somewhere.’

  His face darkened and he looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he lifted the paper. ‘There’s a piece here about Dr Crowe.’

  ‘Oh – what does it say?’ She began slicing tomatoes and preparing a salad.

  Conor read aloud:

  ‘Computer modelling is cutting years off the search for new drugs for pharmaceuticals giant Bendix Schere.

  ‘Chief Executive Officer Dr Vincent Crowe said: “We were pioneers in the field of molecular modelling. Only a decade ago, scientists were saying it was impossible to replicate chemical reactions accurately through computer programs. We now have the most advanced computerized research facilities in the world and the true benefits will begin to show for our company during the next ten years.”

  ‘Bendix Schere’s growth, from a worldwide ranking of seventeenth to fourth, has staggered both its competitors and City analysts in the last few years. But how will the company fare when the global patents on its infertility wonder drug, Maternox, and its OTC ulcer drug, Zoxcin, expire in three and four years’ time respectively?

  ‘“We’re looking towards transgenics as a major future growth area,” said Dr Crowe. “We currently hold more gene patents than any other company and we’re filing new patents almost weekly. We have the largest genetics research team in the world and are confident of major breakthroughs in the field, leading to the launch of products before the start of the next century that are going to change the face of medicine as we know it, both in diagnosis an
d treatment.”’

  ‘I do not like thee, Dr Crowe,’ Monty said.

  ‘The guy has a major personality disorder. Probably due to sharing ninety per cent of his genes with slime mould.’

  Monty grinned. ‘I thought we all did.’

  ‘No, the rest of the human race only shares seventy per cent.’

  Her smile faded. ‘I’m worried about the Kingsley Maternox capsules; it seems like it might be near impossible to get any more if I lose them. Perhaps I should ask our family solicitor to put a couple in his safe?’

  ‘Give a couple to this Wentworth guy; they’d be just as secure in the newspaper’s safe; probably more so; most papers have security guards these days, but not lawyers’ offices. If I was trying to find out what information you had, your lawyer’s office would be one of the first places I’d search – after your home.’

  ‘You might be right.’

  He curled a finger, summoning her over to him, then reached up and took her hands, pulling her gently down towards him for a kiss.

  She kissed him lightly back, then sat on his lap and crooked an arm round his neck. ‘I feel so unsure about everything. It’s like –’ She fell silent.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like nothing is what it seems. Like those six floors below ground that no one has access to.’

  ‘That could always be innocent, just a kind of Doomsday fallout facility.’

  ‘Except my Winston Smith has a panic attack when I ask him about it. You don’t get panic attacks over empty basements. I really want to know what’s down there, Conor.’

  ‘You could try asking your good friend, Sir Neil Rorke.’ He gave her a sideways look.

  ‘That would be putting him on the spot; and he might start asking awkward questions about how I found out about them. I have a much better idea. Could you hack into the personnel files and get me Winston Smith’s home address? If we’re going visiting tomorrow, we could drop by and see him too. I have a feeling he might talk to me away from the Bendix Building.’

  He smiled. ‘Do you know any cheap hotels around here? We could kill two birds with one stone.’

  ‘You don’t want to stay here?’

  ‘Sure I want to stay here tonight. But you need a phone to call Wentworth tomorrow, and I’ll need one to dial into the Bendix computer to get that address. Let’s go find a place first thing in the morning.’

  ‘And check in just to make a couple of calls? That sounds extravagant.’

  He looked hard into her eyes. ‘There’s nothing extravagant about trying to stay alive, Monty.’

  She felt as if icy spring water was running through her veins. ‘What are you keeping from me?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘There’s something driving you, Conor. There are moments when you seem as fanatical about Bendix Schere as old Hubert Wentworth. Don’t you think it’s about time you levelled with me? Eumenides. Your user-name. A spirit of vengeance. Is that what’s motivating you?’

  Again he remained silent.

  ‘You want vengeance, the same way Wentworth does? Is that where you’re coming from?’ The barb in her next words startled even her. ‘Or am I totally misreading you? Is this all a game to you? Are you just a little curious, but not curious enough that you’re prepared to risk your job for what you believe in?’

  He raised his hands and cupped her face in his palms. ‘I warned you on Monday to quit this Maternox investigation while you had the chance. And you told me you were a stayer. Don’t start fighting me, Monty, we’re on the same side.’

  ‘Are we? I know nothing about you. We sleep together, we talk together, and it’s wonderful, it really is, but you never tell me anything about yourself. Every time I ask you about your background, you sidestep like a politician. I don’t know the real you.’

  ‘You will when the time comes.’

  ‘When what time comes?’

  74

  Sunday 27 November, 1994

  Monty sat in the passenger seat of the BMW as they drove away from the hotel they’d checked into less than an hour before. Conor followed her instructions and after a couple of miles they were accelerating on to an almost deserted M4.

  The brightness of the morning had gone and the sky was marbled with cloud; the light was already failing and it would be dark within a couple of hours. A blob of rain exploded on the windscreen; it was followed by another. Monty was watching for the exit sign through the sweep of the wipers, thinking how best to tackle her father. How much should she tell him? And, more importantly, was she putting him in physical danger?

  She owed it to Anna to act quickly – and to all the other women on the list. One of them was due to give birth in December; could she be saved if her doctor was made aware of the situation?

  She thought of Charles Kingsley alone with his grief in his beautiful mansion flat, and of the same horror that lurked only weeks away for the husbands of more innocent women.

  She would have to tell her father everything, she resolved. She would have to swallow all the assurances she had given him about how wonderful the company was; he needed to know the score now. He had a great deal of wisdom when he wasn’t being stubborn; maybe he’d come up with the best thing to do. That thought made her feel a fraction more comfortable.

  Hubert Wentworth’s house was in a quiet, unassuming street on the outskirts of Slough. It had brown pebble-dash rendering and mock Tudor beams, a couple of which had sections missing. The property, like its owner, gave the appearance of being in a state of neglect, a little frayed around the edges.

  Monty pressed the doorbell, but there was no audible sound. She glanced at Conor, standing beside her with his briefcase. ‘Did you hear it ring?’

  ‘No.’

  She waited, then pressed it again. Assuming it was not working, she raised the knocker on the letter box and brought it down with a sharp rap just as the door opened; she found herself still holding on to it as she stared into two rheumy eyes.

  She introduced Conor, who greeted the newspaperman pleasantly. Hubert Wentworth shook his proffered hand, and returned the greeting. ‘How do you do, Mr Molloy. A Baltimore accent, would I be right?’

  ‘You got it.’ Conor checked himself from adding sir. In spite of his shabby attire, there was a certain air of authority, of elder statesman even, about the man. ‘I’m impressed!’

  Wentworth ushered them inside. The house was small and poky, and Monty wrinkled her nose at the smell of old fabric, dust and cats. The words ‘Bless this House’ were hand-painted on a ceramic tablet hanging on the wall. The atmosphere reminded her of visiting her grandmother when she was a child.

  Further within, the living room was startlingly neat and clean, with almost every surface bedecked in a forest of framed photographs. There were literally dozens.

  At first sight they all appeared to be of the same person, a strikingly attractive Indo-Chinese woman in her twenties whom Monty immediately recognized from the photo Hubert Wentworth had shown her at the cottage. It was his late wife. The pictures made the room feel eerie, she thought. Like a shrine. Then she noticed a series of shots showing a baby girl progressing through childhood into a young adult whom she also recognized. Pretty as an infant, by her late teens Sarah Wentworth – or Johnson, as Monty had known her – was looking very plain. She had the misfortune to have inherited her father’s pancake face rather than her mother’s high cheekbones; the luck of the gene pool, Monty thought.

  She felt a lump of sadness in her throat. She’d just spotted a wedding scene of Sarah standing in a churchyard beside a rather meek-looking man with short, dark hair. Alan Johnson. Dead also. He had gassed himself in his garage. Except for Hubert Wentworth, everyone in the photographs in this room was dead.

  The newspaperman left them while he went to make tea. Conor had sat down and Monty joined him. Hubert Wentworth soon reappeared with a tray laid with teapot, cups, milk, and a lardy cake cut into slices.

  ‘Cake,’ he said. ‘Cake is what we should ha
ve for tea. Sarah, my daughter – used to bring me such good ones, much more exciting, I’m afraid, than this.’ He raised the pot and began pouring their tea.

  ‘Did you bring up Sarah by yourself, Mr Wentworth?’ Monty asked.

  ‘Yes, I did. Françoise died when she was just three. She was a photo journalist, always in and out of Vietnam.’ He poured his own tea, then sat down with a heavy smile.

  ‘You see, Françoise was with Paris Match to do a photo shoot, and –’

  ‘That’s when she was killed?’ Conor asked. ‘In the war?’

  He nodded. ‘She was killed and I was sprayed with a defoliant chemical they called Agent Orange.’ Wentworth paused, his face tight with thought, then he resumed. ‘They sprayed the whole press corps, in a blunder. Seventy per cent of the reporters there that day have now died of cancer. I have to have a check-up every six months. They tell me it’s only a matter of time.’

  Monty looked at him in sympathy, unsure what to say. She’d heard some of the story before and her mind was boggling at the suffering, directly and indirectly, that the produce of Bendix Schere had caused this man.

  ‘Agent Orange?’ Conor said.

  ‘Yes, or a chemical almost identical to Agent Orange. Anyway, it’s lethal.’ The journalist appeared to address the carpet. ‘Like the napalm that killed my wife, it was manufactured by one of the United States factories of Bendix Schere.’

  In the silence that followed he offered the cake. Monty didn’t want any, but took a small slice so as not to offend; Conor helped himself and began to eat hungrily. ‘You might be OK,’ he said. ‘These things don’t necessarily affect everyone.’

  Wentworth smiled at him; but it was a smile that seemed to carry with it a trace of envy: envy of Conor’s youth and innocence, and of all the life that he had in front of him. ‘Time,’ he said. ‘That’s what’s valuable to me. The time I have left. I have no fear of death, just a fear of leaving unfinished business. I – I’ve often thought –’ He suddenly checked himself and started again. ‘You’ve come a long way and I should stick to the point. It was fortuitous you rang, I have something you should see.’