Alchemist

by Peter James

  He heaved himself to his feet and went out of the room. Monty turned to Conor, wondering what he made of it all, but he seemed deep in thought and did not respond to her.

  Wentworth came back clutching a folder. He looked first at Conor, then at Monty, then appeared to make a decision and handed it to Monty. Inside was a wodge of papers. The one on top was headed: ‘Confidential Inquiry Into Maternal Deaths.’

  She looked up for an explanation.

  ‘The government,’ he said. ‘They’ve instigated an audit of all deaths in labour. The forms must be completed by the gynaecologist, the obstetrician, the anaesthetist and the pathologist. They’re sent to a regional assessor, then to the Department of Health Central Office.’ Wentworth looked guiltily pleased with himself. ‘I’ve obtained the reports on the first three women who died after taking Maternox – the fourth hasn’t come through yet. And I have an alphabetical list of every woman in Britain who died in labour in the past twelve months – ah – in case we find the need to trawl a wider area.’

  ‘How did you get it?’ Conor asked.

  Wentworth slowly raised his index finger and tapped the side of his nose with a wry smile. ‘A lifetime in newspapers, one acquires connections.’

  Monty detected a trace of pride, then it was gone, like the flit of the shadow of a passing bird. She turned to the pathologist’s report on Sarah Johnson and scanned through it. Much of it was in technical language, but part of the summary was clear:

  ‘… suggest retention of body fluid and tissue samples for further analysis to eliminate any possibility of a causal link between the acute pustular psoriasis, viral meningitis and the Cyclopism.’

  Feeling a beat of excitement, she turned to the reports on the other two women. In each case the pathologist had made a similar remark. Her excitement increasing, she showed the comments to Conor.

  ‘Someone in the Department of Health is going to start looking for the link, right?’ he said, flicking randomly through the dossier. ‘But they’re going to have a long haul making any connection with Maternox.’

  ‘Without the Medici File,’ Monty said sotto voce, for Conor’s ears.

  ‘None of this material’s come to the attention of the press yet,’ Wentworth told them. ‘I have it in mind to allude to it in an article on fertility drugs, but one must be careful of inferences; I know the pharmaceutical industry is sensitive and litigious.’

  Conor’s eyes narrowed. ‘I wouldn’t do anything right now.’

  ‘Mr Wentworth, I think you should hear what we’ve found out since I last saw you,’ Monty said.

  ‘Yes. Do I gather from our rather brief telephone conversation that you have significant news?’

  Conor shot Monty a warning glance, then turned to the newspaperman. ‘You’re not recording this conversation, I hope?’

  ‘Unquestionably off the record, Mr Molloy.’

  Hubert Wentworth then listened in increasing shock as Monty reported on her visit to Mr Kingsley, and on the plans of the Bendix Building; then Conor summarized the news from Charley Rowley and the contents of the Medici File.

  ‘Dear God! This is staggering.’ Wentworth’s hands were trembling in anger. ‘Trials … human guinea pigs … altering the design of a drug …’ His voice tailed. He turned to Conor. ‘You need a fortnight to identify this DNA, you think?’

  ‘About that.’

  ‘And do you have any theories about what it might turn out to be?’

  Conor was pensive for a moment. ‘Well, there seems to be a possible psoriasis connection somewhere along the line. All four women who died, including your daughter, suffered a rash that appeared similar to acute pustular psoriasis.’ He glanced at Monty. ‘We happen to know that Bendix Schere experimented on staff volunteers a few years back, some of whom have developed a psoriasis-type rash. And there may or may not be an additional connection, in that Dr Bannerman has had some important research files on psoriasis genes go missing.’

  Conor dabbed some cake crumbs off his plate with his finger and licked it. ‘We all know that the worldwide patents on Maternox begin to run out in three years’ time. If I was in charge of that product, I’d be trying to modify the design in some very small way so that I could re-patent it. If that wasn’t possible, then I’d want to give Maternox some kind of added value to make it better than any generic copies coming on the open market.’ He raised his eyebrows quizzically at Wentworth, who nodded in comprehension.

  ‘My best guess right now is that the company’s experimenting with some kind of bolt-on added value for Maternox. Maybe a Maternox Mark Two that will not only enable infertile women to become pregnant, but will also contain some kind of genetic engineering formula; say, something that will eradicate a number of specific diseases, like psoriasis, from the foetus.’ He looked at both Wentworth and Monty. They both seemed a little startled.

  ‘You really think that’s what they could be up to, Conor?’ Monty asked.

  ‘Sure. It’s a possibility. Think what a great selling pitch it would make: we guarantee that your child will never get sick with all the usual stuff like mumps, chickenpox, measles.’

  ‘Medici?’ Wentworth pondered, his ears sharper than Monty had realized. ‘Medici File?’

  ‘The code name,’ Conor said.

  ‘An unpleasant family, the Medicis.’ The older man nodded slowly. ‘One must be sure. The evidence must be cast iron.’ He picked up his cup, then put it down distastefully. ‘Cold, it’s gone cold,’ he said distractedly. He stared down at his lap.

  When he looked up again, there were tears in his eyes. ‘You must forgive me,’ he said. ‘I – I don’t know what I was expecting, but it was nothing like this. Nothing of this magnitude.’

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘My daughter. They did this to her. They experimented on my Sarah.’ He opened his eyes again and stared at Monty and Conor as if trying to remember who they were. ‘Much too big for my paper, they wouldn’t dare, couldn’t afford the risk of litigation against a firm the size of Bendix Schere.’ He pulled a large blue handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose.

  ‘I’ve already had words with Fleet Street.’ He raised a hand to quell the alarm he could see in their faces. ‘Don’t worry; just quiet feelers. We could have a front-page splash when we’re ready. If we can stand it up.’

  Conor looked at him stern. ‘If we entrust a copy of our material to you on disk, and lodge two Maternox capsules with you, can you give us your word that they’ll be locked in a safe in your building until we say so?’

  ‘You have more than my word, Mr Molloy. You have my hands tied behind my back and my mouth gagged. I couldn’t possibly run this story without an affidavit from you, and I think a Fleet Street editor is going to want even more corroboration than that.’

  ‘I would think a testimony from Dr Bannerman on the content of the capsules might add some weight,’ Conor said.

  ‘A great deal,’ Wentworth agreed.

  ‘I’m lodging a personal affidavit with a law firm here in England,’ Conor said. ‘The guy’s name is Bob Storer at Harbottle and Lewis; I’ve already sent him a disk copy of the Medici File by registered mail and I’m going to instruct him that if anything happens to me, he’s to contact you and make the information available to you.’

  Monty registered her own private reaction to this speech. Those last words at last made her feel that Conor had finally and incontrovertibly nailed his colours to the mast. She did know where he stood after all.

  Minutes later, Monty and Conor left. Wentworth retained the disk and two Maternox capsules, having given his assurance that they’d be secure in the Gazette’s safe.

  As they walked out into the falling dusk, and reached the pavement, Conor’s pace slowed for an instant and he seemed to stiffen. He unlocked the BMW’s passenger door, held it open for Monty and said, very quietly, ‘Don’t look round. Just get in the car quickly. We have company.’

  75

  ‘Just keep looking strai
ght ahead,’ Conor said, pulling out and accelerating gently down Wentworth’s road.

  Monty sat stiffly and stared into her wing mirror. She could see nothing behind them.

  Conor drove to the end of the street, made a left, then a second left and proceeded down a long residential street. At the end, he made another turn, followed by another which took them back into Wentworth’s street, several hundred yards up from his house. Tail lights were disappearing at the far end, in the direction where they had turned not much more than a minute earlier.

  Conor drove along the tree-lined road, scanning the parked cars that lined both sides, then stopped, about fifty yards before the newspaperman’s house. He pointed to a gap large enough for a single car. ‘See that space?’

  ‘Yes,’ Monty said.

  ‘It was like that when we arrived, but there was a grey Ford with a driver sitting in it when we came out. Now it’s empty again. Coincidence?’

  ‘Did you notice anyone following us on our way here?’

  ‘We were on our own – I was watching real carefully.’ He eyed Wentworth’s house, glanced in his mirror and frowned.

  ‘Do you think his phone might be bugged?’ she suggested. ‘Is that how they – whoever – knew we were here?’

  ‘Doesn’t make much sense to me – if they knew we were here, why bother to come down then drive off again?’

  ‘Maybe they were bugging our meeting by using some device in that Ford?’

  Conor nodded, and for the first time Monty thought she detected fear in his expression. Her brain spun, trying to recall what details they’d just discussed, trying to work out how much an outsider listening in could have gleaned. ‘If they were listening, we’ve just given the game away, haven’t we?’

  Conor drove on. ‘Let’s hope they weren’t, but it might be smart for our own safety to assume the worst.’ He scanned the road ahead. ‘We need to move fast now, real fast.’

  ‘Daddy’s in Glasgow tonight, giving an informal talk to a group of scientists; he’s catching the shuttle to London first thing tomorrow. I’ll take him out for lunch and talk to him.’

  ‘Want me to come with you?’

  She remembered her father’s comments about Conor at supper on Thursday night. ‘I think it would be better for me to handle him on my own,’ she said tactfully. Then she took Winston Smith’s home address in Whitechapel out of her handbag and opened Conor’s A-Z.

  ‘How do you think he’ll react?’ Conor asked.

  ‘I don’t think it’s going to be that easy,’ she said. ‘I can’t just spring all this on him – I’ll have to break it to him bit by bit.’

  Conor had headed back towards the main road. ‘He gave me the impression he doesn’t like Bendix Schere one little bit, and would jump through hoops to have a go at them.’

  ‘Yes, I have an idea that’s how he’s going to react, but I need to make sure he understands the danger.’

  It was dark when they arrived outside the East End block where Winston Smith lived. It was an ugly council low-rise, gridded with metal fire escapes and external walkways.

  Conor parked in the street and Monty climbed out of the car. Then she leaned in and grinned. ‘Make sure no one steals the wheels while you’re waiting for me.’

  He dubiously eyed the near derelict condition of some of the old bangers on the other side of the street, and nodded.

  Monty stared up at Albany Court with a faint shudder; it had an air of squalor, the walls stained and cracked with gangrenous blotches, laundry hanging from makeshift lines, and a swastika spray-painted on a ground-floor wall. Rap music was pounding from a window just above her.

  There was a sign listing the flat numbers and levels. Number 27 was on the second floor and there was an arrow pointing the way up. She dug her hands into her jacket pockets, climbed the vibrating metal steps, then went along a walkway cluttered with bins and black garbage bags.

  The front doors were all identical, with large frosted glass panels and peeling blue paint. She stopped outside number 27, feeling very tense suddenly, and rang the bell.

  After a moment the door shook, then opened. A black woman in her forties stood there on crutches; dressed in a woollen jumper and dungarees, she looked painfully thin and her complexion was waxy.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. Is Winston Smith in?’ Monty asked.

  The woman studied Monty before answering. ‘He’s in hospital.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Friday afternoon, he got took poorly again.’

  ‘I – I work with him – I wanted to have a word with him. I didn’t realize …’

  The woman’s eyes narrowed into two slits, like vizors in a helmet. The effect was unnerving. ‘Work with him?’

  ‘At Bendix Schere.’ Monty suddenly found herself at a loss, and tried to keep her voice relaxed and friendly. ‘Which hospital is he in?’

  The eye slits widened a fraction. ‘The clinic. The same one he always goes.’ The woman’s tone implied that Monty should have known that if she really worked with him.

  ‘The Bendix Clinic?’

  ‘Hammersmith.’

  ‘Hammersmith, right.’ She forced herself to ask the next question. ‘How – how is he?’

  The other woman seemed to be trying to weigh up whether she could trust her visitor. ‘He come out in the rash again. The pain’s real bad.’ She eyed Monty up and down, and said rather disparagingly, ‘Are you the scientist’s daughter?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Monty said. ‘I didn’t introduce myself. Yes, I’m Montana Bannerman.’

  The woman nodded expressionlessly. ‘You tells my husband about books. He’s very grateful to you for that. But you makes him frightened. He tell me you been asking questions. Now he’s worried he tell you too much.’

  Monty smiled gently at the woman. ‘Do you want to talk to me about it?’

  Mrs Smith shook her head. Her eyes skittered past Monty, as if terrified someone else was listening.

  Monty smiled again. ‘I’m just interested in trying to learn a little more about the company – Bendix Schere – it’s a very secretive place. I get the feeling there’s something Mr Smith really wants me to know. And I just wanted to say that he can trust me.’ Monty felt awkward standing in the doorway, having to talk in a low voice. ‘Could I come in for a moment and explain? I do want to help your husband.’

  Mrs Smith’s face contorted into fear. ‘Sorry, no; sorry. We are sick people, the company is good to us, gives us free medicines, Winston always has a private room. Please let him be.’

  ‘Did you take trial medicines for the company, too, Mrs Smith?’

  ‘Bendix has been very good to us, I don’t want to say nothing more. Thank you for coming. Thank you for your concern about my husband’s health. I tell him you called.’

  She stepped back and closed the door, leaving Monty to walk slowly back to the car.

  The Bendix Hammersmith Clinic was a smoked-glass, eight-storey high-rise just west of the flyover. It was conveniently sited for Heathrow, and it attracted a clientele of wealthy Asians and Middle Easterns who could jet in for cosmetic surgery, abortions, infertility treatment, pre-conceptual gender selection, and, more recently, for genetic screening. The Hammersmith Bendix, as it was called, was regarded in medical circles as one of the most luxurious and state-of-the-art private hospitals in Britain, and a range of eminent specialists had attached their names to it.

  It struck Monty as more than a little curious that the company should provide such facilities for one of its security guards. Even with Sir Neil Rorke’s publicly declared caring attitudes, putting Winston Smith in a £400-per-night bed smacked of guilt. Or something sinister.

  Once again, they’d decided that Conor should wait in the car as she went inside. Electric doors glided open, then closed behind her. Triple glazing and white sound completely deadened the roar of London’s traffic and the faint scent of flowers recalled the lobby of the Bendix Building.

  T
he carpet was plush, interwoven with a repeat geometric pattern of the ‘BS’ logo, the walls and ceiling were panelled in pine, and down the corridor to the right were an elegant gift shop, then a florist.

  The feel-good factor was an important part of company philosophy. They wanted patients to have the sensation of arriving at an exclusive country hotel, not a hospital. In fact the word patient was never used; they were called guests.

  Monty walked up to the reception counter and asked, as nonchalantly as possible, which room Winston Smith was in.

  A platinum blonde in her early thirties, wearing the company’s regulation smile as stiffly as its chalk-striped grey two-piece, touched some keys on her computer screen. The smile narrowed, just a fraction.

  ‘May I take your name?’ she asked.

  Monty was thrown by the unexpected question.

  ‘Surname then initials.’ The receptionist’s eyes had a cornflower-blue glaze as if she was wearing tinted contact lenses, adding to her automaton quality. She reminded Monty of someone from The Stepford Wives.

  Monty’s brain raced furiously. ‘Gordon,’ she said, plucking a name out of thin air. ‘Mrs Lyndsey Gordon.’

  ‘And your address, please, Mrs Gordon?’

  ‘This is a little unusual, isn’t it?’ Monty asked.

  ‘It’s just a security formality,’ the young woman said with unswerving politeness.

  ‘The Coach House, Burnham Beeches Lane, Burnham, Bucks.’

  ‘Post code?’

  Monty gave a code to go with the address she’d just made up.

  The woman entered it into the computer. ‘And your phone number, please?’

  Monty felt her face beginning to give her away; ‘We’re ex-directory,’ she said. ‘I never give the number to anyone.’