Kill and Cure

by Andy Ashdown Design

  She frowned. ‘What sort of question is that?’

  Varcy shrugged. ‘Just curious, that’s all.’

  She paused, and then turned her gaze away from them towards the window. ‘Alice was a mistake. A happy mistake, but one I don’t want to repeat. So, yes, she is my only one.’

  Varcy nodded, blew his nose and let out a cough.

  He went to say something else but the cough started again and choked him off before he could get it out.

  Kendrick and Charlotte waited for it to stop, but it just got worse. Kendrick glanced at Varcy. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Can I get a glass of water, please?’ Varcy whispered between hacks. Charlotte stood up. ‘You sure he’s okay?’

  ‘Just some water,’ said Kendrick.

  She disappeared. Varcy waited until she had gone, stood up, plucked a bunch of hairs from the hairbrush on the table and placed them carefully into his top pocket. Kendrick watched in amazement. When Charlotte returned with a glass, Varcy took it from her and drank it down. His coughing fit now subsided.

  ‘I’m fighting a chest cold,’ he said by way of 192

  explanation. ‘I’m sorry.’

  There was silence while Varcy composed himself.

  He placed the glass on the floor next to him and thumbed through the notebook once again to find the photograph. When he had done so, he looked up and said, ‘Can I ask about your marriage?’

  Charlotte shrugged. ‘What about it?’

  ‘I’m interested in the break up.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Did you leave David Stichell for another man?’

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘I’m not making any judgments, I’m just asking,’

  said Varcy.

  ‘You can ask all you like,’ she replied. ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘Did you leave him for this particular man?’

  Varcy removed the photo from the notebook and held it a few feet from her face. Charlotte went even paler.

  ‘Shall I take that as a yes?’

  The photograph was of Richard Hart.

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  The South Kensington address Gately gave him was one he’d recognised at once. Traffic was stacked on City Road, queuing up along Moorgate.

  He’d have to take the tube. There was only one thought in Stich’s mind as he dashed towards the station: Elizabeth Swain. He made the entrance and was about to dive onto the stairway, when a man with gelled-back hair stepped in front of him.

  ‘Hello, Stich. Miss me?’

  ‘Shane?’ Stich began to stammer. Words failed to form. Even to himself he sounded frightened.

  ‘We need to talk,’ the man said.

  ‘I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘It won’t take long. Let’s go.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Let’s walk till we find somewhere.’’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘What sort of question is that?’

  ‘Don’t play games. You’ve come for a reason.

  What is it?’

  ‘Calm down and I’ll tell you.’

  Costa Coffee on Cheapside was packed full of cappuccino devotees: outsized cups and chrome machines, steamed milk and powdered chocolate.

  Enterprising types wanting laptop plug-ins and 194

  wireless internet connection. Among the overachievers, Stich felt passé. The man opposite appeared to have no such hang-up. He just sipped and stared.

  ‘So,’ he said finally.

  ‘What do you want?’

  He set his cup down. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Stich said, lying.

  ‘Try money,’ he said.

  ‘All that has been settled.’

  ‘It was, but let’s just say there have been a few developments.’

  Stich sank down into his seat. ‘I haven’t got any more money.’

  ‘Oh, I think you have.’

  ‘You’ve been paid,’ Stich said.

  ‘Well, I think I was short-changed, especially now that you have – how can I put it? – upped the ante.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The man smiled and played with his coffee, swirling it slowly so the froth coated the edges. ‘I know what you did last night – or in your case –

  two nights ago.’

  Stich knew he had been a fool to hope that money could buy him peace and obliterate the past. A fool to assume that dealing with scum would not make him ripe for blackmail.

  ‘You ever heard the expression about giving a man just enough rope to hang himself?’ the man continued. ‘Well, you just hung yourself. I always wondered what you would do with the 195

  information I gave you. Tell you the truth, I’d almost given up waiting. I’m glad I didn’t.’

  Stich tried to digest what was being said. The man opposite continued to sip and watch.

  Eventually Stich said, ‘How much?’

  ‘Twenty grand.’

  ‘Twenty grand? I haven’t got that kind of money.’

  ‘You’d better find it then.’

  ‘I can’t put my hands on that much.’

  ‘Be creative,’ he said. ‘I want it by tomorrow.’

  ‘I can’t just conjure it up.’

  ‘Yes, you can, Stich. I’m not stupid. Go and visit your rich lady friend.’ He got up from the table.

  ‘Get me the money or I’ll go to the police with what I know.’

  * * *

  Fifty-three minutes had elapsed since Stich’s meeting with Shane. Time spent on a wild dash across the city, his mind a torrent. The demons he always knew would have to be faced had now shown themselves. What the hell was he thinking?

  He should have walked away.

  ‘… You’ll never take her!’

  ‘… Just watch me …’

  He had fought back and protected what was most precious to him. Surely no one would condem him for that?

  A black Bentley emerged from a side street and pulled up at the curb opposite one of the houses.

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  The driver got out and went to the front door. Stich crossed the street to get a better view. A few minutes passed before she emerged, elegant, with a pencil skirt that stopped just above the knee, her hair tied back as she walked down the pathway towards the car. Stich waited for a few moments to make sure she was alone. Then he made his move.

  ‘Elizabeth!’ He slipped forwards and kept his voice to a loud whisper. ‘Elizabeth!’

  She looked up and gasped. ‘Stich!’

  ‘I need to talk.’

  ‘I thought we agreed you wouldn’t come here again.’

  ‘I know, and believe me I wouldn’t have if it wasn’t important.’

  She checked up and down the street.

  ‘It won’t take long, Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘I’m desperate.’

  He could see her weighing it up. ‘Not here,’ she said finally. ‘You know my charity office?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Meet me there,’ she looked at her watch, ‘in twenty minutes.’ She turned and got into the back of the car.

  Stich crossed the street towards Notting Hill Gate and the tube. He would take the central line to Oxford Circus and walk east to Holles Street. The fifteen-minute cattle ride was nose to nose.

  He thought back to the first time he’d come to the Swain household four years ago. After a fall, skiing in Verbier, Elizabeth Swain’s daughter, Wendy, was carried into Stich’s clinic unable to 197

  move. After that he came to the house on two further occasions. Both times had nothing to do with Wendy and everything to do with Elizabeth.

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  The office in Holles Street was small and squeezed between two delis catering to the feeding frenzy that exploded around noon. It wasn’t glamorous, at least not on the Elizabeth Swain scale of glamour, but it got the job done. The contrast to her usual life could not have been more marked.

>   The reception area was on the first floor. It smelled faintly of linseed and had a glut of well-read magazines and charity leaflets strewn over coffee tables. A woman sat behind a desk and rose warmly when he arrived. Like a church elder just before a committee meeting, she offered tea and biscuits, which he refused, and made small talk. The cold weather, how the heating had failed last week and she had spent the entire day in a coat, how the tube strike looked as though it was going ahead …

  When Elizabeth appeared, her expression was serious. She gave Stich a nod and he followed her into a corner office that barely had enough room for a desk and a filing cabinet. Elizabeth set a handbag down on the desk and turned to face him. She sighed. ‘So?’

  He swallowed. ‘Can I sit down?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She drew a chair opposite. ‘What is it?’

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  ‘A nightmare.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘He’s back,’ he said, ‘demanding money.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘At first I said no, but he seems to think I can get it. I’m sure he knows you provided it last time.’

  ‘Why now?’

  Stich hesitated. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he thinks he can keep coming back when he runs low.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘He gets more expensive.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry to ask you again, Elizabeth, and, of course, I’ll pay you back. If I had another option I would take it.’

  ‘I helped you out last time, Stich, because of what you’d done for Wendy. I can’t keep doing it.’

  ‘There’s something else. Something much worse.’

  She held his gaze.

  ‘Susan is dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shot,’ he whispered.

  She closed her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘We drove down to her uncle’s house. Someone was waiting for us. Elizabeth, I think this has got something to do with the work she was doing.’

  Elizabeth went around the desk, opened a cigarette case and lit a thin menthol. Stich pulled out the scrap of paper Gately had given him. ‘Susan paid a substantial sum of money to a digital data company called Bluebell Associates for some technical work I don’t understand. Does that name 200

  mean anything to you?’

  Elizabeth blew out a stream of smoke. ‘Should it?’

  He slipped the paper towards her. ‘Whatever she purchased was delivered to your Cheapside law office address. Elizabeth, what’s going on?’

  ‘Why don’t you go to the police with this, Stich?

  Let them deal with it.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘For lots of reasons.’

  ‘Name one.’

  ‘They think I killed Susan.’

  Elizabeth took another draw on the cigarette and searched his face. Eventually she said,‘Okay, close the door and lock it.’ Then she took out a key from her handbag and unlocked the desk drawer. ‘She paid for this,’ she said eventually, holding up a disc.

  ‘Or at least what is recorded on it.’

  ‘That’s what Bluebell sent you?’

  She powered up the laptop on her desk, inserted the disc, then turned the screen towards him. The media player expanded and they waited for it to load. A film began to run. It showed an empty area of space on a pavement. The edge of the road was visible and a Toyota was parked next to a meter. The light was dim. Then a man came into shot, his back towards camera. He pointed at the car and the hazards blinked into life as the doors unlocked. The man opened a door to load his briefcase. Stich felt his breath quicken as he realised who it was.

  Suddenly, another figure appeared from behind him. The image was fuzzy, but he could still make 201

  out the violent attack on Richard Hart.

  Stich watched hypnotised as Hart slumped downwards. The figure hurried forwards, striking another blow into Hart’s face. It crouched down over him momentarily before staggering backwards, then, turning briefly towards camera, ran away.

  ‘Is that it?’ Stich asked.

  Elizabeth was still watching the screen. ‘It gets clearer.’

  There was a void on the monitor and then the last piece of the film replayed: the assailant feels Hart’s neck, staggers backwards, turns and runs. Then the film stops and the face is magnified fullscreen. Stich was looking at Susan.

  Elizabeth reached over and switched the image off. She took the disc out. ‘This is the master copy.

  Do you want it?’

  The smoke from her cigarette rolled upwards, filling the office. He felt as if he was drowning.

  ‘I can keep it here, it’s up to you.’

  He turned to face her. ‘You gave Susan the money for that, didn’t you?’

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘Why?’

  In the corner of the office was an old, metallic filing cabinet. Elizabeth yanked open one of the drawers and finger-walked across the hangers. ‘See this?’ she said, producing a sheet of A4. ‘It’s a data sheet that relates to Susan’s work.’

  ‘Immteck?’

  ‘More specifically a drug project they are involved with called Krenthol. Susan came to me a 202

  few months ago for some advice. There were problems with this data sheet and she didn’t know how to handle it.’

  ‘What kind of problems?’

  ‘Susan thought the drug’s trial results had been manipulated to make the drug appear more effective than it really is.’

  ‘So, what did you tell her?’

  She closed the file and dropped back behind the desk. ‘To collect as much evidence as possible then come back and see me when we could talk about taking it forwards.’

  ‘She wanted to hire you?’

  ‘In a way. I gave her money to carry out whatever further study was necessary and agreed to take the case only if she could provide concrete proof.

  Pharmaceutical companies can afford the very best, Stich. Anything less than concrete hasn’t got a hope of sticking. She hired a lock-up and turned it into a temporary laboratory.’

  ‘But didn’t you think about the danger you were exposing her to?’

  She stiffened. ‘Susan’s a grown woman. She knew the risks.’

  ‘Have you heard of a man called Mike Venton?’

  ‘Should I have?’

  ‘He’s an Immteck scientist, found hanging at his home a few weeks ago. Or a man named Clive Rand

  – also a scientist at Immteck – who was murdered this morning? Both of them worked on the Krenthol project.’

  She stubbed out the cigarette.

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  ‘Don’t you see?’ Stich went on. ‘Susan gets busy doing what you’ve told her to, collecting evidence.

  At some point she tells Mike Venton or he tells her …

  I know for a fact she told Clive Rand. Elizabeth, your advice was their death warrant.’

  ‘That’s enough, Stich. You came here for help, not for the first time either, and now you accuse me of …

  God knows what. Susan came to me for my assistance and my money. I gave her both.’

  ‘But she’s dead, Elizabeth.’

  ‘So, what are you saying? That I killed her?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Well, it sure sounds like it.’

  ‘I’m trying to find out what’s going on, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ve got an appointment to get to.’

  ‘Talk to me, Elizabeth.’

  She ignored him, picked up her handbag and went to the door.

  ‘Won’t you at least help?’

  ‘You don’t need any more of my help,’ she said.

  ‘The disc gives you everything you want. You can now tell your blackmailer to go to hell.’ She pushed past him. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for, Stich.’

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  Varcy would like
to have kept a lid on the Clive Rand murder, but too many people knew about it for it to remain a secret for long. So, it made the early evening news. The details were minimal – young man, scientist, found dead in suspicious circumstances. Police suspect foul play. The reporter mentioned a possible link between the killing and the disappearance of another young scientist, Susan Harrison, who was last seen on Friday night with her boyfriend, David Stichell. The last part was a leak.

  Now Varcy sat at a table with four others. He sipped coffee and listened. Kendrick stared into space, Cole fiddled with his cuffs, Meekins – one of Kendrick’s boys – stood clutching a notebook, and Superintendent Johnson – aka his eminence – sat in a leather office chair and rested his hands on his protruding belly.

  ‘Okay,’ Johnson said, ‘run through it with me one more time. Convince me.’

  ‘Convince you?’ said Kendrick. ‘How much convincing do you need?’

  ‘Humour me,’ smiled Johnson.

  Kendrick looked over at Meekins. ‘Okay, go ahead. Let’s hear it again.’

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  ‘Dr Clive Rand was injected in the right arm with an undiluted solution of hydrochloric acid, causing massive internal derangement and death. A pair of latex gloves was found at David Stichell’s property.’

  ‘Whereabouts exactly?’ asked Johnson.

  ‘Garage.’

  ‘Evidence?’ asked Johnson.

  ‘Analysis on the gloves has confirmed that they were at the murder scene.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Johnson.

  ‘Blood specks match Dr Rand’s blood. We’ll get the DNA results, of course, but that’ll take a bit more time.’

  Johnson nodded. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Fingerprints found at the murder scene match the prints we took from Stichell at the hospital. Moreover, a witness claims a man matching Stichell’s description was at Rand’s place early this morning.’ He closed the notebook.

  ‘Convinced yet?’ It was Kendrick.

  Johnson raised his eyebrows.

  ‘We haven’t even mentioned the murder of Officer Reed at the hospital,’ Kendrick continued.

  ‘Nor have we mentioned the first killing at Moorcroft carried out by his girlfriend and which he must know something about.’

  Johnson pushed back his chair and stood up.

  Kendrick shot a glance at the other four. ‘Any of you seen anything as clear-cut? Varcy? You got a problem with any of this?’