That passion had often taken the form of toiling twenty hours a day in a lab, true, but that had been what Goldstein was born to do. He had frequently worked for Z5 in the past, and made valuable contributions. But he had been considered too eccentric and unstable to become a full time member of the organisation - so far.
Professor Nuntovi hadn’t given up hope of getting Goldstein as a permanent member of his team. Until the suicide.
Or, as Doc thought of it, the ‘suicide’.
The Professor had been inconsolable when he heard the news. Nuntovi was something of a polymath, gifted at both physics and chemistry. Goldstein had also been outstanding in these fields, and had added computing, cybernetics and robotics to the mix. His accomplishments had been stunning.
And Goldstein had never felt the need to be modest about them.
That was another reason Doc wasn’t buying the official version of events. Goldstein had been too arrogant to kill himself.
He prowled through the silent empty rooms of the dead man’s flat, dust motes floating in the sunlight. He had no idea what he was looking for, just a powerful instinct that something wasn’t right.
No one else in the London office of Z5 shared Doc’s suspicions and officially his visit today had nothing to do with sniffing out foul play. Rather, Marion Palfrey - Doc’s mother and, annoyingly, his boss - had sent him to Cambridge to make sure that the late Goldstein hadn’t left anything which might embarrassingly connect him with Z5 or represent a security breach.
Specifically, he was here to check the dead man’s computer.
There were actually two computers in the flat. The police had shown no interest in them since Goldstein’s death was so clearly a suicide. One of the computers was connected wirelessly to the internet and Z5’s team of hackers had already been able to remotely access it and search its hard drive. They’d found nothing of interest and deleted any of the emails which might have been deemed sensitive.
However, Goldstein also had another computer which he never allowed to be connected to any other device, except for outboard memory storage units which he had bought virgin direct from the factory. By making sure that this machine was never hooked up to any network or ever ‘internet facing’ he had guaranteed its integrity.
To Doc this was a ludicrous solution to security problems. There was no way low tech could ever be safer than high tech, and he wondered how Goldstein could possibly have managed with such an antiquated device.
Doc located this relic lurking in Goldstein’s bedroom. There was the small matter of finding the password to access the computer, but Doc had come equipped. He had a flash drive that Z5’s software team had prepared to hack the password.
Besides trying every possible permutation of characters at blinding speed, it had also been programmed to try the passwords Goldstein had used when he had been at Z5. Evidently one of these worked, because Doc had hardly plugged the drive in before he found himself logged into Goldstein’s private computer.
2: Spreadsheet
Searching Goldstein’s computer for sensitive material might have been a tedious business, but here again Z5 had supplied Doc with some useful software, which could sniff around the hard disc and do most of the work for him. While the program was busy in the background searching and copying or deleting as required, Doc found himself sitting staring at the computer screen with full access to all of Goldstein’s personal secrets.
Apart from an impressively large collection of pornography of the ‘Asian babes’ genre, there was nothing here to surprise Doc. In many ways, for all his brilliance, Goldstein had been a very boring individual. He had been an inveterate list maker. He’d kept records of every book he’d ever read since he’d been five years old - Roald Dahl and Tin Tin had given way to biochemistry and quantum mechanics texts at a startlingly early age. There were also lists of every film and television program he’d ever seen, almost entirely science fiction, and details and statistics of innumerable sporting fixtures. Surprisingly, at least to Doc, Goldstein had been a keen rugby fan.
The dead man had also kept his personal finances minutely scrutinised, using an elaborate spreadsheet on which he recorded every expenditure, no matter how small. Doc stumbled on this while checking to make sure that Goldstein hadn’t been receiving large sums of money from some dubious source - a rival intelligence organisation, say.
Of course the Z5 software would have flagged up anything like that.
Doc realised that what he was actually checking was how much Goldstein had been receiving when he was on Z5’s payroll, so he could compare it with his own monthly stipend. He grinned at himself. How petty could you get? But when he saw just how much Goldstein had been receiving as a freelance consultant, he felt his face going red.
He was going to have to have a serious talk with his mother when he got back to London.
By now the flat was growing dim as daylight faded outside. Doc suddenly realised that he’d been here for hours. He yawned and stretched. He was about to close down the spreadsheet when he realised something else.
Goldstein had itemised his every purchase. Right down to toothpaste, shoelaces, newspapers, paperclips. Apparently he always sat down with his receipts after he’d been shopping and merrily just put it all in there. All of it. There had been more than a little of the high functioning autistic about Goldstein.
And the entries continued right up to the day of his death.
And nowhere had he listed paracetamol, aspirin or any other painkillers.
Now, Doc asked himself, would a man who is about to put an end to his existence go to the trouble of recording the details of his final shopping expedition?
Doc felt that Goldstein would have.
And, more importantly, judging by the time stamp on the final entries, it had been made only a few minutes before he had swallowed the fatal concoction. Doc knew this because the suicide note had featured a precise date and time, in classic Goldstein fashion.
So when had he bought the drugs?
Doc double checked the spread sheets. Not only were there no painkillers listed, but Goldstein didn’t seem to have ever purchased any kind of medicine or drug. Doc stared blankly at the computer screen, frowning and thinking. Then he got up and went into the bathroom. He looked at his own reflection for a moment, peering thoughtfully and somewhat haggardly back at him, then pulled on the edge of the mirror and opened it to reveal what most people would have called a medicine cabinet.
But in this case there was no medicine in it.
Just plastic disposable razors, mint flavoured dental floss, and a huge number of condoms, in sealed boxes with their cellophane wrappers still intact. Doc smiled at these, recognising the sign of an incorrigible optimist.
But, again, no medicines or drugs.
Doc realised that of course there wouldn’t be. If Goldstein had ever felt ill he would have dosed himself with alfalfa sprouts and carrot juice - or something. He’d been a health nut of the all-natural variety.
Suddenly the suicide using industrial quantities of branded pharmaceuticals seemed even more decisively out of character. If Goldstein had wanted to do himself in, he would have used deadly nightshade or henbane.
Doc felt a delicate tingling all down his spine. He was on to something. He was sure that he was.
But he didn’t have any hard evidence. Certainly not enough to convince the Z5 hierarchy - which is to say, his obstinate and sceptical mother - to put the investigation on an official footing.
To do that he would need something tangible. For example, a complete canvassing of all the shops in the area where Goldstein might have bought his suicide pills. Doc would have to do this himself, of course, and do it now. He would visit every suitable retail outlet in the area and show them some pictures of Goldstein which he had on his iPhone.
And Doc would ask them if they remembered this man purchasing any of the painkillers he had on his list. Naturally, there was no guarantee that the appropriate member of staff would be o
n duty, or that they would remember.
But he had three things going for him. Firstly, the incident had taken place recently enough for it not to require a miracle of memory. Secondly Goldstein had been a very distinctive looking young man, tall and gaunt with a face like a turkey. Thirdly, since Goldstein had been a regular at these shops they were likely to have been familiar with his buying patterns. Which is to say, here was a man who’d never bought an aspirin from them in all his years as a customer, suddenly avid to purchase any non prescription pain killer he could lay his hands on.
That was uncharacteristic behaviour, and people were likely to remember it.
Naturally, however, what Doc wanted was a firm ‘no’ to all his questions. If he could go back to London and tell Marion Palfrey that he had visited every shop Goldstein was likely to have used and drawn a complete blank on any purchases of pills, then he would have begun to build a persuasive case.
Unfortunately, all it would take was one positive answer - “Yes, I remember him. He’d never bought paracetamol before, but he said something about having a terrible headache” - and his entire hypothesis would fall to pieces.
But Doc felt a fierce deep certainty that he wouldn’t be hearing any answers like that.
If he could sell his mother the idea that apparently Goldstein hadn’t bought the pills that killed him, then her first question would be to ask for some form of confirmation, something stronger than just a verbal interview with a member of staff. What she would want was CCTV footage from the shops in question, to show that Goldstein hadn’t bought the items he was supposed to have bought that day.
Doc grinned. Because, in this instance, he was way ahead of Marion Palfrey. He had already put in a request for the CCTV footage from the appropriate date. He hadn’t been able to access the smaller shops yet, but large national retailers like Boots the chemists had been straightforward to approach, using Z5’s authority - although strictly speaking he had no permission to do so.
That was the sort of thing which would make his mother furious.
But only if he was wrong. And Doc knew he wasn’t wrong.
He had no idea how long it would take the retailers to retrieve the footage from their branches, but just the fact that he’d already put the wheels in motion gave him a warm sense of satisfaction.
He took out his map and studied the area where he would have to canvas the shops. The yellow line he’d drawn on it had turned a pinkish orange in the glow from the window.
Of course, it might be argued - indeed, he could hear his mother already arguing - that Goldstein could have gone further afield to buy the ingredients for his final, lethal cocktail. He could have bought them anywhere in the UK. Anywhere in western Europe.
In theory.
But in practise, the spreadsheet in Goldstein’s computer argued otherwise. It painstakingly mapped his travels, every bus, rail, tube and trolley ticket, and Doc had confirmed that the dead man hadn’t left Cambridge in the days before his demise. In fact, it appeared he hadn’t even left this immediate vicinity.
Doc folded the map and put it in his pocket. He’d better get started. He wanted to get back to London before it was too late. It would be dark soon and -
With a sudden cold shock Doc realised that it hadn’t grown dark inside the flat, or outside. Instead the room where he stood was suffused with an intense reddish glow. The ruddy light was pouring in through the windows.
Doc went to the window and stared at the red light pouring in. It was hard to get a clear look at what was going on outside because the window was misted and smeared, as though with condensation. Doc went to wipe it - and snatched his hand back.
The glass was scorching hot.
Doc realised the entire street was on fire.
3: Fire
Doc checked the flash drive on Goldstein’s computer. It had completed its task - it would have been tough luck if it hadn’t. He made a copy of Goldstein’s financial spreadsheet - it took agonising seconds to copy, with a cheerful twinkling striped bar announcing its grindingly slow progress. Doc could feel the heat in the flat now. Sweat was beading on his forehead. Finally the copy was done and he tore the plug out of the side of the computer, pocketed the drive and headed for the front door.
He could feel the heat much more strongly in the small hallway outside Goldstein’s flat. The musty air in the passage now had a cooked smell. There was no question of going out the front door. The whole street was ablaze. Doc could feel the immense heat radiating through the door as he walked past it. He didn’t bother trying to touch it.
Instead he went along the hallway and up the dusty, grey carpeted staircase to the flat above. He hammered on the door, but there was no response. So he picked the lock.
He wasn’t worried if he broke it this time, and he got the door open in about thirty seconds.
The flat was a study in contrast with Goldstein’s. This one was totally feminine, fluffy and over-decorated in pastel shades. He went to the windows that looked out on Willow Walk. Solid flame. He hurried to the other side of the flat, into the bedroom, and looked out at the street behind the house.
If anything, it was worse.
Doc peered down into the flames. Could he hear sirens in the distance? He wasn’t sure, and he didn’t have time to wait. He could smell smoke from downstairs now.
What he did hear was a small, distinct squeaking sound, close at hand. Doc turned to the bed. At first he couldn’t see it, among the teddy bears and fluffy toys and big cushions with cheerful floral patterns.
Then he spotted it.
A small cat, peering at him with large, astonished eyes. It squeaked again, taking a tentative step towards him on the bed. Doc ignored the cat and went back out of the bedroom. He moved methodically through the flat from room to room, studying the ceiling.
He found what he was looking for in a small room containing a washer and drier beside the kitchen. There in the ceiling was a trap door. It had a padlock on it, which took him about a minute to pick. It would have taken less time, but his hands were shaking. There was an acrid smell of smoke in the air now, so heavy that he was becoming reluctant to breathe it, and he could feel heat radiating upwards through the sole of his right shoe, coming from the flat below.
As the lock sprung open in his hand he gave a grunt of satisfaction. This was accompanied by a low squeak and he looked down to see that the cat had come into the room to watch him. Doc tossed the padlock into a basket full of dirty laundry and climbed up on top of the washing machine. From here he could shove the trap door open. He gave it a violent push and it flew open, crashing down on the other side with an explosive sound.
The cat fled.
Beautiful cold air flowed in through the opening in the ceiling, chilling the sweat that covered Doc’s body. As he had hoped, the hatch gave access to the roof. He reached up and locked his hands on either side of the opening, pulling himself through it.
Once he was standing on the flat roof of the building Doc could see just how serious the situation was. The streets all around formed a dense pattern of flame. Waves of hot air billowed up at him, causing him to shut his eyes. Smoke rose in greasy black coils. In the street below the petrol tank of a car exploded, adding its small contribution to the inferno.
The whole area was burning as though it had suffered a rain of incendiary bombs.
But he hadn’t heard anything like that.
What could have caused this?
He strode around the roof, making calculations. As he did so, he happened to glance back down through the open trap door. There in the laundry room underneath, the little cat was staring up at him. When it saw Doc, it started squeaking frantically. Doc moved quickly away from the trap door, but he could still hear the squeaking.
The cat sounded frantic.
He went back to the trap door and looked down. The cat immediately fell silent. It stood there, peering up at him expectantly.
“Fuck,” snarled Doc.
He took a dee
p breath - even up here on the roof, the air was becoming hot and thick with smoke - and dropped back through the hatch. He landed on the floor of the laundry room with a loud thud. The cat scooted away, then came back and squeaked at him.
Doc hurried through the flat, looking for something he could carry the fucking cat in.
The air in the place was now hazy with smoke and the floor was distinctly hot under his right foot. He tore open cupboards and wardrobes. In the bedroom he finally found a sort of large shoulder bag which zipped open and had a mesh ‘door’ at the front. It was just the right size and shape to contain a cat.
It’s function was confirmed by the presence of a vet’s record booklet inside it. The booklet told Doc that the cat was a domestic short hair called Sneezy and that his vaccinations were commendably up to date.
“All right, Sneezy,” said Doc. “We’re going on a little trip.”
The cat didn’t protest about being put in the carrier. As a matter of fact, he seemed eager to go. Perhaps that wasn’t surprising. It didn’t take a huge amount of brain power to understand that this was rapidly becoming a good place to get out of. The smoke was now thick enough to sting Doc’s eyes and there was a constant, irregular series of small random explosions from the floor below as the fire consumed electrical equipment and volatile fluids in Goldstein’s flat.
He went back into the laundry room and climbed up onto the washing machine again, carrying the cat bag. He lifted it and thrust it through the opening in the ceiling. There was a startled squeak from inside the bag as it landed on the roof.
Doc climbed up and out onto the roof. There was smoke rising all around. It was night now and the flames seemed to be the only source of light.
It was like a river of fire running through the smoke, its tributaries spreading along the streets all around. Doc paced across the roof, to the Willow Walk side and back again. There were houses opposite on each side, and they were all approximately the same height as this one. But the street behind the house was twice as wide. Willow Walk was narrow.
Hard Targets: A Doc Palfrey Omnibus Page 9