There was a deathly hush as they stepped out onto the deserted street. It was a warm day and the clouds of dust churned up by the SUV settled slowly on the road.
“This was once a bustling city of nearly 50,000 people. Cinemas, shops, playgrounds for the kids, you name it and it was here,” said Alex. “Now the grass grows up in the streets and all that’s left behind are the things the people couldn’t take with them when they were evacuated.”
“How much warning did they get? Asked Marian.
Ralph was thinking of the Paper that Marian had presented at Greenwich. The people on the BP oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico had no warning and he suspected that it was the same at Chernobyl. But here there must have been ordinary people going about their daily business when Reactor 4 went into meltdown.
“They were all evacuated within 3 hours. The smoke and fumes from the explosion went up to 8 kilometres in the sky so they must have seen it. The site, as I told you, is less than 4 kilometres from here,” Alex replied. “The people were getting ready for the May Day celebrations and when the power went out it was exactly 11.56 in the morning. You can still see the clocks in the streets stopped at that precise moment.”
It was a sobering thought to try and imagine the panic that must have ensued. As they looked around, what struck them was the colour of the pine trees which were a sort of reddish orange. A few birds perched on the sparse limbs while others sat disconsolately on the remains of the shattered buildings. It was like a scene from a post–apocalyptic film.
“Ralph told me that your paper was about compensation for the victims, Alex. Where are all the people now? and how much did they get?” Asked Katie.
“About 700 ignored the government’s warnings and have since returned to their old homes. They are allowed to live in any house they wish. But thousands of others faced the problem of trying to settle in new homes away from their friends and family.”
“But hundreds must have died,” said Marion. What about their families. Did they get any compensation? I know that BP put millions in a fund to compensate people whose livelihoods were threatened.”
“Our records show that about 50 people died directly from acute radiation syndrome. These were the workers, managers and plant operators inside or near Reactor number 4 when it exploded. Two died at the scene and the others died within a few months. They all received medals such as the USSR Order of Lenin, the Order of the Red Banner and Hero of the Soviet Union.”
“But surely the death toll was higher than that overall?” Katie remarked.
“We can never be sure of the real numbers. They called in more than a half million people from all over Russia to fight the fire and carry out the clean-up afterwards. Liquidators were how they were referred to. We don’t know how many of those suffered from radiation contamination, but it must have been in the thousands. And of the families who lived in the area, thousands more suffered harmful effects of one sort or another, although getting compensation is not easy.”
“Why not? Surely if they lived here and became ill or died from the fallout then they’d be entitled to some sort of compensation,” Katie said.
“It’s not so straightforward, I’m afraid. Unless they can get their illness registered by the authorities as one caused by the explosion, then they are not entitled to compensation. It’s what they call biological citizenship, and unless a person falls into one of the approved categories then they won’t qualify.”
“Many of the victims must have been children,” Marian said. “They’d be adults now in their thirties or forties I wonder what’s happened to them.”
“You mean the ones who haven’t died already from the exposure,” Katie said pointedly.
They climbed back into the SUV and drove to the official observation point at the west end of Lenin Street near the Palace of Culture. It was only a couple of hundred metres from the site of Reactor 4, the rusting cars at the side of the street a grim reminder of the tragedy.
“Over there you can see where EBRD has spent 2 billion euros to put a steel dome over the reactor site.”
“It’s a huge project,” Ralph observed as the massive equipment pushed the heavy steel structures into place.
“Big enough to house St Pauls Cathedral or the Notre Dame,” Alex said. “They estimate that it’ll take another two years to complete.”
“Is anyone else hungry?” Alex asked after they had stood there silently for a few minutes and watched the construction work. “The Chernobyl canteen is rumoured to have decent food. All brought in from outside,” he added hastily.
“We had a big breakfast at the hotel,” Marian said. “So if you can last, why don’t we stop on the way back.”
Alex grinned and nodded his agreement. They were soon back on the dusty highway and headed for Kiev. The soldiers raised the barrier at the military checkpoint as they approached, and although Ralph was almost positive that he had read that individuals were supposed to be checked with a Geiger counter for radiation. Evidently that was just hype that the tour guides had introduced to make it seem more exciting.
“I can see what you’re thinking, Ralph. But don’t worry. You can rest assured that the radiation exposure you got flying over is far greater than you would have got in Chernobyl today.”
“Well, that’s a comforting thought,” Katie quipped as she eased the tension on her seat belt.
That evening Alex had arranged a visit to the Opera. As they sat back in their private box and sipped chilled champagne the music took over. Some opera buffs would classify The Bartered Bride as folk music, but the atmosphere was light and the music soon had the audience humming and smiling. The horrors of Chernobyl were quietly forgotten. During the interval, Marian and Katie excused themselves and went to the ladies room while Alex introduced Ralph to some of the cast whom he knew from the Music Academy. As they made a move to leave the theatre, Katie pulled Ralph aside.
“Marian is staying with Alex tonight, Ralph, so don’t say anything when we get to the hotel.”
The next morning they all had breakfast together. Ralph noticed that Marian seemed a bit subdued. Almost shy whenever Alex said anything directly to her. It seemed that their predictions about a budding romance were proving correct.
Back at Heathrow they said their good-byes and went their separate ways. Marian said she found the hassle of going all the way into London to take the train more trouble than it was worth so she boarded the Express Coach to Exeter. Ralph walked Katie over to the underground station and waited for her to board the Piccadilly Line that would take her to the City before he looked for the minicab that he had ordered to take him to Surbiton.
The trip had been quite tiring and he was glad to have the evening free. He threw his travel bag in the back room and got changed into his shorts and trainers. A steady run along the river to Kingston, then over the bridge and through the park to Hampton Court and back home would take about 50 minutes. It would give him time to reflect on all that he had learned and shake some of the kinks out of his legs. Tomorrow he would finish those corrections for his publisher and settle back into the routine of teaching.
______________________
Chapter 5
As Ralph walked into the office Janet stood up. She looked agitated. “Professor Chalmers I’m so glad your back. Something awful has happened. You must not have heard.” He had never seen her so upset. For a moment he wondered if her husband or daughter had been in an accident.
“A Mr Brandt Kessler has been trying to contact you. It seems that one of Mr Kessler’s colleagues from Amnesty International has been found drowned. It was in this morning’s papers. A Mr Owen James. Mr Kessler said he was a friend of yours. Oh, and Dean Granger wants to see you right away.”
Ralph was always uncomfortable when confronted by anyone who was upset. Somehow it always made him feel pressurized to show emotion and become agitated in return. He remembered talking to a Chief Engineer on a large oil tanker when he was on a consulting assignment with Shell Oil.
He had asked the grisly old salt how he responded when awoken in the night by one of his juniors and told that the ship’s turbines were overheating or there was a steam leak. ‘I’d tell him to put the kettle on. And when he’d done that we could sit down and he could tell me all about it. You’ve got to get them to slow down. Never panic. There’s always time. And if there isn’t, then it’s no point worrying.’ It was good advice.
“No I hadn’t heard about it, Janice. I’m very sorry to hear about Mr James. Actually I’ve only met Mr Kessler the once.” He remembered seeing Owen James at the conference but had hardly spoken to him. Now he felt quite sad that he hadn’t taken the time to at least have a chat.
Ralph went and sat behind his desk. He wanted to gather his thoughts before he spoke to Granger.
“You’re back, Ralph.” Granger hardly raised his head from some papers he was studying. “Take a seat.” He closed the folder and put it at the side of his desk. “Look Ralph, I know you told your secretary where you would be, but I’d be obliged if you could let me know before you go traipsing off.”
Ralph could see the logic but also recognised that Granger was just reaffirming his position. Ralph recognized all the signs. It was how Granger always acted when he was feeling unsure of himself.
“I’m sorry about that, Rupert. Janice had my contact details, but we travelled around a bit. I was getting in some field work for my latest book.” He wondered why he was explaining himself, but knew that the real reason Granger had asked him to come in was to talk to him about Kessler.
“You met Brandt at my house, Ralph. We’ve been friends for years and I know he gets up to some pretty high profile activities. But his organisation is well respected.”
Granger seemed in a peculiar mood. Almost philosophical. It was most unusual for him. Normally he was either full speed ahead or full in reverse. Now he seemed to be stuck in the middle.
“You probably saw it in the papers. His colleague Owen James drowned the other night. The police aren’t saying it was foul play, but Brandt phoned me and he believes his colleague was killed by some organisation that’s trying to stop the campaign Amnesty are running against the big brands. I didn’t get the details but he said you knew all about it. I only hope that you’re not going to drag the University into anything that will harm our reputation.”
Now Ralph could see why Granger was treading so carefully. Brandt’s name would be in the papers and it would come out that he was a friend of Granger. Then the link would be made to the University. Knowing how Granger worked, Ralph figured that he was deliberating over two options. Either cut the umbilical that connected him to Brandt or switch any blame or bad publicity onto Ralph Chalmers. The second option was likely as Ralph already had a reputation for getting involved with the police and it was fairly common knowledge that he had been wounded in the shooting incident at Canary Wharf.
“I’m not sure how you see me bringing the University into anything. I was out of the country when it happened and Brandt Kessler is your friend. I only met him when you introduced me to him at your dinner party.”
Ralph felt bad about putting Granger on his back foot like that, but he had no intentions of being anyone’s scapegoat. If it had been one of his friends like Peter or David, or even Lance, he would have been more sympathetic. But here was this middle-aged man trying to wriggle out of something with no regard for the poor sod who had been killed. He had hardly mentioned Owen James, the real victim in all of this.
“I need your help here, Ralph.” It was an approach against which Ralph had never found an effective counter move.
“Of course, Rupert. Why don’t we first just go over what we know about all of this and work from there?” Granger nodded and seemed relieved to let Ralph take the reins.
“Let’s see. We know that the police will be making enquiries, but I don’t see why that needs to involve the University directly. Your connection with Brandt is nothing out of the ordinary. You must know hundreds of people in organisations like Amnesty. It’s part of your job.” Granger was looking a lot happier.
“That’s right,” said Granger as he stood up and started pacing around the office. “Amnesty is well regarded among the establishment. I never met Owen James, and apart from your being at the conference over at Greenwich, it really has nothing to do with Kingston.”
“I can see no reason why or how the police will be interested in the fact that I spoke to Owen at the conference. I spoke to a lot of people and so did everyone else. That’s what those events are like. The police know I was at the Canary Wharf shooting, but that was just a chance incident. Brandt and I were just innocent by-standers. They said it was a terrorist that they were after, so that one is closed.”
He had not thought through the explanation that he had just given Granger, but on reflection it all sounded pretty plausible. He had not said anything about the fact that Kessler had confided in him about his fears that he might be targeted by a mafia type organisation. If he told Granger or the police about that then it would raise a whole raft of questions. But for now it appeared that he and Granger had no reason to fear that the University would get any adverse publicity over James’ death.
“Good man, Ralph. That’s what we’ll say. Everyone will be happy.”
Except poor old Owen James and most probably Brandt Kessler, Ralph mused.
“Look, I’m busy this morning, Ralph and I expect you’ll be wanting to get that book of yours sorted out. If you’re free later I might even buy you a beer in the staff refectory. I expect you want to wash some of that radiation dust off. You can tell me all about it.” Granger shook Ralph’s hand.
Once back in his office Ralph tried to take it all in. He knew he had to call Brandt as Janice had said he had made two or three attempts to reach him. But once he did that then there was always the danger that he would get involved further in all this talk about mafia gangs. He dialled the number Brandt had given him and they put him straight through.
“Thanks for getting back to me, Ralph. You’ve heard about Owen. It’s a bloody disaster in more ways than one. Fortunately he had no family. He was a Doctor Barnardo’s boy. Being an orphan probably had a lot to do with his being such a hot head. But he was a great guy.”
“I only met him once, but he did seem pretty genuine.” It was not the most appropriate thing to say. But in the circumstances it was the best he could come up with. Brandt swept on.
“I’ve spoken to the police as it seems that I was the last one to talk to him. The last one from Amnesty, that is.”
“Do you mean at the Conference?”
“No. We had a meeting the day after to work out what we needed to do to take the Plaza Rana campaign to the next level.”
“Was that at your London office?”
“Yes, that’s right. You know we’re at New Inn Yard. It’s not far from Canary Wharf where those buggers nearly wiped us both out,” he gave a nervous laugh. “We were planning for a full-out media campaign and a protest march and getting people to stand outside the big brand shops and headquarters with banners. That’s the usual approach. But Owen wanted to make it private and aim the protest at naming and shaming individuals. I was all against it. It’s against our policy. We would lose public support if we went for individuals. It’s too personal and it would give us bad publicity.”
“So how did it finish? Did you reach any kind of agreement on how to proceed?”
“Well, Owen was a bit put out, but he agreed to stick to our plan. But what I don’t understand was that Owen told me that he was seeing some friends down in Cornwall for the weekend. I dropped him off at Paddington where he caught the train to Fowey where he has his cottage. He said that he was planning to drive over to his friend’s place at Falmouth for lunch on the Sunday.”
“But I thought that the police said that they found him by the Thames,” Ralph said.
“I don’t know. They found him not far from Canary Wharf near the Prospect of Whitby pub at Wapping. It’s a yuppie p
ub where the execs from Canary Wharf take clients for a touch of authentic England. You know, whitebait and brown bread and butter with bottles of wine or jugs of strong beer. It wasn’t Owen’s bag at all. I never heard him say he had ever been there. And besides, he was in Cornwall.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because he phoned me that evening at home. It was about 11 and we were just going to bed. He told me that he had a good journey down and had got home in just under 6 hours. He even told me that the weather down there in the West Country was great and that he was glad to be out of London where it was so hot and muggy. I told the police all of that but they didn’t seem interested. Look Ralph, sorry about this, but I’ve got to go. More meetings and my assistant has already stuck her head in to remind me twice. More trouble in Gaza. It seems that the human rights situation over there is escalating and those rocket attacks are killing citizens on both sides.”
“It must be hard to tell who’s to blame in that sort of situation,” Ralph commiserated.
“Everyone’s blaming the bad guys. But the trouble is there are hundreds of the buggers popping up everywhere. The world seems to be imploding. It all sounds like it’s about religion but the truth is that some opportunist or other wants to make some money out of other people’s misery. I’ll give you a call when the funeral arrangements are fixed for poor Owen. I assume you’d want to come?”
“Yes of course, Brandt. Just let me know. Nice talking to you.”
Brandt rang off.
Ralph had done his bit for the day and turned his attention to his book corrections and the lecture that he was scheduled to deliver that afternoon. It was time to return to the normality of the lecture hall. Then that drink with Granger. Maybe he and Rupert were entering a new phase in their somewhat turbulent relationship.
Murder at Canary Wharf (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 8) Page 5