2009 - Ordinary Thunderstorms

by William Boyd

  He looked about him, at his fellow passengers: shabby, slumped, expressionless, glum Londoners, a few reading, many plugged into their headphones, one pretty blonde girl seemed to be watching a miniature TV—was that possible?—and he sensed his mood lightening further as he projected forward to potential holidays with other Phyllises, wondering at the same time how much more money Zembla-4 was going to make for him. “The eunuch billionaire”—he could live with that. Perhaps his new Phyllis could fly in on a private jet after the Zembla-4 launch—personally, he wouldn’t be setting foot on a commercial airline again for the rest of his life. He thought about that little trick she’d done with her scarlet dragon robe, letting it fall open like that. She knew what buttons to push, knew how to excite him. That would be the problem with someone new—it just wouldn’t be the same.

  He strode up the platform, heading for the exit, feeling stronger, more emboldened, as he always did after a Phyllis-session. Stop whingeing, man, he said to himself, let Keegan and Rilke run the show, do the leg work, the lobbying, the complicated dance with the licensing authorities. Don’t make a fuss, just pick up the cheque at the end of the day.

  Thinking about Keegan turned his mind to their last unsatisfactory meeting. He was pretty sure he knew, broadly, what had happened when Philip Wang went to see Keegan that afternoon. Philip must have discovered something about the Zembla-4 clinical trials that had enraged him and he had confronted Keegan about the matter, that final afternoon. Keegan had lied, not at all convincingly, and the opposite of the lie—“Philip was delighted”—contained the truth: Philip was disturbed, Philip was suspicious, Philip was furious, possibly. He thought further: Philip was about to go public? Could that be what was mooted?…And how extraordinary that he had been murdered that very evening by this Kindred fellow, this sinister climatologist…No, no, no, Ingram upbraided himself—don’t go there. It was just one of these hideous, terrifying, dark coincidences. Impossible…

  Still, he didn’t yet know what Philip had discovered, what had made him confront Keegan. That was the key issue. Perhaps he might call Keegan in again and bluff it out, make it seem as if he knew what Wang had come up with, what had disturbed him. He thought further: Keegan had taken that meeting, therefore it was one hundred per cent sure that Alfredo Rilke knew as well what Wang had unearthed. So Keegan and Alfredo knew what had gone wrong with Zembla-4, what had so troubled Philip Wang…He shook his head as if a bothersome fly were buzzing around him. But it couldn’t be that serious because Alfredo himself had authorised the submission process. No, just a terrible, terrible tragedy.

  Luigi was waiting for him in Eccleston Square, walking around the car with a chamois rag removing the odd smear of city grease or dusty water-spot from the Bentley’s gleaming body-work. Ingram slid into the back and Luigi paused before closing the door on him.

  “You have one call from your son, signore. He is going to be a few minutes late.”

  “What about some pudding, Forty?—Nate?” he added quickly. Ingram offered the menu for him to see.

  “I’d better be going, Dad, we’ve a job at—”

  “Some coffee, then. You’ve only been here half an hour.”

  “All right.”

  Ingram signalled over a waiter and they gave their orders, Ingram sensing Fortunatus’s discomfort coming off him like a force-field. He had given the choice of restaurant a lot of thought—nothing too grand, expensive or formal—but still something of a treat. This was their first lunch together since…He couldn’t think when. Since Forty was at school? Surely not? Anyway, he had decided it was to be the inauguration of a regular series: he and his son were going to see a lot more of each other.

  This restaurant was famous: customers, ordinary common folk, had to book six months in advance and yet—on his previous visits—Ingram had noticed many young people, extremely casually dressed, not to say scruffy, some of them reputedly with famous names. Even today, at lunchtime, he could spot the TV presenter, the knighted ballet dancer, the flamboyant actress with her irritating laugh. Ingram quietly pointed them out but Forty knew none of them. And the restaurant, despite its fashionably elite renown, still provided the consolations and comforts of solid tradition. Its multicoloured stained-glass windows would have been familiar to theatrical stars of the 19308. Its napery was thick and impeccably starched, its silverware heavy and un-modish in design, its menu a comforting blend of English nursery food and the latest fusion cuisine. Yet for all this, Forty was so ill at ease that Ingram could feel his own shoulder muscles beginning to contract and spasm in sympathy.

  “Look, isn’t that the chap from that TV quiz show?”

  “We don’t have a television, Dad.”

  “How is Ronaldinho?”

  “Rodinaldo.”

  “Of course.”

  He looked at his unshaven, bald son, hot in his heavy combat jacket, his fingernails black with leaf mulch or compost and he felt a sob well up in his throat. He wanted to reach out and hug him, he wanted to bathe him, make him clean and pink and dry him in thick white towels.

  “Forty—Nate—I’d like you to call me Ingram. Do you think you could?”

  “I can’t do that, Dad, sorry.”

  “Could you try?”

  “It won’t work, Dad. I just can’t.”

  “I respect that. No, no, I do.”

  They sat in silence for a while, sipping their coffee. Ingram had to accept this though he had thought that if they moved on to first-name terms there would be a concomitant loosening, a chance for a real friendship developing, without the tired old father—son relationship intervening.

  “How’s business? You know I want to invest.”

  “We’re fine. We’ve more work than we can handle.”

  “Then take on more people. Expand. I can be useful with all this stuff, Forty. Capitalisation, new plant—”

  “We don’t want to expand, don’t you understand that?”

  Something about the jut of Forty’s jaw and the stubborn way he looked at him in the eye stirred Ingram in ways he had forgotten he could be stirred. He felt his throat thicken with pure emotion and he said softly to his youngest son, “I love you, Forty. I want to spend more time with you. Let’s meet every week or so, get to know each other properly.”

  “Dad, please don’t cry. People are looking.”

  Ingram touched his cheek with a knuckle and found it wet. What was happening to him? He must be having some kind of nervous break—

  “Hey. Family! Who let you riff-raff in?”

  Ingram looked up to see Ivo Redcastle standing there, looming over the table. Ivo was wearing a snakeskin jacket and tight jeans, sunglasses were pushed up into his dense blue-black hair.

  “You all right, mate?” Ivo said, peering at Ingram.

  “Bit of a coughing fit.”

  “Forty, good to see you, man. Flat.” Ivo tried to give Forty a soul handshake, but Forty didn’t know what to do. Ivo settled for a high-five.

  “Hello, Uncle Ivo. I’ve got to go, Dad. Thanks for lunch, bye.”

  And he was gone that quickly, almost running out of the restaurant, and Ingram could have happily eviscerated Ivo for denying him his farewell embrace. He stood up, face set, left three fifty-pound notes on the table and walked to the door, Ivo striding beside him.

  “Where were you?” Ingram said. “Didn’t see you when we came in.”

  “Down the far end with the grockles,” Ivo said. “More discreet.” He glanced again at Ingram. “If I didn’t know you better, you heartless bastard, I’d say you’d been crying.”

  “It’s an allergy thing. Can I drop you somewhere?”

  They stepped outside the restaurant: the usual small gaggle of paparazzi were unimpressed.

  “No thanks,” Ivo said. “I’ve got a meeting in Soho. Film producer.”

  “How did the T–shirts go?”

  “Well…Funny you should ask, but things are looking up. I just had a really interesting phone call.”

 
“Summer’s lease hath all too short a date, Ivo.”

  “What?”

  “Time marches on.”

  “Actually,” Ivo began, and Ingram recognised the change in tone—his wheedling, begging voice—“I might possibly need to speak to you about that. Bit of a cash-flow problem. If this bloke doesn’t come through. Which he will, I’m sure.”

  There was the buzzing sound of a scooter starting up and its insect-noise increased as it sped up to the restaurant, slowing almost to a halt as it drew opposite them.

  “Hey, Ivo!” the driver shouted through his helmet visor and Ivo of course looked up. Ingram thought it strange that this paparazzo should be taking a photo with a disposable camera. Ivo put his shades on, looking pleased.

  “Fucking nightmare,” he said. “If only they’d leave me alone.”

  “Good to see you,” Ingram said and headed for Luigi and the Bentley.

  “Oh yeah. Great ads, loved them!” Ivo shouted over his shoulder as he sauntered off, up West Street towards Cambridge Circus and the cramped purlieus of Soho beyond.

  46

  IT WAS ALL COMING together fairly nicely, Adam thought, as he leant over Amardeep’s shoulder and looked at the computer screen. They were correlating the porters’ work log with the CCTV record of the same day.

  “There she is,” Amardeep said, pointing to the screen. “Trolleyed out of de Vere into intensive care on the 4th.” He pointed at the log. “By OPP 35.” He checked the outpatient porter number against a name. “That was Agapios. Then…” he flipped a few pages and searched the CCTV images. “Then she coated on the jth. Look.”

  “Quoted?”

  “Coated. That’s what we say at St Bot’s. She coated—she died…So we move her to the morgue.”

  “What about the next one?”

  Amardeep scrolled down to the next name on Adam’s list, then flicked through the CCTV images. It was the same result—trolleyed out on the iyth of the month, coated on the 23rd. All five of the St Botolph names on Philip Wang’s list had died in intensive care.

  “Can we find out cause of death?”

  “This is just the porters’ work log,” Amardeep said, his voice vaguely offended. “You need the clinical files. Why you want to know all this stuff anyway?”

  Adam noticed that Amardeep’s eyelashes were about an inch long. “They just wanted some data at de Vere,” he said vaguely. “Bit of a pain—but thanks a lot.”

  Back in his flat at Oystergate Buildings that night, Adam spread out his accumulating material on the floor in front of the flat-screen TV. He took out the relevant documents and printouts from what he found himself calling—though very aware of its thriller-esque pretensions—the ‘Zembla File’. The key item was his photocopy of Philip Wang’s list of the fourteen names of the dead children from the clinical trials. Then Adam had his own certificate for the purchase of ten ordinary shares in Calenture-Deutz (460 pence each) that he had bought online when he’d moved to St Bot’s and with it the glossy Calenture-Deutz brochure he had been sent as a new shareholder. He flipped it open to the usual euphuistic preface (who actually wrote this guff?) by Ingram Fryzer, Chairman and CEO, both photograph of the man himself and his flamboyant signature provided, the horizontal dashes of the T of’Ingram’ distinctly separated from the vertical downstroke—more like a mathematical symbol than a letter. With the brochure had come an invitation announcing a press conference open to all shareholders to be held early next month at the Queen Charlotte Conference Centre, WC2. Adam had also cut out one of the Zembla-4 advertorials from a glossy magazine and alongside it printouts of articles from learned journals eulogising Zembla-4’s curative powers—culled from the internet—and a colour photograph of Ivo, Lord Redcastle, that he had snapped the day before outside a Covent Garden restaurant.

  He had opened a sub-dossier on Ivo, the lord, containing the paragraph devoted to him in Burke’s Landed Gentry of Ireland, a magazine article about his house in Netting Hill, and a sarcastic and abusive gossip piece about his new, third wife’s art exhibition. Adam had been looking for a weak link in Calenture-Deutz and he had decided fairly quickly, after searching the backgrounds to the names of the other executives and board members, that Lord Redcastle would be the most promising target.

  As far as he was concerned his prime motive was only to end this pursuit. He wanted to stop being hunted by this man—whoever he was—a chase, he was now sure, that originated with Calenture-Deutz and this new drug, Zembla-4. He wanted, if at all possible, to have his old life back, insofar as that was feasible. Somehow, by grotesque happenstance, he had been drawn into a deep and complex conspiracy and he had to extricate himself—guile, tenacity and privileged information were his key weapons. But behind this first objective was the desire, also, to somehow avenge innocent Mhouse’s violent death, and it seemed to him that the only way he might achieve both aims was to attack Calenture-Deutz itself, rather than confront its homicidal agent. If Calenture-Deutz felt itself wounded or severely threatened, then perhaps it would back off. Philip Wang had unwittingly placed in his hands the information that might work as potent leverage on the company. He didn’t know—yet—what the precise details were behind these fourteen deaths but he was more than sure they constituted some sort of massive cover-up. He had in his possession fourteen potential smoking guns. Something had gone very, very wrong in the clinical trials of Zembla-4: so wrong that the rapidly, fatally sickening children had been rushed from the de Vere Wing to intensive care. Whatever it was, whatever rogue reaction the drug stimulated, was what had ensured Philip Wang was killed, and had brought about the death of Mhouse. In all likelihood, if circumstances had been favourable, he should have been killed also in order to keep this secret—whatever it was—secret.

  He went into the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea. These thoughts always shook him up. The stark reality intruding behind the patient, deductive reasoning—unwelcome, disturbing. Danger signs suddenly present in a young child, some Calenture-Deutz doctor realising the inescapable consequences, porters hurriedly summoned to remove the evidence to intensive care, a quiet blurring of the data and the record. Seriously ill children: hundreds, thousands, had received and benefited from Zembla-4, but fourteen had perished…Statistical inevitability. But why such violence and ruthlessness? Was there some governmental, security issue in play here? Were these clinical trials cover for something else more devious and, on a national dimension, embarrassing to the government or the security services? What was at stake? What would happen if these fourteen deaths were made public? And then he stopped himself—go no further down that road. The deaths of chronically ill children were in themselves not enough, there had to be something more. It had to be highly significant that the dead children in St Botolph’s had been moved to intensive care from the de Vere Wing some days before they had eventually died. The de Vere connection was obscured if not ruptured. How many children died in St Bot’s in a given week? Ten, a dozen? Do⁄ens? It was a huge hospital, its paediatric wing was enormous. Five children dying in the de Vere Wing where clinical trials for a new drug were in progress would have set scandalous whispers flowing. He would bet his life that all the other deaths logged by Wang had also occurred in intensive care. So there must have been something about the symptoms that first appeared that set warning lights flashing. Some doctor or whoever was supervising the trial must have known. Get them out of here—they’ll be dead in a matter of days…He sipped his tea. He needed to talk to someone who knew about drugs, who knew about Big Pharma.

  He went back into his sitting room and opened another file. He had been routinely collecting articles for the past couple of weeks from broadsheet newspapers and serious news magazines that dealt with the manufacture of drugs and the machinations of the pharmaceutical industry, trying to gauge if there was one journalist he might go to who would be able to interpret his patchy evidence. He had narrowed it down to a shortlist of three names: one in The Times, one in the Economist and one in a small sp
ecialist journal called Global Finance Bulletin that he had found abandoned in a Tube train carriage. Dry and fact-laden with no illustrations apart from graphs and diagrams, it seemed aimed at governmental policy makers, lobbyists and financial institutions

  —the subscription was an impressive £280 per year for the four issues. It was based in London and there was one journalist, called Aaron Lalandusse, who wrote in every issue on the pharmaceutical industry. Adam sensed that this Lalandusse was his man.

  His mobile phone rang and Adam started—he was still not fully accustomed to the thing, symbol of his new, though modest, upward mobility in society. It was either the hospital or Rita.

  “Hello, stranger,” Rita said. “You avoiding me?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve been very busy, ridiculously busy. I was going to call you.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At home.”

  “I get off duty at six. What about you?”

  “I’m not on till tomorrow. Shall we have a drink somewhere?”

  “Where?”

  “I can come to you. I’ve got a scooter now. Bought one yesterday.”

  “Hey. Wheels.”

  “It’ll work out cheaper.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  “Anyway, I could whizz over to Battersea.”

  “Why don’t we meet halfway,” she said, and told him the name of a pub she knew on the river. He said he’d see her there at seven.

  “Don’t bring your scooter,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I haven’t got a helmet.”

  47

  SOMETHING HAD GONE SERIOUSLY wrong with the cooking, Jonjo thought. Curried eggs? Who’d invented that? He took his plate from the server, looking dubiously at the three white, shifting eggs, rolling in an olive-green, lumpy pool of gravy with a ladleful of rice on the side. He avoided the junkies and found a place at a table occupied by a bearded man—looked like a wizard from a comic, Jonjo thought: pointed grey beard, long grey hair parted in the middle. Jonjo grunted hello, sat down and began to eat. The lumps in the gravy were sultanas, he noticed—god knows what this lot would smell like coming out the other end. He mashed the eggs into a pulp and mixed the whole caboodle together. He’d sat through another ninety-minute Bishop Yemi sermon and he wasn’t going to miss his free meal, no way.