by Tim Stevens
Olga... He remembered with a twist of pain that he’d been on his way home to see her when Rokva’s men had accosted him. Lenilko looked at his watch. Five forty. If he continued downwards, reaching the ground floor and heading out the doors, he could be home by six. Half an hour with Olga, listening to her account of the ballet exam, showering her with praise and affection, and then he’d be back in the office by seven.
The elevator stopped elegantly. The digital indicator above the doors read: fourth floor. The doors opened.
Lenilko hesitated a second.
He stepped out.
Twelve
They crowded into the room, one after the other.
Budian joined them next, followed by Montrose and Clement. Montrose turned immediately and tried to usher Clement back. Budian’s hands came up over her face, her eyes wide between her fingers, her glasses shoved askew.
Medievsky moved in front, approaching Keys’s body. He stopped a few feet away, peering at it from all angles.
Purkiss glanced round. Avner, who’d discovered the body, hadn’t returned. There was no sign of Wyatt.
Medievsky turned. He closed his eyes, once, drew breath.
‘Everybody out.’ He made shooing motions with his hands. Nobody moved. Beyond Montrose, Purkiss saw Clement staring at the corpse, her gaze flicking to the faces of the others.
The metal smell in the room, heated by the presence of so many living beings, was becoming overpowering. Purkiss spread his arms, began shepherding them towards the door. Budian complied, backing away, and Montrose and Clement exited into the corridor.
Purkiss closed the door gently. It left him and Haglund and Medievsky.
And the violated thing on the bed.
Dodging Medievsky, Purkiss strode to the body and thumbed its half-closed eyelids open. He peered at the neck, pushed the pyjama sleeves up the arms and examined the exposed flesh.
Medievsky was at his side in an instant. ‘What are you doing?’
Purkiss ignored him and bent his head close to Keys’s waxen face. He studied the lips and the visible tip of the tongue.
‘Hey.’ Medievsky’s hands were on his arm. ‘Back off.’
Purkiss allowed himself to be drawn away. He glanced round the room. Nothing appeared to be out of place on the shelves, and the monitoring equipment was stacked against one wall in the orderly fashion it had been in when he’d visited the infirmary the night before.
To Haglund, Medievsky said: ‘Find Wyatt. Tell him what’s happened.’
Haglund looked across at Purkiss. Again Medievsky said, ‘Hey,’ and jabbed his finger at the door. As Haglund was leaving, Medievsky added: ‘Bring me a phone.’
The echo of the door ebbed into silence.
Purkiss said, ‘What did you mean by that?’
Medievsky was pacing, with the air of a man determined to maintain control both of himself and of the situation yet at a loss to assimilate what he was facing. It was a few seconds before he registered what Purkiss had said.
‘What?’
‘You said I knew this was going to happen. What did you mean?’
Medievsky came over to Purkiss, stood a few feet in front of him. He wasn’t close enough to be invading Purkiss’s personal space, but his manner was intimidating nonetheless.
‘You interviewed him last night, before Gunnar cut his hand. What did you ask Keys? What did he say to you?’
‘Nothing you wouldn’t expect. He was burnt out, fed up with his lot. He found my questions about his work irritating.’
‘And then he kills himself.’ Medievsky sounded sceptical.
‘He didn’t kill himself,’ said Purkiss.
‘What?’
‘Look.’ Purkiss pushed past him and went over to the body, stepping around the sticky stains on the floor. He lifted Keys’s eyelids one by one with his thumb again. The whites of the eyes were almost obscured by webs of crimson.
‘Conjunctival haemorrhages,’ said Purkiss. ‘And look here.’ Gently he tilted the corpse’s chin back. He pointed to the faint purple smudges, which would have been all but invisible on normal skin but stood out against the blanched, dead flesh. ‘Bruising on the throat. He was strangled, at least into unconsciousness, before his wrist was cut.’
Beside him, Medievsky said nothing, his jaw tight.
Purkiss pushed the pyjama sleeves up once more. ‘Further contusions, as though someone grabbed him. There was a struggle.’ He saw, too, the needle tracks in the veins, and wondered if Medievsky noticed them.
The infirmary door opened. Wyatt came in, Haglund close behind.
‘What the hell?’ Wyatt advanced, stared at Keys’s body, then Medievsky and Purkiss in turn.
Haglund said, ‘There’s a problem.’
For a moment Purkiss thought he was referring to the body, and wondered at the man’s understatement. Haglund raised one of the satellite phone handsets. ‘There’s no connection.’
‘What? Give it to me.’ Medievsky strode over and snatched the handset from Haglund. He thumbed the keys, listened.
‘Dead,’ said Haglund.
Medievsky: ‘Get the other handsets.’
‘I’ve tried two of the others so far. Nothing.’
‘Okay.’ Medievsky jerked his head towards the door. ‘Round the others up. We need to try every computer for an internet connection.’
‘The problem will be with the satellite link itself,’ said Purkiss. ‘The dish might be damaged or faulty.’
‘We still need to check.’ Medievsky gestured more urgently towards the door.
*
Half an hour later, they were in the mess, all eight of them. Only Budian and Avner were seated, Budian white faced and hunched, Avner staring into space, dazed. The rest milled about, as if to stay still was to invite further disaster.
Medievsky said: ‘All right, people. Internet and telecommunications are down. We suspect there’s a fault with the satellite dish. We’ll need to take a look at it. But it means we cannot notify anybody of what’s happened here, at least for now.’ He folded his arms, looked at their faces one by one, his leadership position reasserted. ‘I don’t need to tell you I understand what a shock this is to you all. It’s a shock to me. But the analysis of exactly what happened to Douglas Keys will have to be postponed until after help has been sent to the station. And this requires us to reestablish contact with the outside world as a matter of priority.’
‘It’s obvious what happened.’ Avner’s eyes were wondering, though he was still staring straight ahead. ‘The doc slashed his wrist. Killed himself.’
Medievsky glanced at Purkiss. ‘I regret to say it does not appear to be so straightforward as that. There is evidence that Doug was attacked.’
The effect on the room was electric. Purkiss watched Wyatt. His eyes widened, though he said nothing, and even made eye contact briefly with Purkiss. Clement’s gaze flicked from one person to the next, as if she was more interested in each individual’s reaction than in what Medievsky had said.
Montrose said, quietly, ‘You mean someone murdered Keys?’
‘We cannot know. But it’s a possibility -’
‘One of us?’ Avner cut in, his voice rising on the last word.
Medievsky’s tone remained level. ‘I must ask every one of you to be on his or her guard. And I will need to speak to each of you about last night. About whether you heard anything in the night, or observed anything.’
‘You just said the analysis would have to wait, man.’ Avner twisted on the sofa to look directly at Medievsky. ‘Till we get help. Till the police get here.’
For the first time Purkiss noticed a tremor in Avner’s hands, which he tried to suppress furiously by thrusting his hands between his knees. The younger man had told his story several times already, relating it anew as he encountered each colleague. He’d gone to his laboratory at seven that morning to amend some notes he’d been making the day before, having woken and realised there’d been a flaw in what he’d written.
When he was finished, Avner left the lab and passed the infirmary on his way towards the mess. He’d noticed a light from under the door of the infirmary. Keys often rose early and went to the infirmary, and it was Avner’s custom if he was passing to bang on the door and call out, ‘The butler’s just sounded the breakfast gong, doc,’ or some comment along those lines. Usually this earned him an irritated rejoinder from Keys. Today, there’d been silence.
Avner had walked on, but something had made him stop and go back and knock again and ask the doc if he was in there. When there was no reply, he’d pushed open the door.
‘A scene from hell, man,’ he said, covering his face. ‘A god damn nightmare.’
Purkiss was no forensic expert, but from the temperature of Keys’s body when he touched it and from the degree of coagulation of the blood pooled on the tiles, he estimated the man had been dead for three or four hours. Since perhaps four am. The deadest time of night, when even the poorest of sleepers had usually succumbed to a brief, merciful oblivion.
Medievsky said, ‘Yes. A proper forensic scrutiny will determine the facts. But our memories will fail us in time. I need to hear your individual accounts while they are fresh.’
‘What about the body?’
It was Montrose. He’d filled his coffee mug from the pot someone had got going, and he came over and stood beside Medievsky. ‘Keys. We can’t just leave him there in the infirmary.’
Medievsky rubbed his palms together, the fingers extended. ‘First, we try to establish contact with Yakutsk. The infirmary is a crime scene and we should not disturb it any further. We see if we can get help. If we fail... we move Keys to a more suitable location.’ He clapped his hands once, decisively. ‘Three of us will go and inspect the satellite dish. Myself, Gunnar and Frank. The rest of you go about your work as best you can. There will be no field excursions today. And stay out of the infirmary.’
Purkiss said: ‘I’m coming with you.’
Medievsky shook his head curtly. ‘No. The three of us. Gunnar is the engineer. Frank too has some experience with satellite systems. And I am going as leader.’
‘There’s little for me to do here now,’ said Purkiss. ‘I’m coming along.’
‘I said no. If the dish has been damaged by adverse weather, the journey may be hazardous. You are a visitor to the station. I cannot risk your safety in such a way.’
‘There’s a murderer at this station,’ said Purkiss. ‘We’re all at risk.’
‘We do not know this.’ Irritation flared in Medievsky’s voice. ‘I will not discuss the matter further.’
Purkiss thought about saying it. Saying that Medievsky and Haglund would be venturing out with the man who’d butchered Keys, and who had tried to kill Purkiss himself. He held his tongue.
‘We will take one of the phone handsets,’ Medievsky said, turning towards the door. ‘If we succeed in repairing the dish, I’ll call here immediately.’
The three men, Medievsky, Haglund and Wyatt, left the room.
*
Purkiss wandered the corridors, watching the others as they dispersed throughout the complex. He gave the impression of purposefulness, but really he was coordinating his movements so that he encountered each researcher one at a time and had a sense of where they were heading.
Clement and Budian went straight to the laboratory wing, where Purkiss understood Clement had an office of her own. The two women walked side by side, talking in low murmurs. Montrose followed suit a short while afterwards. Avner was the last to leave, emerging from the mess a full fifteen minutes after the others. As he passed Purkiss he stared up at him, as if he couldn’t quite place his face.
‘You all right?’ said Purkiss.
The younger man said nothing, walked straight on.
Purkiss turned and went after him. ‘Efraim. Are you okay?’
Avner stopped. His back to Purkiss, he said: ‘No, man. I am very far from okay.’
Avner seemed to be heading for the sleeping quarters in the east wing. Purkiss had an idea.
He caught up again with Avner and said, quietly, ‘Being alone now probably isn’t the best idea.’
This time Avner turned his face. Purkiss was struck by the bitterness in the drawn features. ‘Hey, man. We’re all alone. Doug Keys sure as shit was. And still is.’
Purkiss waited a beat. Then: ‘Look, Efraim. I’ve no particular expertise in this area. I’ve seen a lot of people traumatised by death, and I still don’t know what the best thing to do is in order to cope. There may not be anything you can do. But if you want to offload, to talk for a few minutes or however long it takes... well, I’ll listen.’
He expected a sarcastic dismissal, and was surprised when Avner launched in, as though the words had been held back by the weakest of threads. ‘None of us liked him. And that makes it worse. You understand? He died knowing he didn’t have a friend here. Probably not a friend in the world. It’s too late to make amends. Ah, shit. Listen to me. I sound like a fuckin’ daytime soap opera.’ He choked angrily on the last words, and stormed off.
Purkiss followed, keeping his distance. When Avner reached one of the doors – room 12 – and opened it, Purkiss called: ‘Can I ask a favour?’
Avner paused.
‘I wanted to ask Frank Wyatt something but he’s gone now. Can you tell me which is his room, so I can slip a note under his door? I might forget later.’
‘First one round the corner on the left,’ Avner said dully, and closed the door.
Purkiss remained in the corridor. He knew what he had to do, but a nagging voice in his head told him to knock on Avner’s door, insist that he be let in. He wasn’t sure what Avner was going to do, or was capable of doing, and he wondered about the risk. About whether a second body might be discovered today.
He decided he couldn’t push it.
Purkiss walked round the corner and came to the door Avner had specified. Number eight.
He tried the handle carefully. As he’d expected, it was locked.
Purkiss had already examined the lock on his own door. It was a basic mortice, an easy one to crack, and the one on the door to number eight looked the same. But Wyatt would have laid traps, just as Purkiss had in his own room, and Purkiss was respectful enough of Wyatt’s professional capabilities that he knew he wouldn’t be able to spot all of them.
He took a notepad from the inside pocket of his jacket, scribbled: I know it’s not a good time, but could I ask you a quick question about that SODAR system when you get back? Thanks – John.
The words were entirely for show.
Purkiss folded the note and slipped it under the door as far as it would go.
He stepped back, looked left and right down the corridor, getting a feel for the layout, the dimensions. Then he walked on and took another turn and reached his own room, number five.
He locked his door behind him before laying his briefcase onto the small work table and opening it. On top was a laptop computer, which he set aside. Beneath, the dictaphone he’d used to interview Keys and Budian the night before sat in its foam nest, together with a mains cable, a microphone and a stack of spare batteries.
Purkiss lifted the equipment out and felt along the edges of the exposed base of the briefcase until he located the tiny clasps, accessible only with the tips of his fingernails. He unclipped the base and raised it. Beneath, in the false bottom, were the leads and transmitters and receivers of a different set of apparatus. He slipped a couple of components into the pocket of his jacket.
As he’d done the day before, Purkiss moved one of the chairs into the middle of the room and, standing on it, reached up and pushed away one of the ceiling panels. Once again he hauled himself up, this time pulling himself fully into the crawlspace above the ceiling.
He peered about, trying to estimate the distance and direction of Wyatt’s room. It was difficult in the darkness. He began clambering awkwardly across the metal lattice that constituted the framework of the ceiling, taking care not to lean
his weight on any of the ceiling panels, which wouldn’t bear it.
Had he gone too far? Purkiss had no way of knowing. When he gripped the edge of one of the panels below him and prised it aside, the room below was in semidarkness, illuminated faintly by the morning glare off the snow beyond the unseen window. The room itself, or what he could see of it, appeared similar to his own. There were no features to distinguish it even as being occupied by a man or a woman.
But there, near the door, was a folded slip of paper. The note Purkiss had pushed through. He had the right room.
For a moment, he considered climbing down into the room. Once again, he thought of the traps Wyatt would have set.
He replaced the panel and pressed it into place. Reaching blindly into his pocket, the narrow space restricting his ability to manoeuvre, Purkiss brought out the transmitter, no bigger than a fifty pence piece. Kneeling precariously on two steel beams, the ceiling pressing against his back, he attached a tiny clip to the transmitter and affixed it to the edge of one of the beams, in a spot where it wouldn’t be knocked free if the ceiling panels beneath were pushed aside. The transmitter jutted up like a small stud. It would be discovered easily if anything more than the most cursory search was carried out. But it would have to do.
Purkiss turned within the space in a wide, ungainly arc, and made his way back to the gap in the ceiling above his own room. Once inside, he stowed the rest of the apparatus in the false bottom of the briefcase. There was no use for it yet, not until Wyatt returned.
*
On his way towards the west wing and the laboratories, Purkiss tried to fit the pieces together.
In the early hours of the morning, someone had accosted Keys in the infirmary, overpowered him, and strangled him, cutting his wrist to make it appear he’d committed suicide. The deception was a clumsy one, and wouldn’t stand up to proper forensic examination, but Purkiss assumed that wasn’t the point. The illusion of suicide was supposed to be a short-term one, to divert suspicion temporarily. Which meant that the killer – Wyatt – was buying time.