by Louise Welsh
Stevie rubbed her cheekbone and felt the dried blood crumble beneath her fingertips. ‘You told me, Ahumibe and Frei were lovers.’
‘Lovers.’ Buchanan laughed. ‘That’s rather dignifying it. Most of us put these practices away when we grow up, but for some, like Ahumibe and Frei, it becomes a habit they can’t break. I found it childish, but I ignored it.’
‘Did you use Frei sexually, when you were at school? Is that the real reason he was so keen to destroy you? Or was it just that he cared about justice and helping children in a way you never have?’
‘Ms Flint,’ Buchanan’s voice was mocking. ‘What a mind you have.’ But instead of answering her question he said, ‘I don’t think Simon had an inkling that Frei disliked him, until the night he killed the boy reporter.’
Stevie was almost at the end of the workbench. When she reached it, her only option would be to make a dash, past Buchanan and his son, for the door. She paused, hoping that some crisis would hit William and distract the chemist from her escape.
She said, ‘Simon wasn’t a violent man.’
‘No,’ Buchanan conceded. ‘Not normally, but guilt does strange things to some people.’ The chemist looked directly at Stevie and she thought he might be smiling. ‘Or so I’ve heard.’ He placed the flask of acid on the workbench in front of him. Stevie willed him to walk away from it, but he picked it up again. ‘Once Simon agreed to more time for me to refine the formula, we decided he would visit Mr Summers and convince him that his concerns about the treatment were unfounded. “Blind him with science” was the phrase I think we used. Being Simon, of course, he put off the task. In the meantime, Summers must have got in touch with Geoffrey Frei because he was on our case sooner than you can say British Medical Association. He got in touch as a courtesy, he said. His story was ready to go to press but he wanted to give us an opportunity to give our side of the story.’ Buchanan shook his head. ‘Even as a boy he was pompous. Simon and I arranged to meet him in a bar near King’s Cross.’
Stevie said, ‘Simon had a meeting with Frei marked in his diary for two days later.’
‘That was typical. Simon was always punctual when he had surgery to perform, but outside of the hospital, his timekeeping was chaotic.’ The chemist now held the acid flask in his right hand. He let it go, and caught it with his left. It was a risky move and Stevie realised that he was gearing himself up for action while trying to lull her with his story. He said, ‘I called Simon to make sure he’d be there. When he arrived it was obvious he’d been drinking. It was unlike him, but then again, he was under a certain amount of strain. Geoffrey was waiting for us in the bar, but whatever he’d said about hearing our side of things, it was soon clear he’d only come to rub our noses in it. Simon and I tried to persuade him to hold off. We even offered to suspend operations, but he was determined to ruin us.’ Buchanan shrugged and the liquid in the flask trembled. ‘Geoffrey was a cunt. He deserved everything he got.’
Stevie took another step. William was slumped on the bed, his breaths harsh and jagged. But Buchanan’s eyes stayed on her.
He said, ‘It happened in the car park. It was so out of character that I’m afraid I didn’t see it coming, but when it did I thought, why not let him have it? Simon punched the little poof in the face and he went down as fast as a chemical cosh. I thought, “In for a penny, in for a pound,” and landed a kick or two, but Simon was a man possessed. He took out a scalpel and stabbed Frei. He’d been transformed into a different person, a thug, but he was still a surgeon and he made every cut count. When it was over, there was no doubt that Geoffrey Frei was dead.’ The chemist did his trick with the acid again. This time he held it in his left hand and caught it with his right. ‘I suppose it was selfish of me, but my first thought was that now I’d have the time I needed to perfect the formula.’ The chemist gave a small laugh. ‘How wrong I was. Simon wanted to call the police. He would have called them there and then, but his hands were shaking so much he dropped his phone. I took it from him. I was wearing a long raincoat. I made Simon put it on over his jacket, to cover the bloodstains. He’d gone into shock and it was like dressing a mannequin, but I slapped his face to wake him up and made him help me move the body to a more sheltered spot.’
‘Behind some bins.’
The chemist nodded. ‘It seemed appropriate. I drove Simon to his apartment, poured us both a brandy, and tried to talk some sense into him. I thought he would see my point of view – after all, I’d made myself an accessory to murder in order to protect him – but killing Frei seemed to have made a new man out of Simon. He continued to insist that we phone the police. I knew him well enough to see that for once he wasn’t going to be swayed, but I argued with him anyway. In the end it became clear what I had to do.’ Buchanan took a deep breath. ‘I had no choice. He would have landed us both in prison. I told him that I would make some coffee to help sober us up, and that when we had drunk it, he could call the police. I laced his drink with a sedative and when he was asleep did the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.’ Buchanan shrugged. ‘I killed Simon, I admit it. But he was no better than me; he was a murderer too.’
‘You must have got a fright when the door wouldn’t shut behind you.’
‘Typical of Simon not to get the lock fixed. What could I do? I took the keys to the flat from his jacket pocket, locked the door and hoped for the best.’
Stevie had intended to make a sprint for freedom, but she stepped out from the shelter of the workbenches and said, ‘I spoke to Sarah Frei. She told me that her husband had been alerted by a whistleblower. You’re also forgetting the note Simon left me, and the laptop he intended for Mr Reah. I may not have grown up with Simon, but I loved him, and in the short time we were together, I got to know him better than you ever could.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I think the truth is that, out of loyalty, and against his better judgement, Simon tried to give you time to resolve things. When it became clear that you were going to persist with the treatment, he got in touch with Frei, told him what was going on and gave him enough evidence to back the story up. You killed them both, and then you got your son to break into Frei’s house during his funeral and steal the evidence.’ Stevie smiled as if she was giving the chemist a compliment. ‘Nice touch.’
William bent into a spasm. Buchanan stood motionless beside him, his eyes still on Stevie. He said, ‘Don’t make the same mistake Simon made. Work with me. If we can isolate whatever it is that makes you immune to the sweats, I’ll be able to make a vaccine, maybe even a cure.’
Stevie shook her head. ‘All you want is another shot at glory.’ She took a step forward. ‘I should shoot you, but I don’t want your death on my conscience. Put the acid down, and give me the keys to the building and the front gate.’ She stepped closer. ‘Do it quickly, before I change my mind. You make a very good target.’
Buchanan placed the beaker on the workbench. He reached into his overall pocket, took out a set of keys and tossed them to her, but the gun was in Stevie’s right hand and they landed on the floor with a clatter.
‘Touch me and you’re dead.’ Stevie lowered herself cautiously, keeping her eyes on the chemist. She groped blindly on the floor with her free hand, seeking the bundle of keys, and when she didn’t find them glanced quickly at the ground.
The chemist’s first kick sent the keys speeding away from her. His second caught her in the ribs and hurled her after them. Stevie rolled with the kick, letting its energy propel her across the room. She slammed against a workbench, raised the gun and pulled the trigger. It gave a harmless click.
The sight of the gun had startled the chemist and he had thrown himself to the floor. But suddenly he was all action. He clambered to his feet, as fast as the clumsy overalls would allow, and started towards her.
Stevie swore. She lifted the gun again and took aim.
William Buchanan whispered, ‘I took the first bullet in the chamber out, in case it went off by mistake.’
Stevie squeezed the tr
igger and fired.
The chemist looked down at the blood spreading across the chest of his white overalls. For a moment she thought that one bullet wouldn’t be enough, but then Buchanan pulled the helmet free of his head and fell backwards, his descent as sure as death.
Epilogue
Hope’s Jaguar was parked by the truck, where Stevie had left it. She turned the key in the ignition and steered out on to the main road. It was still dark, but there was a glow on the horizon that might have been the city burning, or a promise of dawn. Stevie drove away from it into the blackness, glancing occasionally at the blaze of light in her rear-view mirror. Dr Ahumibe had been right. Killing people made you feel bad.
Stevie wished Joanie was in the passenger seat and wondered that she hadn’t thought of Simon first. She had shot a man and left another to die. And killing people made you feel bad. The streetlights were dead. It was hard to see the road ahead, but Stevie kept her headlamps off. She leant forward and pressed her foot to the accelerator. She knew now why killers ended massacres with a bullet to the head or a noose in their prison cell.
The speedometer climbed. Stevie closed her eyes, saw the blackness deepen, and then opened them again. She let the speed drop to a steady forty and drove on, into the dark. Breathed in and breathed out. Breathed in and breathed out. Breathed in and breathed out.
Acknowledgements
The inspiration for A Lovely Way to Burn goes back to my early childhood, a mild obsession with ‘the bomb’, the television dramas, Threads by Barry Hines and Survivors by Terry Nation. The idea that the collapse of civilisation is imminent has been around since ancient times. Personally, I am amazed that we have survived this long, and while I don’t exactly look forward to the end of the world as we know it, the knowledge that it may be just around the corner probably enhances the way I live. Many people have helped with this book. Sincere thank yous go to Audrey Rae and Jennifer Scammell who helped with medical research, but are most definitely not responsible for any inaccuracies or flights of fancy that I may have added. Eleanor Birne has been an outstanding editor and I have also benefited from the advice and support of my publisher Roland Philipps and my agent David Miller (who hates to be thanked). My partner, the writer Zoë Strachan, was once again my first reader and frequently set aside her own work to look at mine. I should also thank my family, who never complain about the amount of time I spend at my desk, even though it means I often shamefully neglect them.
I would also like to thank everyone at Cove Park, where I spent a very happy month and where I began this book, especially Peter and Ellen Jacobs, Polly Clark and Julian Forrester.
Also by Louise Welsh
The Cutting Room
The Bullet Trick
Naming the Bones
Tamburlaine Must Die
The Girl on the Stairs