The Devil's Landscape

by Ken McClure

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ replied Glass, still appearing shocked.

  ‘It’s not a request, Doctor . . . I do have the authority . . .’

  Glass appeared to come to his senses and said apologetically, Oh, no, sorry, I’m not being awkward, I don’t have it any more.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Owen has it, he asked me to send it back to him.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘He asked me to send it back to him.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Steven. ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  Steven had an image of Barrowman floating up from the watery grave he imagined him to be in. Questions tumbled out. ‘Where was he? Where did you send the package? What did he say?’

  ‘He sounded like he was in a bit of a hurry and didn’t have much time to talk,’ said Glass, ‘He apologised for messing me around and asked that I send the package to the address he gave me. I said, no problem, I’d do it right away.’

  ‘Do you still have the address?’

  Glass looked round at the surface of a cluttered desk. ‘I think so.’ He got up and started rummaging.

  ‘Did he tell you what was in the package?’ Steven asked.

  ‘He didn’t.’

  ‘And you didn’t ask?’

  ‘He was a friend asking for a favour. If he’d wanted me to know he would have told me. Ah, here it is . . .’

  Glass handed Steven the piece of paper he’d found.

  ‘A post box number in London’ Steven exclaimed, ‘nothing else, did he say where it was?’

  ‘He had no reason to, I suppose I assumed it was a box used by the university. What was in this packet anyway?’

  Steven ignored the question and said, ‘Dr Glass,’ he said, ‘Owen Barrowman is a wanted man with serious charges pending against him.’ He handed his card to Glass. ‘Please call me immediately if you hear from him again. In the meantime, I’d rather you didn’t mention our conversation to anyone.’

  Glass looked as if something was troubling him. ‘Of course not,’ he said hesitantly . . . ‘But you know, Owen didn’t sound as if he were suffering from a severe breakdown . . .’

  ‘Maybe I chose the wrong words,’ said Steven. ‘I think experts might call it a severe personality disorder.’

  ‘I’m struggling to believe it.’

  ‘So is Lucy in her hospital bed.’

  ‘I’m sorry . . . give her my best.’

  Steven called Jean on the way to the airport and asked if she would try to get information on the post box number. ‘It could be one that Capital University uses,’ he added. But maybe not.’

  ‘No package?’ she asked.

  Steven said not. ‘Barrowman phoned Glass and asked him to send it to the number I’ve just given you.’

  ‘So, he’s still alive.’

  ‘And with a plan apparently.’

  Jean said, ‘My God, his life is in ruins, he’s on the run from the police for murder and he’s still piddling around with this research data nonsense. It’s unbelievable.’

  ‘For a normal person, Jean, but he’s not normal. He’s devious, cunning, totally unpredictable and completely devoid of compassion or sympathy. What we mustn’t do is underestimate him. He may be a nutter, but he’s a nutter with a PhD who believes he is on some kind of mission.’

  ‘And with that happy thought . . . ‘said Jean, ‘I can tell you that the stuff you asked for from the US has come in. I’ll leave it on your desk along with anything I find out about the box number. I’ll be leaving a bit early tonight.’

  ‘Choir?’

  ‘We’re giving a concert.’

  ‘Have a good one.’’

  The news that his flight back to London had been delayed because of engine problems did little to improve Steven’s mood. It darkened further when the aircraft eventually took off only to be put in a holding pattern over West Drayton an hour later while it waited for a revised landing slot at Heathrow.

  ‘We’d like to apologise for the slight delays you’ve suffered today . . .’

  Passengers exchanged glances at the word ‘slight’.

  ‘and thank you for flying British Airways today. We hope to see you again soon.’

  Next time I’ll use a pogo stick.

  Steven found the office empty when he got back to Whitehall. There was an envelope on his desk containing the information he’d asked for from the US and a note from Jean stating that she had ‘hit the wall’ in her efforts to find out where or what the post box number was linked to. The ‘wall’ appeared to be Royal Mail security.

  Steven swore under his breath, but noted that Jean had enlisted John Macmillan’s help in resolving the problem before leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes while he considered the world’s obsession with what they imagined was security. People were becoming afraid to say or do anything. It was really blame that they feared most. Lawyers and the threat of litigation stalked their every move and listened to every word. Steven checked his watch and decided to take the US material home.

  ‘Hi Tally,’ he called out as he unlocked the front door. He was slightly out of breath after choosing to run up the stairs rather than take the lift, a habit he adopted when opportunities for planned exercise were curtailed. He’d never liked the idea of ‘going to the gym’, preferring to run through landscapes rather than gaze out of a window while on a treadmill – even if the landscape happened to be the hell of sand dunes or rain-swept mountains.

  As he turned after closing the door, a small white object caught his attention and he bent to pick it up . . . it was a card . . . a business card. The blood drained from his face as he read the name on it . . . Dr Owen Barrowman. On the back was written, ‘Sorry you were out’.

  Steven remained frozen to the spot. Barrowman had been here. All he could think was that the card was the psychotic weirdo’s idea of a joke. His own presence at Barrowman’s flat had been given away by him leaving his business card and this was some kind of what? A warning that more was to come? Tally wasn’t home . . . but she could have been.

  Steven found his mouth dry and his throat tight as he walked slowly through the flat, checking the rooms, reassuring himself that there was nothing amiss. He was in the bedroom when he heard the key go in the lock and Tally’s voice asking if he was home.

  ‘In here.’

  Tally came in and smiled. ‘There you are,’ she said, ‘What’s wrong? You look strange . . .’

  ‘Just pleased to see you.’ He gave her a hug.

  ‘I’m really not that late, Steven,’ said Tally. It was a joke, but she was clearly concerned.

  Steven flirted briefly with the idea of trying to hide what had happened but didn’t feel comfortable doing that. He showed her the card.

  Tally’s normal air of self-confidence collapsed. She took a series of deep breaths before exclaiming, ‘He’s been here?’

  ‘He put it through the letterbox.’

  ‘Why? What did he want?’

  ‘He’s off his head, Tally, it was some kind of a sick joke. He found my card in his place . . .he was letting me know what it felt like . . .’

  Tally looked at Steven accusingly. ‘Is that how you see it? Is that how you really see it, Steven?’ She took a step back. ‘That sick creature nearly beat his wife to death, he goes on to murder an intelligence officer and he came here as a joke? If I’d been here . . . If I hadn’t been held up at the last moment this evening, I might have answered the door to him . . . I could have died laughing at that joke, Steven.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Steven’s tone had changed. He’d given up on hiding the truth from Tally. She’d always hated his job and this kind of situation was why. It wasn’t a flaw on her part, far from it; she was a decent, normal human being who loathed violence and anything to do with it. Her job involved doing her level best to make sick children well again and give them the best possible chance in life. She couldn’t come to terms with his world because, despite his protestation that
Sci-Med investigations were largely routine, the threat of danger and violence was ever present at the back of her mind or, as in this instance, the front.

  ‘He won’t be back.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Tally’s voice had dropped to a whisper.

  ‘The flat will be put under twenty-four-hour surveillance and you’ll be given police protection from now on until this is over.’ Steven knew he sounded cold and dispassionate, but, for the moment, this was what was required

  ‘And who is going to protect you?’ Tally asked.

  ‘I am. I can call for police assistance any time I need it.’

  ‘He obviously blames you for all that’s happened. He wants revenge.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem right,’ said Steven. ‘You’d think looking for revenge would be way down his list of priorities in his situation.’

  ‘You’d think getting his hands on his research data would be even further down,’ countered Tally.

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘Supposing it comes down to you versus him?’

  ‘I’ll win.’

  Tally looked at Steven, feeling that she was seeing a side to him she’d never seen before.’

  ‘He’s spent his life as an academic, I haven’t. If it comes down to him taking me on, he’ll wish he’d stayed home and played with his train set.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Tally softly. We’ve been here before, I’m giving you a hard time and you don’t deserve it. It’s probably the last thing you need after finding that thing.’

  ‘You’ve every right to be upset and I’m so sorry that something that shouldn’t involve you at all has come so close.’

  ‘I guess it’s always a bad idea to bring your work home,’ said Tally, with a smile that competed with tears.

  Steven wiped the first teardrop away with his forefinger before saying, ‘The world needs people like you, Tally; unfortunately, it also needs people like me.’

  Tally took a deep breath. ‘We’ll make the best of it.’

  ‘I’ll make some phone calls.’

  NINETEEN

  Steven’s final call was to John Macmillan who heard him out before saying, ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Not exactly what Tally said,’ said Steven, feeling a bit nonplussed at Macmillan’s response.

  ‘I can imagine.’ said Macmillan. ‘She must have been very upset.’

  ‘Try bloody angry,’ said Steven, adding what sounded like an afterthought but wasn’t, ‘Why did you say you found it “interesting”?’

  ‘Man on the run . . . wanted for murder . . . hunted by police and security services, but takes time out to come into central London and do something like that. I think we can learn from that.’

  ‘I put it down to the arrogant single-mindedness of the psychopath,’ said Steven. ‘They’re known for showing off how smart they are and are always keen to expose the foolishness of the authorities.’

  ‘A reasonable hypothesis,’ agreed Macmillan.

  ‘But not shared by you?’

  ‘I see someone who has found safety and security. I don’t think he’s on the run any more. If he feels confident enough to take risks playing silly games, he’s doing it from a secure base and he probably has support. He’s not alone.’

  ‘Respect,’ Steven murmured after a long pause. ‘I read the text book, you read the man.’

  ‘I take it you’ve arranged to have police protection for Dr Simmons and your flat?’

  Steven confirmed that he had and asked about progress with the PO box number. The short silence that ensued suggested that more bad news was on the way.

  ‘I’ll be seeing the Home Secretary in the morning.’

  ‘The Royal Mail didn’t play ball?’

  ‘The box has something called private security status. No one I spoke to could tell me anything about it because they maintained that they personally didn’t know. They don’t have a list of these numbers.’

  ‘This is crazy,’ said Steven. ‘Royal Mail security doesn’t know where their PO box is, but Barrowman does. He gets someone in Edinburgh to put a package in the post with a number on it and obviously expects it to reach him. How in God’s name does that happen? Does he have some kind of diplomatic immunity? A personal courier?’

  ‘I’m looking forward to the Home Secretary telling me,’ said Macmillan.

  Steven flopped down in his favourite chair feeling exhausted. He swung his feet up on the windowsill and closed his eyes, intent on escaping the windmills of his mind for a few minutes, but Macmillan’s theory about Barrowman’s circumstances put a stop to that. What kind of friend would still be a friend after hearing what Barrowman had done. How could anyone bring themselves to offer him shelter knowing that? At least, if Macmillan was right, earlier suspicions that Barrowman might not be on the run at all but was being held by security services could be discounted; they would hardly be letting him out to roam around central London.

  Steven was interrupted by Tally’s hand on his shoulder. She handed him a glass of malt whisky and said, ‘I’m going to bed, don’t stay up too late.’

  Steven took the whisky and kissed her hand.

  The welcome fire in his throat helped him find momentary distraction and allowed him to concede that he wasn’t going to get anywhere wondering about Barrowman or who might have helped him. He turned his attention to the reports Jean had obtained from the U.S.

  After forty-five minutes of concentrated reading Steven put the papers down on the floor by his side and put his head back on the chair to look out at the night sky. Both reports were detailed and well presented. Any question he might have asked had been answered and the conclusions that foul play could be ruled out and the fire had been the result of a tragic accident seemed sound.

  This in itself was a relief, something he knew he should feel pleased about as just about every other aspect of his investigation was clouded in uncertainty . . . and yet something was wrong. He tried telling himself it might just be his natural suspicion and the knowledge that people compiling reports often tended to see what they and everyone else expected them to see before reporting accordingly. This wasn’t conscious bias, it was human nature and had to be guarded against, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Coffee might help.

  A double espresso did the trick. It was the bodies; the position of the bodies was telling him something. A gas leak from a main supply pipe had been the cause of the fire but there had been no mention of an explosion so why had there been no sign of the victims fighting the fire or attempting to escape? Much mention had been made of the flammable substances in the lab like ether and ethanol, which no doubt had contributed to the ferocity of the fire, but still . . . if the pair had been drunk, shocked, confused . . . fair enough, but they weren’t. They were young, alert and wide awake, working on something exciting and of huge importance to them.

  The position of the bodies, or what was left of them after the fire, suggested that they had been overcome by smoke and fumes at the bench where they were working. The question nagging away at him was simple. Had they been conscious when the fire broke out? If they hadn’t . . .

  Steven baulked at the thought of another layer of complexity appearing. He thought about John Macmillan’s assertion that he was running in mud and acknowledged that he was just about to add another half-ton to the mix, but, having thought of it, he’d have to give the possibility due consideration.

  It was obvious from the fire department’s photos that the state of the bodies precluded any possibility of forensic examination. Proving that the pair had been drugged was a world away from thinking it. Apart from that, the remains would have been disposed of a long time ago after release to the families by the police.

  It would be a long shot, but the only way he could see of making progress would lie in establishing the movements of the pair before they went back to the lab on that fateful night. That is when they must have been given some sedative compound – maybe a one to two-hour win
dow? Where were they? Who were they with? So much time had passed that it seemed unlikely anyone connected to the Lindstrom group would remember where or when they had last seen the pair. On the other hand, people often did remember where they had been around the time of something awful happening. It would be worth talking to Jane Lincoln again.

  Steven checked the door locks and turned the lights off before looking out of the window and spotting an unmarked vehicle down in the street which he decided was police protection. ‘Stay awake, gentlemen,’ he murmured. ‘Stay awake.’

  Tally left for work with a discreet police presence in attendance while Steven left some time later with his 9mm Glock for company. He thought he’d take the opportunity to go see Jane Lincoln while John was having words with the Home Secretary. Protocol demanded that he approach Dorothy Lindstrom first so he did. They exchanged pleasantries and puzzlement over the continued failure of the authorities to find Barrowman.

  ‘I’ve been preparing his results for publication,’ said Dorothy, ‘but it’s giving me a bit of a problem . . .’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘In normal circumstances, Owen’s name should go on the paper as first author, but the circumstances are far from normal and I’m not sure what I should do about that.’

  Academics are truly wonderful, thought Steven, she wants to leave him off.

  ‘I’m not sure I can help you there, Professor.’

  Dorothy gave a half smile and asked, ‘Is this a formal visit or did you just pop in to say hello?’

  ‘Actually, I was hoping to have a word with Jane Lincoln if that’s all right and she’s around?’

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder what you two are cooking up,’ said Dorothy getting up from her chair.

  ‘No need,’ Steven assured her, ‘just a couple of details I forgot to ask her about last time.’

  ‘Hello again,’ said Jane, ‘Any news of Owen?’

  Steven said not.

  ‘I still can’t believe what happened to him and thinking about it is making me worry about the rest of us.’