by DS Butler
He fingered the radio attached to his belt. Should he call Mick? Deciding the noise from the radio would give him away, he continued toward the illuminated lab.
When the lights in the corridor flickered on, flooding him with light, Jeff jumped. He had forgotten that this area contained the motion-sensing lights. He had triggered them himself.
There goes my element of surprise, he thought, and broke into a jog.
To Jeff, the laboratories in this building always looked untidy. They tended to have bottle upon bottle of coloured solutions, tubs of chemicals and machinery, with various metal attachments and digital displays, covering every spare inch of bench space. The students and post-docs worked two to a bench, but Jeff wondered where they found room to carry out their experiments. There was hardly any free bench space underneath the piles of notebooks, brightly coloured plastic trays that contained little tubes, and blue cartons containing pipette tips.
But Jeff had never seen any of the labs like this. A straw-coloured pool of liquid sat in one corner of the lab and he hoped that wasn’t what it looked like. A faint, malty smell hung in the air. Over-turned stalls lay on the floor and shattered glassware covered the benches.
Well, they had certainly made a mess, Jeff thought, as he radioed Mick. His shoes crunched over the broken glass as he walked over to look at the name on the door.
Professor Mike Clarkson was about to get an early alarm call.
*
Thirty minutes after the call from security, Professor Mike Clarkson arrived to survey the damage to his lab.
He wore blue jeans and a creased, yellow sweatshirt. His hair stood up on end and Jeff could see the tiny bloodshot veins in the whites of the professor’s eyes, as he looked around his lab.
The professor stood in front of the white freezer in his laboratory. This freezer stood at about half the height of the ransacked, minus-eighty-degree freezers in freezer room one. Apart from the small silver lock on the door, it looked just like the type of freezer you might have in your kitchen. Although Jeff guessed this one wouldn’t contain any frozen chicken nuggets or ready meals. Bright yellow tape, with the words, DANGER RADIOACTIVE printed on it, ran right across the length of the freezer.
Professor Clarkson’s fingers fumbled around the key before he managed to thrust it into the lock. He turned it, waited for the click and paused for a moment before opening the door. He looked at Jeff with eyes glassy from lack of sleep.
Just as Jeff planned to ask him if he was all right, the professor turned back to the freezer, took a deep breath and opened the door.
The professor took a quick look inside, nodded and smiled at Jeff.
“It doesn’t look like any of the radioactive isotopes have been touched.” The professor held up a finger. “Of course, I will need to do a proper inventory. I’ll do it in the fume hood.”
Jeff took a cautious step back as the professor carried the rack of the radioactive vials directly past him.
The fume hood, as far as Jeff could tell, was a large cupboard. It started at waist height and had a sheet of thick, transparent material at the front so you could see everything inside the cupboard.
Four fume hoods stood in a row along the far wall. Professor Clarkson lifted the plastic frontage of one, like he was opening a sash window, and placed the rack of vials inside the cupboard, on top of some paper towels. He slipped on two pairs of blue gloves, and behind the plastic, he raised one of the vials up to eye level and tilted on its side.
“I need to make sure no one has removed any liquid from the vials.”
Half an hour passed before the professor was satisfied that all the radioactive material was accounted for.
Jeff waved a hand around at the rest of the lab. “Is anything else missing?”
The professor shook his head. “It’s actually quite hard to say for sure.”
Jeff pursed his lips. Why was it hard to tell? Granted, someone had caused a fair bit of damage, but it was his lab, so he must be able to tell if anything important was missing.
The professor repeated another circuit of the lab, scratching his head. “It’s just such a mess,” he said.
Jeff rolled his eyes and leaned back against the wall. “Yes it is, but is anything missing? The police will be here soon and that’ll be the first thing they ask you.”
The professor kept circling the lab. Now and then, he paused, picked up a tub of chemicals, shook it and then put it down again. His running shoes, still wet from outside, squeaked against the floor as he walked.
He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t think anything dangerous is missing, but it’s hard to say for sure until tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning? Why?”
The professor looked up and raised his eyebrows. “Why? Well, because that is when my students will be in. I don’t spend much time in the lab these days.” He shrugged. “No time.”
When the professor opened the large metal cabinet labelled SOLVENTS, Jeff couldn’t resist leaning in and peering over his shoulder. A smell, reminiscent of pear drops, wafted up to his nose as row after row of brown bottles filled his view. Perhaps he had been too hard on the professor. How could he tell if a single bottle was missing from all that lot?
Before he could ask the professor which of the solutions gave off the pear drop smell, Mick’s voice crackled over the radio to tell them the police had arrived.
“Roger that, Mick. Please bring the officers down to the scene of the crime,” Jeff said, putting particular emphasis on the word crime for the professor’s benefit.
Jeff was impressed with the police response time, very impressed. The police must have recognized that the department was a target now that the animal house was under construction just over the road.
When they arrived in the lab, Jeff wasn’t quite so impressed. He eyed the two officers sent to deal with the case with disappointment. They looked like they had not long left school.
The professor told the officers he really was terribly sorry, but he couldn’t tell them if anything was missing. He told them about the laboratory’s stocks of radioactive isotopes and said he was pretty certain none of those were missing. As for the E.coli they used in the lab, all the strains were non-pathogenic and wouldn’t be harmful. No other chemicals appeared to be missing at this stage, but a thorough inventory would have to be carried out to make sure.
Jeff watched the officer’s eyes widen when the professor mentioned the radioactive vials and he could tell he’d lost them completely when he told them about the E.coli.
“Our lab technician would have had a better idea,” the professor said. “But Marianne’s on maternity leave at the moment...”
They would be here all night at this rate. Jeff decided to take charge of the situation.
“It was probably animal rights protestors. They’ve made plenty of threats in the past, and they’re always out to make a nuisance of themselves. I doubt that they’ve taken anything.” Jeff waited for one of the officers to say something, and when they didn’t, he continued. “I suppose the officers would like to take copies of all the surveillance footage?”
The taller officer nodded. “Yes, and we’ll need to speak to your building manager. If it is down to the protestors, all this will strengthen the university’s case if they want to renew the injunction.”
Jeff wanted to point out that the injunction had not been much use tonight, but instead, he told them he would get in touch with the building manager in the morning, unless the officer thought it was imperative to talk to him tonight.
“It can wait until the morning,” the tall officer said, looking through the glass wall at the mess in the lab. “But we’ll seal this off tonight. We’ll need photographs if we are going to use it for the injunction.”
Jeff and the professor agreed.
The professor mumbled something about not being able to guarantee nothing was missing, but Jeff’s mind was now focused on getting back to the security office and eating tha
t fruitcake.
5
On Monday, John Weston sat in his City of London office and looked at his watch. Where was Sally? For heaven’s sake, how long did it take to pick up a couple of sandwiches? She always went to the small cafe just two streets away, and it didn’t usually take her this long.
He got up from the desk and walked to the window to see if he could spot her.
Weston’s office was in the financial heart of the city. His company occupied the top two floors of Mason House, a smoky glass building with views of the Bank of England. Top of the range offices, generous salaries, but still, he couldn’t get decent staff.
This was probably Sally’s way of getting him back because he had asked her to work next weekend. Typical woman. If she hadn’t wanted to work, she could simply have said no.
His stomach grumbled loudly; he was starving. He glanced at the biscuit tin, but then shook his head. He shouldn’t really, his waistband pinched uncomfortably enough as it was, and he had already eaten two biscuits this morning.
He took a sip of coffee from the cup on his desk and wondered why it was so hard to get a good personal assistant these days. Sally had been working at Mason House for four months and he thought they were getting on quite well. There had been a few upsets at the beginning, but that was only to be expected.
Weston was very particular about his privacy. Rumours could be started so easily. The personal assistant he employed prior to Sally had been dreadful. Her high-pitched voice had left him with a headache most evenings. At least Sally’s voice was an improvement, although in other areas, she was far from perfect.
He looked again at the biscuit tin.
If he didn’t have his usual biscuit with a cup of tea this afternoon, he supposed he could have one now. He prised open the metal lid and was surprised to see only one biscuit sitting amongst the crumbs. There should have been two of the homemade biscuits left, which meant Sally must have helped herself to one of his biscuits.
The last biscuit looked a little crumbly, but the icing on top looked tasty enough. He picked it up, carefully cupping his other hand underneath to catch the crumbs, and took a small bite. It was good; he finished the biscuit and looked sadly at the empty tin. Sally really wasn’t going to work out.
He walked back over to the window, but there was still no sign of her. Feeling lightheaded, he thought he’d better sit down. He probably had low blood sugar. He eased himself down into the chair at his desk, loosened his tie and decided to have a stern word with Sally when she got back.
John picked up the framed photograph on his desk of his ex-wife and son. She hadn’t telephoned yesterday on the anniversary of their son’s death. He stayed at home all day, just in case. When she didn’t call, he called her in the evening, only to be greeted by her voice on her answering machine.
John felt his eyelids droop. The delay in getting lunch shouldn’t be making him feel this bad. He would have to make an appointment with his GP; perhaps he was developing diabetes, like his father.
He rubbed his eyes and picked up the document in front of him. No doubt, Sally would be back soon. He just needed to concentrate on something else and keep his mind off food for a few more minutes.
He tried to read, but the text swam in front of his eyes. He was really feeling unwell now and it was all Sally’s fault. He would have to get rid of her.
He frowned at the papers in front of him, yet another application, a science project applying for funding money. The writing was unclear and he couldn’t even understand the author’s basic hypothesis. He picked up a pen to underline a sentence, but his hand trembled.
He tried to tighten his grip on the pen, but he couldn’t control his fingers and the pen fell to the floor.
Then the pain started. Excruciating, searing pain. A burning sensation started in his gullet and travelled deeper, down to his stomach. He hunched over, groaning.
Then as quickly as it had started, the pain faded. He yanked at his collar and took some deep breaths. Christ, what was that? Was he having a heart attack? Or was it a stomach ulcer?
He reached for the photograph of his son, but he couldn’t see his son’s face clearly; it looked blurry, like he was underwater. Was this a symptom of a stroke?
He blinked and looked again at the photograph. He could see him clearly now, smiling brightly at him. He shook his head. What was wrong with him? He must be coming down with something, possibly a bout of flu, combined with this low blood sugar.
Perhaps he should go home early today. A lazy afternoon followed by an early night and he’d be right as rain.
His skin prickled with cold sweat.
What he needed right now, he thought, as he got up from his chair, was some fresh air. He stood up, leaning heavily on the desk.
The shaking started in his knees and then spread along the length of his legs. The tremors grew in strength until his legs were unable to support his weight and they buckled underneath him.
Crashing to the floor, his arms flailed wildly, trying to grab the desk to break his fall, but his limbs seemed to have a mind of their own.
The pain exploded in his stomach and spread outwards. Muscle spasms made him jerk around the floor. His skin felt flayed and raw, the pressure of his clothes was unbearable.
The pain was everywhere. He tried to crawl towards the door. The carpet touching his fingers was agony, but he struggled on. The door was just a few feet way. He could make it. He had to.
He managed to crawl a few inches before he was paralysed by another bolt of pain.
He tried calling for help, but the words stuck in his throat. His airways narrowed. He fought to take a breath, to shout for help, but all that emerged from his throat was a low gurgle before darkness enveloped him.
*
Sally stared at the queue and wished that the people in front of her would spontaneously combust.
She knew Mr. Weston would be doing his nut back in the office. He hated his lunch to be late.
In Sally’s opinion, a few missed lunches would do him no harm at all. Together with a few missed dinners, it might actually do him some good. Besides, it was his fault she had to come to this tiny cafe two streets away. If she had her way, they would use Subway, which was closer, but when she had mentioned that to Mr. Weston, he looked at her in horror and said he didn’t eat fast food.
Subway wasn’t fast food anyway, not like McDonald’s, and she didn’t know where he got off being so high and mighty about it. Sally might eat a couple of value meals a week, but she was a hell of a lot slimmer than Mr. Weston.
She admired her reflection in the cafe’s glass door. Yes, there was absolutely nothing wrong with her figure. As if to confirm it, a young man in a suit opened the door and shot her an admiring look before joining the back of the queue. His hairstyle reminded her a bit of her boyfriend’s. It looked a bit scruffy, but Sally knew Dave spent ages in front of the mirror, longer than she did, to get each strand just right. She rummaged in her Balenciaga handbag for her BlackBerry and used it to send a text to Dave.
HI BABE, C U 2NITE? x
Sally switched her attention back to the front of the queue. What was taking the serving girl so long? She must be new. The chap at the front of the queue wasn’t helping matters. Did deciding whether or not to have lettuce with your egg mayonnaise baguette really have to take so long?
Sally drummed her fingernails on the counter top and the serving girl shot her a nasty look. Sally glared back and resumed tapping. Her false nails actually made the impatient drumming sound quite impressive.
Sally smiled. The nails were made of fibreglass and cost a fortune to maintain, but they looked nice and made her feel good. She stuck with this job, working for Mr. Weston, because the money was decent. She needed it. Her credit card had reached its limit again, but she just couldn’t seem to stop herself buying things. Things to cheer her up, things she couldn’t do without and things her friends had – so why shouldn’t she?
The queue shuffled forward, an
d egg mayonnaise man finally trotted off with his baguette.
With all these people crowded inside, the little cafe felt hot and stuffy. Sally fanned her face with her purse and took a deep breath. She wasn’t feeling very hungry now after all; maybe she would just get a bottle of water today.
Finally, she was at the front of the queue. She gave her order to the serving girl at the counter, who had the worst skin she had ever seen. Had the girl never heard of foundation? Then, with Mr. Weston’s sandwiches in a plastic bag hooked over her arm, she hurried back to the office.
When she got back to Mason House, she felt sick. She called out for Mr. Weston in the office, but he didn’t answer. His office door was closed and she knew better than to open it. She left the sandwiches on her desk and walked down the corridor towards the ladies’ toilets.
All at once, her skin felt hot and cold and a trickle of sweat ran down her back. She reached the toilets just in time, burst into a cubicle and vomited what was left of her breakfast into the toilet bowl.
When she stopped retching, she staggered over to a washbasin and rested her elbows on the cool porcelain sides. She looked up at the mirror on the wall in front of her. She looked terrible. Her skin looked as ugly and blotchy as that girl’s skin in the sandwich shop. If she saw Dave tonight, she would need a hell of a lot of bronzer to make herself look halfway decent.
Sally stood, leaning on the sink for a few minutes until the waves of nausea passed, then she splashed her face with water and rinsed out her mouth.
With shaking legs, she made her way back down the corridor to her office. She would tell Mr. Weston she was ill, and after a few hours in bed this afternoon, she might be all right to see Dave later.
In the office, there was still no sign of Mr. Weston. Reluctant to open his office door, she knocked and waited. She thought about leaving him a note on her desk, but as she picked up a pen and a notepad, she heard a noise from his office.