The Man on Hackpen Hill

by J. S. Monroe

  ‘Not yet. And you?’

  Silas was hoping Malcolm would have completed a full toxicology report by now.

  ‘We still can’t identify those substances found in their bloodstream – drawing a complete blank. I might send them over to Porton, just to see if they ring any bells.’

  88

  Bella

  Bella pulls over in a lay-by, heading towards Southampton in the dark. She’s on her way to Oxford to confront Dr Haslam about Erin, using the same satnav destination that her mum entered to pick her up from college at the end of term. But she’s also in possession of sensitive material that she promised Jim she would get published. The story’s far from complete – she doesn’t have any proof that Erin was a victim of experiments at Harwell, nor does she know who made the crop circles – but it needs to be told before anyone else dies.

  She puts the battery in her phone, dials the newspaper switchboard and asks to speak to Mark, her editor.

  ‘He’s off today,’ a male voice says. Bella recognises him as Mark’s frosty deputy, a man who barely acknowledges Bella’s presence in the office, unless it’s to put in his coffee order. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘It’s Bella,’ she says. ‘I’m doing work experience on the lifestyle desk.’

  The deputy says nothing. In the awkward silence that follows, she hears him talking to a colleague, approving a page layout.

  ‘I’m writing one of the “overheard” columns, down at a pub in Wiltshire,’ she continues. ‘The Slaughtered Lamb.’

  More talking to someone else before he speaks to Bella.

  ‘Nothing about that on the schedule,’ he says, in an offhand way. ‘As far as I can see, we’ve got the next two months of “Overheards” already sorted. You sure Mark commissioned it? We don’t normally get temps to file copy.’

  Bella has a terrible sinking feeling. Was Mark humouring her by sending her to Wiltshire? She closes her eyes, hears her mum’s words on the phone to Dr Haslam: She’s just working as a secretary…

  ‘I wasn’t actually ringing about that,’ Bella says, pulling herself together. ‘I’ve got a story for the news desk and was hoping Mark could tell me the best person to contact over there.’

  ‘The news desk?’ the deputy says, his voice dripping with derision.

  ‘It’s about the crop circle killings,’ Bella continues, determined not to be beaten down by this condescending man. She’s a journalist, not a temp.

  ‘Bella, we don’t know each other,’ he says, ‘but can I offer a word of advice?’

  This time it’s Bella who remains silent. His tone is beyond patronising.

  ‘I know you’re a family friend of Mark’s, and went to Oxbridge and all that, probably a private school too, but the world’s changing,’ the deputy continues. ‘Even the archaic world of newspapers. You’ve got to be good to get on these days, not just have a daddy with friends in high places. As for the news desk, it’s shortly to go off-stone with the first edition, as any proper journalist would know. They might be a little busy right now.’

  Bella feels a surge of anger. She’s about to hang up but she can’t let him get away with it. Not after mentioning her dad.

  ‘First of all, my dad’s dead,’ she begins. ‘He was killed in Mogadishu covering the Somalia civil war for The Washington Post, among others. Look him up – he was quite a good journalist in his day. And he despised nepotism of any kind. Secondly, I went to Clapton Girls’ Academy – a secondary comp in north London – before going to an Oxford college with more than 90 per cent state-school entry, where I founded and edited a student magazine. Now put me through to the fucking news desk.’

  89

  Silas

  ‘I can’t believe Jed Lando used to work at Porton Down,’ Silas says, turning to Strover. They are five minutes away from Cranham Hall, the psychiatric hospital where they suspect Lando was based.

  ‘The boss won’t be happy,’ Strover says.

  Silas is beyond caring about Ward. Malcolm’s revelation has changed everything, refocusing their investigation on the secretive government facility. If Porton Down is connected with the crop circle deaths, so be it. Silas is more interested in Lando’s history of whistle-blowing.

  ‘What exactly did Malcolm say Lando did at Porton?’ he asks.

  ‘Human vaccines and therapies for serious pathogens,’ Strover says, demonstrating an enviable ability to remember everything. ‘Bubonic plague, anthrax, Ebola. If he was there now, he’d be working on Covid-19.’

  But he’s not. He’s dead and hasn’t worked there for thirty years. Silas turns off the main road and takes a narrow lane down towards Cranham Hall. Maybe Lando still had military connections and was determined to expose ongoing malpractices at Porton Down. They could have been brought to his attention by Jim, who was convinced that the crop circles represent chemical warfare agents. And if, like many other pharmaceutical companies, AP Brigham has commercial connections with Porton Down, it would be in the interests of its smiling American CEO to stop Lando from jeopardising business.

  ‘Any word from your boffins?’ Silas asks, frustrated that they’ve yet to break the coded messages.

  She checks her phone, shaking her head.

  ‘A definitive answer would help,’ Silas says, failing to disguise his impatience. ‘The first one means this, the second means that. We’d know where we stand then.’

  ‘They’re proving much harder to crack than anyone thought,’ Strover says.

  Understatement of the year. The chemistry and mathematics professors have gone to ground, buried their eggheads in the sand.

  ‘Jim says he knew straight away when he saw the circles,’ Silas continues, angry now. ‘BZ, LSD, VX. Boom, boom, boom.’

  ‘And maybe he’s right,’ Strover says, ‘if Lando once worked at Porton Down.’

  Strover’s phone vibrates with a text message. Silas taps the steering wheel while she reads it.

  ‘It’s from my mate in Hackney,’ she says. ‘A neighbour’s just come forward, saw Bella’s mother being “escorted to an unfamiliar car” outside her home earlier. Not sure how willing she was to get in.’

  Silas shakes his head. Strover’s like a dog with a bone, won’t let Bella go. ‘Still no word from Bella?’ he asks.

  ‘Phone’s switched off.’

  ‘Which college did she go to?’ Silas asks. ‘That’s what they have at Oxford, isn’t it? Colleges.’

  Ward’s always going on about his old Oxford college – he went there for a twenty-fifth reunion the other day.

  ‘I didn’t check,’ Strover says. ‘I just googled a local newspaper story about how she’d won a place at Oxford from her state school in Hackney.’ She pauses. ‘You didn’t seem too convinced about her involvement in all this, so I left it at that.’

  Strover is showing admirable restraint. Silas worked for a boss once who never took his theories seriously. Until he realised that was the point: incensed, Silas used to come back with more and more evidence until his boss had no option but to investigate.

  ‘I’m still not convinced,’ Silas says. ‘All we know is that Bella has a friend called Erin, which is the name of the second victim, according to an anonymous caller to Crimestoppers. And she happened to meet Jim for a drink in the pub. It’s not the most compelling evidence, is it?’

  ‘And her mum seems to have disappeared,’ Strover says. ‘And she was once arrested on Studland beach, where Jim has just been taken away in an illegal ambulance.’

  ‘Circumstantial,’ Silas says.

  Strover falls silent, checks her phone. Maybe he’s pushing her too hard.

  ‘Someone else has rung into Crimestoppers,’ she says, reading an email. ‘A tattoo artist in London. Read a tabloid story about the crop circle killings and remembers doing a load of rook feathers for a young Irish woman a few years back. No name, hers or the woman’s, but apparently she had mental health issues.’

  But the artist still went ahead and covered Erin’s body in feathers. One
of the many reasons Silas dislikes tattoos, the way they legitimise spur-of-the-moment decisions. Mel says he’s being narrow-minded.

  ‘OK, so if – and it’s a big if – the second victim is Bella’s friend Erin,’ he says, ‘and if Erin had “issues”, then it’s conceivable, as you suggested in the meeting earlier…’

  ‘…that she might have passed through one of the psychiatric units run by AP Brigham,’ Strover says, finishing Silas’s sentence.

  ‘Or been a volunteer for unethical military experiments at Porton Down,’ Silas adds.

  Silas is not sure where either theory leaves Bella. Did she know Erin’s life was in danger and that’s why she was in Wiltshire?

  A siren starts up behind them. Silas glances in the rearview mirror and sees a modern private ambulance flashing its headlights.

  ‘Alright, alright,’ he says, pulling over to let the ambulance pass. ‘Take a note of those plates, will you?’ he adds, as the vehicle accelerates away. ‘Check they’re legal for blues and twos.’

  He pauses, a thought taking seed.

  ‘And run them against the ambulance seen on the beach at Studland.’

  90

  Bella

  ‘Bella, can you hold for a sec?’

  ‘Sure,’ Bella says, glancing around the lay-by. She’s been put through to the news editor on her paper but it’s the car parked up ahead that’s making her anxious. She exhales slowly, tries to calm down.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ the news editor says, coming back on the line. He sounds friendly and interested, everything that Mark’s cold deputy wasn’t. ‘So tell me. What have you got for us? Mark’s a good mate of mine – gave me my first break in journalism.’

  And so Bella tells him the whole story, beginning with her Oxford college friend Erin, and how she’s one of the unnamed victims of the crop circle murders, and ending with Jim, a government scientist, who believes that the coded patterns represent chemical weapons that are stored at Porton Down – and are still being tested on human guinea pigs at a secret facility in Harwell.

  ‘Erin must have been experimented on – it’s the only explanation,’ Bella adds, worried by the growing silence at the other end of the phone. ‘Everyone thinks that these sort of tests at Porton stopped in the 1960s, but they didn’t. They’re still happening today. And innocent people like my friend Erin are dying. I’ve got the whole inside story, from a government scientist, in his own words. And the tests are taking place in Oxfordshire, not down in Wiltshire. It’s clever, very clever. Everyone’s looking the wrong way. You still there?’

  ‘I’m here,’ the news editor says, his voice more reflective than before, almost sombre. ‘Where are you now, Bella? Where are you calling from?’

  Bella looks around her. The car in front hasn’t moved. ‘In a lay-by. On the A34. I’m heading to Oxford now. Once I’ve spoken to Dr Haslam, I can file my story, including right of reply quotes from—’

  ‘Are you with anyone?’ the news editor interrupts.

  ‘No, why?’ Bella checks behind her this time. There’s no room for any more cars in the lay-by, thank God.

  ‘That’s quite some story you’ve told me,’ he says, pausing. ‘You might… need some help.’

  ‘I’d rather not share a byline, if that’s OK.’ It’s the last thing Bella wants on such a big story. ‘I can always take it elsewhere, to another paper.’

  Bella watches as a man gets out of the car in front and walks towards her. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she says.

  ‘Is this a good number to ring you back on?’ he asks.

  Bella doesn’t recognise the man but she has a bad feeling about him and puts one hand on the ignition key.

  ‘This number’s best,’ Bella says. ‘But I don’t always have my phone on.’ She pauses, eyes still fixed on the man. ‘No one’s managed to identify any of the crop circle victims. I knew one of them personally – my friend Erin. We’re talking a front-page exclusive here.’

  Bella presses her lips together. She’s doing this for Erin. And for Jim too, wherever he is.

  ‘I’m going to speak with Mark at home and then call you straight back, OK?’ the news editor says, his voice full of encouragement. ‘Thank you for thinking of us – and, you know, look after yourself, Bella. It’s a little busy here right now but we’ll be in touch shortly.’

  She can’t take a risk with the man. He’s caught her eye and is approaching the car with purpose now, striding across the final few yards of the lay-by. Bella keys the ignition and jams down her foot, swerving past the man as she accelerates onto the main road in a plume of dust.

  Five miles on, she pulls into another lay-by and retrieves her laptop from the boot. Pushing her seat back, she creates a new document and starts to type. She’s not going to let the newspaper bring in someone else to write the article. You might need some help. Like hell she does. It’s her story and she needs to tell it.

  The words flow easily and after thirty minutes she’s banged out the bare bones of a piece. Once she’s checked it through and made some edits, she emails the copy to the news editor, copying in her boss, Mark, and adding a note that she’ll file quotes from Harwell as soon as she’s spoken to Dr Haslam and heard his point of view.

  She still can’t fathom her old tutor’s role, but she’s convinced that he’s the missing link between Erin, the crop circles and the Harwell experiments. And whatever happens to her now, at least the media have Erin’s name, know the identity of one of the victims. Jim’s role will also be widely known, his courage acknowledged for breaking rank and revealing the government’s ongoing programme of chemical weapons testing.

  She puts her laptop on the passenger seat, takes a deep breath and sets off for Oxford, checking her rearview mirror for tails. It will feel strange to be back at her old college. Frightening too. But she owes it to Erin.

  91

  Jim

  Jim stares at the ambulance doors, waiting for them to open, barely able to breathe. They have come to a halt after several hours on the road. He hears the driver jump out and walk around to the back of the vehicle. Jim glances at the two men sitting either side of him, his heart thumping so hard it hurts, but both remain seated.

  ‘Are we getting out?’ Jim asks, trying in vain to move his arms in the straitjacket.

  ‘First you have to decide if you’re coming quietly,’ the man with the goatee says, unbuckling himself.

  ‘If you tell me why I’ve been brought here,’ Jim says, short of breath. Has MI5 really driven him back to Harwell?

  Both men stand up, folding their seats away like commuters arriving at their destination.

  ‘There’s been some controversy about the work you were involved with here,’ the man says. ‘You need to keep your head down for a while – for your own safety.’

  The other man turns to the filing cabinet and starts to peel off the tape holding the syringe. A loud tearing sound reverberates around the ambulance’s metallic interior. God, Jim hates syringes. Holding it up to the light, the man checks the level and releases a small amount of liquid. He must know he’s being watched, must know how injections haunt Jim day and night. If it wasn’t for the tightness of the straitjacket, his whole body would be shaking like a jelly.

  ‘Controversy?’ Jim says, managing a dry, frantic laugh as he looks away from the syringe. ‘You don’t understand, I’ve already given the story to Bella. I’ve told her everything about Harwell. It’s too late for keeping bloody heads down. Bella works for a national newspaper. It will be on the news tomorrow – “Exposed: secret chemical weapons experiments on human guinea pigs at Harwell.” The cat’s already out the bag.’

  He’s gabbling, speaking way too fast, but the thought of Bella gives him strength. She’s out there somewhere, sharing his crusade, fighting dark forces for justice. The two men stand by the doors, waiting for them to be opened.

  ‘Bella’s a bit of a fantasist, I’m afraid,’ the man says. ‘She’s on work experience for the paper. As a secretary.
I don’t think we’ll be reading any front-page stories by her just yet.’

  ‘She’s good,’ Jim says, ignoring the man’s smirk, praying that Bella will have read through all the files on his USB by now. ‘You won’t be able to stop her. And she knows the identity of one of the victims.’

  Both men glance at each other. That’s got their attention. Was it a mistake to mention it? They will go after Bella harder now, if they haven’t found her already.

  ‘They were at college together,’ Jim adds, the damage already done. His arms start to shake uncontrollably inside the straitjacket.

  A click and the double doors swing open on the evening. Dusk has fallen since he left Studland but the buildings in front of him are illuminated with spotlights, including the blurred but unmistakable profile of the modern laboratory block at Harwell, home to the biosafety level four high-containment facility. Jim shakes his head in despair. It’s true. He’s back as a ‘volunteer’ – as punishment for leaking classified information to Bella. MI5 must have a dark sense of humour, silencing him with the very experiments that he was trying to expose.

  ‘Home sweet home,’ the man says. ‘These might help.’ He slides Jim’s glasses onto his nose, pushes them into position and stands back to admire his handiwork, as if he’s an artist putting the final touches to a sculpture.

  Harwell comes into focus, the buildings sending a bolt of fear through Jim. They are at the rear of the high-containment facility, where the supplies are brought in. His final days here were good but he wishes he could forget what came before. For a while he couldn’t remember, but moments continue to return, isolated vignettes of terror. He should keep writing them all down but Bella’s got more than enough material if she’s managed to open his Harwell diary.

  ‘How does it feel to be back?’ the man asks, unlocking Jim’s wheelchair from the floor.

  ‘Just wonderful,’ Jim says.

  ‘And have we agreed to come quietly? No repeats of what happened on the beach?’