The four-poster bed and balcony with a panoramic view of the moonlit seascape were much more luxury than a man like him needed, but sometimes you had to go with the flow. He dumped his bag on an armchair, locked his captured SIG pistol in the combination safe next to the bed, raided the mini-bar for another whisky and took a walk down to the beach to breathe the night air and listen to the crash and roar of the surf.
‘I’m getting closer, Jude,’ he murmured to himself, barely audible over the waves.
But was he really, or was that just what he needed to believe?
He took his time the following morning, filled with impatience to be there waiting when Brewster opened up the shop but opting instead to let the guy settle into his daily routine and catch him at his most unawares. It was a bright morning and the sunlight dappled the sea with a billion twinkling diamonds. He went for a run on the beach, took a long shower, drank two large black coffees in the hotel bar and smoked a Gauloise on his balcony before heading back into the town.
It was 9.25 when Ben parked the car down the busy, bustling High Street from Brewster’s Antiquarian Books and walked up to the shop, brushed and shaved and looking a little more like the respectable plainclothes police officer he’d be masquerading as one more time. A bell tinkled as he entered. The shop was a quaint old place, not especially well maintained, peeling paint and saggy floorboards. It seemed even tinier on the inside than it appeared from outside, crammed from floor to ceiling with aisles of dusty, faintly mildewed-smelling tomes that Ben found hard to imagine anybody wanting. Judging by the emptiness of the shop, it seemed that the citizens of Hunstanton generally felt the same way.
The only other living soul in the place was a young woman standing behind the counter, by the window with a view of the street behind her. She smiled sweetly at Ben and wished him good morning. ‘Please feel free to browse all you like.’
‘Actually, I was hoping to speak to the proprietor, Mr Brewster. Is he around?’
The young woman’s smile melted quickly and there was a dart of nervousness in her eyes. Ben wondered whether Brewster had told her to be wary of anyone looking for him. If that was so, it was interesting. The news of Carter Duggan’s death would have reached his ears as well as anyone else’s, but maybe Mr Brewster understood a little more about the reasons behind it. If Brewster was worried because he knew why Duggan died, that meant he was potentially in on the secret. The young woman replied hesitantly, ‘Uh, ah, may I ask what it’s …’
Ben took out the warrant card. This time he kept his thumb over the Thames Valley police logo and crest as well as McAllister’s picture, because he needed her to think he was a local cop. ‘Police. Is Mr Brewster here?’
Mixed emotions showed on her face, a combination of relief and worry. ‘Is there some problem?’
Ben gave her a reassuring smile. ‘We’ve received reports of a gang of specialist book thieves operating in the area,’ he told her, improvising wildly. ‘I’m speaking to owners of shops like this one, to advise them to be on the lookout. It really would be better for me to talk to Mr Brewster in person.’
The young woman looked blank. Swallowed. ‘Oh. I see. That’s awful. Uh, you just missed him, I’m afraid. He only came in for a few minutes this morning to collect some paperwork.’
Ben regretted that he hadn’t got here sooner. ‘He’s gone home?’
She glanced out of the window and pointed across the street at a silver Volvo estate parked a little way down on the opposite side. ‘His car’s still there. He said he was popping over to the chemist’s. You might still be able to catch him.’
Ben thanked her and left the shop. Glancing down the street he saw the pharmacy sign forty yards away on the opposite side, near where the silver Volvo was parked. He was crossing the road when he saw the slightly built, grey-haired man from the Man O’War’s CCTV footage emerge from the chemist’s shop clutching a paper bag. Picking up a prescription, Ben thought. He hoped Brewster’s health wasn’t too fragile. He needed the guy to be in reasonable condition when he started getting some answers out of him.
Brewster reached the silver Volvo before Ben could flag him down, and got in. A puff of exhaust, his indicator flashed, and Brewster pulled out into the traffic and set off. Ben hurried to the Alpina, jumped behind the wheel and followed him.
Brewster drove southwards out of Hunstanton and along a fast A road that cut diagonally inland, past suburban housing and a heritage centre and a leisure resort and a golf club. Traffic was thin and Ben hung cautiously back, keeping the Volvo just in sight for a couple more miles, until he saw it turn off the main road, following a sign for Sedgeford. Not wanting to lose him Ben sped for the turning, accelerated hard to close the gap and then slowed again as the Volvo came back into sight. Sedgeford was a medium-sized village with a lot of red-brick and stone houses. The other side of it, Brewster’s indicator flashed again and he turned into the driveway of a large, impressive country home that stood a good distance from its nearest neighbour, with stripy lawns and stone barns, elegant arched windows and tall chimneys.
Ben rolled to a halt a little way from the driveway entrance and walked up to the property. From what he’d seen of the area, he would have guessed that housing prices around here were sky-high. Brewster’s home looked like a lot of house for someone who owned such a humble, slightly decaying little secondhand bookshop that was unlikely to generate a hell of a lot of revenue. Maybe he was just a rich eccentric.
One thing Brewster wasn’t was a keen gardener. As Ben approached the house he noticed the overgrown lawn and the unclipped shrubs that were encroaching on the bay window in front. The Volvo was parked around the back, ticking gently as it cooled. Ben knocked at the door and waited a minute before it opened.
Brewster had been home long enough to take off his coat and put on a comfortable cardigan and slippers. His expression was anxious as he peered from the doorway. Up close, his complexion looked sickly and yellowish. Not a well man, by the look of him. Ben held up the warrant card. ‘May I have a word, Mr Brewster?’
‘I … Is this about the book thieves?’ Brewster’s young helper must have phoned him on his mobile while he was en route back home.
‘We should talk inside, if that’s all right with you,’ Ben replied.
Brewster seemed reluctant, but led Ben into the house. The interior, like the outside, spoke of an income level far above anything the shop could earn him, unless he had some racket going on the side. Brewster led him down a flagstone passage to a living room full of classic leather and oak. The bay window overlooking the front lawn was the one Ben had seen on his approach, the view half blocked by overgrown shrubs and bushes.
‘Is Mrs Brewster at home?’ Ben asked.
‘There is no Mrs Brewster,’ Brewster replied. ‘I live alone.’
Exactly what Ben had expected to hear, judging from the state of the garden. Most married men wheeled out the lawnmower at least now and then, for the sake of harmony. ‘My mistake.’
‘Can I offer you a cup of tea, Inspector … I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
‘No, thanks. Have a seat, Mr Brewster.’
Brewster perched nervously on the edge of a large wing chair. Ben positioned himself on a sofa between Brewster and the door. He said, ‘I’m afraid I misled you regarding the nature of my visit today, Mr Brewster. The fact is, I haven’t come here to talk about gangs of book thieves. I’m here to talk about a man, recently deceased, called Carter Duggan.’
Brewster turned pale and flinched as though Ben had slapped him. ‘Carter who?’
‘Come on, Mr Brewster. Let’s not play games. I have evidence to show that Duggan travelled to Hunstanton on May fifth, and that you had a meeting at the Man O’War pub. You’re a known associate of a murder victim, and I believe you have important information to share.’
Brewster chewed his lip anxiously and glanced towards the door as though he wanted to bolt through it. ‘I … yes, uh, I knew that he had been murdered.
Was I supposed to come forward to the police? Am I in trouble?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Ben said, laying on the ambiguity like a weapon and playing Good Cop and Bad Cop rolled into one. ‘But I’d like you to tell me what your meeting was about. Did you know Mr Duggan personally?’
‘Not at all. Never met him before in my life.’
Which Ben had already suspected. But his question was just a bridge to lead on to his next: ‘Then why would he have travelled across half the country to meet up with a total stranger?’
A long pause. ‘I was asked to talk to him,’ Brewster confessed.
That was strange. Ben said, ‘Asked by whom?’
Brewster was sweating. ‘I’m not in any trouble?’ he repeated.
‘Not unless you’ve done something wrong.’
‘I haven’t. I swear.’
‘Then you have nothing to fear,’ Ben told him.
Brewster pulled at his fingers as he spoke. ‘I can explain, but it’s complicated. You see, Mr Duggan was interested in some information that an associate of mine has. It was my associate he first reached out to.’
The joys of phony authority. Doors that normally had to be smashed down just flew wide open when people thought you were a copper. Ben asked, ‘And your associate is who, exactly?’
‘Someone who, for particular reasons, is very, very careful about whom he meets,’ Brewster replied mysteriously. ‘And so, he asked me to contact Duggan, arrange a face-to-face with him and get a sense of whether he was genuine. I set up the meeting, careful to arrange it in a public place where I’d be safe.’
‘Had you any reason to believe you wouldn’t be safe otherwise?’ Ben asked. ‘Meaning, did you or your associate regard Duggan as a threat?’
‘Not especially,’ Brewster said. ‘We were aware of his background, of course, though that in itself wasn’t a concern. But those were the rules I was set. If I had thought Duggan was kosher, my associate would have agreed to meet him in person. After speaking with Mr Duggan, however, I decided it was better to err on the side of caution. He seemed too interested in money.’
‘I think you’d better explain,’ Ben said.
Brewster shifted nervously around on the edge of his seat, knowing he’d already committed himself. ‘Do I have to?’
‘If it has a bearing on my investigation,’ Ben said, ‘then I’m afraid you do.’
‘There’s, well, you see, there’s quite a bit of background to it. It’s a long story.’
‘I love long stories,’ Ben said. ‘And I’m all ears.’
Brewster sat there knitting his fingers and frowning deeply. He heaved a deep sigh, then went on: ‘In my career I worked as a senior chemist within the R&D department, then later in sales and marketing, for a well-known pharmaceutical company. One that I prefer to remain anonymous.’
‘For the moment,’ Ben agreed, wondering where the hell this unexpected twist was leading. ‘Go on.’
‘Three years ago, I began to form suspicions that the company I worked for was involved in illegal activities. These have never been proven, which is the reason I’m careful not to name names.’
A recent memory flashed into Ben’s mind, of the big pharmaceutical company that Duggan’s beer mat scribbles had prompted him to look up. It had seemed like a blind alley at the time. He asked, ‘Is the company called Galliard?’
Brewster’s face turned a shade paler at the mention of the name. ‘The Galliard Group. Then you know already.’
‘I have my sources. What kind of illegal activities?’
Sweating profusely, Brewster hesitated a few moments. ‘Why are the police asking me this? Are my former employers under criminal investigation? Am I going to be asked to testify?’
‘Answer the question,’ Ben said. ‘Or you will be in trouble.’
Brewster sighed. ‘Oh, God. Very well. Do you know what botox is?’
The question threw Ben a little off track. He replied, ‘It’s a beauty treatment. Some kind of gunk that a lot of women with more money than sense get injected into their face to help with wrinkles.’ Not that any of the women in his life had ever subjected themselves to such bizarre tortures, as far as he was aware. Then again, so much of what the opposite sex did was, and would remain, a perfect enigma to him.
Brewster nodded. ‘Correct. How it works is by paralysing the nerve signals to the muscles, so they can’t contract, and the lines around the eyes, mouth and forehead become softer and less noticeable. It’s actually the most popular non-surgical cosmetic treatment in Britain and several other countries, hugely in demand. The product is widely manufactured under many different trade names, and generates a fortune in income for companies like the one I worked for.’
‘The Galliard Group,’ Ben said.
‘Correct. Like all their competitors, they can’t produce enough of it. As well as the beauty industry it’s also used in mainstream medicine to treat a variety of conditions, such as muscle spasms and migraine. But if its millions of happy users knew what it really is, they might think twice about having the stuff pumped into them.’
Chapter 29
Brewster explained. ‘Botox is short for botulinum toxin, a neurotoxic protein that is in fact the most deadly poisonous chemical substance known to man. In doses only slightly higher than those routinely used in cosmetic medicine, it causes paralysis and rapid death by respiratory failure. Extremely small doses can be, and are, fatal. To give you an idea of just how lethal it is, one gram of hydrogen cyanide, as used in Nazi death camps during the Holocaust, has the power to kill six people. By comparison that same single gram of botulinum toxin, ingested, would be easily sufficient to kill over five million people. If aerosolised, that number potentially rises to one and a half billion people.’
Those seemed like crazy numbers to Ben. ‘One gram?’
‘Correct.’
‘So your former employers manufactured this stuff.’
Brewster nodded. ‘Oh, by the truckload. They still do. And as I said, they’re by no means the only company producing it.’
‘You said you suspected them of illegal activities. I gather they’re not breaking any laws simply by making botulinum for the beauty industry.’
‘No, none at all,’ Brewster replied. ‘It’s all perfectly legit, on the face of it. Some people, myself included, find it somewhat ironic, not to mention dangerously insane, that a substance of such eminent lethality managed to become the first biological toxin to be licensed for human treatment, back in 2002, and is now a multi-billion-dollar industry in its own right. But whether or not you think it should be banned, it’s very much legal. My suspicions arose only by chance.’
‘This is what you talked about with Carter Duggan?’ Ben asked, trying to see where it was going.
‘It’s all connected,’ Brewster replied. ‘I did say it was a complex story.’
‘Then keep talking.’
‘As I told you, most of my career was spent in the laboratory, and then in sales and marketing,’ Brewster went on reluctantly. ‘Six years ago, a few months before my retirement, I was asked to stand in for a sick colleague in another department, part of whose job involved warehouse inspections. It was a responsible position and I was a trusted long-time staff member, and I was happy to fill in. Now, the company manufactures many different product lines and has thousands of clients around the world. I was responsible for checking details of shipments to their respective destinations overseas. Everything was carefully coded and organised. In theory, the system should have almost run itself and errors and oversights should have been virtually impossible.
‘But one day, not long after I took over my new duties, I came across a packing slip attached to an unusually large botox shipment with the destination put down as Sirte, Libya, with a code that didn’t seem to match my paperwork. When I cross-checked it against the computer records, I discovered that no such shipment was due, and the code didn’t seem to exist. By the time I had finished double-checking, the shipment was sent
on its way even though I hadn’t signed off on it. When I mentioned this irregularity to my superiors, I was pretty much given the brush-off and told that some clients used a different coding system or other. It was all a bit odd and vague, but at the time I let it go. Then a few weeks later, the same thing happened again. This time, the destination was Baghdad, Iraq. When I went back into the system to check the shipment codes, the records had strangely disappeared. As though someone had been purposely trying to hide the tracks of those botox shipments. Now I was beginning to think something fishy was going on.’
‘You were concerned that shipments of the toxin could find their way into the wrong hands?’ Ben said.
Brewster nodded. ‘Who wouldn’t be? Botulinum toxin has been used as a bioweapon many times in the past. The US Government produced it under the codename “Agent X” during World War Two. It’s thought the Japanese conducted experiments with it on Chinese, Korean and American POWs. Later on, in the 1980s, the German Red Army Faction terror group were caught manufacturing the rubbish, thankfully before they had the chance to use it. So here I was, looking at these mysterious shipments that appeared to have been sent without a trace to some of the world’s more politically unstable regions, both of which had, or have had, strong ties to terrorism. And we’re talking about seriously large amounts of product, hundreds of pounds. If someone with evil intentions could release even just a tiny pinch of it in the air outdoors, at least ten per cent of all the people downwind for a third of a mile would die a horrible death, or at the very least be severely incapacitated. Imagine the effect of a concerted attack within a confined space like a city subway system at rush hour. It’s unthinkable.’
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