Requiem (89 page)

‘Well, that’s not very bright, is it?’ Hillyard said, larding his voice with exasperation. ‘Glasgow Airport’s a small place. Don’t you think it’s just possible people might notice someone asking the same bloody stupid questions time and again?’ He clicked his tongue and gave a harsh sigh. ‘Pull him off, for God’s sake. Get him on the next plane.’

‘But – don’t we need to know? Where they was going?’

Hillyard slid him a pitying look over his spoon. ‘We do indeed, Biggs. But luckily for you and Phillips it doesn’t take a master brain to work it out.’

Biggs looked reproachful.

Hillyard glanced up to see his lunch companion, whose seat Biggs was temporarily occupying, emerging from the gents. An old partner in crime – crime, it had to be said, of a youthful and entirely different nature – he made a face when he saw that Biggs was still in his chair. Hillyard signalled to him to stay away a while longer, and watched him stalk sulkily off towards the bar.

‘And the Field girl?’ Hillyard asked Biggs.

‘I told you, she wasn’t with them.’

‘But she was at the airport?’

‘She saw them off.’

‘Then what did she do?’

‘Drove back to London. Well, I suppose.’

‘You didn’t follow her?’

‘I tried.’

‘Doesn’t make sense.’ Abandoning the delicate scrapings, Hillyard scooped up the last of the ice-cream in a single mound and jammed it into his mouth. He had a sudden certainty that Biggs was lying. ‘She was on to you, was she?’

Biggs’ eyes gave him away immediately, a sharp dart of resentment. It was a wonder he’d ever made inspector. Not for the first time Hillyard regretted the boom in business that had forced him to take on staff in the shape of incompetents like this.

‘On to me?’ bleated Biggs. ‘I told you – I lost her, that’s all. Blimey, what do you expect on me tod? Bloody miracles?’

‘When did she suss you?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake – ’

He gave a squawk as Hillyard’s hand closed over his wrist, an exclamation of outrage which subsided into a slow hiss as Hillyard’s grip tightened. He looked wildly across to the neighbouring tables to see if people were watching, which one or two of them were, then brought his affronted gaze back to Hillyard. Hillyard could see what Biggs was thinking, that in the Met no one would have dared treat him in this way without dire consequences to their health. Hillyard almost said aloud: But it’s me you work for now.

Hillyard dug his nails into the other man’s flesh and whispered: ‘
Don’t bugger about with me, you little sod.
’

‘The airport,’ he admitted furtively.

‘And then?’

Biggs wrenched his arm free but made no reply.

‘I’ll be grabbing more than your wrist next time.’ Hillyard smiled sweetly.

Biggs stared morosely at the glass of wine in front of him then, seeming to focus on it for the first time, knocked it back in one. ‘She tried to follow me.’

‘Tried?’

‘She lost me.’

‘Where?’

‘Battersea Bridge.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘
Sure
I’m sure,’ he said, his voice rising with fresh indignation. ‘I got the driver to hook round the houses. No way she could have stayed the course without me clocking her.’

‘What was she in?’

‘An Escort. Greenish.’

‘Got the number?’

‘Oh, no chance,’ he replied with overblown sarcasm. ‘I twiddled my thumbs all the way from Heathrow, didn’t I? Never even
looked
. Why would I ever think of something that obvious? Christ Almighty …’

But Hillyard wasn’t listening any more. One section of his mind was rehearsing the call he would be giving Cramm in a few minutes’ time, hatching the phrases he would use to break the bad news of the American scientist’s arrival while managing to convey the impression that there was still plenty of useful work to be done on the ground. Reynard Associates’ turnover – not to mention Hillyard’s lifestyle – wouldn’t look so rosy if there was a withdrawal of Cramm’s very considerable custom.

The other section of his mind was working on how he was going to tell his lunch companion that the meal was over, and that he was about to leave with this plodder Biggs on rather more urgent business.

D
UBLENSKY WALKED DOWN
the broad staircase and paused to get his bearings.

Whatever he’d imagined about his arrival in Britain, it had involved nothing like this. The strange mansion in the northern wilds somewhere; the shadowy servants who slid in and out without a word; and the owner, a singer – a rock singer, for heaven’s sake. Dublensky remembered his songs from college days. They had been all the rage. For all he knew, they still were. The whole thing was very strange.

The girl Jenny had tried hard to make them feel at home, but with that ring through her nose and her weird makeup and crazy clothes, her appearance only added to his feeling that he had landed in the middle of a TV drama, an Agatha Christie perhaps. In his present mood, maybe even a Munsters.

He hadn’t asked Anne what she thought of the day so far; he could read it in her face. While Tad, disgusted at not being in London, had decided to sulk in his room.

He entered the room to the left of the front entrance.

Simon Calthrop the journalist was there, also Nick Mackenzie. There was no sign of the photographer; perhaps, having got his pictures, he’d left.

‘Ah!’ Calthrop jumped to his feet. ‘All ready, Mr Dublensky?’

Dublensky wasn’t certain he was ready for this and perhaps it showed on his face because Mackenzie said: ‘Maybe you’d prefer to rest, Mr Dublensky?’

Calthrop threw Mackenzie a sharp look before saying to Dublensky: ‘I really don’t think we have the time for that. I need to get back to London by Tuesday at the latest. We’ve a great deal to get through.’

Unseen by Calthrop, Mackenzie raised his eyebrows kindly at Dublensky, as if to say: I’d make up your own mind if I were you.

Dublensky asked: ‘Miss Field, has she arrived yet?’ knowing that he wouldn’t be reassured until she did.

Calthrop shrugged as if it wasn’t a matter of great interest, but Mackenzie looked worried, which only served to add to Dublensky’s feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

‘I’d really like to see Miss Field,’ Dublensky echoed dully.

‘Is it the contract?’ Calthrop demanded, moving in front of Dublensky. ‘Are you worried about something in the contract?’

‘Not exactly. I …’

Calthrop motioned him towards a chair, holding the gesture until Dublensky had sat down. ‘Well, what is it then, Mr Dublensky?’ He dropped into the seat opposite and fastened Dublensky with a firm gaze.

‘I just … I guess I would have liked to talk things through with Miss Field.’

‘Well, that doesn’t seem possible just at the moment, does it? So I suggest we get on, and then when she turns up you can talk about anything that’s still worrying you.’

‘It’s what’ll happen when we leave here,’ Dublensky said, putting a shape to his anxieties. ‘No one’s told me what’s going to happen.’

From the fireplace Mackenzie said: ‘You’ll be looked after, Mr Dublensky. I guarantee it.’

His voice was reassuring, his manner amiable, yet how far could a rock singer be trusted? ‘Perhaps a rest might be a good idea,’ he muttered indecisively. ‘I’m really very tired.’

Calthrop pressed his lips together. ‘I think it might be best to start now, Mr Dublensky.’

‘Well, I …’

‘Simon.’ Nick Mackenzie beckoned to Calthrop, and the two of them went into a huddle by the door. Dublensky couldn’t hear what was being said, but he knew they were arguing. Finally Nick Mackenzie came back and crouched on the edge of the opposite chair. ‘How about a walk before it gets dark, Mr Dublensky? I rather wanted to show you something.’

They took warm coats from a cloakroom and went out of the house by a side door which gave on to a hedged garden with neatly delineated rectangular beds. It was cold, but not unpleasantly so. Patches of white cloud skated across a low winter sun. Mackenzie began again: ‘You mustn’t let them persuade you into doing anything you don’t want to do, you know.’

‘No, but … Well, I’ve burnt my boats. There’s no turning back, that’s for sure.’

‘But take it at your own pace. Don’t let them pressure you.’

They turned out of the garden and joined a path that led upward between shrubs.

Mackenzie slowed a little. ‘You were worried about the future … Well, I just wanted to say that there’s a job waiting for you if you want it.’

Dublensky looked across at him in surprise. ‘There is?’

‘It’s a trust, a research charity. It’s going to be set up in the next month or so. They’ll be needing people.’

‘But …’ He floundered for a moment. ‘Will they want to employ me?’

He gave a small smile. ‘Oh yes.’

‘What kind of research are we talking about?’

‘Research into the effects of chemicals, how to help people recover from them. That sort of thing.’

Dublensky paused. ‘Well …’

‘No interference. No strings.’

‘Sounds …’ He was going to say unbelievable. ‘Unusual.’

‘It might mean being based over here.’

Dublensky, who a minute ago would have considered any suggestion of moving abroad with dismay, now found himself turning the idea over in his mind. ‘This trust, could I present research proposals?’

‘Sure. Anything you liked.’

They continued until, breasting a rise, they reached a paddock surrounded by a wooden rail with a stable on one side.

‘We could look at Silveron, for example?’

‘Oh yes.’

They stopped and leant on the paddock rail. ‘This trust,’ Dublensky said, ‘it’s yours, right? You yourself would be setting it up?’

Mackenzie gave a slight shrug which was an admission, but not so much of an admission that it invited further comment.

‘Well …’ said Dublensky. ‘It sounds … interesting.’

They stood in silence as if all had been agreed between them, which in a sense it had.

The wind seemed to bite suddenly, and Dublensky felt the cold. ‘You were going to show me something?’ he prompted gently.

Mackenzie was staring up the slope of the paddock, towards the forest. ‘What?’ He came out of his thoughts with difficulty. ‘Was I?’ He blinked at Dublensky in mild surprise. ‘Of course.’ Turning, he raised a hand to the panorama below. ‘I was going to show you the view.’

Now and again during that long evening Dublensky’s words would dwindle and his eyes travel from face to face as if to be sure that he had people’s attention. Strange that he should be in doubt: it seemed to Nick that the room was held in a breathless hush of concentration, broken only by the settling of the logs on the fire and the clinking of Anne Dublensky’s coffee cup. But then Nick realized: it was not attention that Dublensky craved, but belief.

Simon Calthrop, hunched over a glass of best claret, armed with two tape recorders and a large note book was taking Dublensky painstakingly through the procedures used in toxicology trials: the day-to-day recordings, the tests and examinations.

Nick found he was able to listen to the statistics of rodent extermination with a new and undreamed of detachment. It wasn’t just the ease with which he’d clobbered the rat in Daisy’s flat, it was the realization that, when all was said and done, people like Dublensky hadn’t been able to find a better way.

He also recognized that moral dilemmas belonged to a world of hard practicalities and uncomfortable truths, a world in which he felt poorly qualified to make sweeping judgements. Alusha had died because the safeguards had failed; perhaps that was all he needed to know.

Calthrop was leading Dublensky firmly onwards. ‘So when did you begin to suspect irregularities?’

‘Oh, not straight away. I mean, not until the Silveron toxicology results had been in for quite a while, like over a year.’ Dublensky was crouched forward on the sofa, arms resting on knees, hands pulling nervously at each other. ‘Then one day I was looking through the full set of data. Not many people bother with that, believe me. It runs to five or six heavy volumes: computer printouts, daily observation sheets, test results – and here you’re talking about maybe five, six specialities: immunology, oncology, dermatology, histology, pathology. I mean, these things can go on for ever. Anyway, my particular interest is haematology. That’s because I’m a chemist and I don’t know a darned thing about it.’ He smiled wrily. Beside him on the sofa, Anne Dublensky shifted in her seat and frowned at him.

‘Blood,’ continued Dublensky, drawing back into himself. ‘I always look at the blood tests, because it’s there that you often get the first hint of trouble. Anyway, there I was flicking the pages and I stop at this one page – a computer analysis of standard haemoglobin tests with statistical significance calculations – and I see that the figures have thrown up this strange pattern, a succession of three identical numbers. Like on a roulette wheel you’ll occasionally get a number repeating itself. Mathematicians will tell you these things can happen quite easily and that it’s well within the normal range of probabilities, but it still seems sort of strange when it appears. So I see this row of identical numbers and I think, hey, what a crazy set of figures, then I notice another oddity, a really low figure in the first column. It could be a testing error, of course, or a statistical error. Then, again, it might be a genuinely low result, just like it seems. Nothing really unusual about any of that. In fact if you didn’t get the occasional crazy figure, then things really
would
look strange, like too good to be true, you know.’ He jerked his head from person to person, searching out reactions, then paused modestly to recount his moment of glory. ‘Except that I suddenly get this feeling I’ve seen these figures before,’ he explained. ‘Now this isn’t possible – I mean, that’s what I tell myself. It’s just a trick of my mind. But the more I think about, the more uneasy I get. And you have to remember that by this time the production line at Aurora is pumping out Silveron for export and I’ve already had the first letter from Dr Burt. So I don’t need all that much encouragement to think unhappy thoughts.’