The Increment (15 page)

'What else are they designed for?'

'I'll show you.'

Matt leant over and kissed her lips, feeling a wave of pleasure roll through him as her tongue flicked up to meet his.

THIRTEEN

Eleanor looked at Matt suspiciously: he had seen several different expressions on her face in the few times they had met – anger, fear, grief, laughter – but this was the first time he had seen suspicion. Up until now, he felt she trusted him. Now he wasn't so sure.

'What is it you do,
exactly,
Matt?'

Matt looked away. 'I run a bar and restaurant,' he replied. 'On the coast, just outside Marbella. You should come down sometime.'

'No, really,' she repeated.

Matt paused. They were meeting in the Feathered Crown, a pub along the river just down from Hammersmith Bridge. It was still hot, even though it was after eight, and most of the drinkers were sitting outside, stripped down to their T-shirts and bikini tops, drinking pint after pint of beer to stay cool. He and Eleanor had stayed inside: there was more shade, it was quieter, and nobody was likely to overhear their conversation.

'I've told you, I was in the regiment,' said Matt. 'They never let you leave entirely.'

'Do you think maybe
you
have issues with letting go, Matt?' said Eleanor, turning serious. 'That's quite a common psychological reaction, particularly with men who have been very committed to one career. After it ends, they have trouble focusing on the next thing.'

'Actually, I think they have problems letting go of me.' Matt took a sip on his beer. 'What did you find out?'

'There's been another one.'

The words were delivered calmly, but Matt could see a clear tremble of her lower lip as she spoke.
Not as tough as she makes out.

'Where? Who?'

'A man called Ken Topley. Lived in Ipswich, in a block of bedsits. He was doing some part-time building work. He got up in the middle of the night, and started attacking the other people in the block with a knife. Killed two people, injured three more, then tried to kill himself. Cut open his wrists but he was overpowered when the police arrived. He's at the local hospital now, under heavy sedation, and on life support.'

'Was he a soldier?'

'Parachute Regiment. Did eight years, and got out two years ago. Divorced last year, with one kid. He didn't seem to have any kind of steady job, and he'd been skipping on child-support payments. But no history of mental illness.'

'Can you go and see him?'

Eleanor shook her head. 'I've asked, but they're clamming up. Ipswich Hospital say he is under police guard. No visitors. So I said I was interested in examining him for some research on mental traumas involving ex-servicemen.'

Matt looked up, suddenly interested. 'Did they listen?'

'They bit my head off.' Eleanor drained the orange juice in her glass. 'They told me a request like that would have to go through official NHS channels. I went to my supervisor at the hospital, but she just kicked me upstairs. Apparently, a request like that had to be made through the regional health authority.'

'Let me guess,' said Matt. 'They weren't helpful.'

'They told me to stop wasting my time,' she said. A tired note of despair was starting to creep into her voice. 'A waste of NHS funds, they said. I don't think I can go much further, Matt. I've got a set of suspicious circumstances, and then nothing. Nobody will help me, nobody will tell me anything about these men. I'm about ready to drop it.'

Matt reached across the table, his fingers brushing against the back of her hand. 'No,' he said firmly. 'Don't give up – not until we've checked everything.'

'I don't know where to go next.'

'There's one more man we can try. He's called Sam Hepher. He was your brother's sergeant back in the forces. A friend of mine, Keith Picton, left me his number on my answer machine last night. Keith knows everyone on the circuit. Says Hepher will speak to us tonight.'

Across the table, Matt could see Eleanor's eyes suddenly sparkle: it was as if a light had been switched on inside her. 'Then let's see him.'

Matt could see the shock on Sam Hepher's face. Like most old soldiers, he was used to death. He'd seen it enough times, its power to surprise had been eroded over time. If I just told him Ken was dead, it would hardly register. But a murderer? That was something Hepher was finding it hard to deal with.

'Ken wouldn't do something like that,' he said slowly.

They were sitting in a Portakabin at the back of a building site in Harrow. Hepher had been out of the army for two years, and was now working for his cousin's building firm, organising the security for the site. Usually he'd be at home by now, but the night guard had called in sick, so Hepher was doing the shift himself.

'That's why we're trying to find out everything we can,' said Eleanor. 'We want to know if something happened to Ken, maybe when he was still in the army?'

'It's funny,' said Hepher. 'I heard of another ex-serviceman who went crazy recently. A guy called Simon Turnbull.'

For a moment, Matt even wondered if Eleanor was about to jump out of her seat. 'There have been several,' she said quickly. 'We're trying to figure out if they might be linked.'

Matt looked closely at Hepher. They were sitting opposite him, with a single forty-watt light bulb shining down on them. He was a neatly dressed man, with crisp white chinos, the seam perfectly ironed, and a plain blue polo shirt. The desk was organised and tidy, even the copy of the
Daily Mail
neatly folded away before he started talking. A line was creasing up his forehead as he burrowed his head in concentration.

He's trying to decide how much to tell us.

'There was something that struck me. It might be nothing.'

Eleanor leant forward in her chair. 'Tell us.'

'About five years ago, Ken took part in some tests. Medical tests. There's a test facility on an airfield down in Wiltshire called the Farm. Heavily guarded, all very hush-hush, but the Ministry of Defence used it to test out new products. A lot of the anti-biological warfare agents used in the Iraq war were tested there.' He paused, glancing towards Matt. 'Anyway, they needed some volunteers. You know what it's like, Matt, soldiers never like to take part in that kind of thing. They think it's all bollocks. Most of them would rather face the enemy than a doctor. So it was my job to rustle up some enthusiasm among the men. Blackman needed some leave, so he could get married, and have some money to pay for the honeymoon. So off he went. Everyone who took part got extra leave, plus five hundred quid. Enough for a fortnight in Spain. He was only there a week, and seemed fine when he came back. He said they just gave them a few pills, but he couldn't talk about what they were for.'

'And now this,' said Eleanor.

Hepher leant back in his chair. 'I wouldn't have thought anything of it,' he continued. 'But that other fellow, Simon Turnbull. He was there the same week, doing the same tests.'

Matt gripped both the coffees in one hand, and walked back towards Eleanor. She was sitting by herself, alone at the row of tables outside the bar that flanked the ticket office to the Waterloo Eurostar terminal.

'What do you think it means?' he asked, putting the coffees down.

Eleanor dabbed a bead of sweat from her forehead. All around them, people were rushing for the last train of the day to Paris. 'It's connected,' she said firmly. 'Has to be.'

They had driven back from Harrow straight to the station: Matt had agreed to meet up with Orlena and Lacrierre just before the latter left for France. Matt and Eleanor were turning over what they had just heard, neither wanting to talk.

'It could just be a coincidence,' said Matt. 'The army tests drugs on the squaddies all the time, it doesn't necessarily mean anything.'

'I know, I know,' she muttered. 'People suffering from trauma or grief often start believing in conspiracy theories. It's all textbook stuff. The Freudians would tell us it's just a way of the subconscious struggling to come to terms with the loss.' She paused, her expression turning serious. 'But that doesn't mean the conspiracy isn't sometimes real.'

'What do you want to do next?'

'I need to find out more about the Farm,' Eleanor replied. 'I need to know who else was there that week and what drugs were tested on them.'

'Be careful,' said Matt. 'It's MOD. They aren't going to like you poking around too much. You've no idea how secretive that organisation is. Whatever happens at that place, they won't want to tell you about it.'

'I'll wear a short skirt, then,' said Eleanor. 'And smile a lot.'

'That should work.'

She leant forward, her lips brushing against the side of his cheek. It was only the briefest contact, over in a fraction of a second. 'Thanks,' she said. 'I'll let you know as soon as I find anything out.'

'Am I interrupting something?' said Orlena, looking down at Eleanor.

Her eyes rolled towards Matt, her expression scornful, as if she were taking pity on him for having to spend time with Eleanor. 'Our meeting is in just a few minutes,' she continued. 'The chairman doesn't like to be kept waiting.'

'This is Eleanor,' said Matt, nodding in her direction. 'And Eleanor, this is Orlena.'

'I won't keep you,' said Eleanor, suddenly flustered and shy. She looked towards Matt. 'I'll let you know what happens.'

Matt nodded. Eleanor looked towards Orlena. 'Bye,' she said brusquely.

'This way,' said Orlena, not replying to Eleanor.

She took Matt by the arm, and started steering him towards the platform. The crowds were thinning out, and Matt could see the security guards starting to pack away their equipment for the night.

'Christ,' said Matt. 'Where are we going?'

'Paris, of course,' answered Orlena.

Matt hesitated. 'The last train left ten minutes ago.'

Orlena looked at him and smiled. 'Lacrierre has his own train, stupid. He doesn't travel by public transport.'

He followed Orlena as she skipped through the one remaining security checkpoint, handed his passport to emigration, and followed her towards Platform 21. 'I've heard of private jets, but not a private train,' said Matt. 'Apart from the Queen's.'

'Why not?' said Orlena with a shrug. 'Eduardo likes to get back to Paris at least once a week. This is the best way for him to travel. Quick and safe.'

The train was waiting for them. Orlena had her own pass, and a key that unlocked the security doors. One Alsthom-built engine, with just two carriages attached, it looked just like a normal international train, only much shorter. His own Eurostar, reflected Matt as he climbed on board. You had to hand it to the guy.
He knew how to live.

Lacrierre looked down at the picture. Even from the air, it was clear that the devastation was total. The factory had been burnt to the ground, its structure reduced to a few charred remnants. The other building had been shot to pieces. By the time this picture was taken – at least twenty-four hours after they'd hit the place, Matt judged – someone had been in to clean it up. But it was going to be a long time before they could start manufacturing anything there again.

'There,' said Matt. 'Job done.'

They were in Lacrierre's private carriage. The first carriage contained a kitchen, plus a range of office equipment: a pair of satellite phones, two computers, a Bloomberg terminal to keep him in touch with the financial markets, and a range of fax and copier machines. There were seats for two security guards, and one secretary: enough hired muscle to reassure, but not enough to look threatening. The second carriage was fitted out for Lacrierre himself, with long black leather sofas along the walls, soft lighting, a hi-fi and television.

It suddenly dawned on Matt that the train had started to move forwards. 'What the fuck's happening?' he said.

'We're going on a little trip,' said Lacrierre coldly.

'Let me off now,' shouted Matt.

'Calm down, Matt,' interrupted Orlena. 'We're going to Paris. I bought you a toothbrush.'

'Stop the fucking train!' said Matt, but he knew it was hopeless. He would have to roll with it, for the time being at least.

Right now, they had a prime view of Balham, Matt noticed as the train trundled its way through south London towards the new high-speed link starting halfway through Kent.

In the last thirty-six hours, they had driven back across the border to Kiev, grabbed a few hours sleep, said farewell to Malenkov, then headed straight for the airport. There was no BA flight to London, so they caught the LOT flight to Warsaw, then connected there on to a plane into Heathrow. Ivan had been paid £20,000 in cash by Orlena, and gone back to his family. Matt and Orlena had been summoned to a debriefing.

Lacrierre looked up and smiled triumphantly. The carriage had little furniture, but there were some military prints on the wall and two swords were hanging at the top of the compartment. Both, Matt judged from the fine steelwork around the blades, were the delicately curved sabres carried by Napoleon's Chasseurs à Cheval de la Garde, the Imperial Guard that followed him everywhere.