Alchemist (25 page)

‘Yah – you sound a little like Donald Duck – kind of suits you.'

‘Thanks a lot!'

‘You're welcome.'

Monty had been feeling exhausted a few moments ago, but the appearance of the American charged her up instantly. She wondered suddenly if she was wearing any make-up, wished she'd had a chance to look in a mirror before he'd arrived and do something with her hair. She felt a total wreck.

‘You look better than this morning,' he said. ‘Much more colour in your face.'

‘It was very sweet of you to come by then. I'm afraid I wasn't very –'

He shrugged, then edged back toward the door. ‘I'll go find a vase.'

Monty dunked a piece of dry toast in her soup and lifted it to her mouth. The taste of it kindled a small appetite, and brought back a memory of her mother; when she was a child, her mother had always given her Heinz tomato soup when she was unwell. Still today it always gave her a feeling of reassurance.

Conor Molloy returned, accompanied by a large glass vase which he filled from a tap in the tiny ensuite bathroom. He pushed in his flowers, and asked Monty where she wanted them. She pointed to her bedside table, and he put them down, moving Rorke's bouquet to a table by the window, then seated himself in the chair beside her. There was a moment of silence between them that felt very comfortable to Monty – as if they were old friends easy in each other's company.

The American was looking tired, she thought. His complexion was very pale and there were bloodshot streaks in the whites of his brown eyes, as if he had not had enough sleep last night. Then she glanced away with a faint smile of embarrassment as he returned her gaze.

There was something very solid about him. She liked the way his short tangled hair was swept back and a few locks had tumbled over his forehead; there was more than a trace of the modern Hollywood breed of actor in his looks. But there was something that went beyond, which she liked more than
anything; it was the habitual quiet, haunted expression that attracted her. As if there was another layer beneath the tough, good-humoured veneer; something that was both vulnerable and mysterious.

‘You're OK?' he asked.

‘Yup. I think I inhaled some of the vapour which wasn't too clever, I suppose.'

‘Not from what I've heard about it, no. So what exactly happened – was this guy mixing something up or what?'

‘I don't know – I just heard the gas alarm as I got out of the lift.'

‘What time was that?'

‘It was about five to six. I was late –' She stopped. Telling him she was late had been a slip of the tongue.

‘Late?' he quizzed gently. ‘It was five to six this morning and you were
late
? What time do you normally get into the office?'

She wiped the remains of the soup from the bowl with the last piece of toast, her hand shaking. ‘I – I – it varies.' She avoided meeting his eyes, ‘Mr Seals was leaving at the end of the month; there was a lot of stuff he wanted to get finished for my father – he – he suggested a blitz of coming in early – before the phones start – you know.'

Conor watched her carefully. It might be the truth but it did not feel like it. Jake Seals was someone who'd had access to a vast raft of highly secret information. If he had given in his notice, it was probable he would have been sent home instantly and not allowed back on the premises.

‘Don't let your food get cold,' he said to her.

‘I'm not really very hungry,' she said, picking up a fork and spearing a tinned carrot which tasted sweet and overcooked. A subsequent mouthful of fish turned out to be equally soggy.

‘Want me to go to a takeaway and get you something decent?'

She grinned. ‘Not tonight, thanks – but I might start getting desperate if they keep me in! Have you eaten – would you like my ice cream?'

He shook his head. ‘Thanks, I'm fine.' Their eyes met and they exchanged a grin. ‘So tell me, what was the real reason
you were in at that hour?' He gave her a quizzical frown. ‘I mean, forgive me if I'm trespassing on some kind of – you know – personal ground between you and Mr Seals.'

Monty felt herself tensing and tried not to show it. She spoke nonchalantly. ‘There was nothing between Jake Seals and me – I'm afraid we didn't even really get on terribly well.' She speared another carrot, her hand shaking, and was aware she was blushing. She tried to look anywhere but at the American, yet found her eyes drawn back to his. ‘Truly,' she said, noticing the look of amiable scepticism.

He smiled again, his eyes twinkling. ‘Sure. Listen, I apologize – I'm not trying to interrogate you, you can tell me to go stuff my face in a brick wall if you want.'

She laughed, then winced in pain. ‘No, don't do that.'

Conor Molloy indicated his mock relief, then spoke again. ‘Do you think it actually was an accident?'

She wondered whether to repeat Detective Superintendent Levine's comment about Seals being drunk, but felt somehow that was unfair on Seals. ‘No.'

The spontaneity of her reply startled Monty as much as it did the American.

‘We seem to have two problems: firstly, the man who gave Seals the Maternox capsules. We need to –'

‘He's not a problem,' Bill Gunn said abruptly. He stared across the japanned desk which, like the rest of Vincent Crowe's furnishings, always struck the Director of Security as more appropriate for a boudoir than an office. Although it did rather suit Crowe's effete side, he supposed. The black papier-mâché frog which dominated the front area of the desk stared back at him with its red jewelled eyes, partially obscuring his view of the Chief Executive.

Frogs. It was meant to be an in-joke. Every Director of
Bendix Schere had been issued with a decorative frog for their office by Crowe. The one Gunn had been given was a soft-toy Kermit wearing Walkman headphones; he kept it in a bottom drawer of his desk. In Gunn's view his surveillance work was too important to be illustrated in joke form. The removal of all frogs from display in Directors' offices was one of the very few recommendations Gunn had made in his time that had been rejected.

‘Why is this man no problem?' Crowe's cold grey eyes, bird-of-prey eyes, came into view behind the frog. The lighting in his office was always low, giving the impression of a grey winter dusk even on summer days. Everything about Dr Vincent Crowe was cold, even his handshake. Gunn respected the Chief Executive and was beholden to him by a bond which went way beyond the mere walls of the Bendix Schere building, but he remained awed by the man and always would do. Crowe was the most frightening human being he had ever met in his life; and he had met many contenders.

‘Richard Wilson is one of three Quality Assurance supervisors at Reading, sir,' Gunn said. ‘Seals asked him to obtain Maternox samples from batch M-6575–1881. He told Seals to jump in a lake. Then the surveillance team on Seals saw Wilson turn up at Seals' flat that night and post a packet through the letter box. Turns out he owed Seals a favour going back a few years – Seals used to cover for him whilst he was having an extra-marital affair. Seals was calling in the debt.'

‘And threatening to tell Mrs Wilson if he didn't play?'

‘Precisely, sir.'

‘The packet contained batch M-6575–1881 capsules?'

‘Yes.'

‘Where are they now?'

‘We retrieved them from a work bench in Seals' laboratory this morning, before the police and Department of Health inspectors got there.'

Crowe nodded but showed no relief at the news. ‘How did this man Wilson have access to them?'

‘Quality Assurance hold the retained M-6575–1881 batch samples the same way as all other batches, to avoid suspicion.'

‘Why haven't they been substituted with capsules from another batch?'

‘That's not my remit.'

‘Anything to do with Bendix security is your remit, Major Gunn.' Crowe still referred to him by his old service rank.

‘I appreciate that, sir, but I can only work in areas where we have people I can trust and I don't have anyone inside Quality Assurance – there's never been any need to. The plan was, and is, to feed the Maternox batches into the system without raising any eyebrows, so M-6575–1881 is simply one of four hundred batches put into the distribution system at Reading. I wasn't briefed to anticipate the problem we are experiencing.'

‘I have always understood, Major Gunn, it is your role to advise us of any potential danger areas.'

Gunn saw the line of arguing wasn't going to get him anywhere. He had warned Crowe that there could be problems if the batch led to any reported side-effects. But Crowe had been dismissive, stating that they could deal with any side-effects if and when they were ever traced back to the Maternox, which he very much doubted. Now, this seemed to have happened.

‘I apologize, sir, but I'm not a scientist. I had been led to understand that due to the time lag between the Maternox prescription and any subsequent birth it was extremely improbable any connection with Maternox would be made.'

‘You appreciate the importance of security on this trial, don't you, Major Gunn? You are aware of quite how much is at stake?'

‘I am always aware, Dr Crowe,' he said, riled at the innuendo.

Crowe rested his elbows on his desk and entwined his long marble-like fingers. ‘Mr Seals asks his friend Wilson to obtain a specific batch of Maternox. Within hours of delivering them, Mr Seals is dead. If you were Mr Seals' friend, would you not be just a touch suspicious?'

‘In some circumstances I might be,' Gunn said. ‘Not here: firstly, Seals' death was an accident – all employees are or will be made well aware of that. Secondly, if Seals used emotional blackmail, I don't think Wilson will be inclined to pursue a connection – particularly as it would mean he'd have to admit
to breaching company regulations in removing the samples. I've had Wilson under surveillance since this morning and if I feel there's a need to take any neutralizing action I will, but I don't think it will be necessary.'

‘You'll watch him round the clock for a while?'

‘Of course.' Gunn glanced at his watch. Crowe regularly worked late and kept his secretarial staff late also. From the time logs Gunn monitored, it was not unusual for Crowe to leave well past midnight and sometimes closer to dawn; and he was always at his desk by 7.30 in the morning. Gunn wondered how much sleep the man needed.

The time now was a quarter to eight.
Shit
. On Monday when he should have joined Nikky for
Othello
at the Old Vic, the playback of the recorded conversation between Jake Seals and Montana Bannerman in the pub had caused him to arrive halfway through the third act. Tonight she had wanted to see Olivier's
Henry V
which was showing at the National Film Theatre and he'd promised on his life to be punctual, and take her to Poons in Covent Garden afterwards, where she loved watching the kitchen through the glass wall. Culture. Christ, he'd never seen so much damned Shakespeare in his life. Although it wasn't entirely a waste of time; the old bard had a devious mind; there were always useful things you could learn about manipulation from him.

‘The other problem is the Bannerman woman,' Crowe said. ‘She worries me. What was she doing arriving in the building at that hour?'

‘Meeting Seals, no question.'

‘So who made the connection with the Cyclops deaths – her or Seals?'

‘I don't have an answer to that yet, sir.'

‘Is she going to believe Seals' death was an accident?'

‘She won't have any reason not to.' Gunn smiled. ‘I mean, it was a genuine accident, wasn't it?'

Crowe raised his eyebrows a fraction. ‘What's her condition?'

‘Improving.'

‘You have her under surveillance in hospital?'

‘We've put a bug in but it's faulty.'

‘What do you mean,
faulty
?'

‘It's not picking up – either it has a dead cell, or it's been moved or damaged. We're working on it. But she's in a private room; we need to be a little discreet.'

‘Are you keeping tabs on her visitors?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘Anyone of interest showed up yet?'

‘Conor Molloy just tipped up.'

‘Who?'

‘Group Patents and Agreements. Young hot-shot American patent attorney. Been drafted in from Washington to work on the Bannerman patents.'

Crowe delicately scratched a cheek. ‘So he has contact with Miss Bannerman at work?'

‘Yes.'

‘Natural for him to drop by and see how she is, then?'

Gunn hesitated. ‘Yes.'

The phone rang. Crowe answered it with a curt: ‘Is this urgent?' Then he listened for some moments. ‘You have her name? Right.' He picked up a slim gold pen and wrote something on a sheet of notepaper, then replaced the receiver and looked back at Gunn. ‘The press,' he said.

Gunn nodded. ‘PR have been under siege most of the day about Seals – I have that under control, they've been well briefed.'

‘This isn't about Seals,' Crowe said gravely. ‘This is about Maternox.'

Gunn only just managed to check himself from swearing aloud; Crowe had a loathing of foul language.

‘They would like to know if I am aware of the connection between three recent Cyclops deaths.' The coldness in Crowe's eyes had turned to coals of fire.

Gunn's brain began spinning. ‘Which paper?'

‘Some rag I've never heard of,' Crowe said contemptuously. ‘
The Thames Valley Gazette
. Know it?'

Gunn stiffened, and chose his words carefully. ‘Yes, it's small fry – a free evening paper, forty thousand circulation in the Reading-Slough area. A total rag, mainly small ads and not much news.'

Crowe glanced down at his notepad again. ‘A reporter called Zandra Wollerton.'