Alchemist (43 page)

‘It won't impress too many dermatologists,' Conor said with a smile that withered rapidly under Crowe's response of stony silence.

‘The invention of aspirin and penicillin didn't put too many doctors out of business, Mr Molloy.'

‘No,' Conor said, realizing that this was someone devoid of humour, and making a mental note never to attempt a joke with him again.

Crowe's eyes slithered over the piles of papers once more, then returned to Conor. ‘I imagine your opinion is that there's far too much published material for us to have any chance of obtaining a US patent for Psoriatak?'

‘Well, there's too much published material for us to obtain patents in
any
country. We'd have no chance in the United Kingdom, or the European Patent Office. In my opinion it won't fly.'

Crowe nodded very slowly, his cold grey eyes maintaining piercing contact with Conor's. ‘So we have two possible
solutions. Either we abandon Psoriatak and flush a substantial part of the purchase price we paid for Bannerman down the lavatory. Or –' His lips formed a tight circle. ‘We have to be a little more creative.'

‘How do you mean,
creative
, sir?'

Crowe breathed in through his nostrils, weighing Conor up astutely. Then he tapped the wodge of papers. ‘By being a little selective with some of this.'

Conor tried to veil his disbelief. ‘You mean by “losing” some of it?'

Crowe pressed his fingers tightly together, so that the nails were pointing upwards, and studied Conor over the top of them. ‘We are not having this conversation – you understand?'

‘You want me to get rid of some published papers?'

‘Precisely.'

‘But – that would be –'

‘Yes?'

‘Very unethical. And illegal.'

‘You know your way around the United States Patent Office, do you not, Mr Molloy?'

‘That's one of my fields of expertise, yes, sir.'

‘And you presumably have friends there?'

Conor shook his head. ‘I don't know anyone there who is – bendable – if that's what you're suggesting. People seem to change when they start working there. Everyone I know says the same; you can be best buddies with someone at college – but the moment they start working at the Patent Office, that's it; friendship over.'

Crowe ignored this reply. ‘The United States patent system works, like the British one, very much on trust, I believe. The US patent examiner will accept what you tell him, am I not correct?'

‘He will accept what I tell him, because he knows that as a lawyer, I face being struck off if I'm discovered lying.'

‘But unless someone complains and goes to very great lengths, there's no reason why you should ever be found out. Even then, the US examiner would be loath to accept any such complaint, because it would show
he
had been inefficient – again, am I not correct.'

Conor found it hard to believe his own ears – particularly considering Crowe's calibre and position. ‘Dr Crowe – may I remind you these are all
published
papers. They've appeared in respected peer review journals – like
Nature
etc., as well as all the usual national newspapers and books. We could shred all
this
stuff, but what about the records, not to mention the thousands – millions, sometimes – of copies that exist in print?'

Crowe remained calm. ‘That is not a problem. Once we have the patent, we are in a position of strength. Competitors might try to put out a similar product but they'd face taking us on every inch of the way. They'd have
to find
these published articles, co-ordinate them – and still they'd have no certainty of winning any action.'

He studied Conor. ‘It goes without saying that what you are being asked to do is beyond the obligations of your employment, Mr Molloy. If it makes you feel uneasy we could of course relieve you of your duties and assign you to something less demanding.' He raised his eyebrows.

Conor thought quickly. It was vital that he kept his nose clean with the company right now, and not give them any shred of suspicion about his loyalties. He smiled back at the Chief Executive. ‘Dr Crowe, I have no worries; my loyalty is to Bendix Schere and I'll do whatever I am asked without question.'

Crowe's face visibly relaxed. ‘Good.'

‘The problem is going to be Dr Bannerman,' Conor went on. ‘He has to sign the declaration for the patent examiner, and my experience of him is that he's kind of flaky – I don't know how we could deliver his signature.'

‘That won't be a problem, either. The document he signs will state “Published papers as per attached”.' Crowe gave him a knowing look. ‘He won't see what you actually submit, will he?'

Conor hesitated. ‘I guess there's no reason …'

Crowe smiled and stood up. ‘I'm glad we understand each other, Mr Molloy. You have a future with Bendix Schere. An excellent future.'

Monty walked through the foyer shortly after eleven, feeling nervous about the vial of pills in her handbag, as if she were carrying contraband which the security turnstile might somehow be capable of detecting.

All the lifts were in use and the indicators showed that the one nearest the Directors' express would be the next to arrive. As she waited, she heard a faint whoosh and rumble from behind the Directors' beaten copper door, but instead of stopping the lift carried straight on down. Then, a few moments later, to her slight surprise, there was a second whoosh, followed by a ping, and the Directors' door slid open.

A tall, distinguished-looking man with dark wavy hair streaked silver at the temples, black rimmed glasses, and wearing a camel cashmere coat stepped out and walked swiftly past her.

There was another ping and now the door in front of her slid open. She stepped into the lift, puzzled by the sound she had heard a few moments earlier. She had definitely heard the Directors' lift descend below this floor; surely there wasn't enough time for it to have stopped in the basement health hydro and come back up again?

She was still puzzling over it as she entered her office, then made an effort to switch her mind to the tasks she had to get done today.

A light was flashing on her phone, indicating she had a voice comm message waiting. She put the phone on loudspeaker, pressed the ‘Play' button, and took off her coat.

‘Hi, Miss Bannerman, this is Conor Molloy. I'm afraid I have to blow out lunch; could you give me a call, please?'

The words left her feeling stranded. All weekend she had been looking forward to seeing him; originally to tell him the news about Caroline Kingsley's death, but now, as well, to show him the Maternox capsules she had obtained. And she wanted just to see him anyway; he seemed like the only rock in her life.

She sat down, biting her lower lip in disappointment, and dialled Conor Molloy's extension. He answered immediately.

‘Hi, how are you?' he asked. ‘How was your weekend?'

‘OK, it was fine. How about you?'

‘You sound terrible – what's up?'

‘Nothing, I'm – I'm OK – I've had a bad morning.'

‘Listen, I'm sorry, I have to rework a report for Dr Crowe which he wants this afternoon. I'm going to have to work through. Are you free later – for a drink or a meal or something this evening, instead?'

The knowledge that he was still on to meet today perked her up again. ‘I have to go to our old lab in Berkshire at half four – I'm meeting a man who wants to buy up all our office equipment down there. I could come back up after,' she said.

‘No, you don't need to do that. I'll come and meet you somewhere. Berkshire, you said? What's that, about an hour's drive?'

‘Yes – depends on the traffic. An hour and a half in the rush hour, forty-five minutes outside it. When will you be through today?'

‘I don't know – around seven maybe, with luck.'

‘Can I invite you down to my house? I'll cook you something.'

‘Home cooking?' He sounded genuinely delighted. ‘You know, that's something I've really been missing!'

‘You're on!' she said, really pleased at the prospect of seeing him, and of having some company that evening. And she was desperate to tell him her news but dared not over the phone. Instead she gave him directions.

Feeling a lot better, she then went down the corridor in search of her father and found him sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves. In just the few weeks that he had been at Bendix Schere his large office was already as untidy as the cramped one he used to share with her.

‘Hi, darling,' he said, looking up over the top of his bifocal glasses. ‘Where've you been? I tried to find you earlier.'

‘I – er – had to go to the dentist,' she lied.

‘Problems?'

‘Just a filling.'

He frowned. ‘I've got some more stuff missing, can't find any of my files on the diabetes genes – all the research material we shelved last year when we found the Wellcome Foundation were ahead of the game.' He gestured in despair. ‘Can you think what we did with it all?'

She looked round at the chaos. ‘Do you leave all this stuff out at night?'

‘Of course.'

‘You know that's against company rules?'

He grinned at her. ‘
Nil illegitimi carborundum!
'

‘What does that mean?'

‘It was an unofficial US army motto in the Second World War. Means,
Don't let the bastards get you down!
'

‘I don't think anyone could ever get you down, Daddy.' She paused. ‘What do you need the diabetes files for?'

‘I've been asked by
American Scientist
magazine for some information on my research – they're doing a feature on progress in identifying the diabetes genes, to tie in with the Washington Symposium.'

Monty looked at him warily. ‘Have you cleared this with Dr Crowe?'

‘Bugger Dr Crowe.'

She took a breath and spoke wearily. ‘Daddy, you've signed an agreement saying you won't talk to the press without the written consent of Dr Crowe.'

‘Well, I can't find the material anyway,' he said petulantly.

‘Probably just as well.'

He drummed his desk with his fingers. ‘I think you're missing my point, darling,' he said. ‘The files have vanished – they didn't just walk off by themselves.'

‘Well, they're not down in Berkshire; I went through everything there with a toothcomb on Saturday. You've probably been looking in the wrong place. I've put all the files for everything that isn't current down in the Stacks.'

He frowned at her again. ‘Are you OK, darling? You look as white as a sheet.'

She nodded. ‘I – I saw an accident on my way here. Very nasty, it shook me up.'

‘Road accident?'

‘Yes,' she said, not wanting to tell him anything about Dr Corbin.

‘I thought I might take advantage of these palatial premises and go down to the hydro and have a swim and sauna after work. Want to join me? We could have a bite to eat afterwards? Might do you good to relax.'

‘I can't, not tonight. I have to be back down at the lab at four thirty – the furniture chap's coming. I have to haggle a deal with him.'

He screwed up his face. ‘I don't think we'll get much.'

‘But we're allowed to keep whatever we do get – it's in the contract. Every bit helps.'

‘Of course.' He rested his chin on his hand and looked thoughtfully at her. ‘You're a good girl, darling. But you've been working too hard recently, you need a bit of joy in your life.'

‘I'll go down to the Stacks and have a look for the files for you, just in case they've been put in the wrong place,' she said, avoiding the remark.

‘You're an angel.'

She took the lift down to the floor below, and went into the massive archive area. On her previous visits she had always found the place rather eerie: it occupied almost an entire floor of the building, its tall, fireproof grey filing cabinets crammed so tightly that any visitors had to sidle through the narrow gullies of shiny linoleum between them.

This sanctum was presided over by a solitary archivist, a humourless female of indeterminate age who wore her greying hair in a drab bun, and pecked away relentlessly on her keyboard. Like a sentinel she watched, but never acknowledged, anyone who came in. Behind her was a row of computer terminals on which the records were held, as well as microfilm and microfiche booths. Although it was as well equipped as a university library, Monty had never seen anyone else using the Stacks.

She seated herself at one of the terminals and keyed in the name of the material she wanted, just to check it hadn't been moved to a different area. The location appeared on the screen: ‘Row M. 2307-15.' Then she made her way down the
steel corridors, found the correct spot, pulled open the drawer of the cabinet and checked carefully inside. Her father was right, the files were missing.

She went back to the sentinel and asked if anyone had removed them.

‘Nothing is permitted to be removed,' the woman said sharply. ‘Not without the written permission of the department head. If a document belonging to Dr Bannerman is lodged here, it requires authorization in writing from him before it can be removed.'

‘Would you have a record of anything that's been taken out?'

‘Of course.'

Monty showed her the file number. The sentinel entered it into her screen and pressed the return key. A moment later Monty noticed a sudden curious reaction on her face.

‘There's no record of them being removed,' she said, raising her head but without actually looking Monty in the face.

She was lying. Monty could read the signals in her body language. Could read it in the sudden rapid blinking of the eyes, the way she seemed to stiffen and to be suddenly unsure what to do with her hands.