Page 5 of The Illusion of Smoke: The Prequel

  * * *

  I am famished actually. Nonetheless, I starve for a bit longer. Dan makes a couple of calls then answers a few incoming calls. It's nearly an hour before we finally head out to the coffee shop across the street.

  Chip oil, bacon, coffee ...

  The coffee shop isn't anything fancy. Old wooden floors, laminate table tops and aluminium chairs. It smells as if animal fat has permeated its walls. It definitely could use a more thorough cleaning. Or fumigation. Breakfast is laid out on heated metal dishes behind a long glass counter. Dan pulls out two trays and hands me one. The sight and smell of all that greasy food makes my stomach churn. I ask the big lady with short blond curls behind the counter for a couple of pieces of toast, butter and scrambled eggs. Meanwhile, Dan doesn't hold back. He orders the full English: bacon, sausages, fried eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and fried bread.

  He chuckles when he catches me, mouth agape. 'I never know when my next meal will be.'

  Perhaps he is being sensible.

  Near the till, he asks for brewed coffee. 'Milk, no sugar. And white tea for the lady.' He turns to me. 'That's right, isn't it?'

  I nod. It doesn't astonish me that he's remembered. What takes me by surprise is that he has called me a lady.

  We sit on a couple of aluminium stools behind a narrow window counter facing the hospital entrance. I'm not sure if it is the result of the morning's excitement or just—Dan—but I rapidly lose my appetite.

  At my side, Dan is oblivious to my unease. While he wolfs down his breakfast greedily, I take a sip of my tea. It is strong, proper builder's tea, which calms my stomach. Then and there I resolve to quell my churning feelings. Having made my decision to ignore them, I immediately feel better. My pride will not allow me to become a quivering, insensible mess. I butter my toast and together with the eggs, force food down my throat.

  When Dan finishes his meal, he pushes his tray aside and signals for a waitress. 'More coffee and another piece of toast, please,' he orders when the large woman with a stained white apron approaches. 'More tea for you?' he asks me.

  I nod.

  'Her name is Stacey Kimble,' Dan says without preamble.

  My eyes open wide. I give up on breakfast and lay down my fork.

  'When we didn't get any hits on her fingerprints in our database, I had my contacts at the DEA check them out. Apparently Stacey Kimble was previously arrested on suspicion of theft. But the charges were dropped. And listen to this—it happened at Medtech where she had been employed as a laboratory assistant.'

  'Medtech?'

  'Coincidence, huh.'

  'What did she steal?'

  'Allegedly steal,' he corrects me. 'Expensive lab equipment.'

  'Why were the charges dropped?'

  'They couldn't prove she had done it. Apparently, Medtech had been the target of several thefts. While they couldn't pin the previous ones on her, they think she was responsible for the largest heist.'

  'How?'

  'The thefts stopped after she was caught. I'll know more when they email me her file.'

  'Maybe Madeleine Mitchell was her boss.'

  'No,' he shakes his head. 'Madeleine was gone before Stacey was employed. That's the first thing I asked them to check.'

  I hand him a photo I printed out of the Hartford County fire. Although I dropped the one I had been clutching during the hospital chase, I'd had the foresight to print a couple of copies.

  'See here,' I point to one of the bystanders in the scene. 'It isn't the best quality. Still, you can just about make out her features. Can you see her bandaged hands?'

  He nods.

  I explain the dressings I noticed on Stacey Kimble as she ran away. 'I must admit, I didn't pay attention to her hands last night. I was too focused on other things. She must've worn those gloves to cover them up.'

  Dan makes a call to the hospital. 'According to the doctor, they were second degree burns. Not too recent. The wounds showed some signs of infection, though they cleaned and redressed them at St. Vincent's.'

  'That makes sense.' I muse for a moment. 'I wonder if she was in pain. If she was, she didn't show it.'

  'We were lucky that her burns didn't damage her fingertips or we couldn't have lifted her prints.'

  'Funny that the fingerprint tech failed to mention the burns.'

  'Probably thought we already knew.'

  'But what was she doing in Hartford County?'

  'More importantly, what is she doing in London following Madeleine Mitchell?'

  NINETEEN

  In an aura of butter and bacon grease, the waitress turns up with the tea, coffee and Dan's toast. Dan rewards her with a smile. Her tired face lights up with a reciprocal smile. He proceeds to butter his bread before reaching for a jar of orange marmalade. The aroma of fresh toast makes me hungry again.

  'Could Stacey be after the cannabis, too?' I ask. Reluctantly, I pick up a piece of cold toast from my plate and emulate Dan. Who knows when my next meal will be?

  'Hard to think what else she could be after. Drugs means big money. I came back early to question her when I caught you fainting.'

  'I was not—' I start to protest, mouth full, when I realise that he is teasing me again. So I make a face and swallow the bite of toast, which causes him to laugh. 'But Stacey can't be the person Madeleine had come to see. Remember, the appointment for Monday?'

  'What if she wants to stop Madeleine from going to that meeting? I say it all boils down to the meeting.'

  'And we have the weekend to find out who she's meeting and what it's all about.'

  Dan cocks his head and raises an eyebrow. Before he can retort, his phone chimes. He takes a last bite of his toast, licks his fingers and wipes them on a serviette. Then he pulls out his phone from his jeans pocket. 'Get this,' he says after concluding the phone call. 'Stacey was on the same flight from JFK as we were. She was seated in coach, where I was, except all the way at the back of the plane. She's also booked at a hotel near Fitzroy's.'

  'So she could have been following not only Madeleine but also us all this time.'

  'What's also interesting, according to my contact at the DEA, there's no record of any employment after she left Medtech.'

  'Was she fired?'

  'No, she just resigned, voluntarily. No severance, nothing. That was more than a year ago.' Dan dials DI Collings who agrees to check out Stacey Kimble's hotel room, not that they expect her to come back. Alerts are now out for both women.

  As soon as Dan signs off, his phone peals again. 'We have to go back to the hospital,' he says when he finishes. 'The blood results are done.'

  'By the way,' I ask Dan on our way to St Vincent's, 'Any word from forensics about the items from Madeleine's hotel suite?'

  Dan shakes his head. 'Just women's stuff,' he says with a grimace.

  'Hah,' I reply, 'Whose blood on the phone receiver from the Festival Hall?'

  'Just Stacey's.'

  'So as far as we know, Madeleine Mitchell isn't hurt.'

  'We've had no word from any of the hospitals in the area,' Dan says. He turns to greet the doctor. To my surprise, it is Dr Alshafey again. While the tea tree oil scent on his hair hints of a recent shower, he looks as if he hasn't slept for days.

  Dr Alshafey hands Dan Stacey's blood sample results. 'I'm sorry. There were no traces of cannabis in her system,' he says flatly. 'And the nasal swabs were clean.'

  Dan and I trade glances. Dan makes no effort to hide his disappointment.

  'Let me see,' I take the sheaf of papers from him and skim over the results. 'Of course,' I mutter, slapping the paper.

  'What?' Dan asks impatiently.

  'What a sample doesn't reveal is just as important as what it reveals. If Madeleine Mitchell created a new drug, it wouldn't show up in a conventional test. For example, it's only recently that a new urine test was developed to detect the metabolites associated with designer drugs such as Spice. Tests are aimed to uncover known drugs and their derivatives. And drug tests have to
continually evolve to keep up with the emergence of new drugs.'

  'I get what you're saying,' Dan nods. 'If Madeleine created a new synthetic drug, it would be outside standard test parameters until it becomes enough of a problem so that standard drug tests are adapted to detect and measure it.'

  'It's possible.' Dr Alshafey shrugs. 'Frankly, we found substances in her blood that we can't account for. We can send the sample away for further analysis, a second opinion.'

  'Thanks, Doctor—,' Dan says. His mobile phone interrupts him. 'Just a moment,' he says to his caller. 'It's Gene Mitchell,' he whispers to me while covering the receiver. Then he puts his phone on loudspeaker so that I can hear.

  'What's that again, Gene?'

  'Something's happened to Madeleine.' Gene sounds frantic.

  'How do you know?'

  I almost blurt out the events of the previous evening when Dan casts me a warning glare.

  'She called me last night,' Gene continues. 'Only our conversation was cut off. I waited for her all night to ring me back, but she hasn't.'

  'What would you like us to do?' Dan says.

  'I don't know. Check it out. Look for her. Anything.'

  'Listen Gene, the best thing you can do is to call us as soon as she contacts you again. Tell us where she is. That's the only way we can make sure she's all right.'

  When Dan ends the call, I ask him pointedly, 'When this is over, will you tell him you've tapped into his phone?' Of course, I already know the answer.

  Dan shrugs.

  I hate to say it, Dan's attitude disappoints me. His flippant disregard for Gene Mitchell's privacy appals me. I feel compelled to share my misgivings and almost do, but I am cut short. Dan's phone goes off yet again.

  TWENTY

  We rush to Dan's unmarked grey BMW parked outside the hospital entrance. In a couple of minutes, we are back outside Gene's apartment building and inside the white surveillance van.

  'You just missed it,' the technician says. I recognise him as the same one from yesterday. From his unshaven jaw, unpleasant body odour and the discarded tea and coffee cups as well as the sandwich wrappers on the van's floor, I gather that he and the other officer have camped out here all night.

  Dan asks, 'Where you able to trace—'

  The technician nods. 'A phone booth inside Waterloo Station.'

  'Is he still in there?' He juts out his chin upwards, referring to Gene.

  'As far as we know.'

  'Replay it.'

  The technician fiddles with the controls and presses a button. Soon Gene and Madeleine's voices come on the air.

  'Mads, thank God. Where have you been?' Gene asks. 'I've been worried sick about you.'

  'You have?'

  'Of course. What do you think? I waited all night for you to call back. The line went dead. What happened?'

  'I'm sorry. I was going to call you back, but the cops were all over the place. I had to get out.'

  'Don't you have a mobile?'

  'I lost it. Long story.'

  'Where did you go after we got cut off?'

  'I checked in at a bed and breakfast.'

  'What? Why?'

  'I was lost. I didn't know where I was going. Then I saw the entrance to Waterloo Station. There was a sign for a B and B. I was so tired. I haven't slept much since New York. And the jetlag was catching up on me.'

  'Why didn't you take a cab to my place?'

  'Would you believe? I didn't see any. Anyway, I was going to call you from there, but I fell asleep. Right now, I desperately need a shower and my room has no bathroom. Not a private one anyway. It's a hovel actually, for students and backpackers. At least they didn't ask too many questions at the front desk. They did stare at me strangely though. Gene, I need to get out of here. Can you pick me up?'

  'Just tell me where and I'll come and get you.'

  'I can meet you at Waterloo Station.'

  'Where there? It's a big place. I'll have problems parking.'

  'I saw a coffee shop beside the station entrance. I think it's called Costa Coffee. If you pull up by it—'

  'I'll find it.'

  'I'll come out when I see you. What kind of car do you drive?'

  'A white Volvo. Mads—' Gene pauses, 'I don't know what's going on. But whatever you're mixed up in, I can help. We can work this—'

  'That's it,' the technician turns off the machine.

  'Can you pick up any other audio from the flat?' Dan asks.

  The technician racks up the volume using a different machine. We hear sounds of movement coming from the bedroom. Doors slamming. Then quiet.

  'What now?' I ask. The police's ability to listen in on private lives creeps me out.

  'He's on his way down,' Dan says. 'Come on,' he says to me, getting out of the van. He instructs the officers in the van. 'Follow us, but not too closely. If he uses his mobile, I want to know.'

  A minute later Gene Mitchell emerges from the underground car park in a late model white Volvo sedan. Tailing Gene Mitchell basically means breathing in his car's exhaust—as well as the exhaust of every other car in front of us—diesel and petrol fumes including the additives mixed in. It all stinks to me anyway. Dan follows the Volvo as it makes a left turn.

  'How many entrances does Waterloo Station have? What if there is more than one Costa Coffee? They're all over the place. Will Gene know which one it is?' I ask nervously.

  Dan doesn't reply. His eyes are firmly on the Volvo. With Saturday morning traffic in full swing, perhaps due to the weekend reprieve on congestion charging, there's not a lot of room to manoeuvre. Although Gene will not be expecting us, it's possible he could spot us from his mirrors. With any luck, the dark grey colour of the BMW will allow us to blend in with the traffic and the dull road surfaces, as opposed to Gene's white sedan which stands out.

  I do a quick search on the Internet on my smartphone for Waterloo Station. 'Can you believe it? My search lists six coffee shops inside the station. Two Starbucks, two Café Nero's. Wait, only one is a Costa Coffee shop, and it's along the station approach. That's it. That's the one.' I bring up the map for it and show Dan.

  Dan glances at the small screen and grunts. It doesn't help that Gene drives erratically up ahead. He jerks his car, stops and starts, as he decides which lane to take. He annoys the drivers around him, who don't hold back in expressing their displeasure. Nevertheless, Dan skilfully keeps at least one or two cars between us and the Volvo, close enough so we don't get cut off by another car or a red traffic light. He also changes lanes frequently. It's no mean feat, especially as Gene approaches the tricky IMAX roundabout.

  'He's going the wrong way,' I say as Gene turns left instead of going straight ahead. He also has a close call when he nearly barges into the wrong lane. We would have ended up having to rescue him from the eddy of opposing traffic and might never get to Madeleine. I hope Gene remembers what side of the road he's supposed to be driving on.

  'He probably doesn't know which entrance to take so he's trying Waterloo East station first,' Dan says.

  Dan is right. Gene slows by the Waterloo East entrance before speeding up again, realising he's chosen the wrong one. Certainly, he acts too preoccupied with trying to find Costa Coffee and being startled by honking horns to consider the possibility he's being followed.

  As if reading my mind, Dan says, 'I'm trying to avoid getting in line with his rear view mirror. If possible, I prefer to stay in his blind spot, which is to his right rear.'

  'Why don't we go straight to the coffee shop and wait for them there?'

  'She may not actually be at the coffee shop. I don't want Madeleine to spot us and run off again.'

  The police radio in the car squawks. 'We've had a puncture.' I recognise the voice of one of the officers from the van. 'You'll have to go on without us.'

  Dan swears. He's about to swear some more when he notices Gene turn off and mount the main Waterloo Station approach. I spy the Costa sign up ahead. Without warning, I hear a loud report, and the
BMW swerves a bit. Dan wrests control of the car and pulls up to the left beside a taxicab stand several yards away from the Volvo.

  He alights, inspects the tyres and swears again. I follow him and see the punctures. Unbelievably, all four tyres have blown out.

  'What the f—' Dan says, searching the area. He spots the culprit, a strip of short metal spikes. Then he observes Madeleine coming out of another shop, a WH Smith store two doors away from Costa Coffee.

  We are so engrossed in the couple's reunion that we fail to see a motorbike drive unexpectedly up the station approach, heading straight for us.

  'Watch out,' Dan yells, seizing me and shoving me over to the side back in the nick of time. The biker wears a helmet and black leathers. Even though I've come close to the motorbike, the helmet's reflective visor has shielded the rider's face from my eyes.

  Unfortunately, the commotion attracts the attention of Gene and Madeleine. 'Gene!' Madeleine shouts before jumping into the white Volvo. The motorbike circles around the tight space, snagging the racks of push-bikes. A bus approaching from the opposite direction screeches to a halt to avoid it, but too late, the people carrier behind the van is unable to brake in time and rams into its rear. The sound of metal upon metal makes an awful crunching noise. Now the bike revs up and accelerates towards the Volvo, but Gene hops in nimbly. The Volvo squeals, burning rubber, and takes off. The motorbike spins around again contrary to traffic, narrowly avoiding an on-coming black cab and causing another collision that crashes into the push-bike stand. The bikes come off the rails and clatter to the pavement. The motorbike darts in between the vehicles to race after Gene and Madeleine. Up ahead, Gene astonishes me. The Volvo swerves, clipping the bike and its rider and causing them to skid and nearly smash into another bus. This gives the Volvo only a few seconds head start because the motorcyclist soon rights himself and speeds after them.

  I look at Dan in dismay. 'They're getting away.'

  TWENTY-ONE

  'What do we do now?' I ask. Dan has jumped back into the BMW to bring out the police radio. He leaves the car to the Transport Police who have rushed out upon hearing the ruckus. I trail after him as he tears on foot towards the main road.

  'Collings and Evans are on their way,' he says as I run to keep up with him. 'They are at the hospital, not far away. Traffic cameras are also tracking the Volvo and motorbike right now. We won't lose them.'

  I comprehend immediately. I cast my eye at the main traffic junction. Against the blinding blue sky I spy not just one but quite a few, each mounted on a post, presumably aimed at different lanes of traffic. They appear unobtrusive enough until you become conscious of them. We stand along the roadside, buffeted by vehicles speeding by.

  To enable the implementation of the Congestion Charging scheme in London in 2003, CCTV cameras were upgraded to the latest ANPR or Automatic Number Plate Recognition technology. Operated by TFL or Transport for London, the cameras provide coverage 24/7 on all motorways and major roads as well as—I understand—petrol station forecourts.

  This means that when a vehicle passes one of the traffic enforcement cameras, its number plate is automatically read and checked against police databases, such as the Police National Computer or PNC. The cameras not only identify vehicles, but also can shadow them and provide real time information to assist the Metropolitan Police in combating serious crime and terrorism. Once a suspect car has been spotted, controllers can alert the police in a matter of seconds to monitor its activities or even intercept it.

  I am familiar with all of this because it has become the subject of great debate recently. Campaign groups accuse the government of fostering a Big Brother state, a surveillance society. And I must admit, at times I feel the same way. While I understand the need for such cameras—who wouldn't want the Government to catch terrorists and criminals—I also value my privacy.

  The first cameras were initially introduced in 1976 to defend the country from IRA terrorist attacks. So far, I've read that although Britain has only one per cent of the world's population, it now has over four million of the electronic buggers, equal to a whopping twenty per cent of the world's CCTV cameras. That makes it roughly one camera for every fourteen people. More interestingly, a shocking one million, or about a quarter of all cameras, are located in London alone. A tad excessive, I think. Being a Londoner, I want to be safe. Nonetheless, I've often wondered if the extent of the surveillance is too high a price for security. Ironically, the issue becomes moot when I am caught in the middle of a police chase and the cameras do assist, as they are doing now.

  I swivel in a 360-degree arc, surveying the street around me. Now that I've witnessed their capabilities, I've become acutely aware of their presence. It's as if I can sense them everywhere, at every street corner, at every traffic light. They are like eyes, constantly watching me. I shiver at the thought and turn to Dan instead. 'Who was on the bike? Was it Stacey?'

  'Probably, but I can't be sure.'

  'Where did she get the motorbike? How did she know to come here?'

  Dan shrugs.

  Suddenly, we hear a siren and turn to observe stick-on blue lights atop the unmarked silver BMW as it pulls up alongside us. Seconds later, a police Vauxhall with blue and yellow markings parks behind it. We climb into the BMW, and DS Evans takes off. The police radio on the dashboard is on, and through the static, I hear the controller tracking the progress of the vehicles.

  Although the sirens and lights scream our presence, traffic hampers our pursuit of the Volvo and motorbike. Though DS Evans is an excellent driver, we encounter unexpected obstacles as well as pedestrians in our path, making the chase potentially dangerous. I listen to the controller with bated breath.

  Apparently, the Volvo and motorbike are playing cat and mouse up ahead, going south along Kennington Road. I doubt if Gene Mitchell realises where he is heading. I also glance at the navigational screen on the car's dashboard. Thank goodness, Kennington Road is long and straight because I am worried. From what I've seen, Gene Mitchell isn't a good driver. Next, the controller reports a near collision at the intersection of Kennington Park Road and Camberwell Road. The close accident has caused the Volvo to change direction. It is now travelling east along a narrower side street.

  The road clears somewhat and DS Evans increases his speed.

  'We should see them up ahead,' DI Collings says.

  The screen tells me that we are gaining in the chase. On less busy side roads, the sirens and lights perform more effectively. The car turns left and we are now on Walworth Road aiming towards Elephant and Castle.

  The controller squeals through the radio. Dan and the detectives mutter expletives.

  'What happened?' I ask, not comprehending the police codes.

  'There's been a collision,' Dan explains.

  'Gene?'

  Dan swears again. The car goes quiet as the controller describes the scene. The tension is palpable. Thirty seconds later, we see it. In a moment of panic, the white Volvo must have turned in the wrong direction at the mini roundabout. Its front section lies crumpled against the side of a huge lorry. We bolt out of the car and run to it.

  'They're not here,' DI Collings shouts after peering through the front passenger window of the Volvo.

  DS Evans gets on his radio. No doubt the CCTV controller has already called 999. The officers from the second police car are taking charge of the traffic situation now that the mini roundabout has been completely blocked on one side.

  I inspect the damage to the Volvo. The airbags have been deployed. I neither see nor smell any blood, which makes me sigh with relief. Gene and Madeleine have been extremely lucky. 'Where's the motorbike?' I ask.

  'Here,' Dan says, pointing under the lorry. 'Stacey isn't here either. She must have jumped off and let it skid under.' He dives under and brings out the helmet. It is scratched but not dented. Has she escaped unscathed again?

  DS Evans brings out the shaken lorry driver. He's a big man, with a huge overhanging belly, a thic
k and unruly beard and strong musty scent. 'It wasn't my fault,' he says, his eyes dart in panic. 'They came out of nowhere.'

  'Where did they go?' Dan asks.

  'How should I know?'

  DI Collings asks DS Evans to scout the area for witnesses who may have seen where the three people headed.

  Then I zero in on the construction site. A six-foot high security fence lines the perimeter. In an effort to avoid the collision, the lorry had swerved and ripped the boards on one side.

  My gaze shoots up and back down the tall structure. Close to midday, the edifice casts a short but sharp shadow on the street. The structure in progress dwarfs the neighbouring buildings. A signboard along the security fence identifies it as, The Southwark Tower. Below the name are the words, "Opening Soon," plus a catchphrase calling it, "A dynamic addition to London's skyline."

  It is a lofty building by London standards. I swiftly count at least forty stories. That would hardly classify it as a "tower" in a city like New York, but London doesn't have many of these around. Not surprising as the city has strict a building code which principally discourages the erection of structures that may possibly disrupt the London skyline. The sign on the board, however, asserts that it will not. Another restriction is the height limit of 1,000 feet set by the Civil Aviation Authority.

  The building appears to have a skeleton of concrete and steel on which hang the exterior walls, which are comprised mostly of heavy glass. Basic skyscraper structure. A tower crane sits to one side while an exterior construction site lift snakes up it. Scaffolding and plastic sheeting shroud parts of the unfinished structure. At the moment, the construction site shows no sign of activity. Could Madeleine and Gene have sought refuge here?

  'Dan,' I call out, pointing to an opening in the damaged security fence. 'What about this place?'

  Dan's eyes zoom up. He shrugs. 'It's possible.' He waves the detectives over.

  The other officers have put up a number of traffic cones as well as several "accident" and other directional signs. Looming sirens signal that more response vehicles are on the way. While the officers are busy redirecting traffic away from the bottleneck that has formed and the surge of curious onlookers, Dan and I, together with DI Collings and DS Evans, enter the construction site. The main opening of the building is set back from the road. A semi-circular drive leads to it before turning off to an underground car park.

  'They could have gone down there,' DI Collings says, pointing to the car park.

  'Check it out. We'll search in here,' Dan says. We split up, and as we approach the building entrance, the detectives' footsteps fade inside the basement. Dan hesitates. 'The building isn't finished, and it could be dangerous. I'd rather you didn't come in. You can wait here or in the car if you like.'

  'No way.' I shake my head vigorously.

  His eyes darken. 'Fine. But follow me, okay? Stay close.'

  I nod. However, in my eagerness, I have left my bag in the detectives' car. I am uneasy without my bag. I am almost tempted to go back, but Dan already waits by the entrance. I rush to him. The building's temporary doors are ajar. He gives me a signal before he swings one open.

  Steel, gypsum, rust, damp ... the overwhelming smell of concrete ...

  The most pervasive of building materials, concrete is actually a mixture of cement, aggregate, usually gravel or sand, and water. And the Southwark Tower feels like one solid and ponderous mass of it. Reinforced by steel rods, concrete creates the lobby's vast rectangular-shaped shell, a cavern with a high ceiling supported by equally thick concrete columns. The crunch of our footsteps on the rough floor echo slightly. Due to the thick walls, the space is cooler inside than out. It is also empty apart from a few crates, a scaffolding tower, surplus glass panels and other construction equipment. Then we hear a crash coming from above, which makes me jump. Dan brings out a handgun from inside his leather jacket. My eyes widen.

  'It's just a precaution,' he says.

  Mesmerised, I watch him check the magazine and chamber a round. Dan's competent handling of the gun should reassure me, but I've never been this close to a real gun before. Generally, I only see them on television. I understand that most police officers in the UK, with the exception of Northern Ireland, don't usually carry firearms. Instead they use truncheons, handcuffs and sprays. It's a British tradition, one that I am proud of.

  'C'mon,' Dan says. 'What are you waiting for?'

  I hesitate. It's just a gun, I know. I just never thought I'd ever be in a real life situation that called for one.

  TWENTY-TWO

  We run to the middle, the central concrete core of the building. It is a large area that contains almost like the spine of the structure—elevator shafts and other operational components. I count spaces for four lifts. They haven't been installed yet. Even if they were installed, they would not work anyway since the unfinished building has no power. Nonetheless, in a building with many lifts, we assume a staircase is not far away. Beside the row of empty spaces, we spot a door that leads to the central staircase, which Dan and I take.

  While daylight streams through the glass windows in the lobby, without electricity, the stairway itself is dark. As we hike up the metal steps, concrete dust rises and makes my nose itch. Ahead of me, Dan's shoes kick up more of the dust which makes me sneeze. Dan halts and fires me a disapproving glance.

  'Sorry,' I mumble, rubbing my nose. Looking up, I spy a red object at the corner up ahead and point to it. 'Madeleine's shoe.'

  Dan picks it up and inspects it. The heel is broken. Where is the other one? Instantly, Dan is on the radio to DI Collings. It makes a faint squawk.

  'There's nothing here. We're on our way,' DI Collings replies.

  Dan and I continue up the stairs. At the first floor, we step inside and then quickly back out. Although we have glimpsed a number of overturned crates, we see no sign of them. We bypass the second and third levels then proceed to the fourth where we hear smashing sounds. We rush inside.

  The fourth floor is not as grand as the lobby. The ceiling rises about fifteen feet. Identical in area to the lobby below, it is in various stages of finishing. I marvel at the maze of exposed ductwork overhead. The network of large, rectangular sheet-metal tubing allows ventilation, heating and air conditioning to be distributed throughout the building. Also, alongside the ductwork are the equally complex system of pipes and electrical wiring that altogether comprise the innards of a building.

  Far from being clear, the floor contains piles of building supplies. Halfway inside, we find the source of the racket. Broken crates containing copper plumbing pipes and ceiling tiles have fallen from the mountain of materials stacked high in the middle of the space. I recognise Madeleine's other shoe. This one isn't broken. Next, we hear more rustling movement and footsteps scraping the floor at the other end. I pick up a pipe.

  Dan raises an eyebrow.

  'It's just a precaution,' I say.

  He smirks.

  We dash after the noise and discover the fire escape. We hear disembodied voices, like ghostly sounds, coming from above. We stop in our tracks. Putting a finger to his lips, Dan motions me to follow quietly. Together, we ascend the steps softly.

  'Who is this woman, Mads? And why is she after us?'

  Bouncing off hard the concrete surfaces, Gene's voice is audible enough. As we advance, the conversation becomes even clearer.

  'This is Jane Hill, my former lab assistant.' This time, it's Madeleine.

  'Jane?' I pause, puzzled.

  Dan shakes his head and motions me to continue our ascent.

  'She is also a thief,' Madeleine continues 'She tried to break into my lab safe. Do the burns hurt, Jane? They must hurt like hell.'

  'They aren't so bad,' Jane says.

  We hear the sharp twang of Jane's voice for the first time.

  'I was wearing gloves. And thanks to the drug you gave me, they're less painful now.'

  'I should have known it was you. Watch out for the quiet ones, people say. They
can't be trusted. In this case, you've proven it right.'

  'Yeah, yeah. So I'm full of surprises. Where is it, Dr Mitchell? You might as well hand it to me now.'

  'You think after all the harm you've done, I'd just give it to you? Because of you I had to destroy my lab.'

  'And you nearly broke my nose.'

  'Serves you right.'

  'What is she after, Mads? Gene asks. 'And how did she know where to find us?'

  'I know where you live, Dr Mitchell. It was simple just to follow you,' Jane nods at Gene. 'And I see that your ex-wife hasn't told you,' she continues. 'She's created a new drug.'

  'A drug, Maddie? Then what the police were saying was right all along. You developed a more potent form of marijuana?'

  'Yes, it's marijuana, Gene. But it's not like that. Not like that at all.'

  'Explain it to me.'

  'You remember my work at Medtech, don't you?'

  'How can I forget?'

  'Well, Medtech was impatient. They wanted results right away. I couldn't develop the product quickly enough for them. On my own, I decided to start over from scratch. I cultivated and studied the varieties of cannabis plants and engineered the crop to produce the best possible strain with the optimal combination of cannabinoids, less for the hallucinatory characteristics and more for the pain relieving attributes. After, I isolated and synthesised them to produce a product with the right combination in the right proportions. You see, it's not merely the cannabinoids that are important, but the other ingredients in the weed also support its palliative effects, enhance its medical properties.'

  'How did you test it?'

  'Remember Bill, my brother in California? His clinic is licensed to dispense medical cannabis. California is one of the eighteen states that allow the use of marijuana for medical purposes. He offered the trial to his patients willing to test it on a confidential basis. They were desperate for anything, any drug to relieve their pain. And it worked.'

  'How is it administered?'

  'Via electronic cigarettes.'

  Halting once again, I grab Dan's arm.

  'What?' he asks.

  'I saw those packets,' I whisper. 'She dropped them on the plane.' I explain the airplane incident. 'I assumed they were American cigarettes. I'm not familiar with all the brands of American cigarettes or cigarettes in general for that matter. I should have taken a closer look.'

  'So?'

  'That's what I forgot to search for in her hotel suite. I knew I'd forgotten the packets.'

  While they can come in different forms, in the UK, electronic cigarettes or e-cigarettes often resemble conventional cigarettes. Marketed as a smoking cessation device, the e-cigarette has a battery operated atomiser that houses a heating element. The heating coil vaporises a liquid solution contained in a cartridge, releasing the nicotine and turning it into a smoke-like mist. The mist is inhaled by the user, thus simulating the act of smoking tobacco.

  'Imagine that,' I say. 'Even though most airports are now smoke-free zones, e-cigarette smokers are allowed to carry them on the plane. This includes their accessories such as spare cartridges and chargers. They are not on the list of restricted items. Madeleine's e-cigarettes probably didn't raise an eyebrow at customs.'

  'That's right. If she engineered the liquid to be odourless and undetectable by sniffer dogs or machines, then an electronic cigarette containing the drug can be brought through airports and on flights with impunity. As she has done. That's really dangerous.'

  Dan and I enter the floor quietly. Although we now hear them loud and clear, we still can't see them. The framework for the inner walls has been erected, dividing the large space into sections, possibly for offices or retail units. In between the walls are stacks of crates, plasterboard and other boxes.

  'Don't you think you're missing the point, Dan?' I whisper.

  'No, but you're going to tell me anyway,' he says sarcastically.

  'Madeleine didn't create an illicit drug. It's a synthetic preparation. And if it were non-hallucinogenic—or less—it would be more acceptable as medical marijuana. That's an incredible breakthrough.'

  'Except where is the fluid? It wasn't in any of the bottles in her hotel suite.'

  'It would have been contained in small cartridges. Maybe she has them with her.' I pause for a moment. 'Dan, if the drug works, do you know what that means?'

  'Yeah,' he murmurs. 'A ton of money.'

  As we move closer, the voices get louder. We are now only a few feet away from them. Finally, although they don't spot us yet, we can see them. The woman whom Madeleine calls "Jane Hill" has her back to us. All the same, we notice that she brandishes a copper pipe at the unarmed couple. Madeleine sits on the floor, leaning against some crates. She rubs a swollen right ankle. Gene stands between her and Jane, his side profile to us.

  Madeleine ignores Jane and continues to explain to Gene. 'More importantly, with each puff, the user can adjust the dosage depending on the intensity of the pain.'

  'I knew you were always frustrated that you weren't able to complete your research at Medtech,' Gene says.

  'This is an even better drug.'

  'Congratulations.'

  'I did it for Joshua.' She mentions their son's name.

  'I guessed,' Gene says, choking up. 'It's amazing.'

  'Yes, yes, just awesome, Dr Mitchell. That's enough,' Jane interrupts. 'Again, where is it?'

  Madeleine gives herself away by glancing unconsciously at her handbag.

  'So you've had it all along, have you?' Jane says gleefully. 'Give it over now.' She points to Madeleine's handbag with the pipe.

  Madeleine throws it in the direction of her feet. Jane scrambles for it and spills the contents on the floor.

  Dan is about to bound in, but I snag his arm and force him to stop. I hold my breath as Stacey rummages through the bottles, compacts and lipsticks. I don't see the packets in the pile.

  Neither does Jane. 'Where is it?' she asks angrily, kicking the bag with frustration.

  'So where is it?' Dan asks me quietly.

  I shrug. I must admit I am also disappointed.

  'I'm not crazy enough to keep it with me.' Madeleine says with a triumphant smile. 'I've hidden it.'

  'Stop messing with me.' Jane moves menacingly closer, slapping the pipe against her other hand. 'For the last time, where is it?'

  'You wouldn't stumble upon it if it were under your nose. By the way, even if you had opened the safe, you would have found it empty. You got burned for nothing.'

  Jane takes another step and swings the pipe.

  'Don't come any closer, Jane,' Gene warns.

  Dan shrugs off my grip and springs forward. 'Except her name is actually Stacey Kimble.'

  TWENTY-THREE

  'I suggest you drop that,' Dan says, pointing his gun at Stacey.

  Stacey swings round. Her bruised nose is a study of contrast in colour to her otherwise pallid face. She drops the pipe, and immediately Gene pounces on it.

  'What do you mean?' Madeleine asks, scrambling to gather the contents of her handbag before getting to her feet.

  Neroli ... Madeleine's perfume ... The bottle has broken ...

  Shoe-less, Madeleine is indeed tiny. All of a sudden, I feel like a giant next to her. She also looks worn-out—her hair is limp and she has mascara smudges around her eyes. Madeleine shuffles closer to Gene, as if for security, and clutches his arm for support. Gene straightens his glasses and peers at Stacey.

  '"Jane Hill" is her alias, a false identity.' Dan turns to Stacey. 'We've been searching all over for you. Your cover is blown.' Next, he addresses Madeleine. 'She also used to work for Medtech.' He explains Stacey's history.

  'Who are you?' Madeleine gapes at Dan. 'I saw you on the plane. And at Blue Rock. Both of you.' She redirects her gaze to include me. 'Have you been following me, too?'

  'This is Dan Seymour, Mads dear,' Gene says, patting her hand. 'He's with the police.'

  'With the Organised Crime Unit,' Dan expound
s.

  'Oh, yes. He's the officer who wanted to speak with you.'

  'Except you ran away. Why did you run away?' Dan asks.

  'I don't like coincidences.' Madeleine scowls.

  'Sorry we spooked you,' I add.

  Madeleine turns to me again. 'And who are you?'

  Gene interjects, 'I'm sorry, I forgot who you were.'

  'Dr Neroli Sonnclere.'

  'She's also a scientist,' Dan says.

  'Is that so?' Madeleine eyes me with renewed interest.

  All at once, her look becomes more calculating. I sense her mentally sizing me up. She is no longer intimidated by my height. It should make me feel uncomfortable, but it doesn't. After a few seconds, when she drops her gaze as though dismissing me, I feel that she has come to a conclusion. Thankfully, I seem to have passed whatever criteria she was measuring in me.

  After, Madeleine reverts back to Dan. 'OCU?'

  'He's a liaison officer for the DEA,' I hasten to say.

  'Ah,' she says, comprehending.

  'I'm afraid you're wanted for questioning regarding the Hartford County fire and by the DEA,' Dan says. 'Stacey here isn't the only one after the drug. Where is it?'

  'As I told you, I've hidden it. It's safely stashed away.'

  'This is no time for games, Dr Mitchell. Running away, avoiding questioning, and now failing to produce evidence only makes you appear suspicious.'

  'I don't want anything to derail me from my meeting on Monday. It is crucial.'

  'Who are you supposed to meet?' I ask.

  'Roake Laboratories. They're Medtech's biggest competitor across the Atlantic. I met the head of research there a long time ago. They're interested in my work.'

  I recognise the name of the British pharmaceutical company. It's one of the biggest in the world. Although I can appreciate their interest in her cannabis project, I don't understand her motives for choosing them. 'Why?' I ask. 'Surely Medtech has other competitors in the United States. Why come all the way to London?'

  Madeleine nods at Gene. 'I figured I needed an excuse to spend more time in London.'

  'Oh, Madeleine,' Gene beams happily.

  'Well, you won't be able to attend the meeting. Now, if you'll both come with me,' Dan says to Madeleine and Stacey. He gestures with his gun, indicating that they should move towards the staircase. As if suddenly remembering, Dan glances over his shoulder and mutters to me, 'Where are they? What's taking them so long?'

  My eyes swing from one end of the floor to the other. Shrugging, I agree that it has been awhile. Unfortunately, I also see no sign of DI Collings or DS Evans. We all begin to move towards the stairs when something Madeleine mentioned comes to mind. 'Wait a minute,' I address her. 'If you say your drug is virtually non-hallucinogenic and geared for pain relief, what went on after the fire in Hartford County? Why did the residents get high?'

  Rather than Madeleine, Stacey answers my question. 'The effects of the smoke were not from the drug. They were from the samples, the cultivated plants used in the research. They were stored in the farm sheds.'

  Madeleine and I exchange glances.

  'So,' I ask Stacey, 'you were never interested in stealing the cannabis crops or seeds to sell—'

  Madeleine interjects, 'The crops or seeds would have made you a lot of money.'

  'You aren't interested in dealing marijuana at all.'

  'Yes.' Madeleine steps towards Stacey. 'How did you find out about the crops in the first place? They were locked up in storage way before you even started work with us. Also, I didn't think of this before, but it's interesting you didn't try to break into the storeroom. That would have been easier for you. Instead, you went straight for the safe in the lab. You were, in fact, after the final product, the pain-relief drug all this time, weren't you?' Madeleine asks.

  'Duh,' Stacey mocks. 'What else?'

  'Hold it,' Madeleine moves closer to her. 'How did you learn about the final product? I worked on it alone. You couldn't have figured it out. How did—?'

  'She learned about it through me,' a deep voice startles us from behind. At the same time, a thick pipe swings upwards.

  Dan sees it a split second before it comes down hard. He manages to turn, but it's still too late. The metal pipe bears down, striking his head and shoulders. He crumples to the floor.

  The man with the deep voice promptly picks up Dan's gun.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  'Dan,' I scream and rush to him. He lies motionless; his face has gone pale. I am almost afraid to touch him, but I gingerly lift his wrist to check for a pulse. It is weak but perceptible. Thank God, I sigh with relief. He'll be all right. Afterwards, I inspect his head for signs of bleeding or swelling. Luckily, I don't see any. But there's no way to tell if he's suffered any serious brain injury until he's admitted to a hospital. Furious, I turn to the man. 'Who are you?'

  'Warren?' Madeleine says in shock.

  The man Madeleine calls Warren is tall, handsome and well built. He has dark hair and unusually bright blue eyes. He also cuts an elegant figure, sporting a tweed jacket, shirt and tie. Were it not for his accent, he could be mistaken more for the quintessential Englishman than Dan here.

  Motioning me aside, Warren searches Dan's pockets for his police radio and mobile phone. Then he smashes them with relish, using the same pipe. He also notices the copper pipe in my hand and points to it with the gun, shaking his head as if I were a naughty schoolgirl. Annoyed, I glower back at him. He returns my gaze, unperturbed. Next, he does the same to Gene, and together, we drop both our pipes. Warren nudges them away from us before discarding his as well. 'Any phones?' he asks us. When we shake our heads, he smiles, flashing perfect white teeth. 'In case you're waiting for your back up, you'll be waiting a while.'

  'The detectives?' I ask. 'What did you do with them?'

  He doesn't answer my question. Instead, he turns to Madeleine. 'Surprised to see me?'

  'Who is he, Madeleine?' I ask her.

  'His name is Warren Thomas,' she says dully. 'He was a colleague of mine at Medtech. What I don't understand,' she says, swivelling to Warren, 'is what you are doing here? Why did you hit this man, Warren?'

  Warren ignores her and speaks to Stacey. 'Did you get it?'

  Stacey looks almost afraid to admit she has failed.

  'For heaven's sake, Warren, did you put her up to this? Can you please explain?' Madeleine insists.

  'All right,' he says with an amused smirk. 'Stacey used to work for me at Medtech. That's how I met her.'

  'So this is all your idea? It was you all along?'

  'I caught her stealing lab equipment which she planned to sell on the black market. Rather than pressing charges, I made her a better offer. I set her up with a new name, fake credentials, and got her to work for you.'

  'But you were recommended by Don.' Madeleine frowns at Stacey. 'Is he in on this, too?'

  'No, Don's clueless. Actually, I—or Warren here—arranged for me to casually meet Don at his mother's nursing home. We became friends. He's such a cutie-pie. And loyal to you, like all the others.'

  Relief washes over Madeleine's face.

  While they talk, I gently pull Dan over and prop him up on a couple of bags of building material stacked by the crates. I make sure that he can breathe easily. I run my fingers gently through his soft hair and start to worry when I notice a bruise.

  'But how did you realise what I was working on?' Madeleine asks Warren.

  'I knew you were up to something when I saw you in New York. You were so jumpy—almost guilty—when I asked what you were doing. Besides, I knew you were frustrated about not finishing your research on Trabinol.'

  'Which you got credit for.'

  Warren shrugs. 'I put two and two together. I traced your whereabouts through your cell phone.' Warren smiles again displaying his blazingly white teeth.

  He reminds me of a shark. A handsome but dangerous shark.

  'I also asked Stacey,' he continues, 'or Jane, as you know her, to bring me s
amples of whatever she could get her hands on. She would return them the following day so they wouldn't be missed. It wasn't difficult. I kept track of what you were doing.'

  'Then you asked her to break into my safe.' Madeleine's eyes start blinking rapidly. 'Was that why you invited me for drinks? To get me out of the way?'

  'Hang on a minute, Mads,' Gene pipes up. 'You were going to go out with him?'

  We all turn to Gene. We'd almost forgotten he was present.

  'Oh, hi, Gene,' Warren smirks.

  Gene ignores him and asks Madeleine. 'Don't tell me you were going to have drinks with this sleaze bag?'

  'Hey,' Warren pretends to protest.

  'I always knew you were after my wife,' Gene lashes out.

  'Your ex-wife,' Warren corrects him.

  'Whatever,' Stacey butts in. 'Hey, we're getting off course here. What are you doing in London, Warren? Didn't you trust me to do my job?'

  'Trust, hah,' Warren spits out. 'Your last update worried me. I knew you'd bungle it, and I was right. I couldn't take any chances. Thank goodness, I am able to track your whereabouts through your cell phone.'

  'But you're still going to pay me, right? I swear Warren, if you—'

  'Now, hold it. Payment is conditional upon the completion of the agreed task, and we don't have it yet.' He turns to Madeleine. 'Where is the sample?'

  'Why, Warren?'

  'For Medtech, what else?'

  'I suspect you've done this sort of thing before. Steal other people's research. Afraid of good old fashioned hard work, are you?'

  'Don't be naïve. It will save Medtech millions of dollars on research, not to mention time. That's how we stay one step ahead of our competitors.'

  'Wait a minute. Are you saying the board is in on this?'

  'Of course, but not all of them. Just the key few. They weren't at first, but I soon brought them around. It's a tough business out there. Besides, Trabinol is not doing as well as it should. We've had to settle a couple of expensive lawsuits.'

  'You make it sound as if scientific research is a game.'

  'Sorry, but I do what I have to do.'

  'You're not apologising surely.'

  'He's talking about Linda,' Stacey says.

  'Linda?' Slowly, it dawns on Madeleine. Her face contorts in anger and she lunges at Warren. Quick on his feet, Warren sidesteps her and calmly raises the gun. Gene grabs Madeleine and holds her back before she can try again.

  'What about Linda?' she shouts, twisting against Gene's hold. 'Did you arrange for her accident?'

  Warren doesn't reply.

  'She almost died, you know. How could you be so callous that you would commit murder?'

  'As I said, I do what I have to do. You of all people should know that.'

  Madeleine stops struggling. 'What do you mean by that?'

  'Like when you gave your son cannabis. It was against the law.'

  'There's no comparison. They are completely different circumstances.'

  'Medtech didn't see it that way when I told them.'

  'You were the snitch?'

  'You did what?' Gene bellows. His face suddenly turns purple as he chokes with fury.

  I recall my research last night. Because of the scandal, Madeleine had been prevented from giving her son any more cannabis. And despite the painkillers administered to him, Joshua Mitchell had spent his last months in immense and unrelenting pain.

  'You bastard,' Gene splutters. Before Warren can reply, Gene lets go of Madeleine and pounces on him, catching Warren off guard.

  Madeleine cries out. I stand rooted to my spot, holding my breath. I'm surprised at Gene's show of strength. Anger spurs him on, and they grapple together for a while. Gene pushes Warren against a pillar and tries to grab the gun. For a moment, it's as if time has stopped.

  Meanwhile, I can't keep my eyes off the gun. I watch it, mesmerised, half in fear and half in disbelief, all the time wondering if I could do something, anything to help. Before I can act, it is over in a flash. The gun goes off. The sound bounces around the enclosed concrete surfaces like a thunderclap. It splinters a wooden crate next to Dan. I am stunned for an instant, transfixed by the trace of gunpowder and hot metal in the air. Then I exhale with relief. The bullet has missed. But it had been close. Too close for comfort. A second later, Gene collapses to the floor.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  'My God, Gene!' Madeleine hurries to him, screaming.

  Her shrieks knock me out of my stupor. I scramble over to him, too. The smell of fresh blood hits me, causing me to step back. Still, Madeleine continues to shout hysterically. Alas she is too agitated to be useful that I have no choice but to take over. I brace myself and kneel down. Unconscious, Gene is slumped face down and bleeds from his left arm. As Madeleine continues to cry, I turn him over and rip his shirtsleeve to inspect the damage. 'He's all right. He's all right,' I reassure her. 'It's a flesh wound. Could have been worse.'

  Gene is indeed fortunate. The bullet has only grazed the thickest part of his left upper arm. With the news, Madeleine calms down a notch.

  'He's breathing; his pulse beats strong. He is probably in shock, but we have to stop the bleeding.' When she doesn't reply, I raise my voice. 'Madeleine? Madeleine? Do you—'

  Madeleine comes to her senses. She reaches inside her handbag and takes out a handkerchief. I cover Gene's wound with it and apply direct pressure. The handkerchief rapidly soaks through. Next, Madeleine hands me a wad of tissues. When they are saturated, she removes the cardigan she wears and tears it up in sections.

  Meanwhile, I raise Gene's arm to elevate his wound above his heart. When his bleeding slows down, Madeleine and I make him comfortable. At the same time, we ensure that his airway remains unobstructed. Gene needs an ambulance right now, except I doubt if Warren will allow it.

  'Damn you, Warren,' Madeleine fires at Warren. 'You could have killed him.'

  I find Gene's eyeglasses and hand them to Madeleine. Shakily, she slips them on his face and cradles his head gently before resting it back on floor.

  If I'd been secretly counting on the gunshot being loud enough to be heard outside, I would be disappointed. After grazing Gene in the arm, the bullet has lodged in one of the crates, which absorbed the blast on impact, like sound-proofing material. With the building's thick concrete walls and heavy glass windows, the noise has been well-contained. I seriously doubt that anyone will be coming for us soon.

  Despite the desperate situation, I spot a glimmer of hope. Or rather a sprinkling. After Madeleine and I move Gene to rest by Dan, my nose detects it. It starts to itch.

  While the hairs inside my nose do an excellent job of filtering large particles from entering my lungs, they are defenseless against minute specks. When my nose itches, it tells me that foreign elements have invaded and are now irritating my nasal passages. I stifle a sneeze. The involuntary action would expel the offending irritation, cleanse my nasal passages and relieve me of my itch, not to mention help me breathe better. Yet I control the urge because I want to avoid raising an alarm.

  In addition, Gene's injury has become a distraction. On one side, Stacey has become complacent. She has set down the pipe and removed her leather gloves. Preoccupied, she inspects the dressings on her hands as she stretches her fingers. On the other side, while Warren continues to hold the gun, he shows even less interest in me.

  I catch Madeleine's eye and direct her gaze to the small mound of cement forming underneath the bullet hole on the crate next to Dan. I wouldn't have noticed it—the whole building is infused with it—had it not been for my itchy nose. The fine grey powder used as a binding agent not only for concrete, but also for plaster and tiling grout, is the culprit. The annoying dust is in the air and up my nostrils. Though in our predicament, it might as well be gold dust.

  Madeleine gives me a slight nod of comprehension.

  'Where is the sample, Madeleine?' Warren approaches us. His blue eyes glitter with excitement.

  'You think after all this I'm
going to just let you have it?'

  Warren waves the gun ominously. Then he points it at Gene's head. 'You wouldn't want to be responsible for his death, too, do you?'

  'You, you, sick man.' Madeleine starts to shake.

  Warren laughs. 'What a feisty little woman you are. I like it.'

  'Well, I don't have it with me.'

  He stares at her.

  'What—you thought I'd bring my formula?'

  'No, you idiot. While that would be good, you might give me a false one. I just need the sample you're bringing Roake. We can reverse engineer it and beat you to the patent.'

  'No way,' Madeleine says. She glances at me and gives me the signal.

  On cue, I scoop a handful of cement powder and throw it at Warren, aiming for his eyes. Warren turns his head, though not before the powder hits his face. As he shouts, the gun goes off in his hand. Luckily, the shot is wide-off the mark, but pierces yet another crate close to Dan. Warren drops the gun, and I jump to my feet and kick it away from him. It slides along the floor and vanishes beneath a pallet.

  Meanwhile, from the corner of my eye, I see Madeleine spring into action. In spite of her injured ankle, she suddenly tackles Stacey who is taken by surprise.

  'You bitch,' Warren curses as he rubs his tearing eyes.

  Cement powder is corrosive. It can cause permanent damage to the eyes. He's only making it worse by rubbing his eyes with his knuckles.

  Then Warren opens them. Although they are red, his eyes look perfectly normal. 'You could have blinded me,' he says.

  Blast. He shut his eyes on time. Now he advances towards me. I freeze. Regrettably, I am too far away from the cement powder to pick up another handful. Instead, I scan the area for a weapon. Is there no hammer or screwdriver nearby? Seeing none, I scamper out of Warren's reach and seek refuge behind a stack of plaster boards. I pick up a can of paint and throw it at him. Warren ducks to avoid it. Like a shark after its prey, he chases me and we run around in a circle. It reminds me of the game of "tag" my sisters and I used to play as children. Except this is no game. And Warren is unusually fit and fast. He almost catches up with me. I feel his hands on my jacket when it is yanked away.

  'Dan!' I shout. The gunshots have roused him. Dan swings a punch. Warren staggers back against the plasterboards. He comes to and takes a swing at Dan. Possibly due to the head injury, Dan's reflexes aren't as quick. Warren's fist catches his jaw. But Dan doesn't fall back. Face to face, Dan and Warren size up each other. They remind me of boxers in a ring ready for a showdown. However, rather than coming to blows, Warren unexpectedly pivots around and hares towards the exit.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I start to go after Warren but Dan seizes my arm. 'Bloody hell, woman. Are you out of your mind?' he says. 'Stay here.' He heads towards the same exit.

  I notice that Stacey is on the floor, unconscious. Her nose looks uglier than before. 'What did you do?' I ask Madeleine.

  'I punched her.'

  'On the nose?'

  Madeleine shakes her head. 'Nope. The stomach. If she had balls, I would have aimed for them. I think she hit her face on a crate.'

  I laugh. Together we find a roll of duct tape and bind her wrists and ankles. When we're done, I search for the gun, but can't find it. Restless, I tell Madeleine, 'I'm going to check if Dan needs any help.'

  'I'm coming with you.'

  'What about Gene?'

  Madeleine glances at his resting figure. 'He'll be fine for now. The bleeding has stopped.' She flashes me a grim smile. 'I want to nail that sonofabitch.'

  'Fine,' I nod. I raise an eyebrow inquiringly as she picks up her hand bag.

  'You'll never know if we may need it.'

  I shrug. Sure, maybe when we catch that sonofabitch we can intimidate him with foundation and lipstick. A shout comes from the stairwell. I scurry to the exit where the two men disappeared while Madeleine limps behind me. Several feet away we can hear them struggling. What I see makes me gasp. Dan and Warren are lying on the narrow landing, wrestling. I hate to admit it—they appear to be an equal match. Next, they tumble down a flight of stairs and crash against the wall. Dan dominates with surprising agility and straddles him, struggling for control. Next, Warren rolls over. Then Dan regains the upper hand. The railings are thin metal bars, and the two men are shifting closer to the edge.

  'He used to wrestle in college,' Madeleine whispers to me referring to Warren.

  'Now you tell me.'

  Warren levers himself up and throws Dan over the slippery railing. Madeleine and I scream. Incredibly, Dan has caught the edge of the landing. Grasping it with the grace of a gymnast, he swings himself towards the landing on the next flight below where he lands on his feet. Madeleine and I breathe a sigh of relief. Warren hesitates. Seeing Dan at one end of the lower floor and Madeleine and me at the other end of our level, Warren scurries off, vanishing to the floor below.

  'Block him on the other side,' Dan yells before charging after him.

  Madeleine and I exchange glances and retrace our steps, heading for the stairs on the opposite end of the floor. Regrettably, we reach the fire escape too late. Warren's heavy footsteps bang heavily on the metal treads as he races past us up the stairs. Dan has blocked his escape below and he has no choice save to go back up.

  'Who is this guy?' Dan shouts as he bounds up the steps past us.

  Madeleine explains briefly, her face contorted as she strains to follow him. She valiantly ignores the pain from her swollen ankle.

  'So he's behind all of this?' Dan says. He doesn't wait to hear her reply.

  'Don't let him get away,' Madeleine shouts as he leaves us behind.

  The clanking of the men's footsteps fades as we struggle to jog up flight after flight. Soon, I start to flag. I glance back. Madeleine lags way behind me. I can hear her panting heavily.

  'You all right there?' I shout.

  'Go. I'm right behind you,' she hollers back. 'I'll be damned if I let him get the best of me again.'

  Next, I hear crashing sounds from the floor above. Finding my second wind, I sprint the rest of the way, taking two steps at a time, and discover that I have reached what turns out to be a utility floor. Warily, I step inside. I observe generators, compressors, and other electrical equipment. Further in, I notice a water pump and an empty tank as well as heating, ventilation and air conditioning components. But I see no sign of them.

  Behind me, I hear a soft moan. 'Dan!' I double back and to my dismay, find him sprawled on the floor, hidden by a generator. He is not far from the staircase I came up. How could I have missed him? I kneel over him. He's breathing. Then he groans again. 'Dan Seymour,' I say, giving him a shake. 'You let him beat you again? You ought to be ashamed of yourself.'

  Madeleine calls out from the stairwell.

  'Over here,' I answer as I hear her charge through the door.

  'What happened?' she asks, observing Dan's unconscious figure. 'And where's Warren?' She paces around, searching the area. 'You didn't let him get away again, did you? Please tell me you didn't.'

  In reply, we hear the clang of metal above us. I point up to the ceiling. The ventilation tubing certainly appears wide enough to accommodate a person. Soon it becomes clear that Warren is up there, a giant snake wriggling through the maze of ductwork.

  'Why? And how?' Madeleine asks, bewildered.

  I run over to the door on the other side. It is locked. 'There's no exit other than the one we came through, and Dan was probably blocking it.'

  We fall silent for a moment. Warren's movements on the thin sheet metal make such a dreadful racket. The noise reverberates throughout the ceiling making it difficult to pinpoint exactly where he is. We dash around the floor straining to find the source till it gradually dawns on us. We are in danger of letting him crawl out of here. Madeleine clutches my arm. 'What do we do?'

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  'Could any of these vents lead outside the building?' Madeleine asks.

  Exhausted, I shrug. 'It's possib
le.' In theory, the ducts may lead to external vents which enable the exchange of air into the building. The ventilation system controls the air quality by replenishing oxygen, controlling humidity and expelling carbon dioxide, excessive moisture, odours, smoke, heat and so forth. I notice a large air handling unit. At the moment, it rests unconnected to the ductwork, which hangs as if someone has pulled it down. I call Madeleine over. 'This is how he got in.'

  Soon the clanging of metal begins to fade. Madeleine has panic in her eyes. 'We can't let him get away.'

  Swiftly, I take inventory of the room. That's when I remember. 'I know.' I rush to the temporary generator I noticed earlier beside Dan. After inspecting it, I scowl with disappointment. 'If this had been a diesel-powered generator, we could have choked him out with the exhaust fumes. But it's a steam-powered one.'

  Madeleine regards me thoughtfully. She sees the machine and immediately susses what I'm trying to do.

  'Let's keep looking. There must be some—'

  Madeleine grabs my arm again. 'Wait,' she says. 'I have an idea.'

  Baffled, I watch as Madeleine rummages through her handbag. She tears open a secret compartment in its leather lining and brings out several cartridges.

  I stare at her in amazement. 'Are they what I think they are?'

  'This will slow him down,' she answers with a mischievous smile.

  'Are you sure?' I ask as she hands them to me.

  She nods.

  I hesitate for a moment. What a waste to use a drug as precious as this. I search Madeleine's face. She is resolute. 'All right. Let's do it. C'mon. Help me,' I instruct Madeleine.

  Fortuitously, the large generator has wheels. Together, grunting with all our strength, we roll the machine next to an open segment of the ductwork.

  While the building's utility services are not up yet, the temporary industrial generator supplies electricity for lighting and the power tools needed for various construction tasks. This one is a steam-powered generator, meaning it creates electricity by turning fuel into steam. First the boiler heats the water in the tank. This releases vapour or steam. Second, the pressure of the steam turns the turbine, which is basically composed of blades that spin when steam blows past them, causing the shaft to rotate and turn on the generator. The process is similar to setting a kettle of water over a fire and heating it till it boils. Except when the steam escapes through the spout, it carries on to a turbine.

  'Grab this,' I direct Madeleine.

  Together we pry open the tank. It is more than half-full. Next, we disconnect the pipe or "spout" from the turbine. We pull the ductwork further down and, twisting things around, connect it to the pipe. Before we fire up the machine, we quickly pour the contents of the cartridges into the water tank. It isn't long before the boiler turns the water into steam. The pipe conveys it directly into the duct. When some of it escapes, we push the generator closer.

  'Do you think it will work?' Madeleine asks.

  'We'll soon find out.'

  With the generator in place and pumping steam, we back away so we don't inadvertently inhale the odourless vapour.

  'What do you think you're doing?'

  Dan's raspy voice behind us makes me jump.

  Madeleine and I glance at each other and grin. 'We're smoking him out.'

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Except this is not real smoke. On the contrary, it is just an illusion of smoke.

  Later on, when the whole business is over, we discover that a huge throng of inquisitive onlookers have gathered on the street outside the Southwark Tower. They hadn't been informed; they hadn't witnessed any of the goings on inside. According to one of the constables, they had been lured by the strange spectacle. All the way up from the thirteenth floor, clouds of smoke had spewed out of the tower's external vents. It had looked as if the building had smoke coming out of its ears.

  They were mistaken. While clouds of smoke and steam may appear similar, the two are different. On one hand, steam is pure vapour. Boiling converts water and other liquids, in this case, the synthetic cannabis preparation, and transforms them into vapour or gas. Whereas vapour is technically invisible to the eye, we perceive it as a cloud or a mist. This happens when the hot steam begins to condense as soon as it is released into the atmosphere. Condensation forms tiny water droplets that when viewed en masse can give the impression of a cloud.

  On the other hand, smoke is a by-product of a combustion process. Its cloud is not made up of pure gas or vapour, but is composed of solid and liquid particles suspended in gas. The composition, colour and odour of the smoke depend on the source.

  The thirteenth floor is a long way up. How could the crowd tell the difference?

  'I can't believe you did that.' Dan looks livid after I explain what we have done. He grabs the empty cartridges from me. 'Did you realise that this could have been evidence, Neroli?'

  'We got him, didn't we?' I say by way of apology.

  Dan storms off.

  Truthfully, I am disappointed myself. I would have preferred to keep a sample to study at my lab. Too late now.

  Eventually, Warren Thomas was found in one of the ducts towards the rear of the building. He had been far enough not to be cooked alive, yet near enough to inhale the vapour. The vapour induced him into such a deep state of relaxation that when the police found him, he was so relaxed, so at peace. A degree warmer to the touch, but fast asleep. The sound of his snoring had served as a homing device alerting the officers to his location. Subsequently, when they were finally able to rouse him, he had followed them docilely to the waiting ambulance.

  The police also found DI Collings and DS Evans in the underground car park, bound by electrical wiring from a roll that had been lying around. They suffered only injured egos and mild concussions.

  Outside the tower, after the police have wrapped up, I search the immediate area for Madeleine. She limps alongside Gene's stretcher as he is wheeled into an ambulance. Stacey has already been loaded into a separate ambulance. They will all be taken straight to St Vincent's Accident and Emergency Department along with DI Collings and DS Evans. I wouldn't be surprised if it's Dr Alshafey who ends up examining and treating them.

  'Oh, Gene,' Madeleine says, holding his hand.

  'I'll be fine,' he smiles back weakly.

  I walk over to them. 'I'm sorry we used up all your samples,' I say to Madeleine. 'You haven't any more in your handbag, have you?' I eye her hopefully.

  'No, she hasn't. I checked.' Dan cuts in as Madeleine gives me a hug. 'You're not planning on running again, are you?' he asks her. 'DEA agents are arriving later today and would like to speak with you.'

  'How can I, Officer?' she replies and points to her bare feet, her swollen ankle. 'I seem to have lost my shoes.'

  I'm not sure, but I think I might have heard Dan chuckle.

  As Dan takes Madeleine's arm and steers her to the waiting police car, Gene struggles to sit up. 'Don't say anything, Mads. I'll get you the best solicitor. In the meantime, don't say a word. They can't get you for possession. They have no evidence. If they have no evidence, they can't prove anything.'

  Dan says to Madeleine, 'Your ex-husband is a clever man.'

  She smiles back at Gene. 'I know.'

  Tentatively, I sidle up to Dan. 'Must you take her now? What about her meeting on Monday?'

  Dan shrugs. I can tell he's still annoyed with me.

  'She's making an important contribution to science. It would be such a waste. Can't you bend the rules? You do bend them at times, don't you?' I plead with him.

  Finally, he softens. 'Look, I understand where you're coming from. I'll do my best. That's all I can promise.'

  After the ambulances leave the scene under police escort, he comes back.

  'Gwyn here will take you home.' He waves Constable Gwyn over.

  'I left my car at St Vincent's.'

  'He can take you there.' Then Dan falls suddenly quiet. His light grey eyes gaze at me intently. 'Well, despite the evidence going up
in smoke,' he says with a chuckle, 'you've been a great help, Dr Sonnclere.'

  'You mean it?'

  'I owe you one.'

  A small smile plays on his lips. I get the feeling that he wants to give me a hug and almost does, except he catches Constable Gwyn gawping at us. The constable hastily turns away. Unfortunately, the moment passes. Instead, Dan takes my hand and holds it. 'Well, you take care.'

  'You too.'

  He releases my hand. Before he walks away, he gives me a wink.

  I stand stupefied until I hear Constable Gwyn clear his throat. I get into the car and find my shoulder bag on the passenger seat. When I sit down, I feel an object press hard against the top of my leg. I slip my hand inside my jacket pocket and pull it out. It's a cartridge. Similar to the ones I used earlier. How did she know? I look up and scan the police cars on the scene for Madeleine, but she is gone.

  'Anything the matter?' Constable Gwyn asks, starting the car.

  I pop the cartridge back into my pocket. 'Nothing,' I say. After a pause, I add, 'I just remembered. I must drop by the supermarket for some milk and bread.'

  EPILOGUE

  Fresh bread, peppery beef, duck ... White wine, onions, mushrooms ...

  The day after the whole adventure with Madeleine, I am at my favourite restaurant, Bistro Bernard, belatedly celebrating my twenty-seventh birthday.

  'How was your trip, Neri dear?' Mother sits to my right. She watches me, apprehension in her face. It's an all too familiar look. Among her three daughters, she worries about me the most. Mother often chides me that I work too hard. But why should dedication to my job be cause for concern?

  'Fine,' I say, ignoring the next look in her eyes. It is the one that refrains from inquiring about my eye bags. They're not a pretty sight.

  To my left is my sister, Rosamund, who consumes her meal quietly. She is sulking because I didn't buy her a souvenir from New York. Never mind that we are supposed to be celebrating my birthday and she hasn't given me a present.

  'I can't believe you forgot to go shopping,' she says again, finally glancing up from her confit of duck. 'I mean, who forgets to do that?

  'Never mind, Rose,' Mother says. 'Neri was in New York for a work conference.' She pats Rosamund's hand before turning to me. 'Did you have a good weekend?'

  As I recall the events of the last two days, I break into a big grin. 'I had fun.'