Monty pulled on to the weed-strewn hard standing, climbed out and hauled open the stiff up-and-over garage door. Then she drove the car in, nudging it close to the racks of apples that lined the far wall. A couple of inches either way made the difference between the door closing and not.
She eased herself out into the narrow gap between the car and the wall, savouring the pungent smell of apples. It had been a bumper crop this year from the five trees in her back garden, yielding a stock that would last her a few months yet. She was an erratic gardener, but she enjoyed eating her own produce, particularly in the knowledge that it was healthy food that had not been sprayed with toxic chemicals.
The garage door closed with a click and a dull metallic boom, and she cut across to the small porch over the front door, pulled her cigarette lighter from her handbag and, using the flame as a torch, slipped her key in the lock. It was a cold, starry night, cold enough for a frost, she thought, shivering.
Two pairs of emerald eyes stared out of the darkness of the small hallway. ‘Hello, boys!’ she said, putting her overnight bag on the floor and kneeling down as Watson and Crick, her tiger-striped moggies, came towards her, warily at first, then more eagerly, Watson rubbing himself against her hand.
‘Did Alice leave you all in the dark? Poor things!’
She switched on the light and noted that everything looked orderly, the Mail on Sunday, the Observer and The Sunday Times neatly stacked by Alice on the hall table. Monty was something of a news junkie, forever scouring the pages of the national and scientific press for information that might be of use to her father, and even more so when he had a new book out – in the hope of coming across reviews.
She shivered again from the cold, keeping her Burberry on for the moment, and went through into the kitchen, grateful for the cosy warmth of the Aga that greeted her. The red light winked on the answering machine, so she hit the playback button, glancing down to check that there was milk and food for the cats in their bowls.
The first message was from her friend Anna Sterling, suggesting that if Monty was working in London on Thursday they went to the new art exhibition at the ICA. The second was a tetchy one from her father, asking her which days she would be in London and which in their old lab, next week. He always sounded grumpy on the answering machine, as if annoyed that she wasn’t there in person. And there was a third message: from Walter Hoggin, calling to thank Monty for her help in getting him reinstated. He would ring again, he said.
Still full after a late lunch, she decided to have a light supper and opened the fridge to see what needed eating. There was a carton of mushrooms that were starting to look a bit sad and she decided on one of her favourite snacks of mushrooms on toast. She raised the Aga hot plate cover, put a frying pan on to it and dropped in a generous knob of butter. Almost immediately it began to sizzle.
She switched on the radio, recognized ‘Love Is All Around’, the theme song from Four Weddings and a Funeral, and turned it up loud, then went back to the sink and began to scrub the mushrooms. Both cats nuzzled around her legs. It was five past seven; she knew her father always watched the science programme, Equinox, at this time, so there was no point in calling him back until after eight; and she’d call Anna later if she had the energy; if not, tomorrow.
She stopped after only four small mushrooms, pinching her stomach, which felt bloated. Putting on weight, she thought grimly. You get past thirty and that’s it, all downhill and left on the shelf. Going to spend the rest of my life sitting here by the fire, turning into a fat old spinster with her cats.
Her thoughts flashed suddenly to the American patent lawyer who had come into her office. Conor Molloy. Mr Bloody Perfect. Tall, slim, dishy. And unless she had imagined it, there had been a definite look of interest in his eyes. She shrugged it off; he looked like the kind who flirted with everyone. Probably had some glamorous bimbo in tow – a fledgling model would be his speed. Men who were that good-looking almost irritated her, and this one really was.
Crick and Watson suddenly stiffened and turned towards the door. Monty looked down at them, alarmed. ‘What is it, boys?’ She turned the radio down sharply, and listened. After a few moments she heard the feeble rasp of the doorbell, and a prick of unease went through her: visitors rarely called, and almost never after dark.
She went back into the hall and peered through the spyhole her father had insisted she have installed in the front door. It gave her a goldfish’s eye view of a balding, rather meek man in a raincoat. He did not immediately fit her mental profile of what a mass murderer would look like, but she decided to be cautious, and engaged the safety chain before opening the door and peering out.
He was middle-aged and carried about him the persona of someone who has seen better times but is not completely down on their cups. His herringbone coat was well cut, in spite of its present shabbiness, and he was respectably shod in stout brown brogues. His portly figure reminded her of a character from Dickens, and the sadness on his face touched something inside her.
He spoke slowly and apologetically. ‘I’m – ah – trying to find Miss Bannerman’s residence.’
She kept the chain in place, concerned that she could see no sign of a car. ‘I’m Miss Bannerman. Who are you, please?’
‘Of course, of course. Forgive me. Countryside, quite right to be wary of strangers …’ He fished in his pocket for his wallet, extricated a business card and proffered it through the gap.
Hubert Wentworth. Deputy News Editor. Thames Valley Gazette, she read.
‘My daughter, you see.’ He wheezed slightly. ‘Used to work for you – ah – your father’s lab. Bannerman Research Laboratories?’
‘Daughter?’ Monty did not recognize the surname.
‘Johnson – her married name.’
Monty brightened. ‘Sarah Johnson? Yes, of course, she worked as our book-keeper for about three years. Left about six months ago – to have a baby. How is she? Has she had the b –’ She stopped suddenly as she read the expression on his face; the man seemed to have aged a decade in a few seconds. She thought for a moment he was going to collapse. ‘Please, come in.’
‘Would you allow me? Thank you. Just for a moment, I won’t detain you,’
He stepped in with the gait of an old man, although he couldn’t be much more than late fifties, she thought.
‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Nice house. Beautiful, the countryside. Always wanted to try it myself – but – ah – Francoise –’ He lowered his head as if he were having a problem composing himself.
‘May I take your coat?’
He had noted a painting on the wall; a simple country landscape of a field and a barn, and a solitary oak tree. ‘May I enquire the artist’s name?’
She blushed. ‘It was me.’
He peered more closely. ‘Such talent; do you exhibit?’
‘I’m afraid not. I haven’t for years – I don’t have the time.’
‘Yes, time, the Ancient Enemy.’ He smiled sadly.
‘Would you like a drink of something? Coffee, tea? Beer?’
‘Just a glass of water would be fine. I parked at the end of the lane by the way – didn’t know if I’d be able to turn.’
She hung his coat up then looked at him again. He was wearing a crumpled grey flannel suit, a white shirt and green tie with a dull logo in the centre. A few strands of hair stood on the top of his dome like lone pines on a windswept hillock.
‘Come through to the kitchen; afraid I only just got home myself and I haven’t put the heating on yet.’ She still kept her own coat on.
‘I won’t detain you long,’ he said again, noticing the simmering butter, then eased himself on to one of the wooden chairs.
Monty removed the frying pan, closed the lid of the Aga, and provided a glass of water. Somehow she managed to do it all in one movement.
‘So,’ the visitor lifted his eyes up to Monty, ‘so you didn’t hear – about Sarah?’ He shook his head as if not really expecting a reply. ‘Of cours
e, no reason why you should’ve done; but she died, you see, in childbirth.’
Monty sat down herself, shaken. ‘Died?’ she echoed uselessly. ‘God. I’m sorry. So sorry.’
‘Thank you, you’re very kind. She always said you and your father were so kind.’
‘She was a lovely girl – I liked her very much. I can’t believe she’s –’
‘Terrible,’ he said.
‘How’s her husband? Alan, isn’t it? Is he coping? And the baby?’
Wentworth cupped Monty’s tumbler in his hands, trying to draw warmth from it. ‘The baby was too badly deformed to survive.’
Monty thought about the quiet, hard-working girl who had come in to tell her she was leaving to concentrate on being a mother. ‘How awful,’ she said. ‘I’m really sorry for you, Mr Wentworth, and for Alan. I’ll write him a note.’
‘Yes, thank you. Thank you – but – ah –’ He glanced up at the electric light bulb in its yellow shade, as if it might provide him with the answer to some cosmic question. Then he looked down at the small pine table again. ‘Alan – ah –’ He paused and seemed to crumple a fraction, like a collapsing balloon. ‘He couldn’t take it, you see. Killed himself the day after the funeral – he – ah – he – in his motor car, you see, in the garage – with a hosepipe.’
Monty sat rigidly still, barely able to absorb all the bad news. Death scared her; it was OK when people much older than she died, she could accept that, but she got very spooked when it happened to people her own age or younger. She began to wonder where this was leading, why Sarah’s father had made so much effort to bring her the news.
Reading her mind, Hubert Wentworth said: ‘I would have tried to telephone you – to save such an intrusion, I – you see –’ His eyes roamed the room for a moment and lighted on another of her paintings. ‘One must be careful of phone lines; so easy to tap or to bug, if you understand what I mean?’
She frowned, asking herself if he had become a little unhinged by his tragedy.
‘Cyclops,’ he said, looking up suddenly and staring directly at her. ‘Cyclops Syndrome. You’ve heard of it?’ He raised his eyebrows quizzically.
‘No …?’
‘It’s a rare genetic disorder affecting babies; ghastly thing, quite ghastly.’ He sipped some water. ‘Misshapen head, no features at all, no mouth, no nose, no nothing. Except one eye in the centre of the forehead.’ He tapped his own forehead. ‘Sometimes hair on the body as well.’
‘Oh God,’ Monty said, as the hideous image gripped her imagination. She shuddered inwardly. ‘That’s what happened?’
He looked up at the light again, then at the oven. ‘An Aga. Such a comforting thing to have. No country kitchen complete without one. Heats the water as well?’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘At least the kitchen is always cosy.’
‘Of course. So important. My wife always wanted a house with an Aga.’ His voice tailed. ‘Rambling; I’m sorry. Tell me I’m being a nuisance and I’ll go.’
‘You’re not being a nuisance,’ Monty said gently.
He tapped the side of the glass with one of his fingers. ‘Never had the edge, you see, not that hard edge you needed to make it to Fleet Street. I should have done something else, but you get into a way of life and you stay there.’ He gave her a smile that was as sad as bereavement itself. ‘Forgive me, I’m always rambling. Good reporters listen, bad ones talk.’
Monty smiled, her patience holding. It was her visitor who glanced at the butter congealing in the pan.
‘I won’t keep you from your supper, you must be hungry. Two cases a year in the British Isles, that’s the average incidence of Cyclops Syndrome over the last thirty years.’
‘That’s two too many,’ she said.
Wentworth let out a deep breath, then inhaled slowly. ‘An average of one every twenty-six weeks.’ He hesitated. ‘So it may be noteworthy, perhaps, that there have been three cases in the past two months?’
Monty thought for a moment. ‘I suppose things do go in clusters sometimes; there might be long periods with none.’
‘Of course, of course, you’re quite right. One mustn’t jump to conclusions. Shock and bereavement can make a person lose their judgement.’ The faintest trace of a smile etched his features like the first lines of a brass rubbing. ‘But so easy, also, to allow things to escape one’s attention.’
She watched him, expectantly.
‘So easy to dismiss so much as coincidence, would you not agree?’
‘Coincidence.’
Crick nuzzled Hubert Wentworth’s leg. He leaned over and tickled him. ‘One Cyclops case here in Berkshire. One in Birmingham and one in Edinburgh. In each case the mother died shortly before or during childbirth from an unidentified virus.’
‘Does a viral attack on the mother normally accompany Cyclops Syndrome?’
The cat began purring, and Wentworth continued stroking him. ‘No, not at all.’ He sat upright again, pressed his lips together and shrugged. ‘Coincidence, of course, could so easily just be coincidence.’
Monty felt a sudden deep unease. ‘That’s extremely bizarre,’ she said slowly.
Wentworth scratched one of his large, overhanging eyebrows. ‘We have a bright young lady reporter on our paper; Medical Correspondent, she’s called. Her first job. Zandra Wollerton. I don’t have the time, you see, for investigating; takes a lot of travelling, a lot of patience; charm, guile. Zandra is a girl with guile; tough too. You’ll see her name in the nationals in a few years.’ He paused and drained his glass.
‘More water?’
‘No, I must go. Your supper. You must have your supper.’ He paused to collect his thoughts. ‘Zandra, yes, such a bright girl. She’s found a link, yes, a connection. Just a small one, a tiny one, probably nothing at all, a red herring.’ He went on. ‘Bendix Schere, the company that’s taken your father’s lab over, they manufacture a fertility drug marketed under the brand name of Maternox, yes?’
‘It’s one of their biggest selling products. I think it’s the biggest-selling fertility drug in the world.’
‘Of course. That’s why one can’t jump to any conclusion. But it is interesting that all three of these women had been prescribed Maternox prior to falling pregnant.’
The unease Monty had been feeling began to evaporate. For a moment she had thought he was going to come up with something that would really shock her, but instead it seemed that he was clutching at a thin straw. ‘It’s certainly a strange coincidence, Mr Wentworth – but I think you’d have to look at it in context. One in six women in the world suffer from infertility problems. A vast number of them in this country take Maternox at some point – and world sales are phenomenal. For just three cases – however awful – it seems – I mean –’ She raised her hands. ‘It’s strange, I agree, but not very conclusive.’
‘Of course, of course. You’re quite right. But there is one more detail, you see. Again small, again inconclusive.’ He turned his empty glass around in his hands. ‘This reporter, Zandra Wollerton. I suggested to her that she contact the Medical Liaison Officer of Bendix Schere, and enquire if they had any prior knowledge of a link between Maternox and Cyclops Syndrome.’
‘And did they?’
‘None whatsoever. They were quite emphatic.’ He leaned over and began stroking the cat again. ‘But just three days later Zandra Wollerton’s flat was broken into; turned upside down and inside out.’ He looked back up at her. ‘Nothing was stolen. Not a single thing.’
‘Professionals?’ she said.
‘Oh yes, no doubt of that. Not a fingerprint in the place. Nothing. The police said it seemed as if someone knew exactly what they wanted.’ He paused. ‘You see, there’s something else curious. On the afternoon of Sarah’s funeral, her home was burgled, ransacked. Alan could find nothing missing at all.’ He frowned. ‘Burglars are normally after consumer goods, jewellery, silverware, cash. These ignored all that. Possibly they were disturbed, but it seems strange that they fo
und time to riffle through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, wouldn’t you think?’
She said nothing, a tight lump forming in her throat.
‘Now you understand, perhaps, why I decided to come and see you in person, and not risk a telephone call?’
Monty nodded bleakly. The man was irritating her slightly and yet there was something about him that prevented her from dismissing him totally; sincerity. ‘You are making some very big suppositions, Mr Wentworth.’
‘Yes, and I might be quite wrong. Let’s hope I am.’
‘And how can I help you in all this?’
‘I need someone inside Bendix Schere to dig out more information. Sarah used to talk to me about you and your father’s integrity. I hoped perhaps – under the circumstances – I – ah – might persuade you to have a go for me? In confidence, of course. No names, nothing to connect you.’
She sat, thinking hard for some moments, trying to organize her thoughts. She looked back at him, suddenly feeling very apprehensive, as if the darkness outside were pressing in hard all around her. ‘Tell me what you need,’ she said. ‘And I’ll try.’
21
London. Monday 7 November, 1994
Shortly after ten o’clock, Monty drove the MG down off the Westway ramp, the small wipers clumping away almost uselessly against the rain. Two politicians were arguing about Bosnia on the radio, and an intermittent dribble of water fell on to her forehead from a patched rip in the roof. She had gone into their old laboratory first thing to search for some files Conor Molloy needed, and had hoped that by driving into London a couple of hours later than normal she would miss the rush-hour jams, but the traffic was still bad.
She felt tired and irritable, having barely slept. Her mood had been swinging throughout the night from shock and sadness at the news of Sarah Johnson’s death to confusion about Bendix Schere. Was Hubert Wentworth mad? Paranoid? Or was there something in what he’d suggested?