Crowe glanced down at his notepad again. ‘A reporter called Zandra Wollerton.’
Gunn nodded. ‘She was asking questions about Maternox a couple of weeks ago.’
‘She was? Why didn’t someone tell me?’
‘We checked her out at the time; she didn’t seem to have any information worth worrying about.’
Crowe’s eyes were really blazing now. ‘Who made that assessment?’
Gunn swallowed. ‘I did, sir – I didn’t think it was worth troubling you.’
Crowe’s fingers visibly whitened as he squeezed them together. ‘I’m not convinced you are handling this whole thing very well, Major Gunn. I trust there is nothing in your private life distracting you from your duties?’
‘No, sir,’ he said coolly, wondering at the back of his mind how the hell he was going to pacify Nikky. On the subject of private lives, he had often wondered about Crowe’s. The Chief Executive was married but childless. Gunn had met Ursula Crowe on a number of occasions; a ferociously intellectual, humourless woman as frost-bound as her husband; they were welcome to each other. ‘I’ll get on to this Zandra Wollerton immediately.’
Crowe sat back in his chair. ‘I would suggest you find out who owns this newspaper. The chances are we spend money advertising with the group.’ He looked at the Director of Security again and raised his eyebrows.
‘Of course, Dr Crowe.’ Gunn smiled. ‘I get your drift.’
31
Conor stared at Monty, quietly elated by her remark. Her stock had just risen dramatically in his view, and he had to make an effort not to reveal his excitement. Aware of the possibility someone might be listening, he lowered his voice: ‘You mean that? You really think Seals’ death was no accident?’
She took a few moments to gather her thoughts, wondering if she ought to retract before she dug herself in any deeper. She did not know this American, had only had one real conversation with him before, and had no idea where his loyalties lay. Until just a few moments ago she had presumed they lay with the company, but something in the way he had asked the question made her realize she was wrong. The suspicion in his voice had been as unmistakable as her reply had been spontaneous.
She felt suddenly very frightened, the implications gusting in her mind like the first hints of an oncoming gale. She shivered. Thought about the journalist, Hubert Wentworth, Deputy News Editor, distraught at his daughter’s death. The bolshy young female reporter, Zandra Wollerton, who’d had her flat broken into by a pervert who had stolen her knickers. Jake Seals covered in acid. The detective, Levine, who had said Seals was drunk.
Was there enough there to justify an accusation that Jake Seals had been deliberately killed? Logic told her that there was not, that she was emotional from tiredness, fear, stress, that what she had said to Conor Molloy was just a knee-jerk response. ‘I – I –’ she found herself being drawn into his warm, hazelnut eyes as she replied. Trust me, they were saying. Trust yourself. Trust your instincts! ‘I don’t know why I said that,’ she stated finally.
Something flashed across his face, just a fleeting change of expression that was gone almost before she had time to register it, and she realized then, beyond any doubt, that he knew something he was holding back from her. But what? She eased the plate of fish away with trembling fingers; it was distracting her.
Conor saw the confusion in her eyes, aware that he had pushed her. But not too far. The confusion was real; there were doubts, he could read them loud and clear.
God, she was attractive, he thought. Even without makeup and with all she had been through today, she looked lovely. Her skin had a fresh, clear lustre, the blue of her eyes shone in gorgeous contrast with the colour of her hair; he looked at her slender white neck disappearing into the slack folds of her hospital gown, looked back at her face with its cute curl of a nose and its generous mouth that gave her an appeal that was increasing with every moment he spent in her presence.
I want you, Montana Bannerman, he thought. I really want you. I even adore your crazy name.
He tried to concentrate his mind on the real purpose of his visit. Then she smiled at him and his resolve weakened as he could almost feel her warmth engulfing him.
‘I don’t know what I believe right now. I need a night’s sleep to clear my head,’ she said, still unsure what to make of him. She was in shock, that much she did know, and shock could play havoc with your emotions. But something about this man made her feel so comfortable that she did not want him to leave, wished they could simply change the subject and chat about something different. She regretted her remark now, but couldn’t find a way to retract it without looking foolish.
God, if he started telling people in the company she believed that Jake Seals had been murdered, what then? She did not imagine Sir Neil Rorke would take too kindly to her spreading that kind of rumour. She could end up out on her ear, and her father damaged by implication.
‘Look,’ she said again, ‘I – I don’t know why I said that.’
‘Perhaps because you meant it?’ he prodded gently.
She shook her head. ‘No. It was a tragic accident – it must have been. Anyhow, with all the security, no one could have got in and attacked him. And who would have wanted to?’
Conor Molloy said nothing, waiting for her to go on.
‘Animal Rights fanatics? We had problems with them ourselves in Berkshire,’ she said. ‘They broke into our animal house one night and released all the rabbits and mice. They sprayed slogans on the outside walls a couple of times. But surely they’re not organized enough to break into a building like the Bendix?’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
‘What do you think?’
‘In any normal company there’d be all kinds of rumours flying around by now,’ he said. ‘In Bendix Schere there aren’t any; just a wall of silence. All I heard is that he tripped holding a half-gallon Winchester bottle. So if he tripped, why didn’t it just fall on the floor? How the hell did he get it all over his head?’
‘He fell and the bottle fell on to him?’ she suggested.
‘Was the bottle smashed when you saw it?’
‘I – I didn’t look for the bottle. There was glass everywhere, though, so I presume it must have been.’
‘If the bottle fell on to him, surely he’d have cushioned it, and it wouldn’t have broken?’
‘It could easily have bounced on to the floor.’
‘Sure,’ he nodded in agreement, then drew a breath. ‘For the acid to have poured over him, the cap must have been off. Do lab staff normally carry chemicals that lethal with the cap off?’
‘No.’
‘So doesn’t it strike you as odd that Seals did?’
‘I hadn’t thought about that.’ She wondered if the information the detective had given her that Seals was drunk had got round the company yet. ‘Maybe if he hadn’t been feeling well – perhaps he wasn’t concentrating?’ she said, testing.
‘You knew the man,’ he said. ‘Would that have been in character?’
She hesitated. ‘No.’
‘Was he the sort of person to have turned up drunk?’
Their eyes locked. She thought carefully before replying. ‘No.’
‘I can see you’re tired,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk about this when you’re feeling better – maybe I could buy you lunch one day next week?’
‘I’d like that,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘So would I. Very much.’
As he stood up, she said, ‘Mr Molloy – will you – not tell anyone what I said, you know, about – about it not being an accident?’
He raised a finger to his lips. ‘Not a soul.’
Some hours later Monty was awoken by a click and saw a pool of light spill into the dark room. A shadowy figure came in, a nurse, she presumed.
‘Whrs thrrr?’ she said sleepily.
The figure stood in front of the bed, as if checking to see she was all right, then seemed to duck and fiddle with something. A fe
w moments afterwards the door closed again.
32
London. Thursday 10 November, 1994
The presenter was urbane, his face caked in stage make-up to give the illusion of a tan. He addressed the camera quizzically, as if it was an uninvited guest at a party: ‘Genetic engineering – a good or a bad thing? If you were born with the gene of an illness that might disable you or kill you in later life, would you want to be told? If you were informed that the baby you have just conceived is carrying the gene of a fatal or crippling disease, would you want to abort that unborn child?’
He stepped forward into the studio audience and thrust his microphone into a woman’s face. ‘Susan Bennett is a carrier of the cystic fibrosis gene; she and her husband have made a conscious decision not to have children because of the risk of passing it on to them.’
Monty lay back in the hospital bed, her head cushioned by pillows, enjoying the rare luxury of watching morning television. The subject of genes was everywhere, she thought. You could barely open the papers, turn on the radio or television, without coming across a new discovery or a debate, and she found that exciting. The part she enjoyed most about working for her father was the feeling of being a privileged insider on the hottest scientific topic of the age.
She felt better today; her head was clearer, although her eyes still smarted a bit, and her throat and lungs were a little raw.
The Daily Mail lay folded on the tray in front of her. There was a small piece on page 15 about the death of Jake Seals, under the heading ‘Lab Death Horror’, in which she was mentioned. Montana Bannerman, 29, daughter of Nobel Prize winning genetics scientist Dr Richard Bannerman, was detained in hospital suffering from shock and respiratory problems.
Apparently several reporters had tried to see her yesterday but her father had fended them off, and left strict instructions that only friends and colleagues were to be allowed to visit. The room smelled like a conservatory. Three more bouquets had arrived in the past hour since breakfast, one from her friend Anna Sterling, one from Polly and Richard Maguire with whom she had stayed last weekend in Bath, and one from an uncle and aunt – her mother’s sister – whom she realized, guiltily, she hadn’t seen for a couple of years. Ever since her mother’s death her father had been unable to cope with the relatives on that side; they reminded him, particularly his sister-in-law, too painfully of what he had lost.
There was a brief knock, then her door opened. Monty looked round, expecting to find a medic and was surprised, instead, to see the young reporter, Zandra Wollerton. She was clutching a small tape-recorder. Her fingernails were still painted green.
‘Ms Bannerman! Hello!’ She closed the door as if she owned the place, then sat down beside Monty, ignoring the television. A red AIDS awareness ribbon hung from her lapel.
‘Hello,’ Monty said politely, but not pleased by the intrusion, particularly as she was interested in the debate on the television.
‘I heard the story down the wire and came straight up here yesterday, but they wouldn’t let me see you.’
‘How did you get in this morning?’
‘I told the battleaxe down the corridor I was your private secretary,’ she replied proudly, switching on the recorder and holding it angled towards Monty. ‘You were the first person to arrive on the scene, I gather?’
Alarm bells began ringing in Monty’s brain. The reporter was acting as if she was in the midst of a feeding frenzy. ‘Yes, I was.’
‘I understand you cradled the dying man in your arms while you were waiting for the ambulance?’
‘No I – I didn’t do that. Not exactly.’
‘But you did injure yourself trying to save his life, didn’t you?’
Monty shook her head. ‘That sounds rather more heroic than it actually was. I’m afraid I didn’t do much at all. By the time I got there it –’
‘There’s a rumour that Mr Seals was drunk. Would you say that he appeared so?’
The question angered Monty. ‘No, I would not! He was a –’
She hesitated, telling herself not to rise to the bait. She needed to stay calm. Anything she said could be twisted in print. It had happened to her before and she had learned some bitter lessons. ‘Mr Seals was a professional in a highly responsible position. It’s inconceivable that he would have come into work drunk.’
‘That isn’t what I’ve heard from the police,’ Zandra Wollerton said.
‘Seems like you know more than I do,’ Monty replied tersely. It riled her that after their serious talk on Tuesday the only thing the reporter now seemed interested in was scoring a few Brownie points with a speculative sensation.
Zandra Wollerton stopped the tape. ‘The police took a statement from a girl Mr Seals took out Tuesday night. She said he had been drinking heavily and was extremely drunk when he left her at half past two in the morning.’ She started the tape again.
‘It was some hours later that the accident happened,’ Monty said, feeling a little relieved. If it was true that he’d been drunk after all, then it made the chances that it was all a ghastly accident more probable.
‘He was at work very early. Did he always do that? And you?’
Monty took a deep breath, buying time, feeling battered by the relentless questioning. ‘I often go in early, yes. I’m under pressure at the moment.’
‘Do you feel there might be any connection between Mr Seals’ death and the fact that three women have died giving birth to Cyclops Syndrome babies after taking the Maternox fertility drug manufactured by Bendix Schere?’
Monty stared wonderingly at the sincere face in front of her. Dangerous question, she thought. Aloud she said, ‘I can’t see any possible grounds for making such a connection.’
There was an uncomfortable silence between them. The reporter switched off the tape. ‘Is there anything you’d like to talk about off the record? I mean, I thought perhaps you might want to be a little more helpful …’
‘That’s all I have to say, I’m afraid.’
The girl pulled a card out of her pocket and handed it to Monty. Her voice softened, changing from interrogator to friend. ‘If you think of anything else at all relevant, my direct line, home number and mobile are on this.’
Monty laid it on her tray without looking at it. ‘Of course.’
‘Nice talking to you again, Ms Bannerman. Hope you get better quickly,’ she said chirpily.
Monty smiled at her. There was a good girl under there, beneath the ‘tough reporter’ carapace. Wentworth was right about her, she would go far. But not at the expense of the Bannermans’ goodwill at Bendix Schere.
The reporter hitched her bag jauntily on to her shoulder. ‘I haven’t finished my investigations into Bendix Schere,’ she said. ‘Not by a long chalk.’
33
Barnet, North London. 1946
Daniel Judd, standing naked, closed the circle with an arc of the poker he used as his ceremonial sword. He had moved his bedroom table into the centre of the circle earlier, and draped it in black cloth. It was a few minutes to midnight and his mother had gone to bed a couple of hours ago; he was pretty certain she was asleep.
The first month after his father’s funeral had been good; his mother had been subdued, numbed by shock. For the first time in Daniel’s life – except for a blissful fortnight when she’d been sick with flu – she had been no trouble at all. Then the shock had begun to subside and anger replaced it.
Her anger had, naturally, been focused entirely on himself.
It was his sins, she said, that had brought God’s wrath on the family. God had killed Daniel’s father because He was angry at Daniel. God had taken her husband to punish her for producing such a wicked son: a son who was insolent, who dared to question the existence of the Almighty. Who questioned everything around him.
He remembered her face four days ago, after church, when he had questioned the vicar about Satan. He had read a book in the library written by a man called Aleister Crowley that said Christians had ki
lled hundreds of thousands of people for not believing in their religion, but that Satanists had not killed any for not believing in theirs. It had been a simple question, he thought. He had merely asked the vicar why that made Christians better than Satanists.
His mother had almost torn his ear off. She had dragged him all the way home by it, twisting it like a dishcloth, then had slapped him in the face until he could barely see. After that she had forced him to wash his mouth out with soap, and locked him in his bedroom whilst she read biblical tracts aloud on the other side of the door.
On the table inside the circle lay the page of a grimoire he had torn from a library book, a small ball of dough he had taken from the pantry, a row of his mother’s hairs that he had combed from her hairbrush, a safety pin, a length of twine, a pair of scissors and a shoebox. A black candle was burning and he had already purified the room with salt and water.
He closed his eyes, visualized his mother’s face, then opened them again and whispered the words of the incantation printed on the page before him. He finished by saying:
‘Be damned! Be damned!
My power is cursing you,
My power is hexing you,
You are completely under my spell.
Be damned! Be damned!’
Next he rolled the ball of dough between the palms of his hands, making it elongate. Pulling a strip off he elongated that as well and pulled two lengths from it. The arms, he thought. Then he created the legs, the head and the torso, and assembled the effigy. Using the point of the safety pin, he sculpted features in the face, then pressed the hairs on to the skull, cementing them in place with more dough.
‘Mother,’ he whispered, proudly staring at his handiwork. ‘You are under my spell now. Oh yes, you are!’
He took the opened safety pin, pushed the point through the lower and upper lips he had just fashioned and closed the pin. Careful not to break or pull them off, he bent the arms back then, using some of the twine, tied them together.
He picked up the effigy, raised it in the air and held it aloft whilst he read out more incantations written in a language he did not understand, hoping that he was pronouncing them correctly. After this he laid the effigy in the shoebox, the inside of which was lined with a strip of black satin. Like a coffin.