Alchemist

  ‘Take it.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I can see how much you love it. How much you need it. Take it. Make good use of it. Go on, it’s a gift!’

  Daniel looked at him, confused. ‘But I – I must give you something.’

  ‘You will, Daniel,’ the man said with a smile. ‘You will.’

  39

  London. Monday 14 November, 1994

  ‘You’d had no argument with Mr Seals, then?’

  Detective Constable Brine, who was seated on the far side of Monty’s desk, looked about twelve years old, she thought. He had a long thin neck on which his head was set too far forward, ginger hair cut in the style of a lavatory brush, and he wore a cheap suit that was too big for him, as if he was waiting to grow into it. His manner was as aggressive as his appearance; he reminded her of an ostrich which had once tried to peck her through the mesh in Central Park Zoo.

  It was half past twelve; she had arrived in the office shortly after nine to find that a mountain of calls and correspondence had built up during her absence. She could do without this interrogation right now.

  But Brine continued. ‘I understand Mr Seals had a bit of a reputation for – how shall we put it? – rubbing people up the wrong way?’

  ‘I always found him very helpful,’ Monty snapped back.

  ‘Well, you have to appreciate it seems odd – the pair of you in the laboratory alone, before dawn; then he has an accident and dies.’

  She drew a sharp breath, the implied accusation both wounding and angering her. ‘I suggest you check my statement. You’ll realize then that the accident had already happened before I arrived. In my opinion you are overaggressive and insensitive. I am as concerned as you are to find out the truth, but you’re not going to do it this way, OK?’

  D. C. Brine looked at her with the insolence of a scolded but unrepentant child, then stood up stiffly. ‘I have everything I need for the moment, thank you. Miss Bannerman.’

  As he left she contrasted him with the urbane Detective Superintendent Levine of last week, who had at least been courteous. What was this young rookie’s game? Levine had told her unequivocally that Seals had been drunk. Why was this man Brine trying to suggest she’d been involved? Nobody seriously considered she might have murdered Seals, did they?

  Then she wondered, darkly, if that was the reason an officer as senior as Levine had come to see her? And were they now playing the old one-two; hard cops, soft cops? The rookie deliberately riling her, trying to make her lose her temper and say something on which they could catch her out? She was not sorry when the phone rang, interrupting her thoughts, and she lifted the receiver.

  ‘It’s a Mr Best for you. Regarding the symposium Dr Bannerman’s attending in Washington next month, and I’m not getting any answer from your father’s phone.’

  The woman’s voice was becoming familiar to Monty; it was one of half a dozen polite, distant voices that spoke to her down the line from the reception pool. She had never met any of them in person and knew, almost certainly, she never would. It was all part of the Bendix Schere philosophy of keeping people apart. Divide and rule. It was the principle on which, Monty had once read, Hitler had built up Nazi Germany.

  She took the call. The organizer of the symposium – on the morality of patenting genes – was in London for a couple of days. He wondered if there was any chance of meeting up with Dr Bannerman, and also needed to know urgently whether he would like to attend a dinner for delegates, hosted by President Clinton. Monty knew her father was contemptuous of Clinton, as he was of most politicians, and asked Mr Best to let her ring back after she’d asked.

  She went into the corridor and peered through the internal window into her father’s chaotic office next door. No luck. So she tried his main laboratory, but could see no sign of her father amongst the white coats working there.

  She was just wondering whether to go back to her office and beep his pager when she saw a young female microbiologist walking up the corridor. Monty asked if she had seen her father anywhere and was told he was in Lab 6.

  Monty hurried down to Lab 6 with a slight knot in her throat. That was where Jake Seals had died. She had gone there first thing that morning and had had a quick scout round for any sign of the Maternox tablets he’d probably had on him, but without success. It had given her the creeps being in there. She stopped outside the door and could see her father through the porthole, slotting test tubes into the rack of a water bath.

  Everything looked calm in the lab. Except as she entered she saw again the blotches of dark blisters on the white work surface, and on the speckled grey floor tiles beneath the shower where Jake Seals had lain. She had to steel herself against the wave of revulsion that rose inside her.

  There was an atmosphere of almost studied normality, as if everyone was concentrating more fully on their work than ever, in order to try to blot out the horror of what had happened. She walked quietly between the benches up to her father, and watched his face. As a child she used to love being with him whilst he worked. There was a serenity in his expression when he was concentrating that always made her feel very secure; it was as though, as long as he was a part of science, the world would always be all right.

  He looked less robust than usual today, drawn and slightly despondent, and she knew how badly he must be taking Seals’ death.

  He always felt a deep sense of responsibility for his colleagues, and as he had driven her up to London that morning she was aware through words unspoken that he did not totally believe her reason for being in the lab so early on the fatal day.

  He switched on the agitator and the rack of test tubes began to vibrate. Then he turned to acknowledge her.

  ‘I’ve just had the organizer of the Washington symposium on the line – Mr Best. He’s in London and would like to meet up with you for an hour if you have time.’

  ‘If he came over here I could meet him for a quick lunch.’

  ‘He already has a lunch meeting.’

  Bannerman shook his head. ‘Can’t otherwise.’

  ‘I’ll tell him it’s not possible. Now, hear this … He also has an invitation for you from the White House – to attend a dinner hosted by President Clinton during the symposium.’

  The scientist peered closely at the contents of the vibrating test tubes. ‘I don’t want to meet that shyster.’

  ‘I think you should go, Daddy.’

  ‘What the hell for?’

  ‘Because if you don’t, people will think you haven’t been invited.’

  He smiled at her. ‘I suppose you’ve already accepted for me?’

  ‘No – but I intend to.’

  He smiled again. ‘So I don’t have much say in the matter – as usual?’

  ‘Not a lot!’

  ‘Are you invited as well?’

  ‘I’m not sure if I’m coming with you yet – I was going to see how the workload went here.’

  ‘Tell them I want you to come to the dinner too.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  He looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘Got any lunch plans today?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Want to come to the canteen with me, about one?’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ she said.

  He frowned, suddenly. ‘Darling – can you be a bit more careful when you take things out of my filing cabinets. I’ve just wasted half an hour trying to find some of my notes on the psoriasis genes – you’d put them back in the wrong place.’

  Monty shook her head. ‘I haven’t touched your psoriasis files.’

  ‘I don’t mean today – last week, perhaps, before the accident?’

  ‘Not guilty. They probably got muddled during the move.’

  He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I suppose that’s what must have happened. Or maybe I misplaced them myself.’ He leaned forward and squinted at the test tubes again. ‘Getting older and more confused every day,’ he mumbled. ‘Promise you’ll pull the plug w
hen I’ve gone completely gaga?’

  She smiled, cheered by his irrepressible spirit. ‘You’ve been gaga all my life. How will I know if you’ve got any worse?’

  ‘Oh, you’ll be able to tell – it’ll be when I start listening to advice.’

  Conor Molloy’s office door opened and he could just see Charley Rowley’s head, and his daffodil-yellow tie, over the piles of documents that were stacked on his own desk and rising in precarious columns from the floor.

  ‘Morning, Captain America. Good weekend?’ Rowley was laden with another bundle of documents and searched the remaining floor space for somewhere to put them.

  ‘OK – I guess. I kind of worked most of it.’ Conor shifted a couple of files sideways. ‘How about yourself?’

  ‘Ancestor worship. Had to go and see the aged p’s.’

  ‘P’s?’

  ‘Parents. Thirty-second wedding anniversary, poor old things.’ Then he grinned. ‘I’m thirty-two – always been a touchy subject.’

  Conor grinned too.

  ‘Hey, can’t spend all your time working – makes Jack a dull boy. When are you moving into your flat?’

  ‘Wednesday.’

  ‘Good stuff. Need a hand, let me know?’

  ‘Thanks – appreciate it – but I think the Human Resources people have got it in hand.’

  Rowley seemed chirpy. ‘I’m going down to my cottage in Sussex next weekend – why don’t you come? Give you a break from London and see a bit of the countryside.’

  ‘Thank you, squire.’

  ‘Cousin of mine, Mike Keehan, has got the best antiques emporium in Britain – down in Hove. Famous place called Michael Norman Antiques. Kit you out with some furniture for your pad – unless you intend going modern?’

  ‘No, I love antiques – if I can afford them.’

  ‘Mike’ll sort you out. You’ll be gobsmacked by the place.’ Rowley raised the stack of documents a few inches higher. ‘Where do you want all this?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Published data on human trials on the Bannerman dental cavities genebuster.’

  Conor stared at it despairingly. ‘More published data?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  Conor shook his head and pointed around the room. ‘Did you ever see so much goddamned published data in your life?’

  ‘Got to admire a man of principle.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’ He pointed to one of the last remaining gaps on the floor. ‘Want to dump it there?’

  Rowley put the bundle down and left. Conor turned his attention back to his screen. He had forty eMail messages, and he replied to the thirty that needed an answer. When he had finished, he sifted through the pile of junk mail on his desk, and followed that by flicking through Human Genome News and Scrip. Then he hit a couple of keys on his computer terminal and punched up the file containing the specification notes he had begun to draft for the first US patent application for Dick Bannerman’s work.

  He typed a heading: ‘Recombinant Protein’, leant back in his chair and read through a sheet of notes listing items he needed from Montana Bannerman. Wondering if she was back at work today, he dialled her extension.

  A secretary answered and informed him that Miss Bannerman had gone to lunch. She was expected back at two. He looked at the clock on his computer screen. It was five past one. The morning had flown. He logged off, deciding to take a quick lunch break himself and eyed the paper on his desk. You weren’t supposed to leave any open documents on your desk even during a lunch break, but there was just too much to clear away. He decided to take a risk on no one checking up, and headed for the lift up to the thirtieth-floor canteen.

  It was officially called the canteen, although in style it looked more like a smart brasserie, and in size it felt like the departure lounge of an airport. All the tables were stainless steel, and the chairs were hi-tech tubes of twisted steel. The floor was covered in the usual lush emerald carpeting.

  The place was packed, although Conor noticed one or two empty tables, and there was a subdued hubbub of conversation. As he joined the short queue at one of the self-service counters, he saw the blonde frizz of Montana Bannerman’s hair right in front of him. She was wearing a navy blazer, a matching short skirt, and he glanced fleetingly down, with a prick of lust, at her shapely legs.

  She was talking to a man in his late fifties, with a bald dome and long grey hair hanging down over his collar. Even from behind, Conor recognized the image he’d seen in photographs of Dr Bannerman.

  He waited for a lull in their chat, then said, quietly: ‘Good to see you back, Miss Bannerman. Are you better?’

  She turned and gave him a warm smile. ‘Mr Molloy! Hi, thank you, I’m much better. Have you – er – met my father?’

  ‘No, I haven’t had the pleasure. How do you do, sir?’

  ‘Mr Molloy’s a patent attorney, Daddy, working on the US patents for your research.’

  Dick Bannerman shook Conor’s hand, eyeing him warily. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure how much we’re going to be able to achieve – you’ve sure published a lot of papers.’

  ‘So far as I’m concerned, the less you achieve the better,’ Dick Bannerman said sourly.

  ‘Daddy!’ Monty said.

  ‘I don’t give a bugger about patents,’ the scientist said, staring Conor Molloy straight in the eye.

  ‘Nope, well, I guess patenting genes is a pretty contentious issue right now,’ Conor replied genially.

  They had reached the counter and Dick Bannerman took two trays, handing one to Monty. Conor helped himself to another. He watched Monty’s face framed by the bright tangle of her hair as she selected her food and was pleasantly surprised to see that, in spite of her slender figure, she seemed to have a healthy appetite. He found something very attractive about women who enjoyed food.

  ‘Are you eating on your own?’ Monty asked him.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Like to join us?’

  Conor registered the look on her father’s face. ‘Don’t worry, thanks – I don’t want to intrude if you’re discussing business or something.’

  ‘We’re not,’ she said with an insistent smile.

  ‘OK, sure, thanks.’

  They found a table against the far wall, in front of a floor-to-ceiling video image of a Fragonard painting of an idyllic lakeside picnic. As they unloaded their trays and sat down, Dick Bannerman said: ‘I don’t understand why the jeepers they can’t have windows up here. Bloody daft to be on the thirtieth floor, with magnificent vistas out across London, and we have to look at videos of paintings.’

  ‘I agree with you, sir,’ Conor said.

  Bannerman stared back at him with undisguised disapproval, as if he’d been hoping for an argument, then liberally shook salt over his salad, without having tasted it.

  Monty shot an apologetic glance at Conor, who smiled back. It was evident, from just a couple of minutes in their company, that her father gave her a hard time.

  He addressed Monty direct. ‘I’m really sorry for you – all you went through last week. It must have been horrendous.’

  ‘It was,’ she said. ‘Trouble is, no one knows the long-term effect of that chemical. Just have to hope I don’t wake up one day and find my arm’s dissolved.’

  Conor winced. ‘Anyone figure out how the accident happened yet?’ He watched Monty shake her head in reply.

  ‘Do you think it’s morally right to patent genes?’ Dick Bannerman barged in without warning.

  Conor poured some Coke into his glass beaker. ‘I think the whole field of genetic science opens up more questions than it can answer.’ He glanced warily at the tables either side, but the occupants were engrossed in conversation. All the same, he lowered his voice a fraction.

  ‘Bendix Schere calls itself the world’s most caring company. But can any company that genetically engineers and patents a mutant rabbit that gets terminal cancer five days after it’s born really be
totally caring?’

  ‘Do you believe that all control over life should be the sole domain of God?’ Dick Bannerman spoke aggressively.

  ‘No, I don’t, sir.’

  ‘Are you religious?’

  Conor hesitated, caught a sudden stare from Monty and glimpsed a silver chain around her neck, inside the open collar of her white blouse. ‘I don’t practise, but I guess I have religious beliefs somewhere along the line.’

  ‘So tell me,’ the scientist said, his tone overtly hostile. ‘If you don’t think God should have total control over life, then why are you against genetic engineering?’

  The attack threw Conor for a moment. ‘I’m not against it at all. It’s just that – there’s so much scope for abuse that I believe companies have to behave responsibly.’

  ‘Is creating a rabbit that will automatically develop cancer any worse than taking a healthy rabbit and injecting it with carcinogens?’

  ‘Daddy,’ Monty said, cutting in. ‘Don’t you sometimes think the rabbit has a right to an ordinary life?’

  ‘Nothing on this planet has a divine right to anything. We have a moral obligation to treat animals humanely, and I think we do.’

  ‘I sometimes think science is progressing too fast. We don’t have time to think about the ramifications,’ Conor said, testing him.

  ‘Far as I’m concerned it doesn’t progress fast enough,’ Bannerman replied. ‘Do you like going to the dentist, Mr Mulrony?’

  ‘Molby,’ he corrected. ‘No, sir, not especially.’

  ‘You ever had cavities?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Ever tried to imagine what it was like going to the dentist fifty years ago, when he had no injection to give you and pedalled the drill by foot? Would you like to have had your appendix out a hundred years ago, strapped to a wooden bench and drunk on cheap brandy? Pharmaceuticals and technology have made the world a better place. You know why? Because they’ve got rid of pain. Very few people in the Western world have to suffer pain any more. Probably in the next quarter century we will have eliminated it altogether. If a few mutant rabbits is the price we have to pay, I can accept that. I can live with that.’