Alchemist

  He replaced the receiver and downed the remainder of his whisky. Then he called the number of his apartment in London.

  The phone rang, unanswered. He checked his watch. It was a quarter to five. A quarter to ten in England. He tried again, in case he’d got a wrong number, but immediately heard the same tone again. You could almost tell from the way the phone rang when a place was empty, he thought. He hoped he had not made a serious mistake leaving Monty on her own, and that she was simply out for the evening. He had reckoned they would all be safe until Dr Bannerman had finished his tests on the Maternox. After that, he had a feeling things were going to get very rough indeed. That hadn’t started already, had it?

  A quarter to ten. Something did not feel right. What the hell had happened to her?

  89

  Gunn sat at his desk, sipped his Styrofoam cup of sugarless tea and screwed up his face at the taste. Nikky had been making comments about his girth and, as usual with her, he had been unable to tell whether she was joking or not.

  He tensed his stomach muscles then rapped his solar plexus several times with his balled fist. Hard as iron. Flat. No damned paunch at all; no flab. OK, perhaps if he let the muscles go slack, completely slack, then there was a bit of loose flesh. But heck, what middle-aged man didn’t have some kind of a –

  Shit. Middle aged! That was the problem. He was judging himself against other men of his own age – not those of her age.

  Hence no sugar in the tea; hence the cottage cheese salad he’d had for lunch, and the hour he’d booked for himself in the hydro that evening.

  A flashing icon on his computer screen told him he had a new eMail message. It had been flashing at regular intervals throughout the afternoon, but he’d been too occupied to respond. He hit the key to open his mail box, then ran his eye down the idents of the senders and the summary lines, checking for those he was particularly expecting, and stopped at the third one down.

  Jon McLusky. Re: Search Molloy

  McLusky was his counterpart in the US, based at Bendix Schere’s Maryland plant. He moved the cursor and double clicked.

  Major Gunn:

  Reference your request check qualifications of Mr Conor Molloy: you informed me the following: 1981–7 Stanford University. Biochemistry degree followed by Masters in Organic Chemistry. 1987–9 Carnegie Mellon. Molecular Biology doctorate.

  1989–92 Harvard Law School. Bar and Patent Office examinations.

  1992–4 Group Patents and Agreements, Merck Pharmaceuticals Corp.

  Something strange here: Merck checks out as does Harvard Law School, but previous biog does not: Carnegie Mellon and Stanford have no record of Molloy.

  Ascertained also that no records exist of him in any of the background information supplied by you, nor can I find any tallying records of birth in the Public Records Office. Seems like you could have a problem. Please advise what further action you require.

  Gunn cursed, wishing to hell he had acted on his original gut feelings about Conor Molloy. Something had felt wrong about him from the beginning.

  It was company policy to take a minimum of two references from previous employers or academic institutions, plus two professional referees. The references Molloy had had from Harvard, and in particular from Merck, were outstanding. Gunn knew he should have checked further back at the time, but Merck were an immensely professional company and he figured they would have done all that when they’d first taken the patent attorney on, and if the guy was good enough for them, he was good enough for Bendix Schere.

  He pulled out Conor Molloy’s file: attached to the letters from Harvard and Merck was a sound personal character reference from a Baltimore lawyer called Michael Clovis, and another from a physician named Dr Robert Melville in Charlottesville. He scanned both documents into the computer then eMailed them back to Jon McLusky asking him to check out the two referees.

  An hour later McLusky came back to him: Michael Clovis had indeed been a partner in a law firm in Baltimore. But he had died four years before the date on Conor Molloy’s reference. And Dr Melville had died one year before the date on his testimonial.

  Gunn stared bleakly at the eMail. He now had two major problems on his hands. The first was Conor Molloy himself. The second, and the one that was worrying him every bit as much, was how to ensure Dr Crowe did not find out about this blunder.

  Angry at himself, and taking it out on McLusky, he hit the keys hard tapping out his reply:

  Find out who the hell Conor Molloy really is.

  90

  Monty’s guilt about going against Conor’s advice increased sharply as she walked into the elegant foyer of the Strand Palace Hotel.

  She had been churning over the pros and cons, and each time she arrived at the same conclusions: that she’d had to go to the police, and that she would be able to convince them to act discreetly.

  As she walked towards the rear of the lobby in search of the lounge, she heard her name called and looked round, recognizing Detective Superintendent Levine instantly.

  He was striding towards her. His close-cropped black hair and small facial features gave him the air of purposeful efficiency she recalled clearly from their one previous meeting in her room at the hospital.

  He held out a hand. His grip was robotic, and he retained Monty’s own hand for several seconds, staring her straight in the eye as if deploying a salesman’s technique.

  ‘Very nice to see you again, Miss Bannerman.’

  She found herself feeling awkward now she was actually face to face with him. This was a high-ranking police officer and what she was about to tell him could have dramatic consequences for one of the world’s largest companies, and result in prison sentences for those involved.

  Levine directed her to a secluded niche behind two massive potted plants and they sat down, Monty in an armchair, the detective on the sofa beside her. A waiter came over and she asked for coffee. Levine ordered tea.

  ‘So, you have some information about the death of Mr Seals that you want to talk to me about?’ Monty was given a smile of encouragement.

  She remembered the need to be circumspect. ‘I – I would just like to clarify the confidentiality aspect – between us – first.’

  He raised a placatory hand, and Monty noticed a single gold band on his wedding finger. ‘Unless you tell me otherwise, this entire conversation is off the record, all right?’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  He gestured for her to start.

  She told him everything, from the first approach of Hubert Wentworth, the deaths of Jake Seals, Zandra Wollerton, Walter Hoggin, Dr Corbin and Charley Rowley. The breakins at Sarah Johnson’s, Zandra Wollerton’s, the Kingsleys’ and her own home. Conor’s discovery of the Medici File, and the tests her father was now doing.

  Levine listened, interrupting her only to clarify the occasional point. Most of all, he seemed intrigued by the discrepancy relating to Rowley’s death, and he was particularly interested to know what progress her father had made with his analysis of the Maternox.

  When she had finished, Monty sat awkwardly; she wondered whether Levine would take her story seriously.

  ‘Who else have you spoken to about all this?’ he asked.

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Just your father, Mr Wentworth and Mr Molloy?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been very anxious not to do anything that could jeopardize my father’s relationship with the company. I didn’t want to cause waves and then find we have totally the wrong end of the stick.’

  Levine’s face gave nothing away. ‘I can appreciate your concerns, Miss Bannerman, and you’ve done the right thing coming to me.’ He glanced at his watch and there was a distant look in his eyes for a moment, as if he was turning his mind to his next engagement. ‘It would obviously be unwise to take any action before we know the results of the tests. Until then I don’t feel I have sufficient evidence that you’re in physical danger to warrant the costs of putting you and your father under twenty-four-hour
police guard. But what I will do is put out an immediate request for passing attention on your homes and on your laboratory in Berkshire; and if you let me have your registration numbers, I’ll have my patrols keep an eye out for your vehicles. I also have a colleague in the Washington Police Department – I’ll make sure you’re both looked after when you’re over there, and Mr Molloy.’

  She thought she saw a spark of warmth in his eyes and felt safer. ‘Thank you.’

  He slipped a card out of his wallet and handed it to her. ‘You can get me on these numbers day and night – there’s my direct office line and my home number. Don’t feel embarrassed about calling if anything frightens you; get on to me immediately.’

  He raised a hand to summon the bill, saying, ‘If the British taxpayers can’t afford to protect you, the very least they can do is buy you a cup of coffee.’ He looked so serious as he said it, she could almost believe he wasn’t joking.

  Monty left the hotel feeling reassured by Levine’s promise to arrange police vigilance for her and her father, and Conor.

  As she walked round into the narrow Covent Garden street that ran along the back of the hotel, she began to head for the bay where she had parked the MG.

  ‘Monty! Hi! What are you doing here?’

  She turned, startled, to see Anna Sterling, laden with carrier bags, hurrying towards her.

  ‘What am I doing? What are you doing?’ Monty said, delighted to see her friend and at the same time embarrassed by the secret she was still keeping from her.

  Anna looked wild, in leopard-skin leggings, her wavy hair freshly coiffured into the style of Struwwelpeter. ‘I’ve been spending!’ she said. ‘I’m celebrating!’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  Anna nodded vigorously. ‘I’ve just been with Mark to Professor Campbell’s ultrasound clinic in Harley Street – he’s the top guy in London. I had my ten-weeks scan – God, Monty, it’s incredible! I actually saw my baby! It’s about an inch long – I could see the heart beating, the arms and legs moving, tiny little jerks! He said I’m past the danger point, so I’m going to tell everyone that I’m pregnant now – isn’t that great!’

  ‘Terrific …’ Monty said, trying to reciprocate the same enthusiasm. ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘What are you up to?’

  Monty shrugged. ‘Been window-shopping. I was just about to go home.’

  ‘Why don’t we have a drink? Have a bite of supper if you like? Mark’s gone to his annual old boys’ dinner – he won’t be home till late, and pissed as a rat. I know a great Chinese restaurant just round the corner.’

  ‘Sure,’ Monty said, glad of the outing, but not at all at ease with her friend.

  They’d drunk one bottle of Australian Chardonnay between them and had started on a second; Monty was feeling pleasantly woozy.

  Shouldn’t drink any more, she knew, because she had to drive back to Conor’s apartment, but right now she was beyond caring. She felt really relaxed by the booze, it made her feel more comfortable with Anna, and helped her cope with her friend’s incessant bubbling recitals of every single detail of her scan. And it helped relieve the pain of missing Conor.

  They’d nearly finished the second bottle and Monty was vaguely aware that she was the one doing most of the drinking; Anna kept telling her the obstetrician only permitted her one glass a day.

  It was after eleven when they left the restaurant and parted, Monty airily dismissing Anna’s offer of a lift. She climbed unsteadily into the MG. Definitely should not be driving, she thought, squinting to get the key into the ignition, then groping hastily beneath the dash for the hidden alarm switch, only just remembering it in time.

  The drive to Fulham was a blur. A couple of times she debated whether to abandon the car and take a taxi the rest of the way. But she wound down the window, and drove on with the bitter night air blasting her face, trying to sober up a little.

  She suddenly found herself driving down Conor’s road with no memory at all of getting there. And it wasn’t until she’d climbed out of the car that she realized she’d completely forgotten to look out for anyone following her. But she wasn’t bothered; the booze had given her courage, and she glared at the pools of light and darkness in the quiet street with a belligerent expression. OK, you bastards, come near me if you dare, I’m not scared of you.

  She tottered up to the front door and for the first time registered just quite how drunk she was. It took her some moments to find the key and insert it, then she was in. A phone was ringing somewhere, faintly, and she looked at her watch. 11.40.

  The ringing continued, and seemed to be getting louder. Then she realized that it was coming from Conor’s apartment.

  ‘Shit.’

  She scrambled up the stairs, fought the key into the lock and almost fell into the hall. The ringing was in stereo now. Phone in the living room, phone in the bedroom. Bedroom was nearest. She lurched towards it, fending off the wall, then stepped through into pitch darkness.

  The ringing stopped.

  Deflated by the sudden anticlimax, she mouthed a silent curse and put the light on. Working out with some difficulty that it was twenty to seven in Washington, she thought it must have been Conor calling.

  The flat felt very quiet and it was strange being there without him. Lonely, very lonely suddenly. The effects of the wine were wearing off, and she needed sleep.

  Parrrrp … parrrrp … parrrrp … parrrrp … parrrrp …

  The sound registered first in her subconscious.

  Parrrrp … parrrrp … parrrrp … parrrrp … parrrrp …

  Then she sat up in a cold sweat, trying to remember, in the pitch darkness, where she was.

  Parrrrp … parrrrp … parrrrp … parrrrp … parrrrp …

  The sound was faint, familiar. You heard sounds like that all the time in London; you heard it anywhere that cars were parked, these days. Except this one was even more familiar.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ She sprang out of bed, stumbled through into the living room weakly illuminated by the orange glow of the street lighting outside. She ran to the window and stared out in disbelief.

  The bonnet of her MG was open. A youth with a shaven head was standing by the passenger door looking nervously up and down the street. A companion had his head inside the engine compartment. The noise stopped abruptly; the second youth lifted his head out and slammed the bonnet shut. A tall, gangly boy in his teens with spiky hair.

  Monty hammered in fury on the windowpane. ‘Hey! Hey!’ she yelled.

  Stark naked, she ran and grabbed her mackintosh. As she did so, the phone started ringing but she ignored it. Forty seconds later she was outside and launching herself in a blind rage down the steps to the pavement.

  The MG had come to life and was reversing backwards, bumping the car behind; there was a tinkle of broken glass, fuelling her rage even more. The engine revved, the tyres screeched and she watched helplessly as her car roared out of the parking bay, snaked wildly, and began to disappear down the road.

  She raced after it, barefoot. Catch it at the end. Might catch it at the end if it had to wait to turn on to the Fulham Road, she thought.

  Suddenly the car slowed abruptly and seemed to glow from within, as if the bodywork had become translucent. The roof billowed out, then rose eerily in the air, separating from the car and winging its way several feet skywards like a gigantic bat. The cockpit filled with a ball of flames. Both doors flew open.

  Monty felt as if she had just run into an invisible wall that had jarred every bone in her body and which halted her dead in her tracks. Her ears popped. All the oxygen seemed, momentarily, to have been sucked from the street. Then a powerful shock wave rippled through her and she felt a searing blast of heat on her face.

  There was a deep, booming explosion and fragments hurtled from the MG in all directions. It tilted on to one side, slithered crazily across the road, smashed into a parked car and overturned. She could see the chassis, the exhaust and the smooth boxes of the silencers all bent outwar
ds as if gouged by a massive tin opener. Rivers of flame flowed out all around. Then there was a deep, dull KERRRUMPHH and a column of fire rose thirty feet into the atmosphere.

  Monty dived down between two parked cars. She heard a cracking sound and an object blurred past her, bounced once and fell with a clatter into the road. On her knees, gripping on to the nearest rear bumper and feeling as if she was about to throw up at any second, Monty peered out towards the fireball.

  Through the flames she could see a motionless, blackened shape lying half in and half out of the open driver’s door. It was an outstretched human.

  Lights were coming on in the houses all around her. She could hear the sound of windows and doors opening. The terrible whooshing roar of the flames. The thick, pungent stench of burning paint, and a sweeter, more sickening smell of roasting meat.

  She gagged, whimpering in shock, gripping the sharp edge of the bumper, clinging to it as if it were a life raft. She gagged again as the stench of cooking flesh became stronger; then she threw up.

  Footsteps hurried past her. Voices. Someone was screaming. She stayed where she was. It seemed an age before she heard any sirens. The image of the charred figure reanimated itself and ripped through Monty’s mind like a bolt cutter. Something drove past her, blue lights flashing, then another vehicle, then another. Fire engines; tenders; an ambulance.

  Demented banshee wails of their sirens. A police car, followed by a second; more sirens.

  Then a firm, calm voice through a loud hailer. ‘Stand back. Please, everyone stand well back.’

  Monty remained in her own small universe, crouched down beside the pool of her own vomit, concealed between the two parked cars, shivering with fear.

  Should go and speak to someone, she thought. Should tell them it’s my car. But she did not want to admit that the grotesque mangled object burning like a funeral pyre belonged to her.

  She was incapable of speaking. Incapable of explaining that whatever had been placed in the car had been intended for her.

  91