Kill&Cure

STEPHEN DAVISON

KINDLE EDITION

"Nothing is predestined: The obstacles of your past can become the gateways that lead to new beginnings."

Ralph Blum

Published By: Alice&Fred Books

Rosden House, Suite 243, 372 Old Street, London, EC1V 9AU

enquiries@aliceandfred.com; www.aliceandfred.com

on KINDLE

Copyright (c) 2009 by Stephen Davison

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

KINDLE Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon Kindle and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

British Library Cataloging in Publication Data

A record of this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-0-9560965-0-0

For Dr. Huw Davies

"Praise the bridge that carried you over." George Coleman

Prologue

He watches her struggle, her bloody head only partially visible. Gloved hands probe and encourage. Her face is now free; eyes scrunched shut.

The gloved hands ease her shoulders forwards and then Alice is out. She cries immediately. The midwife wraps her in a towel and thrusts her into his arms. He gazes at her face. She is beautiful.

* * *

A powdery film of frost covers the grass and the trees. The group huddles close. From an old copy of the Bible, the priest reads aloud. Next to him, a man trembles as a small coffin is gently lowered into the grave.

‘My baby …’

A firm hand holds his arm, supporting him. The priest begins sprinkling earth.

‘Lauren … I’m so sorry…’

The ropes are released and pulled up.

‘… I couldn’t help you …’

The man collapses to his knees and the group rush to him.

‘… I couldn’t help you … I couldn’t help you …’

1

3.07 am. Magenta Rosti is half-way through the night shift, a quarter-way through the latest James Patterson thriller and a third of the way through a cup of lukewarm coffee. She uses her fingernails to rake short, feathery clumps of her hair, as she reads. Yesterday, Michael John – the hairdresser with two first names – gave her this cut on the pretext that it would ‘lift her face’. Bullshit. The bob makes her look like her father and he was an ugly man.

The red light above the lift engages, the doors open and the silence breaks. Richard Hart emerges and stalks towards her. A blue reefer coat hangs open, and a beaten-up document case swings at his side. His strides cover the ground easily, the clack-clack from his footfalls echoing against the marble floor tiles.

She releases a lock from the plate by the desk. ‘You know what time it is?’

He checks his watch. ‘Late.’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘What’s it to you?’

She shrugs. ‘I’m just saying.’

He moves away from the security area to the door. ‘She gets poisoned by the way.’

‘What?’

‘Norma, in that book you’ve got. I’ve read it.’

He disappears from view, the door locking behind him. Rosti slams the novel shut.

Prick.

Snatching up the coffee, she takes a mouthful and rotates her chair to face the bank of monitors behind her; feeds from twenty-four security cameras stationed all over the Moorcroft Pharmaceuticals building. It’s camera five that covers James Street and within moments Hart appears on the screen. Under an orange tinge generated by the street lamps, he walks towards his parked Toyota. Rosti uses the joystick on the panel to follow him. Just before activating the central lock, he looks up to the camera and gives her the finger.

That’s when she notices the flicker at the edge of the screen. She leans forward and squints. Hart pulls open the driver’s door and throws in his case. She adjusts the camera, refocuses the lens. There it is again.

A shadow.

Hart fiddles with his keys for a moment, and suddenly the shadow moves into the light. Fully formed and travelling swiftly, it comes right up to him, smashing something heavy into the back of his skull.

Rosti drops the cup from her hand. Hart slumps forwards onto his car as dregs of coffee spill over her lap. Another blow crashes into the side of his head.

Her fingers, fattened by fear, try to work the camera, hitting the zoom just as the final blow explodes into Hart’s face, pulping his nose. The shadow turns three-quarters to the camera. That’s when she screams.

She knows who it is.

2

Stich had squeezed ten patients into the last seventy-five minutes and was now in the kids’ room for the final appointment of the morning. Ethan was on the Kiro-Kiddies bench, his face set into the headpiece, elbows snug in the armrests. His mother sat on a chair next to him.

Stich began palpating the bones in the boy’s upper back. ‘Ethan, you’re tall.’

‘I know,’ he said without moving his head. ‘I’ve grown three and a half centimetres in the last year.’

‘You carry on and you’ll be taller than me.’

‘Tell Stich where the pain is,’ said Ethan’s mum, prodding her son.

‘Here,’ he said, waving a hand over the base of his neck.

‘He’s been playing Nintendo,’ she said, holding up a small console.

‘What game, Ethan?’

‘Mariokarts!’ he shouted at the top of his voice.

Stich eased the first thoracic vertebra back into alignment. ‘But what happened to Super Monkey Ball?’

The boy wriggled. ‘Mariokarts is better. Can I sit up now?’

Stich smiled. ‘Yes, you can sit up.’

Ethan’s mum stood and helped her son from the bench. ‘What do you say?’

‘Thank you,’ whispered the boy.

Stich ruffled his hair. ‘No problem.’

The room – the one everyone called Kiro-Kiddies – was plastered with drawings from kids like Ethan. Crayon and pencil figures collected over the last five years: stick men, dinosaur splurges, yellow rabbits, dogs, cats … all of them having some sort of chiropractic treatment carried out by Stich. There were stuffed monkeys on the shelves, Mickey and Minnie on a quarter-size plastic chair, and Tigger and Pooh hanging from the ceiling on a wire. David Stichell – or Stich to all who knew him – had been practising at this chiropractic clinic since completing his pre-registration year in Guildford five years ago. The location, on the east side of London, catered to a mixed bag of patients. On the one hand, the council families from boroughs like Whitechapel and Stepney, and, on the other, bankers and traders working in the city’s financial centre.

Ethan’s family belonged to the first group.

‘Anything I can do if he complains again?’

‘Use ice,’ said Stich, amending Ethan’s notes. ‘Ten minutes every few hours.’

He clipped the paperwork together and paused. ‘How’s Callam?’

Ethan’s older brother was thirteen and having problems at school. His mum’s shoulders sagged. ‘How much time you got?’

‘That bad?’

She nodded.

Stich walked them to the front desk where Mertle, his receptionist, took Ethan’s notes. Morning session had just finished and Stich scanned the waiting room. It was non-medicalised and empty. A smattering of out of place easy chairs, magazines, and stray coffee cups awaited Mertle’s attention.

‘Put that down as a child check,’ Stich said.

‘Let me pay for this, Stich, please.’

‘Next time.’

‘You always say that.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Yes, you do.’

‘How’s Mags?’

‘My sister’s fine and you’re changing the subject.’

‘Pay me another time, when things have settled.’

She sighed. ‘What can I say?’

‘Say yes, and give my regards to Mags when you see her.’

‘You can do that yourself,’ she said, grabbing Ethan’s hand. ‘She’s working five minutes from here.’

‘Where?’

‘Moorcroft Pharmaceuticals.’

3

Stich left the reception area and headed for his office at the rear of the clinic. It was a space he’d worked hard to get just right: uncluttered enough to concentrate when in consultation, yet with enough distraction to chill out when he wasn’t. He made himself comfortable on the recliner that was squeezed into an alcove and closed his eyes for the first time in the last twenty-four hours. His right knee began to pulsate and instantly images – recent and clear – danced in and out of his head. Snapshots caught in his mind’s eye: looming shadows reaching forwards, glass chips stinging his throat. He felt removed from them as if he was watching a movie. Then that voice: ‘How can you care for a child when soon you won’t even be able to care for yourself? I’m taking her …’

‘Stich?’

The intercom burst into life.

‘Jesus, Mertle, that scared the life out of me.’

‘Sorry … forgot to tell you while you were out here. Susan’s on her way.’

‘Right now?’

‘That’s what she said.’

‘Okay.’

He flicked the system off and closed his eyes again. A scene from the Rome trip the summer before. A square – maybe Piazza Novona or Spagna. Tourists sweating in the heat; sitting on the wall beside the fountain; Alice; a vanilla sundae; squeals of delight and –

The intercom sprang to life again.

‘Stich?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sue’s here.’

‘Already?’

Stich heard his fiancée’s voice. ‘Hello, Mertle, is he free?’

‘He’s just finished, Sue. Go on through.’

Stich turned off the intercom just as Susan appeared in the doorway. She wore a white teeshirt, faded jeans and a pair of three-stripe trainers. Apart from a ponytail dancing at her neck, most of her dark, chestnut brown hair was hidden under a baseball cap. Although she worked as a bio-immunologist, Stich always felt Susan was the antithesis of her colleagues, as happy out of the lab as she was in it.

He stood up and she rushed at him, flinging her arms around his neck.

‘Hey! Susan, what is it?’ The grip on his neck didn’t let up. ‘Sweetheart, are you okay?’

Eventually she broke free, kissing his cheek and then his mouth. Once, twice, three times. A knot formed in Stich’s stomach and began to tighten. ‘Susan, you’re crying. What’s wrong?’

She sniffed. ‘Nothing, I’m just happy to see you.’

‘Happy to see me?’

She hesitated. ‘I just wanted you to know, that’s all.’

‘Susan, you’re not making sense.’

She held her hand up in front of her face. Stich could see the small diamond reflect off the light. ‘Look, it’s not every day a girl gets engaged. I’m just a bit emotional that’s all.’

‘But we got engaged four days ago.’

She swallowed and wiped her eyes. ‘Like I said, I just wanted to see you.’

He didn’t reply, but watched her face.

‘You ask too many questions,’ she said eventually. ‘You know that?’

‘That’s because I’m not getting any answers.’

‘Please …’

He opened his lips to speak but she covered them with her mouth.

* * *

They ate lunch in a Pret on Houndsditch. Susan sat up high on a plastic barstool against a gleaming aluminum counter that overlooked the street. Stich had to stand. The smell of coffee and pastries took the edge off the dankness from the road outside. Through the misted window, Stich could make out the back end of the take-out queue as it spilled onto the pavement.

‘Why the salad, Stich?’

‘I like salad.’

‘I know, but it’s lunchtime. Salad’s not exactly filling, is it?’

He had a tomato an inch from his mouth but dropped it back into the bowl. She averted her eyes.

‘Where’s this going?’

‘Nowhere.’

He wiped a napkin across his mouth. ‘I went mad at breakfast, okay?’

‘How mad?’

‘Egg, bacon, and sausage mad, all stuffed into two doorstops.’

‘Truth?’

‘Yes, truth.’

She wiped her mouth and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Good.’

‘I’m glad you approve.’

She took another bite, chewed for a few moments as if thinking and then swallowed. ‘Promise you’ll tell me straight away if you start to feel unwell.’

Stich puffed out his cheeks just as the seat next to Susan’s became free. He took it and pushed aside the last occupant’s half-eaten lunch. ‘Look, Sue, we’ve talked about this. I don’t feel unwell and I’m not going to either. I’ve lived with this for years. It hasn’t got me up till now and I don’t intend to let it start.’

‘How’s your side?’

‘I can’t even feel it.’

‘Honestly?’

‘Honestly. I’d tell you if I could. Look, I’m here for the long haul. I’m not even thinking about what’s going on inside my body. I’ve shut it out. All I care about is being around to share my life with you and Alice. The rest is just background. Besides, I’m on Krenthol. You of all people should know how good that drug is, so I’ll be just fine.’

She watched his face.

‘What?’ he demanded.

‘Nothing.’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry for getting on to you.’

He cupped her face softly in his hands. ‘I love you getting on to me.’

‘Liar.’

4

They huddled together under Stich’s umbrella on the ten-minute walk back to the clinic, picking their way past puddles and the crush of the lunch crowd on Bishopsgate.

‘So, you set for tonight?’ Susan asked, wiping rain splashes from the back of her jeans.

‘Yep.’

‘And you’re picking me up at 5.00, right?’

‘From the lab.’

She nodded. ‘We go to Maxi’s first and then on to Truro.’

‘You’re sure you don’t want to go to Immteck first?’ asked Stich.

‘Positive.’

‘Not even for a Laurence Tench function?’

She shook her head. ‘Especially not for that. You packed?’

‘I did it this morning.’

‘And Alice?’

‘Loni’s taking care of her.’

‘Are you okay with that?’

‘She adores Loni.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’ They crossed to a traffic island. ‘I know it’s difficult for you to leave Alice, baby, but I really think you need these couple of days. We both do.’

They came up to the edge of James Street. On one corner, Andersons the insurers, and on the other, the tinted window façade of the Moorcroft Pharmaceutical building. Stich was first to notice the yellow police tape strung out around two thirds of the road. Just the other side of it was a posse of people gathering around a thickset man.

‘Stich, where are you going?’

‘To take a look.’

‘It’s police business,’ Susan said, pulling him back.

‘So?’

‘So, leave it to the police.’

‘Come on, it won’t be for long. I’m interested that’s all.’

‘But you never stop for stuff like this. You hate rubber-neckers.’

‘It’s just for today.’

‘Stich, I don’t have time, I need to be back in the lab for 1.30.’

‘Two minutes.’

Further behind the police line were half a dozen people engaged in activities that, until now, Stich had only ever seen on television. He watched one of them on a ladder inspecting a CCTV unit bolted to a sidewall.

‘Hey, Susan!’ A woman bounded up and planted a kiss on Susan’s cheek. ‘I knew that was you.’ She wore a white polo neck, grey slacks and a broad smile.

‘Trinny Becker?’ Susan looked surprised.

Trinny swept back her deep, curly red hair. ‘The very same.’

‘I thought you were in Prague.’

‘I was. I’ve been here at Moorcroft for two weeks. I’m running my own group.’ She leaned in with a wide grin. ‘B-cells – early gene expression – no less.’

‘Wow.’

‘I know, I can hardly believe it myself.’

Susan turned to Stich. ‘Stich, this is Trinny … a very wet Trinny.’ She pulled her towards the umbrella out of the fine spray. ‘Coatless and – if she’s not careful – a prime candidate for pneumonia.’

‘I came out for a crafty ciggie,’ said Trinny, ducking under. ‘Terrible about what’s happened, isn’t it?’

Susan glanced at Stich. ‘It looks pretty serious.’

‘There are police crawling all over the labs, asking questions.’

There was a slight pause before Susan gestured towards Stich. ‘Anyway, Trinny, this is my fiancé, David Stichell. Trinny and I worked in the same lab at Immteck for a while. That must be, what, two years ago?’

‘At least,’ gushed Trinny. ‘Isn’t it exciting to be working at the same place again? I saw you in the lobby this morning so I knew you were here. What group are you with?’

‘I wasn’t here this morning.’

‘Yes, in the lobby about 7.00. You had that outfit on.’

‘No, I was at the Immteck lab in Holborn at 7.00. I still work for them.’

Trinny frowned. ‘I could have sworn it was you.’

Susan shook her head and interlocked her arm around Stich’s. ‘It must have been someone else. Look, Trinny,’ she said, checking her watch, ‘I really must dash, I’ve got a lot to get through this afternoon. How about you give me your number and I’ll call you.’

‘Sure,’ said Trinny, fishing out a card from her pocket and handing it over. ‘That’s a direct line. I’m free most lunchtimes, or evenings if you’d rather. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’

‘Give me a week or so.’ Susan pulled on Stich’s arm.

‘Speak soon, huh?’

* * *

‘Guess who else works at Moorcroft?’ asked Stich, shaking the umbrella as they reached the stone forecourt outside Liverpool Street tube station.

‘Surprise me.’

‘Mags.’

Susan didn’t respond.

‘Magenta Rosti. I saw Ethan’s mum today.’

He guided her away from the main drag towards the perspex barrier edging the gallery above the main concourse.

‘Stich, I know who Mags is.’

‘Small world.’

‘I suppose so. Now, you’ll be at Holborn at 5.00?’

‘Of course.’

‘Okay, baby,’ she said kissing him on his cheek. ‘I’ll see you then.’

5

The road was mid-afternoon quiet. The only slight disturbance to this ideal was Alice. Stich’s young daughter was refusing to get in the back of the car. Apparently, it was much more fun being at the front with her dad. She was old enough to know her own mind too. At the grand age of four and a half, she brought all her experience to bear. Stich opted for a stand off and waited, hands on hips, trying to look stern. She looked at him though teary blue eyes, a teddy clasped to her chest. Every now and then, she pushed a strand of her dark, wavy hair away from her face, and pulled at her white socks.

‘You can get in the front with me when you’re six,’ he said after a minute of silence. ‘It’s not safe yet. You’re too small.’

She wriggled about a bit on the pavement and shifted the position of the teddy.

‘So, are you getting in the back or not?’ Stich asked.

‘I need to go toilet,’ she said.

‘You’ve just been.’

She wiped her nose with her hand. ‘I need to go.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

Alice gazed off into the distance and feigned disinterest. A stalling tactic.

The ball was very much in Stich’s court. He decided to take action. ‘Okay, that’s enough. This is not a debate,’ he said, reaching forwards. He picked her up and got the back door open. She started crying immediately. Stich strapped her into the child seat, closed the back door and got into the front. He shut his eyes and tried to ignore the screams.

They were well on the motorway before the crying stopped and she drifted off to sleep. Stich kept a careful eye on her in the rear view mirror; her face calm now; maybe a touch of redness around her eyes where she had been rubbing them. She looked beautiful, though; God, she was so like her mother. For a moment Stich wondered about her – where she was, what kind of life she was living. Then he stopped himself. He had gone down that road too many times in the past. It did no good. He had a new life now. A life he was building for him and Alice.

Susan was a big part of that.

‘Don’t wake her,’ Loni said as Stich fished Alice out of the back seat and carried her into the bungalow Loni had lived in for thirty years.

‘But she won’t know I’ve gone.’

‘That’s okay. If she wakes now, she’ll cry when you leave.’

Stich laid Alice on the sofa and Loni covered her with a duvet. She didn’t open her eyes once. He bent down and kissed her on the forehead. ‘I’ve left a change of clothes in the bag,’ he said. ‘Her teddy’s in there too.’

‘Don’t you worry about any of that,’ Loni replied. ‘I’ll find everything.’

He smiled. ‘I know.’

* * *

Stich arrived dead on 5.00 despite a snarl-up on Marylebone and Euston Road. Susan was waiting on the stairs of the Immteck building sheltering from the rain, a Barbour jacket fastened up to her chin, the collar pulled high.

She seemed small and vulnerable as she stood; timid even.

A captive bird.

Stich hopped out, threw the carry-on into the boot while Susan strapped up in front.

Still and compliant. All the while its heart beating out of control.

What made him think that?

‘Did you drop Alice off okay?’ Susan asked as Stich fired the engine.

He nodded. ‘She was sleeping when I left.’

They began a two-hour M4 drive – much of it spent on the brakes – that meant it was pitch black when they made the grass ridge overlooking Maxi’s place. About ten miles west of Bristol, Lansdowne Farm was set on the edge of a patchwork of land that was currently being pummelled by streaks of rainwater. Stich heard thunder in the distance as he looked down from Lansdowne Hill towards the farmhouse below.

‘Childhood memories?’

Susan turned to him. ‘Something like that.’ She ducked under his umbrella. ‘I was thinking about my dad. We travelled down here on the train the first time I came. Uncle Maxi met us at the station and presented me with a bike. It looked like a small BMX with stabilisers. I’d never been so excited. Dad wouldn’t recognise Maxi as the same man now.’

‘He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?’

‘Uncle Maxi was the reason I got interested in science. His company had patented a technology that led to the very first home testing kits.’

‘Testing kits?’

‘You know, to see if you were pregnant. He talked to me like I was an adult. I loved that.’

Stich pulled her closer. ‘What time’s he expecting us?’

‘Depends if he’s picked up the phone messages I’ve left him.’

‘Well, the lights are on so someone’s in. Come on, let’s go.’

‘Give me a minute,’ she said, pulling an orange envelope from inside her jacket. ‘I need to send this.’

‘Anyone I know?’

She shook her head. ‘A girlfriend in a lab out in Strasbourg. She’s just published. I’m sending my regards.’

‘Here, take this,’ he said, offering the umbrella.

He got back in the car while she strode towards a solitary post-box by the roadside. Watching her through the rain, the light from the headlamps illuminating her face, Stich realised she was right. They did need to get away. These couple of days would be good for both of them.

Once she was back in the seat next to him he gunned the car forwards, steering down an unmade road to the farmhouse. The potholes jerked them along until they reached the shingle nearer the house, which crackled reassuringly as they pulled up in the driveway. He killed the engine. Susan leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.

‘Peaceful?’

She nodded.

‘Luggage now or later?’ Stich asked.

‘Later.’ She slammed the car door and called over her shoulder, ‘Let’s go round the back.’

Susan always did this when she visited Maxi. As a child, she would tap on the French windows at the back of his place to signal her arrival. It was their secret code, one that continued into adulthood.

The farmhouse was rustic. Brick built, sprawling with white rendering and straw-coloured roof tiles. At the back it was mostly glazed. They peered into the study. The heat from inside had misted the glass and Susan rubbed the outside to clear it. She cupped her hands over her eyes.

‘He’s sleeping,’ she whispered.

Stich scanned the room. ‘Where?’

‘On the leather chair.’

He could just make out the swivel chair. It was turned away from them, but there was no mistaking the back of Maxi’s head resting on it.

‘I’ll tap gently,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to frighten him.’

Stich looked past the chair to the bookcase. He could see movement in the darkness.

‘Hold it, Susan, there’s someone else with him.’

She frowned. ‘Where? I don’t see anyone.’

Stich squinted. ‘Yeah, there is, over by the bookcase.’

Susan pushed her face right up to the glass. ‘Is he talking?’

Stich nodded. Maxi did seem to be talking to someone on the other side of the desk. Suddenly he became animated, his arms gesticulating.

A man stepped into view. Tall and lean, wearing a pair of steel flexi-rim glasses.

‘Told you,’ Stich whispered. ‘You recognise him?’

She shook her head. ‘He can’t be a local or I’d know him.’

Maxi leaned forward as if to make a point, only for his body to jolt. The scream from Susan echoed in Stich’s ears. She stood staring through the glass, transfixed. Automatically Stitch turned to check behind him. Then Susan screamed again, this time Stich’s name. There was some movement and he caught sight of Maxi slumped forward in his chair.

The phone! Susan had a mobile. Police … She fumbled in her pockets, got the phone out and he grabbed it from her just as his world imploded.

‘No!’ The word roared from his mouth as the glass shattered. Susan fell backwards. Stich reached for her. ‘Susan!’

Her head rocked away from him. He grabbed her, pulling her close. Susan’s face looked startled, as if caught in a camera flashlight. In an instant, the image seared itself onto his mind: eyes closed, a strand of hair on her forehead, the dark, perfectly circumscribed puncture in her chest, and a steady stream of blood.

She was dead. The horror propelled him and he turned quickly, taking her with him, crouching low without thinking. From the corner of his eye he caught movement a few feet away from the window. There was a sharp crack of broken glass and Stich felt a searing sensation in his thigh. He managed a couple of strides before a white-hot pain burst through his leg. Stich gasped and stumbled forwards. Susan fell away from him, out of reach. There was no way he could make it to the car now. In the darkness he could see a small wooden building perhaps twenty metres away. He pushed himself towards it.

Someone was through the French doors – Stich could hear the commotion behind him. His senses hyped to fever pitch now, his need to get away as desperate as anything he had ever felt in his life. He looked over his shoulder. The killer was striding forwards, right arm raised. Stich knew what was coming. He hurled himself through the open entrance of the building, expecting the second impact. There was the spit of the silencer but no pain. The bullet had missed.

The building was crammed full: tables, plants, forks, pots … Stich crawled into the farthest corner and waited, his clothes sodden with instant sweat. He could hear his own breath, rapid and shallow. The killer’s was deep and measured. Stich heard it clearly as he came in. From his crouched position, he could see him moving slowly, picking his way. Stich pushed himself deeper into the corner, willing the killer to leave, to give up the chase and go back to the house.

But he didn’t. He kept coming.

To Stich’s right, a huge pane of glass formed much of the back wall and beyond that lay the gardens. Maxi must have stood here a thousand times, tinkering with plants, potting up seedlings and enjoying the view. Up on his haunches now, he inched towards the window. He could hear the killer’s breath, maybe ten metres from where he had hidden. Stich eased forwards, brushing a rickety, wooden table, knocking over some coffee jars. The noise smashed through the quiet. He tucked his chin to his chest and charged forwards, ignoring the pain. There was the explosion of splintered fragments as he crashed through the glass – and then the pant-pant of his breath as he emerged on the other side. He moved without thought as to where he was going, no longer sure where the killer was, all the time waiting for the shot.

A fence rose up, and then uneven ground which gave way to nothing. He plunged downwards, his legs instinctively trying to find footing. His shoulder slammed into something hard – and then he was rolling. It seemed to go on forever. The last thing he felt was the water.

6

On the fourth floor of the Immteck Pharmaceutical building near Holborn, Clive Rand had completed a third inspection of the band of DNA on his electrophoresis gel. Its molecular weight was far heavier than those in the earlier samples. He hunched over his lab bench as the display on the PCR machine signalled another completed cycle of DNA amplification. The spray from two desk lamps clamped over his pod formed a pair of rich, white-light puddles illuminating a bench now littered with used and discarded eppidorfs, pipette nozzles, bits of purification kit, and gel slices. All of it a testament to the volume of work he had got through these past few hours. He had performed this run half a dozen times already and still couldn’t believe the result. Clive glanced at the timer display: he had five minutes before amplification was complete. After that, he would run the samples through a gel and see what he had.

Who was he kidding? He already knew. It was a fluke, really. He had been using a genetic probe to isolate DNA from the tumor biopsies taken from Krenthol trial patients. This was a routine lab procedure and the results had always been consistent.

Until last night, that is.

Since then he had not left the lab. What had changed? He went through the scenario once again. He had used the same procedure, same equipment, same probe, same reagents, same … same probe?

Clive left his seat and went to the refrigerator. The opaque tube that held his probe looked like a thousand others. He studied it closely, and then, as the top caught the light, he noticed something he hadn’t seen before. The word, Tum-8, was scribbled on the lid in felt pen. Clive was always meticulous when it came to labelling his work. Someone else had done this. Where was the probe he had been using before?

He went back to his seat still holding the tube in his fingers, turning it over, inspecting the fluid. Clearly someone meant him to get this new result. His old probe would never have found the heavier band of DNA. It wasn’t designed to.

Then it hit him.

‘Susan!’ Clive swivelled his seat, yanked out his desk drawer and flipped through his diary. He sprinted through the lab to the communal phone in the centrifuge room, found the page with her number and punched it in.

‘Come on … come on.’ Clive tapped his hand on the desk and waited for her to pick up. The message service kicked in and he listened to the cheerful greeting: ‘Hi, this is Sue Harrison. I can’t take your call just now but if you leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!’

He waited for the tone. ‘Susan. It’s me, Clive … You switched probes, didn’t you? I know about the viral DNA in these samples. And you do too … God, Susan, this is madness … Call me as soon as you get this – you’ve got my number.’ He rang off, looked up Susan’s home number and dialled it. Another answer service, and he left the same message, then grabbed his coat and exited the building.

7

It was the cold that brought Stich round into consciousness. Rain cut into the back of his neck. He was face down in dirt, mud in his mouth. Then the pain in his leg registered, sending waves of nausea through his gut. He tried to move and felt a dragging in his shoulder. He heard the sound of water rushing behind him and turned to see it flowing over his legs. His head and arms were propped against a bank, raised up above the water level. Stich tried to get his bearings. Beyond the water, maybe a hundred metres away, there was woodland. Disorientated as he was, the place was still familiar. Then he remembered why. There was a ravine behind Maxi’s farmhouse. Reaching it meant a scramble through overgrown thickets and a lot of sloping ground. He must have fallen down it and into the river that ran along it towards the village. There was a plateau near the farmhouse with a great view of the ravine. On a sunny day it was beautiful. He had been up there a few times with Susan …

Susan.

His mind baulked at the memory. Was she at the hospital? Then he remembered. Slowly at first, then all too quickly. His face fell back into the dirt as tears ran down his cheeks.

* * *

Alice was crying and alone. Susan had gone and he couldn’t think where. Then the voice mocking him: ‘Take care of a child? Soon you won’t be able to take care of yourself …’

He looked up and froze. The low light reflected off the water and picked out the wire frames of the killer. He stood like a spectre in the moonlight. Unable to move a muscle, Stich’s breathing accelerated, adrenaline flooding his system. Had he been seen? Stich watched mesmerised. The man was rooted to the spot, only his head turning from side to side.

Stich glanced downstream. The bank of the river gave little, if any, cover. Upstream was certainly better. About twenty metres away was a small section where the bank was higher. There was a group of trees there that would give some chance of hiding. The closer he got, the faster and louder the water ran.

As the bank got steeper, Stich lost sight of the killer. Whether this was a good thing or not, he didn’t know. Easing forwards, grabbing at handholds on the bank, he chanced a look. The man was standing almost above him, facing away looking downstream. Stich dipped out of sight and swung around to check how much distance he would have to cover to make the shadow of the trees. He eased himself into the river, grabbing hold of a rock wedged into the bank to help push him away from the danger. But it came free from the soil, knocking him off balance. The jolt of electricity through his leg sent him scrambling to stay in control, desperately grasping at handholds. It was no use and he fell fully into the water, the current pulling him away from the bank. He flailed around and tried to stabilize, praying that the sound of the falling rain and the rush of the river would mask the commotion.

Instinctively, he got underwater and kicked. It was agonizingly slow. His soaked clothes, like an anchor, dragged him down. His heart now pounded so fast that he had to keep resurfacing for air. At one point he turned and thought he saw the man on the bank firing at him, but the image was so blurred by rainwater and fear that he couldn’t be sure. Swallowing water, he put his head under and swam.

Finally the opposite bank came into sight. He snatched at some roots, but they came away in his hand and sent him drifting. Again he lunged forward, this time finding a hold. Clawing at the dirt, Stich pulled himself free.

Once on his feet, he staggered into the woodland, hoping it would swallow him up. At first Stich headed for the village but soon lost his bearings. Certain the killer was following, he took to checking behind himself every few metres, staring into darkness; leaves and twigs cracking underfoot as he surged forwards; branches brushing his face, cutting his skin. Then, uneven ground where he lost his balance and fell.

A face loomed in front of his and grabbed him.

That’s when he passed out.

8

Clive could hear the landline ringing as he struggled to get the key in the lock. He’d left the Immteck lab forty-five minutes ago, stopped to get groceries and was now failing to balance the bags while opening the door.

The switching of the probes changed everything. It was all sham – five fucking years of work down the toilet. He’d driven around the block dozens of times trying to understand.

This wasn’t an in-house matter, that was for sure. It was much bigger than that. He pushed open the door as the ringing stopped.

‘Shit.’

Maybe that was Susan calling him back. God, he needed to speak to her – there must be a reason for all this. Clive smelt something as he stepped into the hallway. What was it? Cologne perhaps? He dumped the bags, moved into the lounge and reached for the light switch.

If this thing got out, Jesus, it would be chaos. Lights on, he stopped mid-thought.

A man in a blue sports jacket was perched on the sofa that once belonged to Clive’s grandma. Another man – square bodied and black – was slouched on an upright chair by the dining-room table. Both of them glanced at Clive with a vague disinterest.

Clive froze. He’d never seen either of them before. Nor had he been burgled before. The man on the sofa sat peeling an orange. How much had they taken? He took a step backwards. ‘What are you doing in my home?’ he heard himself say.

The black man got to his feet and without warning smacked Clive in the mouth. Clive reeled backwards and crashed against an up light by the wall. The glass shade shattered at once. If there was pain, Clive didn’t feel it – the shock had numbed all sensation – but he held his face anyway, and stared at his assailant through his fingers in horror.

The intruders looked back at Clive casually as if they were regarding a curiosity in a museum. Clive felt a spurt of urine escape into his pants. The man smacked him again. This time Clive’s nose gave way and the shock could no longer hold the pain. Blood poured.

The other man stirred. ‘I’ve taken an orange from your fruit bowl, Clive. Is that okay?’

Clive crouched, staring unfocused at the carpet. He could make out a red puddle forming at his feet. As blood trickled down the back of his throat, he coughed. His bladder emptied itself steadily now, as his dignity faded. The urine was surprisingly warm.

The man with the orange crouched next to him and cocked his head sideways for a moment. ‘Okay, Clive, tell us what you know.’

Clive heard the voice from far away.

‘Why did you call Susan Harrison this afternoon?’

‘Susan?’ Clive whispered.

‘Yes, why did you call her?’

Clive’s brain tried to make sense of what was happening.

The man watched him. ‘I’m waiting.’

Clive coughed again and blood trickled out of his mouth. ‘I was using some probes …’

The man nodded.

‘ … and I thought she might tell me something about them.’

‘What did you think she might tell you?’

‘They changed … I mean … I think they were switched and I got a result I didn’t expect.’

‘Go on.’

‘I thought Susan might know why.’

‘What result did you get, Clive?’

Clive opened his mouth to speak but all that emerged was a white, bitter tasting liquid that dribbled onto his chin. His interrogator winced. Clive spat it out. ‘I found something that shouldn’t have been there.’

‘Which was?’

‘It’s difficult to explain,’ Clive stammered between breaths, ‘unless you know about biological science.’

‘Try me.’

‘There are virus proteins in all my samples.’

‘So what?’

Clive’s eyes darted quickly between his tormentors. ‘My samples are tumour biopsies from a clinical trial on a drug called Krenthol.’

‘So?’

‘The viral proteins shouldn’t have been there,’ said Clive. ‘They are unique to the 3f7 viral vector we use in biological research. To find 3f7 proteins in every sample means only one thing.’

‘And what’s that, Clive?’ the man asked softly.

Clive hesitated. ‘Will you leave me alone after I’ve told you?’

‘That depends on what it means.’

‘It means the tumours suffered by the patients on the Krenthol trials are not natural. They have been deliberately introduced using the 3f7 vector.’

The man narrowed his eyes. ‘Have you told anyone else about this?’

Clive shook his head. ‘Of course not, I’ve only just realised it myself.’

The man set the orange on the floor, and looked to his companion who immediately tossed over a faded Nike sports bag. Unzipping it quickly, he pulled out a brown bottle. He unscrewed the lid and turned it around to face Clive.

‘Being a scientist, you should recognise this.’

He did. The yellow label with the skull and crossbones. Hazardous Material and HCl scrawled across it.

‘Recognise the smell?’ He wafted the top of the bottle under Clive’s nose. The pungent odour registered straight off. As nonchalantly as he’d produced the bottle, the man took out a pair of latex gloves and a hypodermic needle. He pulled on the gloves, dipped the needle into the acid and drew up a syringe full.

Clive watched as the man – for no reason he could think of – held the syringe up to the light and flicked at it twice.

It had the desired effect.

‘What are you going to do?’

The man ignored the question, grabbed Clive’s forearm and sank the needle deep into a vein.

Clive screamed. ‘For Christ’s sake …’

‘Do you have any idea what this acid will do to your insides if I press the plunger?’

Clive knew exactly. Internal burning, glycolysis shutdown, massive cell apoptosis, then – and only then – death. He began to struggle. The black man strolled over and knelt on Clive’s chest to hold him still.

‘Now, I’m going to ask you again, Clive. Who else have you told about these probes?’

‘I swear I’ve told no one,’ he sobbed.

The man studied Clive’s face as if searching for something – anguish, desperate fear, and finally the truth.

He nodded, clearly satisfied. ‘I believe you,’ he said. Then depressed the plunger.

9

Stich awoke and saw light glimmer off a thin metallic strip. Another flash as it moved and then he knew why. It came from a pair of glasses worn by the man leaning over him. He jerked upwards.

Stich felt the man’s hand on his chest. ‘It’s all right, settle down.’

He heard him but it didn’t register.

‘You’re in hospital. Do you understand?’

Stich squinted into his face, the man’s features slowly coming into focus. It wasn’t the killer. This guy was bald and overweight.

‘Hospital? How?’

‘Don’t worry how. Just rest.’

Stich settled and became aware of the throbbing in his skull.

The bald guy smiled and nodded at him. ‘I’m Dr Sharp and this is my colleague, Dr Silvan.’ He gestured towards a man Stich hadn’t seen at first.

‘Hello, David,’ the second man said, rubbing the lapel of his white coat.

‘How do you know my name?’ Stich asked.

Dr Sharp gestured behind him to the other side of the room. Apart from the bed on which Stich was propped, and a chipped laminate overtable pushed next to it, there was a closet and a sink with a Cutane hand sanitiser above it. Nothing else. ‘Your ID was in your clothes. You had a nasty laceration on your leg.’

Stich reached down to feel his thigh. A bandage bulked it out.

‘You’re lucky – the femur hasn’t been damaged. You’ve lost some blood, though.’

Stich rubbed his temples. ‘How long have I been here?’

Dr Sharp looked at his watch. ‘An hour. A hiker found you lying in woodland a few miles from here.’

Stich’s head was now hammering.

‘David, what happened to you tonight?’

He shook his head, trying to release the fog that packed it. They waited, watching him. The pain made him want to vomit.

‘Drink some water,’ said Dr Sharp, pouring from a jug at the overtable.

Stich took a few mouthfuls.

‘Try and drink more,’ he said.

He finished the glass.

‘Okay?’

Stich wiped his hand across his mouth. ‘Better.’

Susan getting out of the car outside Maxi’s, knocking on the window around the back. The gun, the glass shattering, the ravine. Then other memories from the past. A mask enveloping Stich’s face, grinding downwards like a lemon-half over a squeezer. Razor blades nicking his throat, choking off the air. He stumbled over the words. ‘My Susan … she was murdered.’

He saw the two men exchange glances.

‘I couldn’t stop it,’ he said, attempting to convince them he’d tried.

There was silence. Stich could smell antiseptic.

‘I was shot,’ he said.

They nodded in unison. ‘We know,’ said Dr Silvan. ‘The laceration to your leg is quite distinctive. Thankfully, we don’t see too many bullet wounds here – so when we do, they tend to stand out. You’re lucky it’s only superficial. The bullet passed straight through.’

Dr Sharp cleared his throat. ‘Who’s Susan, David?’

‘My fiancée.’

‘And who shot you?’

‘The arsehole who shot Susan turned the gun on me. I managed to escape. He was chasing me. I ended up in a river.’

‘I see.’ He said it as though he didn’t see at all.

Stich felt alone. ‘When can I go?’ he asked.

‘I’d rather you stayed,’ said Dr Sharp. ‘We want to keep an eye on you …’ He glanced at his colleague again. ‘Besides, there’s someone who wants to talk to you.’

Stich sat up. ‘Who?’

He moved closer. ‘It’s okay. We had to inform the police when you were brought in – it’s standard procedure for injuries like yours. He’s here to ask you a few questions.’

‘The police?’ Stich felt a contraction in his chest.

‘Is there anyone you want us to contact to let them know you’re here?’

Stich thought of Alice. She would be in bed by now, Loni probably sitting up watching Holby City. What was he to tell them? I’ve been shot and Susan is dead. How could he explain what he didn’t understand himself?

‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s no one.’

Sharp nodded. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘No.’

‘In pain?’

‘My head hurts like hell.’

‘I’ll get some painkillers,’ said Silvan, moving towards the door. ‘Are you allergic to Paracetamol?’

Stich shook his head.

‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

A nurse came with a couple of pills in a plastic cup. Stich took both of them with a few swallows of water.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ she asked.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Thanks, I’m okay.’

When Dr Silvan came back he had someone with him. ‘David, this is Detective Willis,’ he said.

The man nodded. ‘Okay if I perch on the bed?’

‘Go ahead.’

Willis’s suit was Primark and faded from too many wears. As he adjusted his tie and extended his hand, he blinked half a dozen times. His grasp was surprisingly firm.

‘We’ll leave you two alone for a while,’ said Dr Sharp.

Willis carried a small notebook. ‘You feel all right?’

Stich propped himself against a criss-cross of pillows and nodded.

‘You know why I’m here?’ Willis asked.

‘I can guess,’ Stich said.

‘Okay, let’s go over some facts. You were brought in at 7.45 this evening. A bullet apparently caused your injury. You were groggy, semi-conscious and incoherent. Remember any of that?’ He looked up from the notebook.

Stich watched the single fluorescent tube clinging to the ceiling. ‘Not really.’

‘A couple of times you screamed out and struggled. You were pretty much out of control. What happened?’

Stich told him. Willis listened, taking notes until Stich talked himself out. For a little while after, he continued writing. Stich watched him. There were no outward signs of shock. Routine for him, Stich supposed.

‘You’ve told me what happened but you’ve not made any mention of why,’ said Willis eventually. ‘Do you or Susan have enemies? Someone prepared to go to these lengths to harm you?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘You’re a chiropractor, am I right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you see lots of patients?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any of them ever got close to you?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Any of them …’ he searched for the words ‘… ever been infatuated with you?’

‘Infatuated?’

‘It does happen.’

‘No.’

‘And what about …’ he checked his notebook, ‘… Maxi? Any idea why he’s mixed up in this?’

‘None at all.’

‘You said he was Susan’s uncle.’

‘She called him that. He was her late father’s friend.’

‘And he was shot just before Susan?’

‘Yes.’

Willis flipped some pages. ‘After you fell down the ravine, the man with the gun went to a lot of trouble to follow you. That was risky for him. Why do you think he did that?’

Stich shrugged. ‘No doubt to finish me off.’

‘I’m sure … but why?’

‘How the hell should I know?’ said Stich, raising his voice. ‘Aren’t you supposed to work that out?’

‘You said Susan was killed. Did you check her vital signs to confirm this?’

‘No, of course I didn’t. I had a man with a gun all over me.’

‘So you can’t be sure she was dead.’

‘There’s no way she could have survived,’ he said softly.

‘So when I ask my team to go to the house, there will be a murder scene awaiting us?’

‘Yes,’ Stich whispered.

‘Then there’s nothing more to do here.’

He flipped the notebook shut and looked up.

‘Is that it?’ Stich asked.

‘For the moment.’

‘So, what do you think?’

Willis clasped his hands and dropped them in his lap. ‘It’s a disturbing story.’

‘But do you believe me?’

‘Not important,’ he said, standing up.

‘This man,’ Stich asked. ‘Is he familiar to you? I mean, do you recognise the description?’

‘No.’

‘Are you going up to the house right now?’

Willis stood up. ‘Yes, right now.’

‘What should I do?’

‘Stay here. The doctor tells me you need to rest, so I suggest you do that.’ He heaved himself off the bed and walked towards the door. ‘I’ll leave one of my officers outside the room,’ he said over his shoulder.

‘What for?’

‘Just routine. A standard precaution, that’s all.’

‘Am I under arrest?’

‘No, but we’ll need to talk again.’

10

Stich glanced around for a phone and then he remembered Susan’s mobile. The one he had snatched from her just after Maxi was shot. Stich swung his legs out of the bed and put his weight on his injured leg for the first time. It hurt, but not as much as he’d expected. Just a dull ache. He could cope with that.

Stich’s jacket was hanging in the closet in the corner of the room. Neatly stored away, two buttons fastened over the hanger. Below this, his trousers were scrunched in a ball, wet and muddy. He found the rosary beads that Susan had given him when they first met, damp and soiled. Stich cleaned them as best he could, and started flipping each bead in turn. Susan had been to Rome on an immunology conference a few years back and had presented one rosary to Alice and one to him when she got back. The vendor told her that the Pope, himself, had blessed them. Alice’s hung above her bed. Stich kept his with him. The beads were something to hold on to. ‘… Soon you won’t be able to care for yourself …’

Stich turned his attention back to his jacket. He went through the pockets and, sure enough, Susan’s phone was there, but it was dead. The swim in the river had seen to that. He popped open the back, and used his pyjama top to absorb the damp but it was no use. Then he remembered an article he’d read on the internet.

The door opened. ‘Everything okay?’ asked the nurse.

Stich held up the phone. ‘Can I get some rice?’

It took forty-five minutes of complete submersion in a bowl of rice for Susan’s phone to be sufficiently free of moisture to power up. When it did fire the voice mail light was flashing. He keyed in and listened to a message from a man named Clive. His voice was tight and laced with emotion. Something about probes. Susan rarely talked about her work away from the lab – Stich didn’t understand most of it anyway. Now he wished he’d taken more notice. He replayed the message a couple more times. This guy was upset about something. He pressed the call back option but it went to voicemail. Stich left a message acknowledging the call and hung up. Then he searched through Susan’s address book for Vicky White’s number.

* * *

They had met at school – Vicky White and Stich – year one, day one. He didn’t like her at first. At six years old he didn’t like any girls. But that changed after a couple of the older boys decided to slap him around in the playground one afternoon. Out of nowhere, Vicky appeared. She’d steamed in, arms flailing, catching a couple of shots for her trouble too. Afterwards she had brushed her hands on her skirt and wiped a sleeve across her bloody nose. Stich stared at her, awestruck.

‘You’re bleeding,’ he whispered.

‘That’s okay,’ she said.

‘Aren’t you going to cry?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

That was it for Stich – he was hooked. They hung around together during primary school, went to secondary and finally applied to the same university. There was a time when they might have dated, but neither of them wanted to ruin what they’d taken their whole lives to build up. Years later – after his marriage broke up – Vicky told Stich about the beautiful scientist she was working with. She set up the date with Susan for him.

What was he to tell her now?

11

Vicky White had ridden in a Bentley on a few occasions, but this one was the best yet. Cream leather interior, a fully stocked drinks cabinet, and two flat screen TVs. She’d been sipping a Buck’s Fizz and following a London Today news item about Moorcroft on the main screen. The man heading the investigation was fending off questions from an over-zealous press corp. A shift worker had discovered the body in the early hours, he said. They kept asking him about a CCTV camera nearby. Could it have picked up the crime? His answers were non-committal and bland. The news piece cut to the reporter. Young man, Richard Hart … Vicky tried to think. The name was familiar … Lab technician working for Moorcroft, beaten to death …

The Bentley pulled to a stop and the driver got out. Vicky flicked the TV off as the rear car door opened for her. She swivelled her slender, Veet-smooth legs onto the forecourt of the imposing Bridge Hotel, and strode towards the entrance. A small crowd formed, most of them Immteck people, arriving for the ball, their chatter and easy laughter drifting towards her. Once inside, a crimson lake of carpet stretched towards two ornate staircases at the far end of the lobby leading to the function rooms. She followed the Immteck people, who were ascending the left one towards the Cadogan Suite. On a gallery, people milled around as waiters proferred champagne from crystal flutes on silver trays. From inside the suite came the sound of light jazz. Elegant and sophisticated. Vicky had come to expect nothing less of a Laurence Tench gathering. She took a drink from a tray, went into the suite and looked for someone she recognised.

‘Victoria!’

She turned to see the smiling face of Roy Burman and groaned inwardly. He worked along the corridor from her. Originally a developmental biologist, Roy had come to Immteck two years before to study proto-oncogenes and their part in the development of cancer. He peered at her through thick lenses that made his eyes look too large for his face.

Vicky forced a smile. ‘Hi, Roy, didn’t expect to see you here.’

He frowned. ‘And why not?’

She knew Roy barely permitted himself toilet breaks in case it prevented progression of his work. Luxuries like eating and drinking were tedious essentials only. She shook her head. ‘Oh, no reason, I thought someone mentioned you weren’t coming, that’s all.’

‘Well, they were wrong. I’m here and enjoying myself.’ He rested a glass of orange juice against his chest. ‘I haven’t seen you in my lab for a while – are you avoiding me?’

‘I’ve just been so busy,’ she shrugged.

‘Well, I’ve got some interesting results using a knockout mouse. I thought you might like to see them – over coffee, perhaps?’

It was last thing she wanted to do. ‘Sounds good!’

‘Really? Great! We could run over the complete cycle of data – next Wednesday if you’re free?’

‘Sure.’

They stood in awkward silence. Vicky desperately tried to think of something else to say. Then she was saved.

‘Ladies and gentlemen.’

Through the sound system, the voice reverberated around the room. Vicky knew its owner and spun around to face the dais. A hush fell on the room and Laurence Tench stared out at his guests. As the last of the talking died, he pushed a hand through his hair. Vicky noted the long fingers, her skin goosefleshing. He grinned, the whiteness of his teeth sharply defined against his tan. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Friends, business partners … all of you! Thank you so much for coming this evening – it means such a lot to me personally, to Immteck, and, of course, to the charity which will benefit from this event – The Lauren Tench Research Fund.’

There was applause.

‘I’ll keep this brief – I know you haven’t come here to listen to me!’

The crowd laughed. ‘We don’t mind!’ someone shouted.

‘You all know why we have these events – the bottom line is to help kids with cancer … to help anyone with cancer, but particularly the kids.’

There was a lot of head nodding as the dinner jacket and ball gown crowd exploded into more applause. Tench stood back from the mic for a couple of beats, giving space for it all, before lifting his hand.

‘It’s been a great year for Immteck – most of you have heard about the Krenthol drug trials. They’re ongoing, so I can’t tell you much except that we’re on track, near to licensing and so close to the time when we can start production!’

A cheer went up from the back of the hall.

‘The success this year has been phenomenal and it’s all down to the scientists, technicians, research students, admin staff – everyone at Immteck. You lot really are the best in the world!’

There was more cheering, the applause turning into a football style handclap. Tench joined in the clapping, a maestro conducting his orchestra.

Vicky watched him work the room. He was an enigma really – officially from humble beginnings. His father had some sort of admin job, his mother was a nursery teacher. Whether there was money in his family, some rich relative that set him on his way, was a topic of debate. Tench, ever mindful of the PR, guarded his version of events fiercely. One that was an inspiring tale of poor lad makes good: a scholarship to Cambridge where he got a first, then a position in the city at Goldman Sachs where he carved a career in private wealth management, before going out alone. His first private acquisition was a small, cash starved pharmaceutical company making pregnancy testing kits. Tench dismantled the existing infrastructure and management, and then turned it around. By year three, turnover was at sixty million. After that, he went on to acquire more companies in the drug related sector, all of them distressed and in need of a saviour. Among the first to realise the potential of gene manipulation and the prospect for a new generation of drugs, he had bought Immteck.

Vicky remembered his visit to Durham when she was in her final year. He’d talked to the science students about the biotech industry. Passionate and articulate, he had made biotechnology come alive, reminding her why she wanted to study it in the first place. That very afternoon, she’d decided to join Immteck after graduation. She wasn’t disappointed. Tumour immunology was starting to happen and she was now a part of it. The buzz about the place since news of the successful Krenthol trial had been leaked was huge.

The room quietened again as Tench got to the crux of his speech. It would centre of course, around his beloved daughter, Lauren. There was real emotion on display now – up close and personal. His heart ached for Lauren. Many in the audience were parents themselves. Some of the special guests had lost children to cancer; others had children who had recovered from cancer, often because of protocols developed by Immteck. They understood Tench’s pain and he understood theirs. Lauren Tench had died of leukemia at four years old. That was ten years ago now, but evidently the pain was as raw as the first day. So new it seemed to claw at him.

‘My darling baby,’ he stumbled, ‘you were the most precious gift in the whole world. Not a single day …’ His voice began to crack. ‘Not a single day passes …’ he fiddled with the mic, visibly trying to get control, ‘… when I don’t wonder how your life might have turned out … what type of person you would be now.’ He searched the floor. ‘I love you so much,’ he whispered.

The crowd was frozen. Tench moved slowly to the back of the dais and then lifted his head to face the room. ‘No parent should have to face this. Let us do all we can to prevent it happening again.’

He stepped from the dais into the arms of his wife. The applause rippled at first before growing to a roar. Tench composed himself and turned back to his audience, who responded with whistles and cheers. A group at the back began banging on tables. Soon everyone was doing it. Tench passed through the throng shaking hands, patting backs. A nod here, a comment there. He knew employees’ names, and those of their spouses and children. It was as if he had something for everyone. Vicky was swept aside by the crowd as Tench moved forwards, but he spotted her and made a beeline in her direction.

‘Vicky, you look fantastic!’ he boomed.

She almost curtseyed. ‘Thank you, thank you very much.’

‘How’s your antigen 8 work coming?’

‘Very good, it’s coming on well.’ Small talk – he knew exactly how it was doing – but she gushed anyway.

‘You guys are doing a great job. Keep it up.’

He moved past and took a man’s hand. ‘Hey, Dave! Thanks for coming. How’s Claire? She’s here … where? … There she is!’

Vicky watched the back of him disappear and realised she still had a grin on her face. Jesus, it was like meeting royalty.

‘You look star struck, Victoria.’ Roy was still clutching his orange juice.

She straightened up. ‘Well, he’s a great guy.’

‘I think you’re smitten.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

Roy held his arms up. ‘I was only teasing.’

She felt herself blush and decided to change the subject. ‘I was looking for Clive. Have you seen him?’

Roy scanned the room. ‘Not tonight, I haven’t. Though I talked to him late this afternoon.’ He waggled a finger. ‘Said he may not come.’

‘Not come? Why?’

‘He was pretty worked up – said his work had taken a strange turn.’

She frowned.

‘Bad day, I think,’ said Roy.

Before Vicky could think about this, her phone went off. She answered on the second ring.

‘Susan!’

The line was quiet at first. Then, ‘Vicky, it’s Stich.’

‘Stich? I can’t hear you … Hold it, I’ll get away from the noise.’ She moved to an alcove. ‘Okay, that’s better. How’s it going down there?’

‘Not good.’

‘What?’

‘I’m … it’s bad, Vick.’

‘Stich, you okay?’

‘She’s gone.’

‘Gone? What’re you talking about?’

‘It’s Susan,’ he said.

‘Is she okay?’

‘She’s dead.’ There were sobs.

‘Stich, talk to me slowly.’

He tried. She got most of it. ‘And you’re at what hospital now?’

‘Keynsham. Vick, I don’t expect you to come down here. I just wanted to talk to you, that’s all.’

‘Don’t be stupid. I’m on my way. Wait for me.’

12

Inside the modest family home, Ed Connor was wrestling with a dickie bow after swapping the sports jacket he’d worn at Clive Rand’s flat for a dinner suit. As he had almost tied it, the phone in the hall went. He stepped over his kids playing on the floor and reached for it.

‘Hello.’

‘It’s Western.’

‘Hold it.’ Ed placed his hand over the receiver and looked down at Lizzie, his youngest, who was tugging at his trousers. ‘What is it, babe?’ he asked.

She mumbled something and showed him a dolly.

He smiled. ‘I know, she’s gorgeous.’

Lizzie stared up at him. He crouched down and fondled her hair. ‘You go and play and I’ll come in a minute.’ He spoke into the receiver. ‘You’re in a pay phone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, go on.’

‘We’ve got a problem,’ said Western.

‘Oh?’

‘One got away.’

‘Which one?’

‘The boyfriend.’

‘Can you find him?’

‘I think so.’

‘Okay, do it. What about the house?’

‘It’s clean,’ said Western. ‘The full service.’

‘Good. Call when you’re done with the boyfriend.’

Ed hung up and went into the lounge. Lizzie was now on her mum’s lap. The other two, Danny and Dee, were watching TV. Ed smiled. This is how he wanted it to be. The money was starting to come in and he could ensure a better life for his family, for his kids. So they wouldn’t have to live the life he did. He straightened his collar in the glass above the fireplace.

‘You off again?’ asked Tina.

Ed kissed his wife on the forehead.

‘You smell nice,’ she added.

‘How do I look?’ Ed asked.

‘Very smart,’ Tina smiled. ‘What time will you be back?’

Ed looked at his watch. ‘I’ll see how it goes.’

‘Well, be careful.’

He winked at her. ‘Okay, kids, give Daddy a kiss.’

‘Where you going, Dad?’ asked Danny.

‘To a party.’

‘Can we come?’

Ed smiled. ‘Not tonight, Dan.’

‘Will I be in bed when you get back?’

‘Yes, you will. Now come on give me a kiss.’

* * *

Time passed slowly. He tried to sleep but it was useless. Eventually, Stich pulled on a robe he found hanging on the back of his room door. It was standard hospital issue, once white but now a sour cream from too many wearers. The leg was holding up pretty well, his shoulder too, all things considered. He opened the door and popped his head out. The inspector wasn’t kidding. A policeman was sitting on a chair opposite, elbows on knees, picking his teeth.

Stich’s room was in some kind of cul-de-sac. There was more strip lighting, magnolia walls and the smell of disinfectant.

‘Hello, David, I’m PC Stephen Reed. How’s your leg?’

Stich rubbed the side of it instinctively. ‘Not so bad – hardly feel it, in fact.’

He nodded. ‘Good.’

‘It’s quiet here,’ Stich said.

‘You’re in a private room well away from everything else.’

‘I need to take a pee.’

‘Of course.’ Reed stood up. ‘Have you brought that to help you go?’

Stich still had Susan’s mobile clasped in his hand. ‘Oh, no, habit, that’s all,’ he said slipping it into the robe’s pocket.

The officer smiled. ‘Follow me,’ and he led Stich down the empty corridor to the bathrooms. ‘I’ll wait for you back at the room.’

Stich nodded.

‘And, David? Please don’t spend too long – I’ll only have to come and find you.’

‘You worried I might run?’

He shook his head. ‘Not really. At least not dressed like that.’

Stich looked down at the robe and his bare feet.

Reed had a point.

In the bathroom, he splashed his face with cold water and checked his reflection in the mirror. It wasn’t a pretty sight. He wondered how much the last few hours had aged him – five years? Ten? Susan would hardly recognise him. He was a long way from the man who drove to Cambridge to take her on their first date, her self-assurance only making him more tongue-tied. Then, when they kissed goodbye, her breath sweet like bubble gum.

The door squeaked open, breaking the spell. An elderly patient, sporting a white crepe bandage over one side of his head nodded and went over to the line of urinals.

As the door closed behind him, Stich’s body went cold at what he’d glimpsed. He dropped the paper towel, lunged at the door and frantically searched for a lock. There wasn’t one. ‘Shit, shit, shit …’

Stich tried to get control. Think … Calm down and think …

The killer was back. How? He edged open the door and stole a look. Nothing. In the bathroom the old man stared.

Back in the hallway, the green linoleum stretched in either direction. Stich slipped out towards the corner of the corridor and the cul-de-sac with his room at the end. He could see the man with Reed. They were talking but Stich couldn’t make out what was being said. The killer nodded as if he understood what Reed was telling him. In one smooth movement, he pulled out a handgun, firing it at point-blank range into the policeman’s forehead. Reed rocked backwards. The killer replaced the gun as if he was putting away his wallet, pulled Reed from his seat and dragged him into Stich’s room. Stich reeled and staggered, jelly legs propelling him away from the danger.

Images of the hospital flashed past him. He knocked into people, bounced off walls, tripped a couple of times, but hardly felt any of it. There were shouts, but no one tried to stop him as he lurched forwards. It wouldn’t have made much difference anyway. He was pumped so full of adrenaline that it would have taken a truck to bring him down. There was no plan, just a need to get away.

Down one corridor, then another. The desperation was growing. Should he hide somewhere and wait? He came to a standstill, hands on hips, panting like a dog.

‘Sir, can I help you?’ The voice came from behind him. A burly man in a white jacket, slacks and white trainers was pushing an elderly patient. Stich ignored him and began walking away.

‘Sir?’

He glanced behind and saw the man park the wheelchair and come after him. Stich sped up. Despite his leg, he was sure he could outrun him.

‘Sir!’ The orderly’s footsteps were pounding the floor in pursuit.

Stich broke into a sprint, arms pummelling the air.

‘Sir!’

Stich looked back over his shoulder to check for him once more – and then crashed into a solid mass. That truck he thought would be needed to stop him? It arrived, and hit him square on. It came in the form of a huge orderly who made his colleague behind Stich look like a delicate, frail thing. Stich fell forwards, rolled over in mid-air to avoid landing on his face and hit the floor at speed. He skated diagonally and clattered into something metallic. He lay dazed for a moment. The truck was up and upon him, quickly holding him down.

‘Okay, my friend … Steady.’

‘You all right, George?’ The footsteps of his colleague approached.

George – the truck – said he was fine. ‘May need some restraints, though.’

‘You got it.’

George looked back down at Stich. ‘Calm down, now.’

Calm down? There was an assassin with a gun upstairs! Stich had seen him kill at least three people since … when? He couldn’t remember. He kicked again.

‘Hey! Stop struggling.’

The metallic object that finally stopped him turned out to be a trolley. Stich could see it above him. Steel pots, buckets, and disinfectant stacked on it. Some pots with lids, others with paper towel covers. One of them, a few feet behind his head, was scalloped, smelt foul and gave him an idea.

‘Can you understand me, sir?’ George spoke loudly as if Stich was hard-of-hearing. ‘We’re going to get you up.’

‘Leave me alone, I’m fine.’

‘I don’t want to use these,’ the other orderly said, raising the restraints and unclipping a walkie-talkie from his belt. Stich heard the crackle of static as he tried in vain to move from under the man’s bulk. He lifted his neck to look along the corridor.

‘Look, I’ve said I’m fine, just let me go.’

Where was the killer? This was wasting valuable time.

A small crowd had gathered now. He could see the man with the walkie-talkie speaking to a nurse. The conversation went on for a minute before she disappeared, then reappeared some moments later with a young-looking medic. White coat, scrawny neck, and three biros clipped neatly into his breast pocket. There was a bit more chatter, then the orderly led them both towards Stich. The medic had a hypodermic needle in hand. ‘Okay, sir. Just hold still.’

When the orderly restraining him looked over at his colleagues, Stich grabbed his chance. He yanked his arm free, reached over to the scalloped basin behind his head and pulled it off the trolley. The man noticed what was happening and tried to grab Stich’s arm, but he swung the basin wide and upwards, smashing it squarely into the man’s face. Its contents spilled over both of them, a soft, caramel- coloured soup of evil smelling shit. His face covered, the man leapt up yelling and clawing at his skin and clothes. The odour made Stich want to retch but he kicked backwards and scrambled to his feet.

He was on the move again.

Following the corridor, he took a flight of stairs, and then came to a door that opened into a storage area. Discarded frames, weighing machines, hoists, and other hospital detritus, filled it. Stich dived in and closed the door behind him. He was breathing deeply now which only made the smell from the shit-soiled robe worse. He yanked it off, fished out the mobile and the beads, and then tossed it into the corner.

13

The guard straightened his cotton tie and adjusted the collar on his brown Moorcroft Security uniform.

Detective Inspector Terence Varcy pulled a cord on a set of horizontal blinds he normally kept tightly shut. They gaped open and a stream of light filled the room. He made himself comfortable at the table. ‘Coffee? Tea?’

‘I’ve just had a tea,’ said the guard blinking against the sudden brightness.

‘You mind if I do?’

The guard shook his head.

‘Tricky day for you,’ said Varcy, plopping a tea bag into a white mug and pouring in hot water.

‘I’ve had better.’

‘And somewhat crowded in your office when you arrived, I imagine.’

‘I expected to see Mags, not half a dozen police officers.’

Varcy peeled the lid from a small carton of semi-skimmed. ‘It must have been a shock. Tell me what happened.’

‘They said a murder had taken place outside the building during the night and that Mags was helping them with their enquiries.’

‘And?’

‘They said there had been a power surge last night and wanted to know if it had ever happened before.’

‘Had it?’

‘Not that I know of – which I told them. Then they asked about the discs we use to record data from the security cameras. If we change them, how often, where they are archived.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Varcy, reaching for a brown envelope that lay in a mesh tray on the desk. ‘Tell me about that.’

‘They get changed every eight hours,’ said the guard. ‘That’s the first thing I do when I come on to my shift. Trouble is, Mags changed the discs halfway through her shift because of a power surge.’

Varcy flipped the envelope open and produced five Polaroid snaps. They showed a small room stacked high with metal boxes each with a number stencilled at the front. A green LED and a digital time display glowed in the semi-darkness.

‘That’s our switch room,’ said the guard pointing at the photos. ‘We have a whole bunch of recorders, one for each camera in the building. See the digital time displays at the front of each box? That tells you how much time has elapsed since the last change.’

Varcy stirred the milk into his tea. ‘Your colleague – Magenta Rosti – has told us a power surge caused her to lose the feeds for a few minutes. She was worried about corrupting the discs and so she changed them all. This would have been about 3.15 am, around the same time as the murder on James Street took place.’

‘So I understand,’ said the guard.

‘The thing is,’ said Varcy, tugging a section of blind downward and peering into the open-plan office beyond, ‘Magenta says she replaced the discs and archived the old ones. We’ve checked the tray. The archived disc for camera five – the camera that monitors James Street – is missing.’

* * *

‘The man is a fucking maniac, Vick,’ barked Stich.

‘I’m ten minutes away. Please, phone the police.’

Stich stopped pacing. ‘Vicky, I was under police protection, remember?’

‘So?’

‘So, how did he find me?’

‘I don’t know but you can’t handle this on your own.’

‘I’ve been set up.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘What other explanation is there? The officer guarding my room has had his head blown off. What will they think when they find him?’

‘How the hell should I know?’

‘They’ll think I killed him.’

‘Not if you explain.’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘Okay … just hold tight. I’ll be there …’

Stich rang off and began pacing the store cupboard once more. He could hardly think he was so numb. How long did she say?

About ten minutes.

He kept checking the time display on Susan’s phone. Five minutes gone. Occasionally there was noise outside in the corridor. Voices mainly, then they would fade. He would strain to hear what was said. It wasn’t just the killer looking for him now, but hospital personnel too. Then there was the policeman. God, the policeman. Shot in the face as he watched. And now he was doing exactly what would be expected of someone who had just committed murder – running for his life. Jesus, it just got worse.

Come on, Vicky …

There was a rattle at the door handle, then a more forceful push. Stich grabbed at the door to check he’d locked it properly. It was fine. He turned off the light and waited in the dark. The rattling grew more determined.

14

Ed sat in the transit van next to Trevor. Trevor had been trying to get a trace on Susan Harrison’s mobile. He sat alongside a stack of digital recording units, headphones clamped to his ears, peering at a computer screen. He flipped the phones off and spun his chair round. Ed hand-brushed his trousers.

‘What’s bothering you?’ Trevor demanded.

Ed didn’t look up. ‘It’s nothing. I’ve got my mind on the job that’s all.’

‘Stichell?’

‘I’ll relax when all the pieces are back in the box.’

Trevor smiled and grabbed a fistful of peanuts from a bag on the desk in front of him. ‘That’s what I admire about you Ed,’ he said, popping a few dozen in one go, ‘you actually care whether they go back in or not.’

‘I won’t tolerate a fuck-up, if that’s what you mean,’ said Ed leaning back. ‘Especially not on this one.’

‘I know.’

Ed thought about what might happen if indeed there was a fuck-up. Everything would change. The place he had carved for himself in the world. Small time crime – protection rackets and gambling scams – was a shitty existence. A road to nowhere and full of low life. That’s how it had been before he’d had his eyes opened to the way things could be.

Ed reached forwards and scooped out a handful of nuts. ‘Okay what have we got?’

Trevor checked the screens. ‘Susan Harrison’s mobile phone has been used twice this evening. The first time was an hour and fifteen minutes ago – guess who got the call?’

‘Who?’

‘Clive Rand.’

Ed frowned. ‘The boyfriend must have made it.’

‘The second call was made five minutes after that. Don’t know who the number is registered to yet, but I’ve managed to record it.’

‘Let’s hear it then,’ said Ed.

Trevor typed away at the keyboard and the recording kicked in. They listened to Stich and Vicky. When it had finished, Ed checked his watch.

‘Where the fuck is Western?’

Trevor flipped open his mobile. ‘I’ll find out.’

15

The rattling at the door had been a shock. It might have been innocent – a hospital worker needing access – or it might have been the killer. Stich had decided he wasn’t going to hang around and find out which. He had to get out and looking above his head at the grill in the ceiling, had a fair idea how to do it.

He began sorting through gear dumped about the room. Discarded at the end of a rack was a boiler suit. It must have been years old, blackened and smelling of grease. Nonetheless, he stepped in and fastened the poppers, then grabbed a pair of stepladders, positioning them under the grill and climbing up, tugging at the grating. It came away with no trouble. He stood on tiptoes and looked into the ducting. It was about one metre square – just enough room to squeeze through – and pitch black. Stich scrambled into the hole, until he was fully inside, crawling belly down somewhere above the storeroom. The darkness constricted in on him as he pushed forwards, and the taste of dust – dry and musty – charred his throat. The temperature in the confined space rose and he brushed the sweat from his eyes. His bare right foot snagged on something sharp and Stich felt the flesh tear.

By the time he saw a haze of light up ahead, queasiness was threatening to overpower him. As he neared, he could see it was coming from another grate in the ceiling. Looking through it, Stich noticed a polished floor and the tops of two heads. He pushed his face up to the grill to get a better look. One man – the smaller of the two – had his back to Stich, wore blue overalls, and looked like a cleaner. The other – the one doing the talking – made bile rise in Stich’s throat. He strained to hear what was being said, catching snatches.

The killer was animated, his hands jabbing. ‘This tall … yes, he’s dangerous … of course … The policeman? … Murdered …’

Stich was about to duck away when Susan’s phone started playing the Kylie tune she had downloaded a few years back. Fuck. He fumbled for it, desperately trying to find the off button. He located it and scrambled forwards, clinging to the inside of the ducting. After what seemed like an eternity, he felt a cold gust of air on his face and frantically pulled himself onwards. It came from another grill, one that looked down onto a mezzanine level – a grey steel platform – and a set of ladder stairs dropping down towards the grass below. Stich shifted his weight and began hammering the grill with his good leg until the mesh buckled.

* * *

On the ground, Stich stayed close to the side of the building, turned a sharp right and ran towards a car park ahead of him, bare feet slapping the tarmac.

He was still clutching Susan’s phone and, without breaking stride, he switched it on and glanced at the display. The call in the ducting had been Vicky. He returned it.

‘Stich.’

‘God, Vicky where are you?’

‘You okay?’

‘No. Where are you?’

‘In the car park, I’ve just arrived.’

‘Which one? Front, back?’

‘Er … front I think. Hold it. I’m opposite the outpatients’ building.’

Stich looked around. He was on the edge of a car park, and headed for the nearest car and hid behind it. Peeping over the bonnet, his heart hammering, Stich searched for a signpost or a pathway – anything that might give him a clue. But it was dark now and there weren’t any visible signs. He had to move quickly.

‘Vicky, I’m in deep shit.’

‘Okay, okay. Where are you?’

‘I don’t know. Look, stay where you are and I’ll try and find you. Keep the engine running, we won’t be hanging about.’

He ran to his left, keeping close to the ground. There was a building about a hundred metres ahead of him and he made for that. Nearby a signpost and a pathway. A&E, Orthopaedics, Blood, Maternity, Outpatients … Outpatients. Thank God. The path curved round to the left and he followed it. A sharp right and there it was. But where was Vicky? He scanned the surrounding area. What car did she drive? He’d been in it dozens of times. A Peugeot, it was a red Peugeot. He remembered sitting in the back of it, knees up under his chin. Vicky driving, Susan laughing. They’d been to a pub. He had got drunk and was singing badly. Why hadn’t she seen him? Then he spotted her, parked over in the far corner, the passenger door open. He ran towards it. Vicky was in the front, facing forwards.

‘Vicky!’

She didn’t respond.

‘Vicky!’ He moved towards the open door.

Something was wrong. He stopped. ‘Vicky!’ Stich started backing up and then he saw him. Like a jack-in-the-box, the man sprang from behind Vicky’s car. Ramrod straight, and staring directly at Stich. Stich hurled himself to the right and landed belly down as a bullet ricocheted off a car behind him. He was crawling mindlessly now. He crouched up to get his bearings and ran forwards, keeping low, ducking, and criss-crossing, his muscles so bunched with effort and fear he thought they might explode. Maybe he could attract some attention. He searched for someone. Jesus, what about Vicky? He squatted at the end of a row of cars and considered his options. If he stayed here he’d be killed. But if he went back inside the hospital, near other people and made a lot of noise, what then? Would he still be gunned down in a public place?

Stich edged on until he could see the light at the entrance sprayed onto the roadway. There was no choice. He had to get back inside and take his chances from there. He braced himself for yet another run but something stopped him; a shadow blocking the glow from the front of the hospital.

The kill