Alchemist (14 page)

He called up the Bendix Building staff list on the computer screen and added a Christmas tree symbol to the right of Montana Bannerman's name. Her conversations would also have to be monitored from now on. Then he picked up his internal phone and set in motion a home phone tap and twenty-four-hour surveillance operation on Jake Seals.

Shortly after half past ten, a wodge of files tucked under his arm, Conor enunciated ‘Floor Eight' and felt the lift respond. He checked out his reflection in the bronze mirror, adjusted his tie, and smoothed the gelled tangle of his hair. Then the doors opened and he walked out into the green-carpeted foyer of the genetics research floor.

‘Miss Bannerman, please,' he told the security guard, his eyes picking up the camera directly above the oak console.

‘Room 814, fifth door on the right down the corridor,' the guard said, with a glazed look, as if he had already given the same directions a thousand times that morning.

As he walked past, Conor glanced round to see what the guard was watching on his monitor screens. One showed a blank stairwell behind what was presumably a fire-exit door. Another showed an empty corridor. A third showed a large lab with several people working in it.

Ahead of him, two men in the corridor were negotiating a crate on a porter's trolley through a doorway. And on the door directly opposite was the number ‘814'. Through the window he could see a frizz of long blonde hair and his spirits rose as he realized it
was
the same young woman he had already met; she was seated at her desk surrounded by stacks of unopened packing cases and cardboard boxes. He rapped on the door which was ajar.

‘Come in.'

He felt an instant attraction the moment he entered; hair the colour of winter wheat cascaded either side of a welcoming face, and clear blue eyes sparkled up at him with life and humour. Their owner looked elegant and businesslike in a bottle-green suit with a white, open-neck blouse.

‘Hi,' he said. ‘Conor Molloy – we met before, right?'

‘Good morning,
Mr
Molloy.' She put emphasis on the ‘Mr' as if to remind him of the regulations, but also to convey that she could not take the formality too seriously.

She gestured to one of the chairs in front of her desk and he sat down, holding the files on his lap, feeling good in her presence and enjoying the tease in her eyes. He noticed the tiny dimples in her cheeks and the almost perfect whiteness of her teeth.
Miss Bannerman
, he thought;
you are seriously gorgeous
.

‘Would you like some coffee?'

‘Sure, thanks.'

She stood up. ‘Black or white?'

‘No milk or sugar.'

He watched her as she walked out of the office. She was short, no more than about five foot three inches, with a slender figure, and she carried herself with a carefree air that exuded sensuality. It took him several moments after she had gone to collect his thoughts on the paperwork he had brought, and the questions he needed to ask. Then he glanced around, looking for clues about her.

It was a pleasant office, flooded with the illusion of natural light and with the hi-tech furnishings that were standard throughout the building. There were a few personal touches, but not many: a couple of potted plants on the floor; a framed photograph of a man he recognized as Dr Bannerman with a woman who looked like an older version of Montana Bannerman; and a Burberry mackintosh hung from a hook on the door.

He looked up at the ceiling with its built-in light and climate-control panels, and the ugly nozzles of the fire sprinkler system, wondering darkly what else might be concealed up there.

Yes, she was a rebel, this young woman, he thought. No question about it. She would need a little coaxing along;
gently, gently catch a monkey
. But if he played his cards right he had a feeling he could win himself a powerful ally. And she was perfectly positioned; her father was now effectively masterminding the entire Bendix Schere genetics research programme; there would be very little information to which she would not have access.

She came back with two Styrofoam cups. ‘I'm afraid the coffee isn't too brilliant on this floor.'

‘Now she tells me,' he said with a smile, accepting the cup.

She sat back down. ‘You're in Group Patents? A patent agent?'

‘Uh huh. I'm a patent attorney – kind of the American equivalent.'

‘Where are you from?'

‘Washington. Ever been there?'

‘Yes,' she said. ‘A few times. My father's given several talks at Georgetown University.'

‘That's where I was an undergrad. It's a good place.'

‘We're going over in a few weeks – he has to do a short promotion tour for his book. It's just come out in the States.'

‘What's it about?'

‘It's called
The Gene Bomb – The 21st Century Holocaust
.'

He looked at her and quietly tested the water. ‘Sounds controversial?'

‘Very. My father tends to be controversial. Rather too much for his own good.'

‘I've kind of noticed – reading through his published papers – he doesn't seem to have too much truck with a lot of the conventions of his profession.'

‘No, he doesn't.'

‘How about you?'

‘I do my best to keep him on the straight and narrow.'

‘You don't go along with his view that patenting is wrong?'

She shook her head and he saw a trace of sadness in her expression. ‘My father is a genius, Mr Molloy, but like a lot of geniuses he doesn't always live in the real world. I understand his feelings about pooling knowledge, particularly with genetics, but I actually believe in the patenting system. I believe in this company – I feel a great sense of privilege to be here.'

Conor's spirits dropped a fraction as he read the sincerity in the expression that accompanied her words. She wasn't just saying it to impress.

Give me time, he thought. Give me time and I'll change your mind about this company. I promise
.

Reading, England. Tuesday 13 September, 1994

Tiny balls of rainwater rolled around on the glistening bonnet of the small blue Nissan. The inside of the car reeked of polish; the vinyl dashboard and the parcel shelf were buffed to a gloss, the carpets freshly shampooed. The last time he had been in his father-in-law's car, Alan Johnson reflected through his misery, it had been a tip, littered with old newspapers, sweet wrappers, yellow Post-it notes. He must have had it specially valeted for the funeral.

The wipers swept an arc in front of him, but he saw only a blur of rainwater that was indistinguishable from his tears. They were pulling up outside the house now; the late roses still in bloom in the front garden were bowed beneath the weight of water. Sarah's roses; she had watered them, tended them and she would never see them again. She would never see any more flowers.

Gone.

Dead.

Not coming back. Ever.

Five o'clock and it was growing gloomy. The sparse grass looked sodden and forlorn; a sapling cherry supported by a stake stood in its midst. All the windows were dark. No lights on. Sarah always told him it was important to leave lights on when you went out; she was practical, much more practical than himself. She did the shopping, paid the bills, juggled their bank balances and their overdrafts, organized the essentials. He stared at their home, barely a year old, modern, cosy, newly decorated. Sarah had chosen the colours, the curtains, the furnishings, the kitchen units. She had made it warm and cheery; now it looked dark and forbidding. And empty.

God, it looked empty.

He turned to his father-in-law. ‘Will you come with me – I don't think I can face going in there alone.'

‘Of course, of course,' Hubert Wentworth said quietly, pulling on the handbrake and switching off the engine. He
leaned back, looking exhausted from the strain of the day and took a deep breath. ‘You – ah – can stay with me, if you'd rather.'

Alan shook his head. ‘Thank you – I need – need to –' His voice tailed. He needed to be alone with his grief, but he stared fearfully at the house; at the abyss.

It would be better once they went inside. He would switch on all the lights, turn up the heating. A slight panic was seizing him because he was already unable to picture Sarah clearly; her image kept slipping from his mind and he could only recall sections of it: the texture of her hair, the shape of her mouth; the colour of her bare shoulder; he was even having problems recalling her voice; just snatches of words, of the way she said his name. She only existed for him in fragments, like pieces of a vase lying shattered on a floor.

He pulled the rumpled handkerchief from his pocket, sniffed and dabbed his eyes.
Oh God, dear God, please bless my darling Sarah and give me strength to cope
, he prayed silently.

There was a sharp click as his father-in-law released his seat belt and slowly eased his bulky figure out of the car. Alan was grateful for the company of the kindly journalist, aware of Hubert Wentworth's own sadness also. They shared an unwelcome common bond: the older man had lost his wife in a tragic way also, many years ago. And now he had lost his only child as well.

Images remained burned into Alan's mind. The surgeon's knife slitting open Sarah's navel, the ribbon of blood following the blade's path. The nurses clamping back the parted skin; the surgeon pushing his gloved hands inside the opening. Then the slimy, wriggling creature, trailing a long white cord, raised into the air.

Their baby! Their baby had been born! God had made everything all right!

Then the silence.

No. Oh God, please no
.

The tiny human shape coated in wet blood thrashing like a hooked fish. The mass of misshapen flesh; the empty skin; no nose, no mouth, just the one eye, oddly slanted in the centre of what might be the forehead.

And after that, a merciful blur.

Cars were parked in driveways along the street. Lights were on in all the other houses; televisions flickered through their windows; two kids roller-bladed along the pavement. Life was being lived; but Alan wondered why as they walked to the front door, the cold wind and rain lashing them. It was a Georgian-style door, painted green, with a brass knocker. Sarah's choice.

Alan was grateful to his father-in-law for the silence. He knew that he should have organized a party after the funeral, a wake, they were called. But that sort of thing was Sarah's domain, she had always been good at organizing, and it seemed only yesterday that they had sat together, selecting items for their wedding list, writing out invites. He would not have had the strength to face those same people at the house today.

Merely walking into the crematorium had been an ordeal; there had been a large turnout, mostly faces he did not recognize. Some cousins whom he barely knew had showed up, but that was all the representation from his side of the family. Other than his bedridden mother, who had been unable to leave her nursing home, he had no close living relatives; his father had been dead nearly a decade.

Sympathy. What the hell good was sympathy? As he pushed his key in the lock, all he could see was the brass handles on the coffin on the catafalque; and they weren't even real, just plastic coated to look like brass. A sham, an illusion; they were the regulation:
environmentally friendly
, the undertaker had told him. He saw the blue velvet curtains slowly closing in front of the coffin, closing on his Sarah. Heard the ghastly electrical hum. Then the music, Sarah's favourite piece, ‘Oh For The Wings Of The Dove'. He wondered who knew, who had suggested it.

The hall was unwelcoming. As they shut the door behind them, the howling wind seemed to have followed them in and was still blowing. It seemed to be coming from above them. Alan switched on a light and a door slammed upstairs.

Both men glanced at each other, their grief momentarily suspended as they stared up into the darkness of the landing.
Hubert Wentworth put a steadying hand on his son-in-law's shoulder. ‘You – ah – must have left a window open.'

Alan swallowed, his eyes locked on a framed sampler on the wall which read: ‘God Bless This House.' A window open, yes, of course. His grief had been playing havoc with his mind. He had put the newspaper and the morning post in the fridge yesterday. Emptied an entire plate of food he had just microwaved for his supper last night into the dustbin by mistake. Autopilot; he was running on auto and the system had gone wonky.

Both men mounted the stairs. As Sarah's father switched on the landing light, the first thing that Alan saw was the cheery blue and white china sign tacked to the door in front of him: ‘Baby's Room.' He had to force himself to grip the handle, turn it and push the door open.

A great weight seemed to be pushing back against the door from the other side and a howling draught greeted him. Then he gasped in shock: the window had been smashed; almost all the glass had been knocked out and lay in jagged pieces on the yellow carpet. A mobile of flying animals spun and clattered above the brand new cot. The eyes of the two mourners met and exchanged a mutual signal of alarm.

Alan had heard about this; callous burglars who read the death notices and raided homes during the funeral. But they wouldn't have done that to him, not the way Sarah – and the baby had died – no, surely?

Hubert Wentworth moved quickly as if suddenly transformed into an athlete, striding out and opening the door to the master bedroom. Alan followed: all the drawers from Sarah's dressing table had been pulled open and their contents strewn on the floor. The wardrobe doors were hanging open and most of the contents lay scattered.

Alan's eyes sprang to their wedding photograph in the silver frame on the windowsill and a strange feeling of relief gushed through him at the realization that the thieves had not, at least, taken that. He registered that the radio was still there and the small portable television and he wondered why. Then he entered the small ensuite bathroom. To his surprise the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet was open and several
vials of pills and ointments had been knocked to the floor. The doors of the cupboard beneath the fitted washbasin were open also, and the contents emptied haphazardly.