Alchemist (60 page)

Conor, who had absorbed himself in
The Times
, looked up. ‘Scarf? Did he say
scarf
?'

‘Yes, well it's a shawl, actually – I noticed it was missing after the break-in. Except I can't be sure – I
may
have left it somewhere.'

His face darkened and he looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he lifted the paper. ‘There's a piece here about Dr Crowe.'

‘Oh – what does it say?' She began slicing tomatoes and preparing a salad.

Conor read aloud:

‘
Computer modelling is cutting years off the search for new drugs for pharmaceuticals giant Bendix Schere
.

‘
Chief Executive Officer Dr Vincent Crowe said: “We were pioneers in the field of molecular modelling. Only a decade ago, scientists were saying it was impossible to replicate chemical reactions accurately through computer programs. We now have the most advanced computerized research facilities in the world and the true benefits will begin to show for our company during the next ten years
.”

‘
Bendix Schere's growth, from a worldwide ranking of seventeenth to fourth, has staggered both its competitors and City analysts in the last few years. But how will the company fare when the global patents on its infertility wonder drug, Maternox, and its OTC ulcer drug, Zoxcin, expire in three and four years' time respectively
?

‘“
We're looking towards transgenics as a major future growth area,” said Dr Crowe. “We currently hold more gene patents than any other company and we're filing new patents almost weekly. We have the largest genetics research team in the world and are confident of major breakthroughs in the field, leading to the launch of products before the start of the next century that are going to change the face of medicine as we know it, both in diagnosis and treatment
.”'

‘I do not like thee, Dr Crowe,' Monty said.

‘The guy has a major personality disorder. Probably due to sharing ninety per cent of his genes with slime mould.'

Monty grinned. ‘I thought we all did.'

‘No, the rest of the human race only shares seventy per cent.'

Her smile faded. ‘I'm worried about the Kingsley Maternox capsules; it seems like it might be near impossible to get any more if I lose them. Perhaps I should ask our family solicitor to put a couple in his safe?'

‘Give a couple to this Wentworth guy; they'd be just as secure in the newspaper's safe; probably more so; most papers have security guards these days, but not lawyers' offices. If I was trying to find out what information you had, your lawyer's office would be one of the first places I'd search – after your home.'

‘You might be right.'

He curled a finger, summoning her over to him, then reached up and took her hands, pulling her gently down towards him for a kiss.

She kissed him lightly back, then sat on his lap and crooked an arm round his neck. ‘I feel so unsure about everything. It's like –' She fell silent.

‘Like what?'

‘Like nothing is what it seems. Like those six floors below ground that no one has access to.'

‘That could always be innocent, just a kind of Doomsday fallout facility.'

‘Except my Winston Smith has a panic attack when I ask him about it. You don't get panic attacks over empty basements. I really want to know what's down there, Conor.'

‘You could try asking your good friend, Sir Neil Rorke.' He gave her a sideways look.

‘That would be putting him on the spot; and he might start asking awkward questions about how I found out about them. I have a much better idea. Could you hack into the personnel files and get me Winston Smith's home address? If we're going visiting tomorrow, we could drop by and see him too. I have a feeling he might talk to me away from the Bendix Building.'

He smiled. ‘Do you know any cheap hotels around here? We could kill two birds with one stone.'

‘You don't want to stay here?'

‘Sure I want to stay here tonight. But you need a phone to call Wentworth tomorrow, and I'll need one to dial into the Bendix computer to get that address. Let's go find a place first thing in the morning.'

‘And check in just to make a couple of calls? That sounds extravagant.'

He looked hard into her eyes. ‘There's nothing extravagant about trying to stay alive, Monty.'

She felt as if icy spring water was running through her veins. ‘What are you keeping from me?'

He said nothing.

‘There's something driving you, Conor. There are moments when you seem as fanatical about Bendix Schere as old Hubert Wentworth. Don't you think it's about time you levelled with me?
Eumenides
. Your user-name. A spirit of vengeance. Is
that
what's motivating you?'

Again he remained silent.

‘You want vengeance, the same way Wentworth does? Is that where you're coming from?' The barb in her next words startled even her. ‘Or am I totally misreading you? Is this all a game to you? Are you just a
little
curious, but not curious enough that you're prepared to risk your job for what you believe in?'

He raised his hands and cupped her face in his palms. ‘I warned you on Monday to quit this Maternox investigation while you had the chance. And you told me you were a stayer. Don't start fighting me, Monty, we're on the same side.'

‘Are we? I know nothing about you. We sleep together, we talk together, and it's wonderful, it really is, but you never tell me anything about yourself. Every time I ask you about your background, you sidestep like a politician. I don't know the
real
you.'

‘You will when the time comes.'

‘When what time comes?'

Sunday 27 November, 1994

Monty sat in the passenger seat of the BMW as they drove away from the hotel they'd checked into less than an hour before. Conor followed her instructions and after a couple of miles they were accelerating on to an almost deserted M4.

The brightness of the morning had gone and the sky was marbled with cloud; the light was already failing and it would be dark within a couple of hours. A blob of rain exploded on the windscreen; it was followed by another. Monty was watching for the exit sign through the sweep of the wipers, thinking how best to tackle her father. How much should she tell him? And, more importantly, was she putting him in physical danger?

She owed it to Anna to act quickly – and to all the other women on the list. One of them was due to give birth in December; could she be saved if her doctor was made aware of the situation?

She thought of Charles Kingsley alone with his grief in his beautiful mansion flat, and of the same horror that lurked only weeks away for the husbands of more innocent women.

She would have to tell her father everything, she resolved. She would have to swallow all the assurances she had given him about how wonderful the company was; he needed to know the score now. He had a great deal of wisdom when he wasn't being stubborn; maybe he'd come up with the best thing to do. That thought made her feel a fraction more comfortable.

Hubert Wentworth's house was in a quiet, unassuming street on the outskirts of Slough. It had brown pebble-dash rendering and mock Tudor beams, a couple of which had sections missing. The property, like its owner, gave the appearance of being in a state of neglect, a little frayed around the edges.

Monty pressed the doorbell, but there was no audible sound. She glanced at Conor, standing beside her with his briefcase. ‘Did you hear it ring?'

‘No.'

She waited, then pressed it again. Assuming it was not working, she raised the knocker on the letter box and brought it down with a sharp rap just as the door opened; she found herself still holding on to it as she stared into two rheumy eyes.

She introduced Conor, who greeted the newspaperman pleasantly. Hubert Wentworth shook his proffered hand, and returned the greeting. ‘How do you do, Mr Molloy. A Baltimore accent, would I be right?'

‘You got it.' Conor checked himself from adding
sir
. In spite of his shabby attire, there was a certain air of authority, of elder statesman even, about the man. ‘I'm impressed!'

Wentworth ushered them inside. The house was small and poky, and Monty wrinkled her nose at the smell of old fabric, dust and cats. The words ‘Bless this House' were hand-painted on a ceramic tablet hanging on the wall. The
atmosphere reminded her of visiting her grandmother when she was a child.

Further within, the living room was startlingly neat and clean, with almost every surface bedecked in a forest of framed photographs. There were literally dozens.

At first sight they all appeared to be of the same person, a strikingly attractive Indo-Chinese woman in her twenties whom Monty immediately recognized from the photo Hubert Wentworth had shown her at the cottage. It was his late wife. The pictures made the room feel eerie, she thought. Like a shrine. Then she noticed a series of shots showing a baby girl progressing through childhood into a young adult whom she also recognized. Pretty as an infant, by her late teens Sarah Wentworth – or Johnson, as Monty had known her – was looking very plain. She had the misfortune to have inherited her father's pancake face rather than her mother's high cheekbones; the luck of the gene pool, Monty thought.

She felt a lump of sadness in her throat. She'd just spotted a wedding scene of Sarah standing in a churchyard beside a rather meek-looking man with short, dark hair. Alan Johnson. Dead also. He had gassed himself in his garage. Except for Hubert Wentworth, everyone in the photographs in this room was dead.

The newspaperman left them while he went to make tea. Conor had sat down and Monty joined him. Hubert Wentworth soon reappeared with a tray laid with teapot, cups, milk, and a lardy cake cut into slices.

‘Cake,' he said. ‘Cake is what we should have for tea. Sarah, my daughter – used to bring me such good ones, much more exciting, I'm afraid, than this.' He raised the pot and began pouring their tea.

‘Did you bring up Sarah by yourself, Mr Wentworth?' Monty asked.

‘Yes, I did. Françoise died when she was just three. She was a photo journalist, always in and out of Vietnam.' He poured his own tea, then sat down with a heavy smile.

‘You see, Françoise was with
Paris Match
to do a photo shoot, and –'

‘That's when she was killed?' Conor asked. ‘In the war?'

He nodded. ‘
She
was killed and
I
was sprayed with a defoliant chemical they called Agent Orange.' Wentworth paused, his face tight with thought, then he resumed. ‘They sprayed the whole press corps, in a blunder. Seventy per cent of the reporters there that day have now died of cancer. I have to have a check-up every six months. They tell me it's only a matter of time.'

Monty looked at him in sympathy, unsure what to say. She'd heard some of the story before and her mind was boggling at the suffering, directly and indirectly, that the produce of Bendix Schere had caused this man.

‘Agent Orange?' Conor said.

‘Yes, or a chemical almost identical to Agent Orange. Anyway, it's lethal.' The journalist appeared to address the carpet. ‘Like the napalm that killed my wife, it was manufactured by one of the United States factories of Bendix Schere.'

In the silence that followed he offered the cake. Monty didn't want any, but took a small slice so as not to offend; Conor helped himself and began to eat hungrily. ‘You might be OK,' he said. ‘These things don't necessarily affect everyone.'

Wentworth smiled at him; but it was a smile that seemed to carry with it a trace of envy: envy of Conor's youth and innocence, and of all the life that he had in front of him. ‘Time,' he said. ‘That's what's valuable to me. The time I have left. I have no fear of death, just a fear of leaving unfinished business. I – I've often thought –' He suddenly checked himself and started again. ‘You've come a long way and I should stick to the point. It was fortuitous you rang, I have something you should see.'

He heaved himself to his feet and went out of the room. Monty turned to Conor, wondering what he made of it all, but he seemed deep in thought and did not respond to her.

Wentworth came back clutching a folder. He looked first at Conor, then at Monty, then appeared to make a decision and handed it to Monty. Inside was a wodge of papers. The one on top was headed: ‘Confidential Inquiry Into Maternal Deaths.'

She looked up for an explanation.

‘The government,' he said. ‘They've instigated an audit of all deaths in labour. The forms must be completed by the gynaecologist, the obstetrician, the anaesthetist and the pathologist. They're sent to a regional assessor, then to the Department of Health Central Office.' Wentworth looked guiltily pleased with himself. ‘I've obtained the reports on the first three women who died after taking Maternox – the fourth hasn't come through yet. And I have an alphabetical list of every woman in Britain who died in labour in the past twelve months – ah – in case we find the need to trawl a wider area.'

‘How did you get it?' Conor asked.

Wentworth slowly raised his index finger and tapped the side of his nose with a wry smile. ‘A lifetime in newspapers, one acquires connections.'

Monty detected a trace of pride, then it was gone, like the flit of the shadow of a passing bird. She turned to the pathologist's report on Sarah Johnson and scanned through it. Much of it was in technical language, but part of the summary was clear:

‘…
suggest retention of body fluid and tissue samples for further analysis to eliminate any possibility of a causal link between the acute pustular psoriasis, viral meningitis and the Cyclopism
.'

Feeling a beat of excitement, she turned to the reports on the other two women. In each case the pathologist had made a similar remark. Her excitement increasing, she showed the comments to Conor.