Alchemist (72 page)

Thirty-three years. He had come close to nailing Bendix Schere on the powdered milk scandal fifteen years ago, but they had got wind of the story, put pressure on his publishers, threatening them with lawsuits and withdrawal of advertising. And, within days, fatal accidents had claimed his two key sources.

For thirty-three years he had watched Bendix, stalked them, scoured newspaper archives for every column inch ever written about them, and struggled his way through every paper published by their scientists. Maternox. Thirty-three years of waiting patiently, waiting for that one time they would fail to cover their tracks. And now here it was.

The Medici File
.

He leafed through each sheath of the documents he had assembled, checking them, page by page. He thumbed the files on Sarah's death first. Zandra Wollerton had done a thorough job there, poor girl. Too thorough. He had a copy of the fax she had obtained from Sarah's doctor to Dr Linda Farmer, Director of Medical Information at Bendix Schere, reporting the possible link between her virus and the Maternox. Then there was the report on his son-in-law's apparent suicide in his car, sketchy as the inquest had not yet taken place, but not to be ignored.

He checked in turn each of the files on the other three women who had died in labour after taking Maternox,
ensuring everything was in meticulous order. Next he scanned through the printout from Conor Molloy's desk. Then finally, he re-read his own detailed report. All he needed now was the result of the Maternox tests from Dr Bannerman.

He had settled on
The Sunday Times
as the newspaper to whom he would give the scoop. If he could stand the story up, he had been guaranteed the works. The splash and spread. The paper required the results of the test, accompanied by affidavits from Dr Bannerman and from Conor Molloy. When they had those, they would move into action and start hitting Rorke, Crowe and the rest of the Board of Directors with calls.

He replaced each of the documents inside their clearly marked folders and carried them into the hall. Tomorrow he would lock them in the office safe.

Then he plodded back to his chair. Nothing to do now but wait for Miss Bannerman to make contact. A lovely lady, plucky and kind; he envied her youth and energy. He liked the American with her, Conor Molloy. A trifle intense, perhaps, but he was all right. He liked Americans, there had been good times in Vietnam before –

He picked up the channel selector and routinely checked the news headlines on Teletext, which he did every hour or so; it made him feel professional, even though his paper rarely featured national news.

A car bomb had gone off in central London; first reports indicated two people were dead. The IRA were back again, he thought gloomily; too many different warring factions and splinter groups for the ceasefire to hold indefinitely.

He looked at his watch once more. It was old, with a winder that had to be turned by hand, and its face had yellowed. A cup of tea would be welcome, most welcome. A cup of tea, then a breath of fresh air, then –

He was startled by what sounded distinctly like a footstep upstairs. He raised his eyebrows, puzzled, then after a moment stood up, went out into the hall and listened. There was no sound at all; the house was utterly still. Must have imagined it, he thought, walking through into the kitchen.

Wednesday 7 December, 1994

Have to get away from here
, Monty thought.
Just get right away
.

Shivering from shock and the icy night air, she pushed a hand into her mackintosh pocket, and as her fingers closed round the keyring and the cold, sharp shapes attached to it, she felt a small amount of comfort that at least in her panic she had not locked herself out.

Still crouched down, keys clasped in her hand, she crept back a few paces until she was on the pavement, looking in both directions up and down the street. Reflections of the flames bounced back at her from every window; slivers of blue flashing light slid like disembodied spirits over the roofs of the parked cars; sirens shrieked, wailed, cried, like nocturnal beasts of the urban jungle.

She heard the voice through the loud hailer asking people to move further back, losing its patience now, becoming exasperated. A young man ran past her, clad in a dressing gown and slippers.

This isn't happening
. She closed her eyes for a brief moment.
Please God let this be a dream
.

She stood up and walked along the pavement. People were peering out of their doorways, dogs were barking. It felt strange to be walking naked beneath her mackintosh and barefoot in London; but everyone else looked strange also; right now the whole world had suddenly gone out of kilter. She would wake up soon.

The front door of Conor's apartment building was open, and a dark-skinned man was looking out. He gave Monty a nervous smile. ‘A bomb? It is a bomb, yes?'

‘I – I think so.'

‘The IRA,' he said and shook his head. ‘The ceasefire was just a sham, a publicity stunt. These people are not –'

But Monty had squeezed past him, stumbled up the stairs, locked herself in Conor's apartment and put on the safety chain. Her watch said 1.45. Been in bed about two hours, she
thought, feeling sober now, completely one hundred per cent sober. Goosepimples pricked her skin like thorns, and she shivered. Eight forty-five in Washington, she calculated. Phone Conor, phone him and tell him. Warn him.

No calls from home, he had said. Strictly no calls from home. Have to go out, find a pay phone. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, jammed them hard up against her teeth. Levine. Detective Superintendent Levine. She thought of the police officer, remembered his words as he had handed her his card.

‘
You can get me on these numbers day and night – there's my direct office line and my home number. Don't feel embarrassed about calling if anything frightens you; get on to me immediately
.'

She rummaged in her purse, retrieved the card, made her trembling finger hit the right buttons.

The phone was answered on the third ring and she recognized his voice instantly, even though he sounded very sleepy.

‘Yes, hello?'

A siren screamed past the window, making speech impossible for a few moments. As it faded, she heard him repeat, ‘Hello? Hello?'

‘It's Montana Bannerman,' she said.

Levine suddenly sounded much wider awake, his voice taking on precision-tool efficiency. ‘Yes, Miss Bannerman, what's the matter?'

‘Someone's tried to kill me. My car has just blown up; a few minutes ago.'

‘Are you all right?' he asked urgently.

‘Yes, I'm OK. There were two youths – they – they –' Her voice cracked as the horror got to her.

There was a brief pause, then he said: ‘Right. I want you to stay where you are, keep the door locked and don't answer it to anyone until I arrive. I'm going to take you into protective custody. Pack an overnight bag and I'll get to you as quickly as I can – take me about half an hour across London. All right?'

‘Thank you,' she said, choking as emotion overcame her.

She replaced the receiver and wiped away the tears rolling down her cheeks with the back of her hand. Then, suddenly,
she stiffened, feeling as if a bolus of cold water had been injected into her insides.

…
take me about half an hour across London
.

How the hell did
he
know where she was? How did he know she was in London, and not at home in the country? She hadn't had time to tell him.

She felt gripped with panic as the room seemed to shrink around her, the walls closing in on her.
Half an hour. Take him half an hour
.

Jesus
.

She ran into the bedroom, ripped off her mackintosh, yanked her small suitcase open and threw on her clothes. She raced into the bathroom, shovelled her wash things and cosmetics into her arms, chucked them into her suitcase, stuffing everything in, glancing anxiously at her watch every few moments.

Five minutes had passed. She put her mack back on, unlocked the main door cautiously and looked down the stairs. The coloured man was still standing in the doorway but there was no one else around. Clutching her suitcase and handbag, she descended, squeezed past him without speaking and ran. Away from the burning car, away from the crowd. Kept on running until she had reached Cromwell Road.

The traffic was light. Breathless, she stumbled for a couple of hundred yards, then in the distance she saw the yellow glow of a ‘For Hire' sign. She threw herself out in front of the taxi, raising one hand and waving her handbag frantically. To her relief, the driver flashed his lights in recognition and swerved to a halt at the kerb.

She clambered into the back, gulping air.

‘Where to?'

She couldn't think of anywhere. Her mind had gone into spasm.
Where to
? What the hell had she told Levine? Everything, the lot; her father; Conor; Hubert Wentworth.

Where to
? The police? Go to Scotland Yard? How many friends did Levine have? How wide was his influence? Had he ordered PC Brangwyn not to find anything when the local lads were investigating her break-in? Had he covered up over Jake Seals' death?

I don't know if you are aware, Miss Bannerman, but it appears your colleague was intoxicated when he came to work. He had a blood alcohol level of twice the legal limit for driving
.

She looked urgently at the cab driver. She needed somewhere anonymous with a phone, had to speak to her father as fast as possible. ‘Heathrow Airport,' she said. ‘Could you head out towards Heathrow?'

‘Which terminal do you want?'

She hesitated. ‘I'll let you know.'

As the taxi turned away, a police car screamed past them, its siren wailing.

‘Must be a fire or a bomb or something,' the cabbie said. ‘Down Fulham way; lot of activity going on.'

Monty pressed her face against the rear window, watching the road behind for any sign that they were being followed. The traffic was still light and she could see nothing.

As they headed up the ramp of the Hammersmith flyover, the lights of the Bendix Clinic clearly visible to the right, she asked the driver to find a pay phone. He turned off at the next roundabout and pulled up by a solitary booth outside a garage.

She told him to wait, went into the booth and rang her father's number. She let it ring for a good two minutes, willing him to answer. He was a light sleeper, and if he was at home it would wake him.

Her anxiety deepening, she dialled the number of their laboratory; it was quite possible he was still there; she had known him, on many occasions, to work right through the night.

Please pick up the phone, Daddy
, she thought.
Please
.

There was a click, followed by the sound of her own voice on the answering machine. She hung up and hurried back to the cab. ‘Where's the nearest car rental place that would be open at this hour, do you know?' she asked the driver.

‘Out at the airport, I should think. Avis, Hertz, someone like that. I know the Hertz one there's twenty-four hours.'

‘OK, take me there,' she said. ‘As quickly as you can.'

North London. 1953

The spoon clattered from his mother's metal hand on to the linoleum. Daniel, seated across the kitchen table from her, made no move to pick it up. Anyway, she was fiercely proud and did not want to be helped. God had handicapped her, and now He was giving her the strength to overcome the handicap. She had taken to likening herself to Job.

Lifting objects from the floor was the hardest thing. The two metal hands were rigid, unarticulated, and a small object like a soup spoon was particularly difficult to prise off a flat surface.

A lick of steam curled from her brown Windsor soup as she glared defiantly down at the spoon, then she ducked her head below the table, some stray wisps of hair, which was kept short now, tumbling forward. It gave Daniel immense satisfaction to watch his mother struggle. He listened to the racket as her hands scrabbled, waited for the clink, then the silence as she slowly raised the spoon, with studied concentration.

He would let her get it halfway up, then he would use his power and she would drop it again. The spoon would clatter on to the linoleum in musical discord, and his mother would grimace. All Daniel needed to do was hold his concentration. Keep his mind tuned into her own, keep it focused, and he could play her, the way he did all the time now, like a hooked fish.

Now!

The spoon fell into the bowl, splashing scalding soup over her.

‘Owww! Damn, damnit!' his mother cried out, soup dripping from her face. But, immediately, she laid a hand over her heart, pressing it into the pale blue strands of the cardigan she had knitted herself before the accident, and stared guiltily at the Bible beside her bowl. ‘Lord forgive me,' she said. ‘Lord have mercy upon me.' She leaned down again and, when she was out of sight, the smirk spread across her son's face.

Practise!
the Magister Templi had commanded. Daniel obeyed. It was the summer holidays now and he was free all day, to work his rituals in his room. He was finding it easier to summon the power and to control it, but he was not sure where the limits lay. Today he intended to find out.

Money
. The Magister Templi had told him he would need masses of it to become a great magician. There was no problem; money would soon be on its way.

He allowed his mother to pick up the spoon this time, and waited patiently as she cleaned it on her napkin, then immersed it in her bowl and raised the soup slowly and carefully towards her mouth. Timing was all. He judged it exactly, watching her edge the spoon towards her lips, saw her eyes focused on it. Peripheral vision. Had to make sure it appeared in her peripheral vision. Her lips parted, she blew on the soup.

Now!

He materialized the rat. A large brown rat that scrambled up the side of the sink, as if it had just emerged from the plug hole, then ran on to the draining board, and paused to survey the scene.