The Silent Sleep of the Dying (Eisenmenger-Flemming Forensic Mysteries) (24 page)

Eisenmenger was fiddling with a sachet of brown sugar, a sign, Helena knew, of concentration. He pulled it and pushed it, then bent it first one way, then the other. A two-year-old would not have been surprised when the paper tore and demerara sugar spilled on to the table.

Eisenmenger was.

He said, "I think it has. In fact, I'm certain of it."

"Why?"

"He knew who I was; knew that I was a doctor, although you didn't give me a title. He didn't even know I was coming, so that means he's had his people nosing about, looking into you. He may even have bugged your office or apartment, but I doubt it."

Surprised at the notion, Helena asked, "Why not?"

"Because he bugged the car. Why bother if he can already hear every word you say?"

"How did you know it was there?"

He made a face. "It occurred to me that it was worth excluding. PEP's big and, if they did have something to hide, it's the kind of trick they might pull. The fact that I was right implies they did have something to do with her death."

"Not necessarily. PEP could easily be worried about all sorts of issues connected with what happened in the laboratory accident, but that doesn't mean that they were responsible for her death. Especially when the two incidents are so far separated in time."

"So what have we learned?"

She looked through her notes. "We have a location for the laboratory — Rouna. Apart from that, I would have to say little of value."

"I wonder what the biogenetic subdepartment of the Models Development Division did, or does? It's such a delightfully vague designation; I wonder if that's deliberate?"

"Judging by the way PEP cloaks itself in shadow, I'd say almost certainly."

"So it's Rouna, or nothing. Will you take care of that? Find out whatever you can?"

She nodded. "Such a shame we don't have the names of anyone else working on the project."

"Except Carlos," he pointed out. "Whoever he is." He finished his coffee, picked up another packet of sugar. He was about to begin playing with it when Helena reached out and gently took it from him. "Don't do that, John. It makes such a mess."

He was momentarily taken aback before an abrupt grin flowered. Her hand was soft, her face registering mock sternness. He felt glad to be with her.

*

Another day done, another trip to the pub. This time, though, he vowed that it would be short, perhaps home in time to eat with Nerys. He felt guilty about the way he was treating her. True, she nagged him incessantly and in a uniquely Welsh way, but he knew that he could do far, far worse for a partner.

"Usual, Carl?"

Carlos noticed that the bartender felt no need to greet him.

Once, fifteen or so years ago, he remembered being told that it was a bad sign if the barman knew your name; what, then, was the prognosis if he knew you so well he didn't even bother to say, "Hello," if he just lined them up and listened to your opinions?

"How was work?"

Carlos shrugged. Work was work was work.

"I see there was something about your place in the paper this morning."

The Leishman was always announcing things — a new gene here, a big grant there — it was all part of the academic whirligig. Gone were the days when scientific researchers ran from publicity lest it taint the purity of their fairy grotto. Now, the more you shouted, the more money you got.

"Anything to do with you?"

Unable to raise the enthusiasm for anything more than a brief denial, he took his pint and sat alone at a table by the window. The guy behind the bar was all right but he was like the huge majority of people that Carlos met — in his mind, science was a potent and dangerous emulsion of wondrous possibilities and hideous realities. He was as ignorant of what Carlos did as he was of life on the bottom of the sea; Carlos could have sat and described the work of the Leishman for six straight hours and the poor baboon would have been not one millimetre closer to comprehension. The frightening thing was that Carlos was just a research technician — for which, (those of a more brutal, less euphemistic mind might say) read lab assistant. He didn't even do the clever stuff. He just made small contributions in the seminars and small group discussions, then went to the bench and did what he was told.

It might have been so different had the luck gone his way …
Bollocks
!

The thought cut savagely through his self-pity and he had no defence against it. It was right; he'd had bad luck, no one would deny, but he'd also squandered the good, like the six-figure pay-out that PEP had given him not so long ago, now a memory, squandered on holidays and the so-called "good life."

That little episode had only been the last hiccough in the conspiracy between himself and fate to cock up his chances.

Once he had tried for the key to the Magic Kingdom, the PhD, but at thirty-four he was now beyond that particular aspiration. Things had happened, the thesis had never been started, the work left incomplete. He had an MPhil, of course, the consolation prize for failures in the Doctoral Thesis Handicap Stakes, but only the completely sad mentioned things like an MPhil on their CV. It ranked with the Ten Metre Swimming Certificate, the Cycling Proficiency Badge and Grade One Piano.

Once, though.

Now, he was stuck in a groove, every revolution of his life wearing it deeper, the walls being rendered higher and steeper, completely eliminating all chance of escape. Research assistants of his age either remained on a research assistant's undernourished salary for life, or they got out, started another career. If he were going to get out, though, time was nearly up.

Easy, except that it wasn't. Not only was he too old, his CV was too pathetic. School, BSc, research jobs. It was bog standard in a career where bog standard was barely better than slime-mould. If he were to move, it would only be to another variation on the theme with no chance of promotion. That was what he had done in the past, jumping from one shitpile to another, the only ever difference was the type of shit he was required to shift. His failure to achieve the meal-ticket meant everything; nothing else that he had achieved would mask that.

If things had only been different, if fate had not taken him and screwed him to the lab bench. First there had been his father's death two years into his PhD. Talk about timing! The old man had always been a difficult bastard, but he excelled himself by choosing to develop acute haemorrhagic pancreatitis at that precise moment. Exit one father, exit one PhD.

The second time, though, had been the real blow, the one that told him that Carlos Arias-Stella would not have his name on the Eternal Roll-Call of Honour. The job at Pel-Ebstein had come completely unexpectedly. He'd seen the advertisement in
Nature
just at the time he was considering moving on from a stupendously tedious job at St Jerome's that had at least produced a few publications. He had applied expecting the usual rejection by silence, but to his surprise an invitation for interview had followed They hadn't even minded the PhD-shaped hole in his CV.

And, when he had been successful and been given a contract, it had transpired that the project had been potentially huge. It had been clear from the start that PEP considered this to be high priority; various heads of various departments had talked to him, emphasizing the priority they gave to Proteus. Fucking hell, they even gave it a bloody code name.

It was perhaps the first time in his life that he had felt truly important. This was high-powered research, the most advanced biopharmaceutical research (so they told him) that PEP was involved with. A small team of six under the guidance of Professor Stein. They even made him sign confidentiality agreements. He hadn't read them in detail, although now he knew that this had been a mistake. All of this engendered within him a sense of importance, a feeling of anticipation that he found intoxicating.

The feeling had lasted, too. Even when the six of them had landed on Rouna, the colostomy of the world, it hadn't seemed too bad. The isolation had added to the air of something important, something significant. He hadn't been the only one, either. All six of them had felt then that they had PEP behind them, that the huge pharmaceutical company believed that they were embarking on something special.

A year it had lasted. In fact, it had more than lasted. In those twelve months they had had astounding success. Models Development (shit name) had nearly crapped their pants over some of the initial results. Stein had turned out to belie the initial impression of doddering unworldliness, actually proving to be both astute and receptive to input. Turner, the second in command, had gradually evolved from his initial nervous self-importance into fully grown, totally fledged arrogance; none of them had minded then, because a certain amount of pride had seemed justified. Proteus was going to be a success, and Turner had had much to do with it.

Turner, of course, had proved to be the problem; his downfall. It could all have been so different. He might even, at that stage, have had a second opportunity at the legendary PhD, had things turned out otherwise.

"Are you fucking drinking that, or just nursing it until it hatches?"

The voice rang out from the bar. "A drinking friend," as Nerys called them in a tone of the purest Welsh contempt. Carlos smiled broadly, acknowledged the shout and obligingly drank some beer, then returned to his thoughts.

Then the fire had happened, and life was no longer the same again.

He considered that thought and decided,
No
.
It
wasn't
quite
like
that
.

Things had started to go terribly wrong before the fire; in a way, the fire had been a relief. The event that had once again crucified him had been some months earlier, when the covers on Proteus had been removed, when the five of them had discovered that they weren't benefiting humanity but possibly bringing its end considerably closer, and all for the career of Robin Turner and the profit line of PEP.

That and the mess he had made of his personal relationships.

He drank some more beer, finishing it and replacing it almost before he had noticed. More banter was exchanged, none of it managing to stretch over his brainstem and trouble his consciousness. He sat back in his place, still lost in Rouna.

They should have known, he supposed. Rouna was beautiful — when it wasn't cold, wet, foggy or any permutation of these — but it was so lonely. Just the journey there made him feel like an explorer, awakening idiot fears that they were nearing the edge of the world. The locals weren't too friendly, either, even those who were being paid not unhandsomely to lodge them. Jean-Jacques had likened them to a lost South American tribe.

And the laboratory. Christ, what a dump! Some sort of second world war station, used for God only knew what, then picked up by PEP on lease. PEP said they were there to ensure industrial secrecy, because Proteus was so potentially valuable, they could afford no leak. Hence the location, hence the signing of confidentiality clauses. Hence, too, the man who accompanied them on the trips there and back; the one with cold eyes that did little more than reflect your own uncertainties.

No wonder he began to drink heavily. In the evenings there was little to do, other than go to the local drinking house and sit at a table in the corner, feeling watched and at the same time unregarded by the islanders, being served by the unwelcoming, one-eyed Marble.

No wonder, too, relationships began to form between the six of them. The oddest had been the one between Stein and himself. The old man, it transpired, had a son just about his age, but he had gone bad in some way (Stein had never wanted to talk about the details). Carlos and Stein had grown close, what with Carlos's own father being dead. Eventually they had been about as close as blood kin.

But it had been the sex that had caused the problem. Isolation played tricks. At the start he wouldn't have looked more than once at either Millie or Justine (certainly wouldn't have thought about impregnating them, unless it was with a six-foot dick whilst they wore a bag over the head), yet with time they began to look strangely attractive. Millie, for instance. Not a stunner, but then when the choice was between her and a scraggy sheep in a field, well, what's a man to do?

Only trouble was Turner was having similar thoughts. Seemed to think he had
noblesse
oblige
. Took exception to one of the underlings taking an interest in his property. Arrogant bastard. Should have brought things to a conclusion a lot earlier — things would have been different if he had — but at the time he was afraid for his job. In fact, at the time, he had thought he had chosen the best way. Let Turner have his "victory," all cock-of-the-walk, while he and Millie engaged in games with rod and balls behind his back. Stupid cunt was so blind he didn't actually realize for a long time …

Gary walked into the pub. Good old, life of the party, drinking mate extraordinaire, know how to have a good time Gary. He spotted Carlos at once and shouted, "Carl! Wotcha drinking, lad?"

Carlos, it transpired, was drinking beer.

*

The department was in mourning. As soon as Eisenmenger entered it, he could feel the heaviness, the loss of that which leavens, that which enervates. There was nothing objective that he could discern — there was no loss of light or temperature, no sound of weeping — but it was there and real, nonetheless.