The Silent Sleep of the Dying (Eisenmenger-Flemming Forensic Mysteries) (36 page)

"Rosenthal, Rytand, whatever his name is, trained in the Special Forces. Died in them, too, if the official record is to be believed."

"Not a bad cover, being dead."

"But why? I still don't see why all these people had to die." Helena sounded almost pained.

Beverley said, "At the moment, that's not what concerns me most. I think the thing we have to worry about is our own exposure. Rosenthal has apparently dispatched, or ordered the dispatch of, two and perhaps three people; he'll have no problem with dealing with two amateurs and a rogue police officer."

Eisenmenger said only, "Thanks," while he thought,
she's
absolutely
right
.

He was unsure if Helena appreciated that. She said, "We don't have enough to go to the police officially. We have to find Carlos Arias-Stella; he's the only witness left."

Beverley smiled, superciliousness in two soft red lips. "Well, thanks, Helena."

And suddenly they were there again, caught on a thermal of rising tension. Eisenmenger asked, "How long will it take to find him?"

The difference in her attitude when she addressed him was painfully apparent. "Difficult to say. It may only take a few hours, it may take days, even a week or more. Sometimes we never find people we're looking for."

"Great." Helena made one syllable carry an essay's worth of sarcasm.

Beverley turned to her. "I'll find him. And I'll find him alive."

*

Nerys had spent the next day at home, calling in sick. Although she failed to appreciate it, she was in fact in shock, her mind still dwelling on what had happened during those ten minutes late last night, an involuntary retelling of the tale, bringing with it each time more of the churning fear she had at that time experienced.

Yet the more she relived it, the less she could appreciate what had happened, what it had meant.

My
God
,
Carlos
must
have
got
himself
into
really
big
shit
this
time
.

Yet Carlos had never struck her as villainous. Lazy, drunken, good-for-nothing — pick your adjective — but not
bad
. Irritating, irredeemable, inexplicable — the adjectives were unceasing — and she loved him. More importantly, she had seen within him love for her — a sight she had so rarely glimpsed.

That scary bastard who had been after him, though, had been evil, that had been obvious. Whatever Carlos had done, she knew that she could forgive him. She might have been getting pissed off with him, but not enough to shop him to someone like that, even if she had known where he was. No wonder he had disappeared, being chased by a psycho like that.

She sighed. "Why didn't you take me?" she asked sorrowfully.

*

Thirty hours passed before they met again, this time in Beverley's flat. They had been hours in which Helena had fretted, Eisenmenger had brooded. It had been a miracle that they hadn't erupted into a conflagration of irritability.

When Helena and Eisenmenger parked, Helena looked up at the converted warehouse and said, "She lives here?"

"Top floor."

She shook her head. "Why do I smell an odour?"

"Surely not corruption?"

"Either that or the drains are blocked."

They were admitted when they pressed the button by Beverley's name. No words were exchanged, but then the closed — circuit camera rendered communication unnecessary. They made their way through the entrance foyer, subdued lighting and pastel shades, while the scent of polish on the warm wood surfaces stole up on them, enticing them into a conspiracy of opulence.

When Beverley opened the door to them she nodded at Helena, her face stony, while for Eisenmenger she managed a brief, weak stretch of the lips. She looked tired.

She didn't offer them a drink.

As she sat, Helena looked around. "Nice," she remarked, although the tone was noticeably lacking in appreciation and anyway Beverley ignored it.

"Any news?" asked Eisenmenger.

"There's been nothing to locate either Stein or Arias-Stella. Stein seems to have just dropped out of the world right after the fire. There's been nothing since — no sightings, nothing. He hasn't even used a bank account, it seems. I'd say he was dead, but it's hard to die without some sort of official trace being left."

"Unless someone murdered him," remarked Helena. Beverley looked at her.

"Yes, well … "

Eisenmenger murmured, "And now, perhaps, the same has befallen Arias-Stella."

"His family home has been contacted; they have heard nothing," Beverley said. "After that, I came unstuck; unless you have a criminal record, there's very little information that the police have access to, through normal channels." She paused. "However, I've still got some friends left. I've managed to compile some further information on Arias-Stella which might help us."

She indicated an open file on the low table that separated them. Eisenmenger leaned forward and picked it up. He held it so that Helena could see, going through its contents. Birth certificate, school records, university records, tax details, social security details, even medical records. A life — or at least the bureaucratic definition thereof. There was even a photograph.

Helena asked, "Where did you get this?"

Beverley misunderstood what she meant. "I told you, I've still got friends. We've spent the last twelve hours working to compile this." She didn't mention Luke by name, although he had done most of this with her.

"No, you don't understand. There is no way that you should have access to three quarters of this stuff."

Beverley's reaction was as if she had been transfused with blood enriched with patronizing contempt. "Isn't there? How quaint." She moved on, as if an irritating child had been dealt with, saying, "I'd rather you didn't take this away, but you're free to peruse it now." This was addressed to Eisenmenger, and Eisenmenger alone.

"Hang on a minute."

Beverley turned cold attention upon the irritating child again. She raised silent eyebrows.

"You have no legal right to this information."

The sigh coated the room with a kind of joyous derision. "Oh, come on, Hel. This is the real world. This is the place where bastards fly planes into buildings, and where the nice chap who lives next door and who drinks in the pub every Sunday lunchtime just happens to be sending out little parcels of anthrax spores to politicians and media companies."

"We aren't searching for a terrorist, just a witness."

"And how else do you suggest we proceed? He's vanished. Not a trace of him to be found anywhere."

"He'll turn up eventually."

Beverley laughed. "Oh, yes? The only difference between us, Hel, is that in my job, you can't afford to sit on your backside while the legal bill mounts up. In case you've forgotten what this is about, let me remind you. He is our only witness to what happened in that lab and to what PEP were up to. Without him, we have nothing; certainly not enough to go to my superiors with. That means PEP wins. Do you want that?"

"Of course not, but … "

"Not cricket'? Is that your problem? I don't notice Mr Rosenthal playing by any sort of rules."

Helena shook her head. "So, the end justifies the means? Why is it that I catch a whiff of fascism when I hear someone say that?"

A disgusted sound came from the back of Beverley's throat. She turned to Eisenmenger. "Can you try and persuade Snow White?"

Eisenmenger, suddenly the object of their scrutiny and wishing he wasn't, said cautiously, "In an ideal world, we should treat this like high-level nuclear waste. But … "

Beverley couldn't resist a triumphant smile; Helena snorted. Eisenmenger, looking not at them but at the dossier, added, "There are two further factors to consider." He looked at Helena now. "We have to find him before Rosenthal does. Also, we have to find him before Proteus is activated within him. If either of those happens, we've failed."

Before Beverley could say anything he went on, "Ordinarily, I'd agree with you, and, yes, you're quite right that the ability to collect this sort of stuff on an innocent person is alarming, but just at this moment, I'm rather glad it can be done."

Helena said nothing, looked disgusted. Beverley murmured, "Well, I'm glad someone sees sense."

He looked at Helena. He wondered for a few seconds if she would walk out. She asked him, "Is there no other way?"

"At the moment, Carlos Arias-Stella is just a name. If we're to find him, he's got to become a person; a person who makes decisions. If we know the person, we may be able to predict how and what he decides. This," he indicated the file, "should help to turn him into a person."

Helena considered this, then nodded, although her body language suggested that she was far from happy with this compromise of her beliefs. Beverley, thankfully, said nothing. Eisenmenger took the file and began to read, handing the sheets on to Helena who made notes. Beverley, at last perhaps taking pity on them, got up to make coffee just as Eisenmenger asked, "What about the photograph? How did you get hold of that?"

"He has a passport," she replied simply.

An hour later and they had been through all of the documents. They had a life sketched out. Born thirty-four years ago to a Spanish doctor and his wife, Carlos had had a middling academic record that had precluded any thoughts of following his father's career, despite an aptitude for science. He had gone to Norwich University reading biochemistry, then gone on to a PhD, but the unexpected death of his father from a ruptured aneurysm halfway through had spoiled that. The remarriage of his mother had not been a happy circumstance for Carlos. There was a list of casualty admissions for minor injuries, all of which mentioned inebriation, together with two cautions for drunkenness.

Three jobs in quick succession, all of them as research assistants, had followed; from these one publication graced with the name of Carlos Arias-Stella had emerged; there was even a copy of it and, as far as Eisenmenger could tell, it wasn't an unworthy effort, but that didn't matter. The groves of Academe had changed since Plato's day; quantity was all, quality was secondary.

The job at St Jerome's must have looked unpromising — plant genetics hardly causes priapism even amongst the aficionados — but the work had unexpectedly shed light on the cell kinetics of cancer. Three papers in highly rated scientific publications had followed; suddenly the CV looked a lot better. Then had come the post at PEP.

It was quite noticeable that from this point on, information became sketchier. The bank accounts began to look a lot healthier; the numbers suggested that not only was his salary markedly increased, but at the same time the number of withdrawals plummeted. It was only when, after twenty-two months, the fire had happened that life had returned to the Arias-Stella accounts. The reports on the fire were very interesting to them; the initial police reports that Luke had found for Beverley contrasting so markedly with the insurance investigators' conclusions.

And then the pattern had returned. Three more casualty admissions, all involving ethanol, one more run-in with the local constabulary. The job at the Leishman Institute — not one of the world's great academic institutions — had saved him from probable ruin.

Beverley sat opposite them while they went through the fat dossier, saying nothing. When they had finished, she asked, "Well?"

Helena said only, "Remarkable."

Beverley smiled warmly. "Thank you."

Eisenmenger was wordless for a while. Then, "Somehow, he's found out that something's wrong."

"Presumably."

"There's nothing here about his personal life," said Eisenmenger, after a pause.

Helena murmured, "Not even Big Sister has total control." Beverley forbore to comment. Eisenmenger leaned back, eyes closed, seeming almost to be asleep. Helena took up the line. "Probably he's found out about Millie."

"So he'd contact one of the others, " Beverley went on. "Then he's gone from one to the other, finding out that that they've just met their ends."

"And suddenly he realizes that of the six on Rouna, he's probably the last left alive," said Helena.

They glanced quickly at each other, as if shocked that they could actually cooperate in a universe such as this. Eisenmenger said, "So he runs. But where? Do we actually have enough information to guess?"

Helena asked of Beverley, "So what surveillance are you using? I assume that you have some sort of access to covert operations?"

Showing no reaction, Beverley said, "The two standard ones. Any credit or debit transaction using cards registered to Carlos Arias-Stella, as well as any use of a telephone number registered to him, will be notified."

"Not when he farts?"

Even Eisenmenger opened his eyes at that one.

Beverley said nothing, while Eisenmenger asked, "What's the delay in notification?"

"Twenty-four hours."

Eisenmenger remained silent, but looked unhappy, as if this were not the ideal.