Sophie Hannah: The Wrong Mother

‘Oh, my God! Geraldine translated Encarna’s diary. She translated it for Hey. That’s why it was on her computer.’

Simon nodded. ‘But I’ve got to make him talk if I want to find out why.’

The DHL van had passed them. They were going forwards again. ‘I could and should have made the connection sooner,’ said Simon. ‘Between Geraldine’s old workplace and Encarna Oliva being Spanish. The diary: it’s full of words and phrases inside quotation marks, things Encarna thought were best expressed in English. “Hunky-dory”, “crunch time”, “status quo”…’

‘That’s Latin,’ Charlie pointed out.

‘In the original handwritten diary, hunky-dory and most of the other phrases in speech-marks are written in English. Geraldine, when she translated the diary, must have decided to keep the quotes around those words.’

‘That’s how you worked it out.’ Charlie shook her head in disbelief. ‘Stacey’s French assignment, “My Friend François”.’

‘I’d have got it anyway,’ he said.

‘You don’t know that,’ said Charlie crossly. His solving the puzzle had been accidental, a by-product of doing his job. He hadn’t sweated over it… ‘You cheated,’ she said quietly.

They pulled up outside Corn Mill House. In the heat’s haze, the house and garden seemed still and remote, like an apparition more than a real physical presence. Bretherick isn’t here, thought Charlie, feeling the emptiness all around her.

Simon rang the doorbell, then smashed a side window when he got no answer. There were a few frantic minutes of running, up and down the stairs, opening every door, looking underneath and behind every piece of furniture. And of course the bathrooms: Charlie noticed that Simon left it to her to check both of them.

They did not find Mark Bretherick. They found nothing but silence and rooms full of air that felt unnaturally cool, given the temperature outside.

‘What do you reckon that line means?’ Sellers asked Gibbs, looking at the long, thin strip of red tape that bisected the floor area. They’d got a key to the premises of Spilling Magnetic Refrigeration from Hans, Mark Bretherick’s second-in-command, an earnest, stick-thin German whose baggy corduroy trousers and enormous white trainers looked as if they weighed more than he did.

‘Some kind of health and safety shit,’ said Gibbs, stepping over the red line.

‘Careful,’ said Sellers. ‘Something might explode.’

‘We can’t just look in the office and leave it at that. He might be in here somewhere.’

Sellers sighed and followed him. He’d been rubbish at science at school, had been slightly afraid of it and hated all the trappings-Bunsen burners, goggles, pipettes. He had no desire to leave the beige-carpeted, potted-plant-studded haven of the office and venture into the workshop, with its metallic smell, harsh spotlights and dusty concrete floor.

‘He isn’t here, though, is he?’ Sellers complained, looking around at what was. Six large silver cylinders were lined up against one wall: were these the fridges Mark Bretherick made? They looked very different from Sellers’ idea of a fridge; perhaps they were units for storing… oh, who the fuck knew what they were?

Wooden shelves covered another wall, on which were piled coils of wire, cables, drills, something that looked like a large steel snake, something else that looked like a television remote control, a machine that resembled a cash register. It had to have some more confusing scientific purpose, one Sellers wouldn’t be able to fathom if he examined it for a million years. His eyes were drawn to a small machine with a part attached to it that might rotate, or looked as if it might. Part of a magnetic refrigeration unit? Does rotation cause coldness?

On a cork notice board, several sheets of paper were held in place by drawing pins with round, red heads. Sellers tried to read one that was headed ‘SMR Experimental Insert’, but was quickly deterred by words he’d never heard of: flange, brazing, goniometer, dewar, baffles. Baffled-now there was a word Sellers understood. He thought about doing an OU degree.

‘Bretherick’s not here,’ he said. ‘Let’s ring Stepford and head back.’

‘Wait,’ said Gibbs. He nodded at the silver cylinders. ‘We need to check those, and the wooden crates next to them; anything big enough to fit a body in.’

‘Oh, come on! Hey hasn’t killed Bretherick. Why would he?’

Gibbs shrugged. ‘He enjoys killing people? He’s clocked up four so far. Would have been five if Sally Thorning hadn’t fought back.’

‘Bretherick’s not here,’ said Sellers. ‘I can feel it.’

‘So where is he? Why hasn’t he been in touch? He’d want to keep tabs on our progress. There’s no way he’d go off somewhere and switch off his mobile. I don’t buy it.’

‘I do,’ said Sellers. ‘First we accuse his wife of murder, then him. Then we say, “Oh, sorry, mate, we fucked up. You’re in the clear, so’s your missus. Pity she’s dead.” I’m not surprised he wants nothing to do with us.’

Gibbs dragged a chair from the office through to the workshop. Sellers watched as he moved it and himself patiently along the line of large silver vats, looking inside each one. ‘Well? What’s in them?’

‘Long, transparent tubes, looks like. With little-’

‘Not Mark Bretherick, then? He’s all we’re looking for.’

One by one, Gibbs threw open the doors of the seven large wooden packing crates. ‘Empty,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

‘I’ll just ring Stepford and…’ Sellers fiddled with his mobile phone. ‘Can’t get a signal.’

‘Use a phone in there.’

Sellers headed back to the office area and Gibbs followed, carrying the chair in front of him. He’d almost reached the red line, about to cross to safety, when he heard Sellers shout, ‘Watch out, there’s-’ It was too late. Gibbs was on the floor clutching his shin, trying to swallow the loud, undignified noises he wanted to make. Next to his face was a cylinder of solid metal with a rounded edge, about twenty inches across and four inches high. It was sticking out of a hole in the floor. He’d tripped and banged his shin on the cold, hard metal.

‘Are you okay? Let’s have a look.’

Gibbs wasn’t going to roll up his trouser leg and let Sellers inspect his wound like an old woman. ‘I’m okay,’ he said, though the pain felt as if it was ripping through his whole body.

Sellers grinned. ‘Shouldn’t have crossed the red line.’ He swore under his breath. ‘This phone’s not working either.’

‘You’ll get a signal outside.’

‘Chris? None of the phones in this office are working. All the wires have been cut.’ Sellers waved a length of white cable in the air.

‘He was here.’ Gibbs tried to stand.

‘Those wooden crates…’

‘They were empty.’

‘Do you reckon they’re for the silver barrel-things to go in? You know, to be delivered?’

‘Maybe. Why?’

‘There’s seven of them, but only six barrels.’

Sellers and Gibbs stared at one another.

‘What did I trip over? What fucked up my leg?’

‘Looked like the lid of my cocktail shaker at home, but bigger.’

‘A lid?’

Gibbs hobbled after Sellers as he ran towards it. Sellers pointed to the far wall. ‘Look at those monsters. The only opening’s at the top. They’d need a way of lowering them, wouldn’t they, to insert whatever needs to go inside-the plastic tube, or whatever? The hole this thing’s in must have some kind of platform underneath it, so they can raise and lower the vats. Give us a hand, I can’t get this to budge.’ He was trying to loosen the round metal cap that had felled Gibbs.