Fiona Erskine - The Chemical Detective

A bunch of keys fell out, clinking against the tiled floor. Odd. She unzipped the secure inside pocket where she normally kept them and, at last! there was the phone. One missed call she had no intention of returning. Amid the dross of email, a single pearl from Emma with a long, chatty message about Johan and the kids. Not now, save for later, only one bar of battery left. No message from Snow Science. She put the phone back and zipped up the keys before dragging a comb through her hair.

As she emerged from the bathroom, the naked man sat up in bed, blue eyes fixed on her face.

‘ Dobro jutro! ’ He switched to English. ‘Good morning.’

Now that he viewed her in the daylight, was there a shadow of surprise? If so, he hid it well. What did he see? An athletic woman, naked except for a brightly coloured pashmina and a large shoulder bag. Tall, 1.75m in bare feet with a Mediterranean complexion◦– brown eyes, olive skin and shoulder-length hair, dark brown, almost black, except for the hints of russet fire. Well proportioned, curvy even. His smile appeared uncomplicated, no hint of embarrassment or regret, only pleasure at finding her still there. ‘I don’t think we were properly introduced last night.’ He held out a hand. ‘Karel.’

She took his hand, smiling at the absurd formality. There was hardly an inch of each other’s bodies that hadn’t been stroked or kissed or explored last night, and yet the contact with his hand felt deeply intimate, sending a tingle straight to her core. Careful.

‘Jaq,’ she said. No second names. Polite but no promises. Civilised without commitment. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘The pleasure was all mine.’ He raised the quilt in invitation.

So tempting. She hesitated and was gratified by the flicker of disappointment that rippled across his brow when she shook her head.

‘Breakfast, then.’ He sprang out of bed, bringing the sheet with him, wrapping it around his hips. He handed her a robe. The faint hint of musk was his. She let it envelop her and perched on a stool as he got to work in the kitchen.

‘A quick cup of tea, or whatever you are making,’ she said.

‘Scrambled eggs and smoked salmon.’

She started to protest, but the smell of butter melting in a pan made her stomach rumble. He heard it and laughed, breaking eggs into a bowl, many more than he could possibly eat alone. When had she last eaten? She’d gone straight from work to the karaoke bar, changing from boiler suit to party dress in the lab toilets. There was no reason not to eat breakfast. No reason a one-night stand couldn’t be civilised.

‘Nice flat,’ she said.

‘Belongs to a friend. But he’s working abroad.’ He grinned. ‘I keep an eye on things when he’s away.’

He served the scrambled eggs on toasted crumpets, a thin sliver of pink salmon sandwiched above the little craters of butter, turning opaque where it touched the hot egg piled in a pyramid and topped with a sprinkle of freshly ground black pepper and a sprig of parsley from a plant by the sink. A small glass of orange juice and a bowl of tea served black, fragrant with bergamot and dark tannin. The speed and ease with which he presented two perfect covers made her curious. A singer, a skier, a chef. What else could this man do? Her eyes travelled around the room and paused at the bed. Amid the otherwise orderly space it stood out, an explosion of disarray. A surge of warmth rose through her body, and she turned her attention back to the food.

‘Mmmm.’ Jaq wiped her lips with a napkin. ‘Very good.’

Karel bowed his head to acknowledge the compliment. ‘More tea?’

Jaq shook her head. Had she overstayed her welcome? He was a young man with impeccable manners, but some awkwardness was only to be expected now. She would spare him the brush-off. He would have things to do, people to see, places to go. ‘Time for me to leave.’ She put a finger to her lips at his polite assurances. ‘My clothes?’

‘I hung your dress up,’ he said and pointed to the wardrobe. ‘But—’

‘I should go.’

‘Should you?’ He moved towards her.

The glass rattled in the window above, and a flurry of hail blasted the ice clear enough to reveal a storm-dark sky. No skiing today. No message from Snow Science about the delivery. Time to kill.

Karel laid a hand on her shoulder. Warm, gentle, no hint of coercion. Only invitation. Promise. He ran a finger up the side of her neck and whispered, ‘Come back to bed first.’

Her skin tingled under his warm breath. When his lips nibbled her earlobe, she had to fight the urge to grin inanely. The good food, the cosy little attic, the storm outside, the gorgeous man, the firm bed. She might regret this, but…

Last night she’d taken a risk, let herself go with the flow, to see where it led her. What did she have to lose? Things could hardly get any worse. Forget about the past. Forget about the future. Focus on the moment.

Focus on the pleasure.

The lorry crossed from Austria to Slovenia at daybreak. A border guard waved it down, directing the driver to a lay-by. Boris parked and swung his legs through the door, fur-lined boots followed by jeans sliding out onto the road. Snowflakes settled on his black beard.

‘What you got in there, mate?’ The official nodded to the rear of the lorry and tapped a clipboard with his pen.

Boris handed him a sheaf of papers. ‘Explosives.’

The official stepped back. ‘Who for?’

‘Snow Science.’ Boris pointed to the order. ‘Want to take a look?’ He jangled his keys.

‘No, thanks.’ The official held up his hands, palms outwards as if to shield himself from the cargo. ‘What the hell does a research centre want with a lorryload of explosives?’

‘The hell I know.’ Boris shrugged. ‘I’m just the delivery boy.’

‘Better you than me, mate.’ The official returned the papers and hit the button to raise the barrier. ‘Drive on.’

Click. 46.5028, 13.7944. Intensity 152X, 648C

An hour later, the lorry crunched over rock salt as it swept up to the gates of Snow Science. In the amber dawn, the low buildings lay in darkness. Perfect. The only light shone from a Portakabin beside the main gate. Boris blocked the entrance with the lorry. He grabbed a hi-vis jacket and hauled a bag from the cab before climbing down.

The smell of smoked meat wafted through a gap in the guardhouse delivery hatch. Something sizzling in a frying pan, bacon. Mmm. His mouth watered as he picked his way across the snow.

He tapped on the steamed-up window. ‘Oi, Stefan!’

The gap in the hatch widened and the guard peered through.

‘Delivery from Zagrovyl,’ Boris said.

Stefan waggled a finger at Boris. ‘Too early.’ He pointed to the large clock behind him, a round white face with black roman numerals in a wooden frame. ‘No one in. You’ll have to wait.’

Boris swore and stamped the snow from his boots. ‘You don’t want to leave that stuff on the lorry.’

‘Why? What have you got in there?’

‘The usual.’ Boris reached into the bag and produced a bottle of whisky. ‘With the usual fee?’

Stefan stuck his head through the hatch and examined the gift before he accepted it. Strands of thin white hair blew around a freckled skull. ‘It’s cold out there,’ he said. ‘You’d best come in.’ A lock clicked, and the door opened.

Thirty minutes later, the lorry rolled quietly into the Snow Science complex past several modern blocks separated by covered walkways. The special warehouse lay at the furthest corner of the site, behind a small hill. Boris knew where to go. He parked up and opened the lorry doors as Stefan arrived.

Stefan swept a torch over the contents and counted. He bit his lower lip while flicking through the papers on his clipboard. ‘The order says two pallets.’