Fiona Erskine - The Chemical Detective

Boris handed a set of papers to Stefan. ‘Here’s the consignment note: twenty pallets.’

‘That’s ten times too much!’ Stefan glanced behind him and dropped his voice. ‘What do you want me to do, this time?’

‘The usual.’ Boris clapped him on the back. ‘Call this number. Yuri will come and pick up the extra.’

Stefan shuffled from foot to foot. ‘Why don’t you leave it on the lorry?’

Boris shook his head. ‘Regulations,’ he said. ‘Bloody European Union red tape and bureaucracy. They won’t let me drive this stuff east without the proper paperwork.’ He sighed. ‘As soon as you call this number, they’ll generate a new set of transport papers.’

Boris started to unstrap the cargo. ‘C’mon. I’ve got other jobs to do.’

Stefan climbed into the cab of the electric forklift and manoeuvred it forward. After removing the first two pallets, he jumped down from the cab and sidled over to Boris. ‘I’m not happy about this. Everything has changed here. Sergei has gone. There’s a new boffin. A woman. She’s more careful. I could lose my job.’

‘How?’ Boris rolled up the straps. ‘When you’re doing the right thing?’ He unhooked a tarpaulin. ‘You unload the delivery. Then you check it against the order.’ He folded the tarp, once, twice. ‘You notice something wrong,’ he continued, doubling the sheet again: three times, four. ‘You call the number I gave you.’ He stowed the waxed canvas, neatly arranged into a square. ‘Yuri picks it up. It’ll be gone by the end of the day, before Dr Silver even gets notification of arrival.’

Stefan scratched his head. ‘How do you know her name?’

Boris disappeared round the back of the lorry and reappeared, frowning. ‘She placed the order,’ he said. ‘Dr Jaqueline Silver.’

The halogen lamp flickered and then burst into light, illuminating the sign that straddled the entrance: SNOW SCIENCE. Set up as a collaboration between the European Space Agency and Earthwatch to compare satellite images of snow and ice with ground-based observation, Snow Science had expanded into a privately funded multinational, multidiscipline research institute.

The complex huddled high above the ski resort of Kranjskabel, hidden from view in the natural corrie at the top of a side valley, five kilometres of winding road from the centre of town, less than a kilometre as the crow flies.

Jaq took the direct route, sprinting up the mountain, snowboard jammed through the trolley sleeve of her bag-turned-backpack, breathing steadily. The spikes fastened to her running shoes skittered across tarmac then crunched over snow as she ran uphill, shortcutting the zigzags in the road. Long socks and padded overtrousers protected her ankles and shins from sharp crusts of ice broken by quick feet. The freezing air stabbed needles at her lungs; she exhaled in puffs of steam. A chill wind howled across the mountains as she emerged from the valley. Tugging at her woollen hat, she pulled the rim down over her earlobes and yanked the soft polyester snood up over her mouth and nose.

At the crest of the ridge she paused to admire a pair of buzzards. One bird cruised with the wind, a languorous tilt of black feathers fringing pale, broad wings to maintain course. The smaller raptor was working to impress, flying high before plummeting down in a crazy helix, twisting and turning on a roller coaster descent that made Jaq dizzy to watch. The plaintive peea-ay echoed between the mountains. Her heart soared as the male prepared to repeat his display, rising above snow-covered forests towards the saw-toothed peaks of the Julian Alps. A lone cross-country skier moved confidently across the horizon, the turquoise salopettes disappearing behind a cluster of pines.

Jaq retrieved her snowboard, clipped on and cruised down to her laboratory.

The perfect commute.

The gates of her workplace swung open and a lorry rolled out, the tail lights fading as it swept down the hill. An unfamiliar logo◦– Cyrillic script, СЛИВ, SLYV◦– a Russian haulier driving all the way to Teesside and back for two pallets. How could that be good for the planet?

What was it like, the life of a long-distance lorry driver? Wages were low, drivers lived away from home for weeks, sleeping in the cramped confines of a cab. Now the most dangerous profession, the death rate on the roads was higher than any industry mortality, worse than mining. One day historians would revisit the twenty-first century and marvel at the abuse of the working man. Logistics sounded more benign than modern slavery.

Stefan waved from the guardhouse. Jaq released the clips and propped the snowboard under the hatch.

‘I got your message.’ She’d slipped away, while Karel was sleeping, to wash and change at her own flat. The run up the mountain had banished the dregs of a hangover. ‘Am I late?’

‘Come on in.’ Stefan opened the door to his little cabin. ‘I’ve got the delivery papers.’

She wrinkled her nose at the familiar fug of a single-skinned building with poor ventilation, eau de Portakabin with top notes from the drains.

Stefan pointed to the papers on the bench. Jaq squeezed herself past the row of CCTV monitors and found a seat. She perched on the edge, removed the bag from her back and wriggled out of her ski jacket. The stool tilted, and she had a sudden sharp memory of her school chemistry lab.

Her interest in explosions had started early. Even now she could evoke the smell of that first school lab: formaldehyde, vinegar and a faint whiff of leaking gas. It was a large room, south-facing. When the sun streamed through the windows, the green canvas blinds did little to impede the glare. Jaq and her fellow students sat on stools beside wooden benches, the mahogany surface scratched in places with the initials of bolder students.

The new chemistry teacher, Mr Peres, demonstrated the reaction of alkali metals with water, but used potassium instead of sodium. Rather a large piece. When the hydrogen ignited, with a beautiful lilac flame, he lost his eyebrows as well as his job.

Standing in the classroom surveying the shattered windows, the broken glassware and charred desk, Jaq had been truly impressed by the power of chemistry. It had provided her with gainful employment ever since.

Stefan coughed, and she turned her attention back to the paperwork on the bench. ‘Two pallets delivered?’

Stefan flicked through the CCTV screens. ‘In the quarantine yard.’ He nodded at the screen.

Two pallets with danger labels plastered on the side stood in the snow, beside several dark squares on the ground.

‘Did they deliver something else?’

Stefan turned away. ‘They picked up some returns.’

The light was fading between the mountains as they walked to the warehouse. Keys jangled, tinkling in the cold, still air as Jaq pulled the bunch of twelve from the inside pocket of her bag. Stefan beat her to the first lock with his own, single key. As the outer door swung open, the lights clicked on and illuminated the delivery in the courtyard: two pallets, white bags with blue Zagrovyl labels. She crossed the open area, pulled off a glove and breathed on her hand before tackling the double lock of the inner door. The silver key with long shaft and serrated edge tugged reluctantly against the mortise lock, but the gold Yale key turned easily, triggering the timer.

Thirty seconds before the alarm went off.

Jaq strode through the inner door and approached the security panel. She ran her hands over the smooth plastic and pressed the top corners. With a snap, the cover dropped on its hinges, flapping under the bottom edge to reveal the flashing timer. Twenty-one seconds to go. She fumbled with the brass key◦– a fat hollow cylinder with wings, the shape of a clock winder. Finding the right-hand aperture, she pushed it in. Fifteen seconds to go. Now to get the sequence right. A quarter-turn left, a full turn right and half a turn left. The lights stopped flashing with eight seconds to spare.