Fiona Erskine - The Chemical Detective

She sat with him for a while, making him a mug of hot chocolate, chatting about anything and nothing until he asked her to leave. Anxious to complete all his paperwork before the night shift arrived, he thrust the snowboard into her hands and practically pushed her out of the Portakabin.

New snow had fallen, leaving behind a thick, soft carpet which muffled all sound. As she bent to clip in for the descent, she glanced back at the lighted cabin.

Stefan stood at the open doorway, his back to her. One hand held a phone to his ear. He clenched his other hand into a fist and banged it against the wall.

The limo driver held up a placard with FRANK GOOD, ZAGROVYL on it in large letters, and the Chariot Cars logo underneath. Frank’s upper lip curled into a sneer. Teesside airport had fewer than ten flights a day. A clutch of chauffeurs loitered, waiting for the Amsterdam flight, the same uniformed drivers each time. The placard was hardly necessary◦– the limo driver knew Frank, and Frank knew his own name.

‘Pleasant flight, sir?’ The driver, PK, tucked the greeting sign under one arm and held out a hand for the luggage.

‘Not particularly.’ Tyche–Zagrovyl integration meetings were always tedious. Thank God that was the last one. Frank rolled the suitcase towards PK and strode for the exit. The castors clicked over the linoleum of the airport foyer.

PK caught the case and hurried after his client across the car park. ‘Head office?’ he asked as he opened the passenger door.

Frank nodded, his eyes never leaving the screen of his phone. Teesside airport might be convenient, but it wasn’t worth a second glance: a single-storey building with a runway on one side and an access road on the other. Several pointless roundabouts joined the ambitiously sized airport car park◦– almost empty except for a patch sublet for caravan storage◦– to the A67 leading west to Darlington and east to Yarm.

The limo turned north. As they joined the A19, Frank snapped his fingers. ‘Change of plan,’ he said. ‘We’re picking someone up.’

Shelly stood outside her house, sheltering under a tree. Frank took in the high heels, silk blouse and linen skirt as the short raincoat blew open in the wind. PK jumped out and opened the door. She slipped in beside Frank, who barely acknowledged her greeting before turning his attention back to his telephone.

‘Thanks, PK.’ Shelly bent forward as the driver got back in. ‘How are you?’

Frank scowled as the chatter between them interrupted his concentration. Shelly was a little too free with her attentions. Put him in mind of a poem he’d learned back at school.

Frank placed a hand on Shelly’s knee. ‘What time is the meeting?’

‘Two thirty, Mr Good.’

‘Then we have some time to play with.’ He slipped his hand under her skirt, sliding it up to the top of her stocking where the texture became more interesting.

Shelly squirmed in her seat and glanced at PK.

‘Don’t worry about the driver,’ Frank said. ‘You know what to do, don’t you, driver?’

PK met his eyes in the mirror. ‘Transporter Bridge, sir?’ The slow route to Seal Sands, crossing the River Tees on an Edwardian moving bridge. Frank nodded and pressed the privacy button. A dark glass partition rose into position, sealing the back from the front.

‘Frank, please.’ Shelly pulled his hand away. ‘Not here.’

If not here, then where? Shelly had changed. Once upon a time, when he first hired her, he only had to lift an eyebrow and she’d start undressing. Frank shook his head and turned away. What was the point of her now?

The car drove past the ruins of Vulcan Street and down to the riverside. What a dismal picture. A giant blue structure towered above the river, a complex lattice of girders and rivets, carrying a suspended gondola designed to transport vehicles across without impeding the ships sailing up the River Tees. In the design office they called it an engineering marvel. It was more like an over-engineered dodo, a pointless waste of good steel. Made by men looking to the past, not the future. There were no tall-masted ships by the time the bridge was completed, and the new supertankers would never come this far upriver.

A plume of black smoke darkened the leaden sky and the smell of burning rubber wafted across the water. A steel ship that once operated as a nightclub lay tilted in the mud, abandoned and rotting. This was why change was needed. The derelict warehouses and empty wharves were the perfect reminder of how poorly those before him had performed. That’s why Zagrovyl had chosen him as European operations director: a firm hand to put things right, or close them down forever.

Shelly leant against his shoulder, mouthing a faint apology, and began a laboured explanation. He stroked her long hair, letting his fingers meander down to her breasts. She sighed but didn’t push him away this time as one hand slipped under silk. He knew what Shelly liked. A simulacrum of affection and she was his for the taking. Could he be bothered?

Under slanting rain, the platform of the Transporter Bridge sped across the ash-grey river to Port Clarence. When he realised she was crying, Frank jerked back, dabbing at his suit with a clean handkerchief before passing it to Shelly. The windows had misted up. He ran a finger across the glass and admired the glistening sheen before wiping it on her skirt, leaving a faint trace.

As the car neared the Seal Sands complex, Frank lifted the partition. Slumped against the door, Shelly stared out of the window. The tinted glass reflected a ravaged face: lipstick smeared across one cheek, black mascara smudged around enormous eyes. She looked fucked, even if he hadn’t finished the job. But who was to know?

He pressed the privacy button and settled back as the tinted glass partition descended, linking his arms behind his head, and waited to make eye contact with the limo driver. How should a hireling respond? With a wink? Far too intimate; they were not of the same social standing. Acknowledge him with a nod? Inappropriate. Roll his eyes? A sure way to get sacked.

PK was no fool. He stared straight ahead.

‘We’re late, driver.’

PK glanced in the mirror. ‘Yes, sir.’

The driver remained impassive, giving no hint of approval or disapproval, congratulation or censure. A disappointing outcome; Frank was spoiling for a fight. ‘Drive straight to the warehouse.’

‘Through security, sir?’ PK bit his lip. ‘I don’t have a pass to enter the factory.’

Frank harrumphed. ‘Shelly will sort it out.’

Shelly reapplied lipstick, smoothed her wrinkled skirt and checked the buttons on her blouse◦– a hasty attempt to repair the damage. At the gatehouse, she dashed out the moment the car stopped, without waiting for PK to open the door. Frank banged on the window and gestured impatiently at the security guard. The moment the barrier was lifted, Frank told PK to drive on, leaving Shelly behind.

The road ran through the centre of the factory. On the dockside stood the export cranes, rusted into dereliction. Opposite them the production units hissed and hummed, geometric sculptures of columns and spheres connected by a spaghetti of piping. At the end of the broad avenue stood the warehouse. When they arrived, PK jumped out and unfurled an umbrella before opening the passenger door.

Rain hammered on the roof of the limo. The wind swept the drops sideways, and they splashed back up from the pavement. Frank grimaced and sat back in his seat. He dialled another number.