Fiona Erskine - The Chemical Detective

‘I asked for a report on controlled chemical stock movements.’ Frank gestured for PK to close the door. ‘I’m outside in the car. Bring it to me.’ He scratched his crotch. ‘Right now,’ he added. ‘I don’t like waiting.’

Even Jaq had to admit that Zagrovyl responded quickly. Almost too quickly.

On Monday a man called her from the transport company. An error with some Zagrovyl deliveries, he explained. The pallet meant for Snow Science had gone to a warehouse nearby. The pallet they had delivered was reject material bound for disposal. He gave a long and detailed explanation. Almost too detailed.

He promised an immediate swap. The lorry was on its way. All very smooth. Almost too smooth.

The snow fell in slow, soft flakes, coating the Snow Science buildings in a fluffy white mantle, insulating the sophisticated laboratories from the primitive world outside. Jaq was catching up on some paperwork in her laboratory when the delivery lorry rolled through the main gate. She finished her report and locked it in a drawer before pulling on her jacket. The padded snowsuits lined the corridor, silent observers, empty limbs quivering as she made her way to the exit.

The security man swung the forklift round as she arrived, the replacement material already in the warehouse quarantine area.

‘Hi, Patrice.’ Jaq put up a hand, signalling for him to stop. ‘Where’s Stefan?’

‘Day off. He’s back on night shift tomorrow.’

The new pallet was in good shape, tightly stretch-wrapped and all the bags smooth and flat. Jaq unlocked the inner door, reset the alarm and opened the cage.

Patrice removed the rejected pallet and replaced it with the new one while she assembled her sampling equipment◦– pen, knife, gloves, quill and sample bottles. Boots crunched over snow. The inner warehouse door flew open. A bearded man, the delivery driver, stood in the doorway. Despite the cold, his unbuttoned tartan shirt revealed a chest as black and hairy as his beard.

He pointed at the bottles in her hand and frowned. ‘Did you take samples from that other pallet?’ Blackbeard inclined his head towards the lorry idling outside the door, now loaded up with a single pallet of reject material. He moved towards her, craning his neck to peer over her shoulder as she turned away.

Jaq locked the sample cupboard. ‘It’s okay, I’ll dispose of them.’ She carried the sampling equipment to the cage and shook out a pair of latex gloves.

‘Give me the old samples.’ The lorry driver advanced with an outstretched hand. He stood in front of her with his legs apart, chin jutting forward, a man who was not moving until he got what he wanted.

Jaq squared up to him. ‘Why do you want them?’

‘Reject material.’ Blackbeard scowled, his thick brows meeting in the middle. ‘Might get muddled up.’

Jaq brushed past him. ‘I’ll make sure it doesn’t.’ She crouched to check the bag numbers against the delivery note. This time they matched.

‘Might be unstable.’

‘We know how to handle explosives,’ Jaq said.

‘Look, lady.’ He stamped a fur-lined boot. ‘I was told to bring back all the material, and I do what I’m told.’ He bent down so that his eyes were level with hers. Black eyes. ‘So be a good girl and fetch them.’ He reached out as if to pat her on the shoulder.

Jaq intercepted with the sharp end of the quill; it caught the side of his hand and he drew back with a cry.

At that moment Laurent sauntered in. Unusual for him to venture out of the office in such bad weather, but for once Jaq was glad to see her boss.

Blackbeard straightened up. ‘Dr Visquel.’ He shook Laurent’s hand and introduced himself as Boris. ‘I’m sorry about the mistake. I was just explaining to Dr Silver that we need all samples back as well.’

‘That shouldn’t be a problem.’ Laurent fixed his gaze on her. ‘Should it, Jaq?’

How did Boris know their names? Jaq observed the way the two men stood facing her, Boris and Laurent. Close together, almost touching, a team. The blizzard had reached a new peak, the wind howling and snow falling so fast she could barely see the lorry through the open door, much less the laboratories and offices on the other side of the snowy mound. Icicles of unease chilled her spine; she shivered and shrugged away the apprehension. No point in arguing with these two.

‘Let me finish up here,’ Jaq said. ‘Then I’ll get the samples.’

‘Anyone for coffee?’ Laurent asked. He headed over to the vending machine. Jaq suppressed a smirk as it swallowed his coins. Laurent kicked it and tried again before inviting Boris to the office canteen.

‘Bring them to the gatehouse,’ Laurent instructed as he ushered Boris out.

Jaq collected four new samples and locked up. She chose the shortcut, scaling the artificial hill that acted as both helicopter landing circle and barrier between occupied buildings and explosives store. Bad decision. The snow had turned to hail. Buffeted by the wind, prills of ice lacerated her skin. She bent double and fought every step of the way before tumbling down the far side.

The office block offered sanctuary from the howling wind and stinging ice. She shook the snow from her hair, striding past the snowsuits that swung from a metal rack in front of the lockers. Inside the lab, she scanned the room. Rita, the analyst, sat in the far corner, engrossed in a phone call. All clear. Jaq took a deep breath before selecting four of the forty samples, the ones from the top bags.

Jaq shoved the samples into her jacket pocket and headed back out into the blizzard. The gatehouse lay opposite the car park, but the wind whirled the fallen snow into vortices of pure white-out. She could barely see her hand in front of her face. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. Better to take the long way round, through the walkways. It meant retracing her steps, but the partial cover offered some protection from the storm. Jaq lowered her head and battled on to the gatehouse. Blackbeard jumped down from the cab of his lorry.

‘Here you go.’ Jaq handed over the samples.

He scrutinised her face. ‘This the lot, then?’

‘We sample one in ten.’ She maintained eye contact. ‘Standard procedure,’ she added before stepping back into the storm.

Frank strode into his office and heaved open a window. Outside, the ancient factory sprawled towards the River Tees. His eyes followed the progress of a Russian ship as he loosened his tie. Insufferably hot again. He’d sack whoever kept the offices so warm. A waste of money, stifling thought and creativity, curbing action. Only the elderly and the lazy needed inside temperatures above 18 degrees Celsius. He’d have a word with the engineers about moving the control panel into his office and locking the damn thing.

Robin put his head round the door. Tufts of brown hair speckled with grey framed a pale, bespectacled face. His brown, beady eyes scanned the room in quick, jerky movements. Dressed in a brown suit with white shirt and red tie, the finance director looked more birdlike than ever. ‘We’re all assembled and ready when you are,’ he said.

Frank waved the bean counter away. He removed his outdoor coat and draped it over a wooden hanger, smoothing the tan cashmere before suspending the hanger from a curlicue on the hat stand. He paused for a second to admire the photo on the wall. It showed Frank◦– in white shorts, navy shirt and captain’s hat◦– taking possession of his new yacht, purchased with the bonus awarded after the Tyche acquisition. Good Ship Frankium was waiting for him in Cannes. The sooner he concluded this business, the sooner he could get back to the Med.