Fiona Erskine - The Chemical Detective

Double doors separated his office from the boardroom. He flung them open, and a hush fell over the management team. The newer managers, the ones he had hand-picked, sat bolt upright, jackets off and shirtsleeves rolled up, expectant, eager. The dead wood, the managers he had inherited, were slumped in their seats, jumpers on under jackets, stinking of fear.

‘What’s first on the agenda?’ Frank asked, grabbing the papers laid out on the table.

‘Safety,’ Robin said. ‘Stuart, do you have anything for us?’

Frank drummed his fingers as the safety manager fiddled with the projector.

‘Transport of hazardous goods regulations,’ Stuart said. ‘I’d like to update the team on how the EU harmonisation plans will affect us in Eastern Europe.’

Frank yawned. He allowed Robin to run the meeting, feigning interest as the department heads churned through their updates, his fingers tapping on the polished mahogany table, running through the first Brandenburg Concerto in his head. On and on they droned, spinning the good news, glossing over any difficulties, concocting elaborate excuses for production targets missed, sales contracts not signed, budgets overspent: the usual crap. Frank was just getting to the Minuet when Shelly tiptoed into the room, clutching some papers.

Look what the cat dragged in, Christ Almighty, but she looked a mess: hunched, crumpled, squalid. How could he ever have dipped his pen in that ink?

He signed the papers and waved her away. The meeting dragged on, but he’d lost his train of music.

‘Any other business?’ Robin asked, scanning the table.

Frank could see the group relax, amazed that a meeting with him could have turned out so tranquil, so amicable, so civilised. So boring and unproductive◦– time to pounce.

At the other end of the table, the HR director raised a hand. The ugly dwarf had no pretentions to glamour. Nicola was sensible shoes and supermarket value-pack knickers; he could tell without ever having seen them.

‘About the team-building event—’

‘Cancel it.’ Before Nicola could protest, he held up a hand and continued. ‘We have one other item to discuss.’

He strode to the full-length window. His mouth hardened as he stared out at the river. Four o’clock in the afternoon, and it was almost dark outside. The sodium lights cast an egg-yolk glaze over the towers and open staircases of the production buildings. Steam puffed into the sky and the intermittent screech and bang of conveyors carried through the pitter-patter of rain. God, it was an ugly shithole. Built in the 1980s and falling to bits. Well, its days were numbered.

‘I’m cancelling the UK expansion project,’ he announced.

The distributed murmur rose to a crescendo of confused protest. Frank addressed the window, admiring his reflection, speaking softly to force them to stop whining and listen. ‘We are competing with the giants of the developing world◦– Brazil, Russia, India and China. That’s where our future lies. Those are the only expansion projects that will get funding in future.’

‘Projects like Smolensk Two?’ asked Eric, the dry Scottish voice of the engineering manager dripping with venom.

‘Exactly.’

‘Late, incomplete and already over budget?’

Frank shot him a look of contempt. ‘Smolensk Two is already in production.’ Wasn’t it? Suddenly uncertain, Frank stomped back to the table and leafed to the page on the board papers with production figures. ‘Page seven,’ he snarled. ‘Or can’t engineers read?’

Robin shook his head. ‘That’s not new production. It’s recycling. Rejected product collected from customers in Europe and sent to Russia for rebagging.’

Frank stood still, erect, alert. ‘Explain?’

‘The labour costs here are too high to make recycling economical. So, reject goes east for recovery,’ Robin said. ‘And actually, there is a problem with the Smolensk numbers—’

Frank interrupted him and addressed Eric. ‘When was the Russian expansion due to start up?’

‘Last quarter.’

‘And?’

‘Problems with equipment delivery, I believe, but—’

‘Why did no one tell me?’

Robin and Eric exchanged glances. ‘The UK engineering team were… not involved with the Smolensk project.’ Robin chose his words carefully.

Eric was more forthright. ‘You specifically excluded us, told us to keep our bloody noses out and leave it to Ivan. Told us we slowed projects down by insisting on proper engineering studies and—’

‘Intolerable excuses.’ Frank slammed his fist onto the table. Executive reward was heavily weighted towards international expansion. If any target was missed, then his bonus payment would vanish. Russia had to produce. How else was he going to keep his yacht? ‘I want a full report on my desk by tomorrow.’

‘Then you’d better call Ivan yourself,’ Eric retorted.

‘Get out!’ Frank shouted. ‘All of you.’

The team didn’t need to be told twice.

Frank glared at Nicola as she waddled round the table. Why was she always last? She wasn’t his appointment, but it was easier to leave her in post until he’d finished pruning the team.

It sometimes amused him the way the fat cow tried to conceal her animosity. She didn’t bother to smile any more, but nor did she bare her teeth and hiss, which is what he suspected she wanted to do right now.

Today he was not amused.

‘Nicola, wait.’

He stared down at her. She must have remarkably short legs. ‘Could you have a word with Shelly about her appearance?’ he said. ‘I think it would be better coming from another woman.’ He smiled internally as she flinched. ‘I know it has been difficult for her since the bereavement,’ he continued, ‘but I expect certain standards to be upheld. She was looking positively bedraggled today.’

‘I’ll deal with it.’ Nicola nodded and started to turn away. Not so fast.

‘That new girl, Raquel, can stand in as my PA for the next few trips.’ Frank paused, choosing his next words carefully. ‘Until the situation is resolved.’

Nicola wheeled round and stared directly at him. Her mouth opened and closed like a fat, wet goldfish, eyes darting left and right. Was she considering her options? He returned the eye contact, staring into her soul, daring her to fight back. She lowered her eyes. Lily-livered lackey, she was cunning enough to pick her battles. There was no love lost between ugly Nicola and once-stylish Shelly. The HR director took a deep breath and spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. ‘I understand and share your concerns about Shelly,’ she said. ‘Leave it with me.’

The repulsive little troglodyte had a special vacant expression that annoyed him much more than open rebellion. The lights were on, but no one was home. Nicola was not stupid; she had locked away part of her spirit. He saw that she was not afraid of him. Perhaps he could change that.

Frank returned to the window. A Russian ship approached the dock, a mournful honk answered by a sharp toot from the tug boat guiding her to berth.

The Smolensk production expansion was late. Why had no one told him? Ivan and his team needed shaking up. Time to go to Russia and do it himself.

Jaq arrived before dawn to prepare the explosives for the helicopter crew. Routine stuff, create a shock wave just above the snowpack. No experiments, no data collection◦– this was the kind of job the air crew liked best. Hurling explosives out of a moving helicopter, wireless detonation and suddenly a cascade of snow came spilling down the mountainside and it was safe to ski again. She often went with them for the ride, but today she had other things to do. Thirty-six suspicious samples to analyse.