Fiona Erskine - The Chemical Detective

What was in the reject pallet? Jaq had worked with explosives long enough to know the material in the lumpy bags was not pure ammonium nitrate. Crystalline powder, yes. Pure white, no. The colour was not conclusive; it could come from impurities◦– traces of iron gave a pink tinge, heat damage a yellowish hue. But there was something else about the samples that had nagged her all evening. Something fishy. One bag smelt fishy. Literally fishy. The stench from rotting fish. Or certain chemical compounds. Just a whiff, no more.

Why had the lorry driver been so anxious to get the Zagrovyl samples back? Why had Laurent been so keen to comply? And why had he behaved so strangely?

After the lorry left with the reject pallet, her boss found reasons to keep her from the lab. Laurent never held impromptu meetings◦– a slave to his calendar◦– and yet he suddenly insisted they meet and talk about some insanely dull improvement programme he was launching. Then there was a scheduled meeting about today’s blasting, after which Laurent escorted her back to the laboratory. She jumped at the chance to escape from him when Rita offered her a lift home.

Laurent, like most bad bosses, hated to be challenged. So she deferred her plan to examine the samples again. Because she had to book out the explosives at daybreak anyway. And Laurent was not an early riser.

The stars faded as Jaq locked up the warehouse, the opaque sky-ink bleeding from black into translucent blue. She saluted the helicopter as it banked overhead, her heartbeat accelerating with the whirring blades. On the far side of the snowy hill the laboratories awaited her, square white rooms with grey benches, stuffed with the analytical tools to unlock any mystery. Time for action.

Chemistry had moved on from the days of the school lab. Now the benches were crowded with machines, featureless boxes of varying shapes and sizes, all connected to computers.

The eight normal samples◦– four from the first pallet and four from the replacement pallet◦– had already been processed by the lab. Jaq checked the results. All good. Approved.

The Italian analyst, Rita, arrived and bid Jaq a cheerful good morning, adding, ‘Can I help?’

‘Thanks.’ Jaq made a decision. ‘But this is one I need to do myself.’

Jaq donned a white coat and safety glasses before opening the fridge. She placed the thirty-six little glass bottles on a steel tray and lined them up in six rows of six, labels facing forward. The preparation was simple. Gloves on. Unscrew the cap. Use a thin metal spatula to remove a few milligrams of powder. Tip it onto a transparent quartz disc about the diameter of a two-pound coin but thicker. Press another disc over it and make a sandwich. Slot into the carrier. Press a button and see it disappear into the black box. Replace screw cap on sample bottle. Remove gloves. Note down sample number and time. Repeat thirty-five times. Plus one◦– a sample of pure ammonium nitrate, the standard, for calibration and comparison.

As the results spilled out, she scratched her head. Just as she thought. Not ammonium nitrate. But what was it? More tests required.

Her phone pinged. A text message.

Can we meet?

It was signed by someone she had never heard of, Dr C. Hatton .

Wrong number. She ignored it and programmed the next tests.

Ping. Another message appeared.

From Zagrovyl.

The spatula clattered to the floor. Caramba! Were those bastards telepathic? She squinted at the halogen lights above the bench. Had Laurent installed cameras up there, or was information being streamed from the analytical machines straight to Zagrovyl? Was the mysterious Dr Hatton watching her as she puzzled over the results of the samples she wasn’t meant to have? She made a face, sticking out her tongue and rolling her eyes for the invisible camera.

‘Everything okay?’ Rita retrieved the spatula and placed it back on the tray, suppressing a smile.

Jaq hung her head, a flush of embarrassment warming her throat. Get a grip. She dialled the number for Dr Hatton. It went straight to a generic voicemail. She didn’t leave a message.

Ping! Jaq jumped.

Not phone. In person. Urgent. Café Charlie. 11am?

Why did someone from Zagrovyl want to meet with her? And why in a café in the centre of Kranjskabel? Why not here? Well, they could whistle for it. Book an appointment via Sheila, the department secretary, like any normal supplier. She got back to work.

Rita hovered. ‘Are you ready for the inspection?’

‘What inspection?’

‘Dr Visquel. He’s doing random 5S checks at eleven.’ Rita coughed. ‘Best to tidy everything away.’

Santos . Laurent and 5S. Another of his gobbledegook management initiatives. Best avoided.

Jaq checked her watch. Ten thirty. She pulled back the blind. The storm had finally blown itself out and the sky glowed bright blue again. She could ride down. Clear her head. Leave the samples on to run against a range of different standards. Try to make some sense of the results when she returned.

Jaq grabbed her bag. ‘I need to go out for a bit.’

Rita grinned. ‘Good idea.’

First tracks. The snowboard cruised over the pristine surface, powder over hardpack, smooth on the slide with enough bite for the sharpest cuts. Crunchy.

Jaq made it to the edge of town before swapping the snowboard for spikes. As she bent to unclip, a screech reverberated up a narrow side street. It took her a moment to identify the source. The red-and-white-striped awning of Skipass restaurant was unravelling, lumps of snow falling from the folds as it stretched.

A snowplough rumbled past, followed by a stream of cars. A welcome smell of coffee hit her as she entered the brightly lit café.

Jaq stashed her board in the rack and scanned the clientele. Skiers. A group of teenagers. No one who resembled a chemical company representative. She headed towards an empty table when a woman in turquoise salopettes waved from a booth at the back of the café.

Jaq approached her. ‘Dr Hatton?’ she asked. ‘From Zagrovyl?’

The woman nodded. ‘Camilla,’ she said, and extended a hand with painted nails.

Jaq removed a glove, her hand cold in contrast to Camilla’s warm handshake. Like Jaq, she wore no make-up and the uneven tan suggested she spent time on the high slopes, wore goggles and took the sport seriously. Aged anywhere between forty and sixty, impossible to tell; expertly styled short, white hair and startlingly green eyes.

‘May I call you Jaqueline?’ Her English had a hint of Central Europe, or perhaps Scandinavia.

‘Jaq is fine.’

‘I wasn’t sure you’d come.’

Quite right. What on earth was she doing here? ‘I needed a decent coffee.’ Jaq ordered an espresso from a passing waiter, and Camilla asked for more water.

‘Here, let me help you.’ Camilla seized Jaq’s bag and hung it on a hook on the edge of the booth, draping her ski jacket over it. ‘So, Jaq, how long have you been with Snow Science?’

The question was friendly, an icebreaker, but the eyes were searchlights sweeping over Jaq’s face, not the eyes of someone who indulged in small talk. So Jaq did not indulge her.

‘I assume you know about the mix-up?’

Camilla dropped her eyelids, hooding her eyes. ‘Some delivery problems? All sorted now?’

‘I took samples.’

Camilla met her eyes and blinked, reassessing. ‘And you analysed them.’ She nodded to herself as if she would expect nothing less. ‘So, what did you find?’

Jaq scanned the room. This was not an appropriate place for the discussion. ‘Why did you ask to meet me here?’

‘I’m on holiday, so this is more of a courtesy call.’ Camilla smiled a radiant blast of charm. ‘I thought maybe we could keep this informal◦– talk off the record?’