2009 - Ordinary Thunderstorms (38 page)

“Well, take care, son. Oh, and thanks for calling.”

“Send my love to Emma and the boys.”

“Will do.”

“OK, Dad-bye.”

He hung up and wiped his eyes, swearing at himself under his breath. He should have said, “I love you, Dad,” or some such declaration, but that wasn’t the Kindred family way. He gathered up his remaining coins, wiped the mouthpiece of the phone with a tissue and stepped out of the booth. He took off his surgical gloves and dropped them in a bin before heading off towards the Tube station. He was tempted to hang around and wait to see how long it would be before the police arrived looking for him—it would have been a useful measure of their vigilance—but he had other more pressing tasks to occupy him.

It was a calculated risk calling his father, he knew, but it was something that he had been wanting to do for weeks. The fact that he had felt able to do it now seemed symbolic: it was a sign that matters were coming to a head, the slow crescendo was becoming louder and more agitated. He tried to imagine what his father’s reaction would be—he would have been pleased to have his son’s safety confirmed, proof that his son was alive, or so Adam supposed. Perhaps he hadn’t been that worried—his voice hadn’t sounded surprised or emotional—maybe he had practically forgotten that Adam was a wanted man, half a world away. Francis Kindred was enjoying his retirement with his daughter and his grandchildren—what could he do about it if his miscreant son had decided to go to hell in a handcart? He was not an easily perturbed man, Francis Kindred—still, Adam was pleased, he felt he had done his duty: it was a small step in his rehabilitation as a normal human being. He felt, in an absurd way, that he had his family back again.

At the end of the afternoon of the next day Adam watched the man he now knew was Ingram Fryzer walk across the small piazza in front of the glass tower that contained the Calenture-Deutz offices and slip into the back of his parked Bentley. Adam was fifty yards away, sitting on his scooter and, spotting Fryzer, he started the engine. He had been waiting almost two hours—it was now just after 6.00 a.m. Earlier, he had called Calenture—Deutz, saying he was a journalist from
The Times
, and that he wanted to speak to Ingram Fryzer about Zembla-4. He was brusquely told that Mr Fryzer was unavailable, in a meeting, please contact Pippa Deere at Calenture-Deutz public relations. Now he knew Fryzer was in the building he had been happy to settle down and wait. Then he saw the glossy Bentley slide to a halt in the reserved parking bay and, moments later, Fryzer emerged. He looked an innocuous man—tall, in a dark suit with a thick head of grey hair—Adam found it hard to stir up any emotion against him.

Adam followed his car across London to Fryzer’s large house in Kensington, saw the Bentley pull into the drive and the chauffeur leap out to open the rear door. Adam accelerated away, heading for Netting Hill. He needed to know where Fryzer lived and to see how close he was to his brother-in-law, Lord Redcastle. It turned out that they were reassuringly far apart.

It had been hard to gain much useful information on Fryzer, he seemed to keep himself to himself, and the details available about his life were bland: a semi-smartish public school, a second-class degree in PPE at Oxford, a brief stint at a merchant bank in the City before he moved into property in the 19805 Thatcher boom. The most interesting fact that Adam had gleaned was that Fryzer’s mother’s maiden name was Felicity de Vere. Fryzer had married, in his mid-twenties, Lady Meredith Cannon, the daughter of the Earl of Concannon. Three children blessed the union. Then in the 19905 Fryzer had transferred, bizarrely, out of property development into pharmaceuticals, buying a small company called Calenture, whose main asset was a highly successful anti-hayfever treatment (pill and nasal inhaler) called Bynogol. Shortly after, the company became Calenture-Deutz (Adam couldn’t see where the ‘Deutz’ name originated: he suspected it was cosmetic, an ad-man’s clever branding notion: it had more of a ring to it than plain old Calenture. Calenture-Deutz suggested an aura of Teutonic thoroughness) and the company had steadily grown to a reasonable size—a comfortable mid-table player in the Big Pharma leagues. There was nothing there that would arouse suspicion; nothing that would hint at any more sinister ambitions.

On the other hand, information on Ivo, Lord Redcastle couldn’t have been more easily forthcoming. Ivo was readily unearthed on the internet where there was a badly designed, malfunctioning website for RedEntInc. Com that managed to provide an address of an office in Earls Court and a telephone number. He had called the office from a phone booth and a girl called Sam—“Sam speaking”—had told him Ivo was at lunch.

“It’s not about the T–shirts, is it?” she asked, her rising voice betraying her excitement.

“Actually, it is,” Adam lied spontaneously and Sam had immediately given him Ivo’s mobile phone number—“He’ll want to talk to you, I know.” When Adam called, Ivo himself answered. He could hear the clatter of silverware on crockery and the babble of a restaurant’s conversation. Ivo had told him where he was lunching as if the address conferred on him some kind of instant status.

“It’s about the T–shirts,” Adam said.

“Are you interested?”

“Absolutely.”

Adam said he wasn’t free in the day and so Ivo invited him to his house that evening, giving the address, and post code, and home phone number in Notting Hill. Adam agreed to meet him there at 8.00 that evening, having not the slightest intention of showing up. All he wanted was the address, but he decided, now that he knew where Ivo was, to confirm that he had indeed got his man. All that he knew of Ivo’s appearance was from a small photo in the Calenture-Deutz brochure. He bought a disposable camera and waited outside the restaurant until someone similar appeared. He had buzzed past in his scooter, calling Ivo’s name just to be sure and, when he looked up, taken a snap. It all went into the Calenture-Deutz file. And now he knew also that the man Ivo had been with that day was Fryzer. Perhaps they had been discussing Calenture-Deutz business…The success of the clinical trials…The upcoming press conference…

Adam smiled to himself as he turned off Ladbroke Grove looking for the number of Ivo’s house—there it was, tall white stucco, off-street parking. Two men were carrying a large abstract painting in through the front door. Adam pulled up across the street and pretended to be checking his
A—Z
street map. There seemed to be a CCTV camera mounted above the front door—he would have to be careful. He accelerated off—he was on the night shift at St Bot’s again. He needed his days free at the moment, the only disadvantage being that he hadn’t seen Rita since their night together…He would call her—they had spoken every day—and he beguiled himself as he motored east through London with images of her naked body flashing pleasingly through his mind’s eye. It was time for another date. She didn’t realise it yet but he had some need of the Nashe family in his emerging plan.

“How does that look to you?”

“Ideal.”

It was a small memo pad of the sort that classier hotels place by the phone or on writing desks: one hundred leaves, a stiff cardboard back, and printed across the top of each page in blue-black ink, upper case, was the name ‘INGRAM FRYZER’.

“You’d have been better off ordering at least a dozen,” the girl in PrintPak said to Adam. “We’d have given you a discount. Seems very expensive for such a little pad.”

“It’s a present,” Adam said, handing over a twenty-pound note. “I may be back for more.”

He was leaving the shop when his mobile rang.

“Hello?”

“Primo Belem?”

“Yes.”

“It’s Aaron Lalandusse here. I got your intriguing message.”

“Can we meet?”

“Do you really have all that material?”

“Yes, I do.”

Lalandusse suggested a pub in Covent Garden, not far from his magazine’s offices in Holborn and Adam said he’d be there. It was beginning to come together. He called Rita and asked her if they could meet at the
Bellerophon
.

“My dad will be there.”

“I know. I need to have a word with him.”

“D
O YOU WANT A bite to eat? A drink?” Alfredo Rilke looked in his hotel room’s mini-bar. “I can offer you chips—or ‘crisps’, as you call them—some chocolate, a nougat biscuit.”

“Is there any white wine in there?” Ingram asked, suddenly feeling the need for some alcohol. Rilke had taken a floor of the Zenith Travel Inn near Heathrow airport and had summoned Ingram there, necessitating an inconvenient journey out in the rush hour at the end of the day. What was wrong, Ingram thought, with Claridge’s or the Dorchester, for heaven’s sake?

Rilke unscrewed the top from the wine bottle and poured out a glass for him. Ingram could tell as he accepted it that it wasn’t nearly cold enough. What was the point of being the fourteenth richest man in the world, or whatever he was, and choosing to live in this style?

“Cheers,” he said, raising his glass, “very good to see you, Alfredo.”

“I’m basing myself here for the next few days.”

“Excellent. You can come to our press conference.”

“I’ll be there in spirit, Ingram.” He paused, and re-set his face as if he had serious news to impart. “I wanted you to know that I just heard, unofficially, secretly—an hour ago—that we’ll get our PDA licence. Zembla-4 is going to be approved.”

Ingram inhaled, needing more oxygen. He felt his hand tremble and put his glass down.

“To say that’s ‘good news’ sounds mean-spirited. That means the MHRA won’t be far behind.” His mind was going fast. “But how do you know? It’s unofficial, you say?”

“Yes. Let’s say word has reached us. Our people have managed to learn enough about the reports, their content and recommendation. The advisory committee stage will be very positive, also. We heard it on the grapevine, as the song has it.” Rilke smiled. “Don’t look so worried, Ingram. We’re not selling heroin. We’re not smuggling weapons-grade uranium to rogue states that sponsor terrorism. Zembla-4 will save millions of lives over its licence period. It’s a boon, a blessing to mankind.”

“Of course.” Ingram tried to make his features relax. “Obviously I can’t even hint at this at the press conference.”

“No, not even a tiny word. Just the business of the day. But I’ll make sure you know our final buy-out price in plenty of time. It’ll be very generous. Some analysts may even say more than generous. But not so generous as to prompt curious questions.”

“I see,” Ingram said, not seeing, wondering where this was leading.

“And then we get the PDA approval.” Rilke spread his hands as if to say: look how easy it all is.

“The ex-shareholders might feel a little irritated.”

“They’ll be happy enough. We’ll make a good offer. They’ll have some Rilke stock to comfort them.”

“But when they hear about the Zembla-4 licence they’ll suspect we knew.”

“But how could we know? The Food and Drug Administration guards its deliberations under utmost secrecy. Nothing is certain. The PDA refuses one out of four applications.”

“Yessss…Where will we manufacture Zembla-4?”

“Leave that to me. It won’t be your company any more, Ingram. The days of these complicated, tricky decisions will be over. In fact you’ll probably want to retire and enjoy your money.”

“I will?” Ingram queried—and then quickly made it a statement. “I will. You’re quite right.” He drank some more of his warm wine. ‘Rilke Pharma bags Calenture-Deutz’, the headline would run somewhere in the financial pages, Ingram thought. Not a headline, no big deal until the Zembla-4 news is announced. Then more plaudits for Alfredo Rilke’s uncanny acumen—somehow cherry-picking a twenty-year licensed blockbuster drug for a few hundred million. A billion dollar revenue stream guaranteed for two decades. What would that do for Rilke Pharma stock? Not that Ingram cared, he would be enjoying his modest share of Zembla-4 royalties. True, he thought, if I were an institutional holder of shares in Calenture-Deutz, happy to accept Rilke Pharma’s generous offer, I might be somewhat aggrieved to know that I wasn’t going to participate in that revenue stream or see its benefits. I might even start asking uncomfortable questions. Why sell a company when its new drug is up for approval? He looked back at Alfredo, who was at the window contemplating the traffic on the M4.

“My argument to the shareholders would be—”

“That you cannot guarantee a licence for Zembla-4. Not all applications succeed—only a few dozen drugs a year get a licence. Rilke Pharma’s excellent offer is too good to pass up. Take your profit now rather than risk having an unlicensed drug on your shelf with all the costs of its development unreturned. Shrewd business sense.” Rilke wandered over and put his big hand on Ingram’s shoulder. “No one will query your decision, Ingram, believe me. You are just being a prudent CEO. Everyone will make a nice profit. Your more astute shareholders will have taken Rilke stock rather than cash—these people won’t want to ask many searching questions. And, of course, no one knows about our little arrangement.” Rilke smiled. “Which is one of the reasons I meet you in these charming hotels.”

“True. Yes…” Ingram encouraged his excitement to bubble up again and sipped his wine—no, it was too disgusting. He put it down. In fact he was feeling a little nauseous. He’d open something decent when he returned home, celebrate properly. Then an unpleasant thought arrived, rather spoiling the party.

“We never found that Kindred fellow,” he said. “Pity about that.”

“It doesn’t really matter any more,” Rilke said with a reassuring smile. “Now we have the licence in the bag, Kindred’s moment has gone.”

“That’s very reassuring,” Ingram said. “Actually, is there any brandy in that fridge?—I’m feeling a little off-colour.”

T
HE FRAMED POSTER WAS for an exhibition of Paul Klee paintings—‘ANDACHT ZUM KLEINEN’ was its title—held in Basle in 1982 and there was a reproduction of a Klee watercolour, a pointed-roofed house in a moonlit landscape of stylised pine trees with a fat white moon in the sky. At the bottom of the watercolour was Paul Klee’s signature and the painting’s title written in his scratchy copperplate handwriting: ‘
Etwas Licht in dieser Dunkelheif
.’