Smoke & Whispers (11 page)

‘Thanks for calling.’

‘I’d like to know what you’re planning.’

‘I’m not planning anything. I just don’t want . . . I don’t want things to fade away. I guess.’

‘They won’t.’

‘I got the impression you were regarding this as a suicide.’

He didn’t reply.

‘Sergeant?’ It sounded odd, saying that. But she could hardly just call him King. ‘Isn’t that so?’

‘Ms Tucker –’

‘Or an accident. But you didn’t know Zoë. She didn’t have accidents.’

‘This wasn’t an accident,’ he said at last.

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘We’re sure.’

He’d come this far, she thought. She only had to wait. He’d give her the rest.

‘She drowned,’ he said.

‘I know.’

‘But it wasn’t river water in her lungs.’

Sarah closed her eyes; tried to shut out the image this information provided.

‘Ms Tucker?’

‘I see. I see.’ She saw. She saw Zoë being held down in a bath; strong hands forcing her head underwater.

DS King fell silent.

Sarah had to say something – she couldn’t just hang up. So she said, ‘Thank you,’ though it came out more quietly than she’d intended. She cleared her throat. ‘Thank you for telling me,’ she said again. Then she ended the call, walked down the corridor to her room, let herself in, and lay on the bed.

Closing her eyes did not help. Sarah opened them, and stared straight up. Thin cracks threaded outward from the corners, forming a faint road map on the ceiling. It didn’t direct her anywhere she wanted to go.

But when she closed her eyes again, the view was worse: was of Zoë, forcibly held underwater.

Zoë had always struck Sarah as the strongest person she’d met, but strength wasn’t necessarily a factor. Not for a woman. A woman could be strong, and still be no match for the wrong kind of man. Sarah hadn’t allowed herself to wonder about how Zoë had ended up in that river, but the thought had sneaked up on her a time or two; catching her off guard, like an unexpected car rounding a corner. What she’d seen had been swift, and shrouded in darkness. Zoë on a quayside or towpath; looking down towards water on which starlight trembled. And something coming out of nowhere behind her: a glancing blow on the head, then more darkness.

In this version, Zoë entered the water without a ripple. It happened swiftly, and the first Zoë would have known about it was the last thing she’d ever know. But it hadn’t happened like that. Sarah closed her eyes again. And this time it was all struggle and violence, with Zoë well aware of what was happening, and doing her damnedest to make it stop. And it happening anyway.

She’d have tried to shout; tried to fight. And she’d lost. It happened anyway.

The road map to nowhere dissolved as Sarah’s eyes filled. For a moment she was teetering on a brink, and if she let herself fall now, the landing would shatter her. She had to pull back: a willed enaction of that involuntary spasm found on the edge of sleep. Going to pieces was not an option. Going to pieces would let Zoë down. She had to be strong. If their roles were reversed, Zoë would have grieved, might even have wept, but she would not have fallen apart. Not before discovering what had happened.

I’ll do my best, Sarah thought, as if Zoë were in the room with her. Then she said it aloud. ‘I’ll do my best.’

She sat up. Dried her eyes. Planned her next move.

Of the fragments of information she’d gathered – she supposed you could call them clues – none cast special light. What she’d learned about Jack Gannon made it clearer than ever that he couldn’t be Talmadge: he couldn’t float around the country, assuming different guises, at the same time as steering his criminal family into the legitimate world. That Gannon was part of what happened to Zoë, Sarah had no doubt. But she couldn’t see where he fitted. It was as if she’d been given something to glue back together without having been told what it was. She had to keep choosing pieces, testing their shape. Propelled into action by the thought, she moved from the bed. In the bathroom, she splashed water on her face.

Gerard had vanished for the time being, but he couldn’t simply disappear. She’d find him when she needed to. For the moment, there were other threads to follow through the maze.

There was Gannon, and then there was John M. Wright.

Wright might not matter in himself – he hadn’t been on Gerard’s list; the one Zoë had produced – but he was a close associate of Jack Gannon’s; seemed to dog his footsteps. On the other hand, he was so wrapped up in himself, that might not count for much. It might be simpler to tackle Gannon directly. But
tackling
implied Sarah knew what she was after, when the truth was, she was adrift. She didn’t know what she needed to know. She just knew she didn’t know enough. And she doubted she could pump Gannon for information without him noticing.

They got on, though. There was something of a spark, there – not attraction, exactly, but you couldn’t rule it out.

There was a phone book in the dressing-table drawer, and she flicked through its Business section. Wright’s company had been mentioned at lunch yesterday: ResearchWorks. One word. She made a note of the address then riffled through the pages again, looking for Gannon. There were three separate entries, along with a box trumpeting a storage facility. She made a note of those too.

Wright or Gannon? Gannon or Wright?

A storage depot would be a big warehouse full of walk-in containers, and the man in charge would be jacketless, biros lined up in his shirt’s pocket protector. As soon as Sarah had gone, he’d be on the phone, tipping Jack off. Where Wright worked, on the other hand, would be a neat square building where studious people worked in clean white coats. A receptionist would offer coffee while chatting about Nice Mr Gannon, who often dropped in . . .

It was the mental equivalent of whatever-you-called-it; the practice of opening the Bible at random, and taking the verse your eyes lit on as God-mail. It didn’t matter what it said because your brain would twist it so it read the way you wanted. She had no idea what storage depots looked like, but sometimes it was safest to go with the stereotypes. And bearding Wright would at least have this advantage: Sarah already knew she didn’t like him. People you didn’t like could be easier to deal with. It wasn’t necessary to make space for them.

Sarah put her coat on, then checked in the mirror. The coat looked good, but Sarah was not at her best. Her cheeks lacked colour, and her eyes seemed different. Flintier. Suicide, she had heard, left the bereft feeling grief with the anger turned up. Murder had much the same effect.

She found her spectacles and put them on. Maybe they’d soften the anger. Maybe not.

10

The map from the rack in the hotel lobby was for the city centre only, so at the Central Station Sarah bought an A–Z, then caught a Metro towards the coast. The train ran mostly overland, but the outside world seemed painted grey. Or maybe that was the natural colouring of Palmersville, Shiremoor, West Monkseaton; names that fell agreeably strangely on her ears, but would no doubt disappoint if she ever walked their streets. A line from a half-forgotten poem stirred:
People live here. You’d be amazed.
And there was that whispered music again; a snatch of the soundtrack to which unknown others spent their lives.

When her stop came, the station seemed awfully grand for a two-track service. Once, it dispatched steam-trains hither and yon, while mutton-chopped guards blew whistles. Outside, the houses were large and imposing – three-storey Victorian villas – and the streetlamps vintage Narnian. The air had a salty sting. Sarah was only a mile or so inland, if she read her map aright.

And if she was doing that, she had a walk ahead of her. She set off briskly, compulsively checking the A–Z at each junction; confirmation that she hadn’t gone astray. Twenty minutes took her clear of the town; deposited her on the fringe of an industrial estate where maps were no use, but God or something sent a postman cycling past, and she flagged him down.

‘After a bakkie, pet?’

‘Just directions, thanks.’

ResearchWorks – one word – aye, he knew it.

‘Gan past all them yellow vans, and it’s next building along. ResearchWork’s on the upstairs. The stairs are on the outside, like.’

Sometimes, events conspire to place you in a fairytale. She thanked the nice postman, and set off on her way.

‘Gan canny, pet.’

She mentally filed that. ‘Thanks.’ I think.

The yellow vans belonged to a courier service. The next building looked like a warehouse, and so much for her vision of a research facility: it was an old construction with an iron-sheeting roof, its grimly stuccoed walls shadowed by damp. The stairs indeed were on the outside, like a fire escape, but made of wood. The sign on the door,
ResearchWorks
, was a laminated card drawing-pinned in place.

She knocked, and there was no answer.

A minute or so later she knocked again, and this time the door was flung open, as if someone had just happened to be passing, and couldn’t believe their ears. Student. Young, anyway, with a shiny bald head and thick framed spectacles: and if he hadn’t been able to believe his ears, it wasn’t because they weren’t big enough. They emerged horizontally, like a giraffe’s. He wasn’t wearing a white coat, but a big T-shirt and paint-spattered jeans, and was waggling something between the fingers of his right hand so quickly, it took her a moment to identify it as a pencil.

‘I’m looking for Mr Wright?’ she said.

The young man’s failure to cash in on this opening pretty much proved him a virgin.

‘The doc?’ he said.

She agreed that was possibly the same man.

‘He’s on the ’puter.’

‘Could I disturb him?’

‘He’ll be another five minutes.’

That probably meant no. ‘Well, is it all right if I wait?’

He shrugged. ‘S’pose.’

Half a dozen heartbeats later she was being shown into a tiny room with a sink in one corner, and a few plastic chairs, and a formica-topped table on which a coffee machine sat. Its jug was empty, but an open packet of coffee was spilled next to it, and she was given to understand that it would be acceptable for her to make a fresh brew. She decided she’d be equally happy not doing so. The student returned to whatever task he was busy with, and she was left to contemplate the wisdom or otherwise of her current course of action.

Perhaps not so wise. But being in a different city made this easier. What they called the visiting-fireman approach: it didn’t matter what kind of idiot you made of yourself among people you’d never meet again. What goes on tour stays on tour. She didn’t have long to dwell on it anyway, because John M. Wright came in three minutes later.

‘Oh, it’s, ah – you.’

It was difficult to tell whether he was disappointed or just not very interested.

‘Sarah,’ she reminded him. ‘Sarah Tucker.’

‘What are you doing here?’

I was just passing
was a tempting response. A ride on the Metro, a twenty-minute walk, directions from a postie – she might just get away with it. But settled, instead, for, ‘I wanted to see where you worked.’

‘Why?’

‘What you’ve been telling me, about your research – it’s interesting stuff.’
Ms Tucker’s in publishing. She owns her own
company
, was how Jack Gannon had introduced her to Wright. ‘My company produces soft-science books. There might be something in this.’

‘A book?’

‘A chapter,’ she said, freewheeling like mad. ‘Not so much about the results of your research. More how you go about doing it.’

‘Did Inchon send you?’

Well, that might work too. ‘I know Gerard will be interested in anything you have to say.’

He scratched his beard. Marvellous, Sarah thought. Not only does it look ridiculous, it feels uncomfortable too. It’s a wonder suspender belts aren’t part of male formal dress.

‘Well,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve time for a chat, I suppose.’

It was the first thing he’d said that wasn’t a question.

‘Is there anywhere we can go?’ Sarah asked. ‘For lunch or whatever?’

‘There’s a sort of canteen.’

She had visions of a room like this, but with ketchup stains. ‘You don’t want to drive into town? I’m sure I passed a Thai. My treat.’

‘I don’t eat that sort of food,’ he said, as if she were offering him the first apple. ‘The canteen’s for the whole estate,’ he added. ‘It’s quite good.’

He led her down the stairs and round the back of the building, through a gap in a scruffy hedge, across a small car park, and through a door in the side of a building similar to the one they’d just left, and which turned out to house the canteen. This was cleaner than Sarah had been expecting, and brightly lit. Wright, mind, looked like he’d successfully navigate it in the dark. From the self-service area, he loaded a plate: steak, chips; five green beans. Sarah chose a pre-wrapped Caesar salad, and followed him. At the till she was about to offer to pay, when he saved her the bother by telling the woman, ‘She’s got these.’

‘Treating your boyfriend, pet?’ Sarah was asked.

Wright was already off to a table.

‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ Sarah said. ‘I’m his probation officer.’

He’d started eating by the time she sat. She peeled the cellophane from her salad, and said, ‘How long have you been here?’

‘At RW?’

ResearchWorks. ‘Yes.’

‘I set it up, you know.’

‘I set it up, you ‘So I gather.’

‘In these premises, four years.’

‘Right. And the Gannon family fund you, do they?’

‘They’re among my backers.’

‘Because your research might one day be worth a lot of money.’

‘There’s no “might” about it. It’ll be worth millions. If I’m allowed the resources to proceed with my work.’

‘What kind of resources might they be?’

He sawed a wedge from his steak and delivered it to his mouth. While he chewed he regarded her. Not so much as he might a person, Sarah thought, as he might an unimportant problem. A Sudoku, say. When he’d finished chewing he swallowed, then said, ‘Is this for your book?’

‘Chapter,’ she said. ‘Yes. It’s all background.’

‘I need a more powerful computer system,’ he said. ‘I get to use the University’s StarWheel once in a while. I really need one of my own.’

‘Starwheel . . .?’

He sighed. ‘It operates some rather complicated software.’ Like someone explaining to a three-year-old what it was that watches did. ‘Which models gene behaviour. I use it to replicate potential reactions in the respiratory system to various stimuli. When I’m allowed near it.’

‘That sounds . . . interesting.’

‘Yes. Well. It’s a tool, but a useful one. And if you don’t want the animal rights brigade on your case, you need some fairly sophisticated alternatives to . . .’ He speared a chip with his fork. ‘Animals.’

‘You don’t use animals in your research?’

‘You need a licence.’

She was pleased to hear it. ‘So what about the new premises? Why do you need those?’

Now she was really being moronic. ‘Because it’s a large system. The StarWheel. And needs a purpose-built environment.’

‘It’s a virtual reality device?’ she guessed.

He directed his attention back to his plate. ‘There are VR elements involved, yes. Should I be getting paid for this?’

‘For eating lunch?’

‘For sharing my knowledge. A royalty.’

‘Royalties generally go to the writers,’ Sarah explained. ‘There might be a consultation fee. If the book goes ahead.’

‘Chapter. You said.’

‘In a book, yes. Tell me how you met Jack.’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Could be an interesting story.’

‘Don’t see how.’

‘He’s a rich man, endowing a science project. You don’t think other scientists will be interested in hearing how that came about?’

‘It’s not that big an endowment,’ Wright said.

Somewhere on the Internet, there was a joke to which that was the punchline.

‘Did you ever hear him mention Gerard Inchon before the other night?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘The name didn’t ring a bell?’

‘I’m not very interested in other people,’ he said, dividing the last of his steak into two equal pieces.

That was a compliment other people were no doubt happy to repay. ‘But you get on with Jack.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Do you know his family at all?’

‘His family?’

‘Yes. You know – parents, brothers, that sort of thing.’

Wright said, without taking his eyes off his lunch, ‘Why on earth would I want to meet his parents?’

‘I don’t know. Because they’re endowing your work?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve never met Mr Lloyd TSB either,’ he told her. ‘But he gives me an overdraft.’

Her salad was limp and uninspired. She had a good idea how it felt. She ate a few forkfuls, though, before returning to the fray. ‘How far along are you with your research?’

Now he looked at her, but with detached irritation. ‘Do you know much about asthma – I’ve forgotten your name?’

‘Sophie,’ she said. ‘No, not much. Apart from the obvious stuff, which everyone knows.’

‘Well, it affects over five million people in this country alone. And nobody knows what causes it. So you can probably work out that it’s not a problem that’s about to be solved overnight.’

She said, ‘I don’t remember suggesting it was. But Jack described it as your life’s work. So I presume you’re further along than just counting who’s got it.’

‘People think of it as just being short of breath.’

(She’d been starting to think it didn’t matter what she said, but a penny dropped now. He wasn’t interested in other people: okay. But he was interested in asthma. Interested in it for what it was, not for how it made those other people suffer.)

‘But it has an interesting array of side-effects. Weight gain. Osteoporosis. Cataracts.’

‘From
asthma
?’

‘From common forms of asthma treatment. Steroids.’

‘They prescribe steroids for asthma?’

‘You don’t know anything about it at all, do you?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m a publisher, not a scientist.’

She was quite proud of herself, for remembering she was a publisher.

‘Well, trust me. It’s not a small subject.’

And one she was getting interested in, despite herself. Or despite John M. Wright, rather. Something he’d said about his magic computer swam back into her mind. Intelligence was largely careful listening. ‘And what’s your approach? Gene treatment?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘You don’t think that’s the way to go?’

‘Ultimately. But gene treatment’s way in the future, whatever you read in the papers. Oh, it’ll be available for the rich within our lifetime. But not for anyone else.’

‘So you think a safer form of steroid treatment is what’s needed?’

He laid down his knife and fork. ‘I’m not sure I want to announce my aims through your book.’

‘Chapter. But I take your point.’

A sudden draught announced the arrival of a crowd of local workers, who came in laughing and chattering, and generally feeling at home. A look of distaste curled Wright’s lip. ‘I’m going back to work now.’

He stood.

Sarah hadn’t got anywhere, she thought. She’d come all this way, but learned nothing.

She said, ‘How close are you to finishing?’

‘That’s not an easy question to answer.’

‘But Jack Gannon’s prepared to fund you until you are?’

‘You’d have to ask him that. But you can tell Mr Inchon that I’d be very happy to discuss how he can help. He won’t regret the investment.’

‘And you don’t think Jack would object to that?’

Wright said, ‘Do you have any idea how much money will result, once my research is successfully concluded?’

‘None at all, no.’

‘Jack Gannon won’t be out of pocket.’

She said, ‘Why aren’t you working for big pharma? Then you wouldn’t have to scrub around for private backing.’

‘That’s not your concern.’

There was clatter, and more laughter, as tables were colonized and plates deposited. Sarah’s salad was only half-finished, but it was clear that Wright’s work here was done. She stood, collected her bag from the back of her chair, and followed him into the cold.

He surprised her then. He said, ‘Were you wearing those glasses last time we met?’

‘Yesterday. No. No, I wasn’t.’

‘I thought not. When will this chapter be written?’

She said, ‘I haven’t commissioned the book yet. But there’s a lot of promising material here.’

He pursed his lips. ‘I’ll need a consultation fee. When I speak to your writer.’

‘Oh, it’s all above board. Don’t worry about that.’

He turned abruptly, and walked back the way they’d come: across the small car park, through the gap in the scruffy hedge. He didn’t look back.