Requiem (72 page)

‘You were so brave at the party!’ she said, pushing just the right balance of fondness and mockery into her voice.

His eyes flicked towards her but she could see he was only half listening.

‘I still can’t get over the way those women besieged you,’ she went on lightly. ‘People with money are the worst of all, I’m afraid. Think they’ve bought you along with the ticket.’

‘Tell me about Schenker,’ Nick asked suddenly.

She shrugged. ‘Oh, he’s just a mogul. You know … earnest. And dull.’

‘Ruthless?’

‘Ooh, that’s a strong word!’ she laughed. Sensing she had hit too flippant a note, she made a show of giving the question serious consideration. ‘I don’t know him
that
well,’ she said, ‘but ruthless – yes, I would think so. Why?’

But he didn’t answer. Instead he asked: ‘He knows your husband quite well, I suppose?’

Now where was this leading? Generally he never asked about Tony, not directly. ‘Oh, they’ve met …’ she said casually. ‘You know – at functions, in the House. These companies always do quite a bit of lobbying. Oh, and he’s taken us to the opera a couple of times. But then all the big companies do that – take us to things.’

Nick absorbed this slowly, staring intently at the fire.

The opportunity of deepening the conversation while at the same time airing the subject of Tony – something she’d been wanting to do for some time – was not to be missed. ‘I hardly see Tony nowadays,’ she murmured a little ruefully. ‘He’s in Luxembourg at the moment. Some trade talks, or whatever. But even if he’d been free to come to the party, he’d have persuaded himself he couldn’t. In fact since he became a politician – well …’ She gave a valiant little laugh and, though she didn’t plan it, her breath caught rather attractively in her throat. ‘We don’t really communicate much … His work just eats him up. And he’s so incredibly hyped up all the time, rushing around like a madman, that we don’t have time to talk – about
anything
. So I’ve rather given up, I’m afraid.’ She looked down at the rug and pulled delicately at the pile. ‘I’m not complaining, not exactly. Well, perhaps I
am
,’ she added, shooting him a fleeting smile. Looking suitably serene, she added: ‘But I think one has to try to make the best of things, don’t you? Even when they’re – difficult. Make do. Muddle through.’

Nick lit a cigarette, propped an elbow on one knee and looked into the fire. He was gathering himself to say something in that cautious thoughtful way of his, but just as he began to speak the phone rang. Usually he ignored it, letting his housekeeper pick it up somewhere in the depths of the house, but now he got up to answer it. ‘My direct line. Sorry …’

Direct line. She hadn’t realized he had one. She certainly didn’t have the number for it, and she rather thought she should. It was someone called David. David Weinberg, presumably.

Nick was mumbling a perfunctory apology for having missed some meeting or another. Susan reached for another crumpet. It wouldn’t do any harm when she was burning up so much nervous energy.

‘
What!
’ Nick’s voice was sharp and raw.

Susan abandoned the crumpet. Nick was sinking slowly onto the sofa, reaching out a hand to steady himself.

‘God!’ he groaned, dropping abruptly into his seat and clamping a hand to his face. ‘I might have known! I should have known!’

He listened for a few moments longer, muttering the occasional ‘God!’ and ‘Christ!’, then, the conversation apparently over, slumped wearily back in his seat, the receiver forgotten in his hand until, looking down, he swung it slowly back into its cradle.

Susan was on her feet. ‘What’s the matter?’

Almost immediately, the phone rang again. This time

Nick ignored it and after a few rings it stopped. He covered his head with his hands.

‘
Nick
– what is it?’

He dropped his hands.

‘Would you do something for me, Susan?’

‘Of course.’

‘Look and see if there’s anyone hanging around the gate.’

‘Of course.’ She started across the room.

‘Don’t let them see you.’ Nick’s voice followed her.

A chill of excitement squirmed in her stomach; this was rather an adventure.

She approached the window at an angle, keeping away from the glass. The cloud had lifted a little, the rain abated, but now it was almost dusk and the streetlamps were burning a dull orange.

The house was fronted by a short garden of ornamental paving and thin strips of lawn, and screened from the road by a high wall.

‘I can’t see from here,’ she called. ‘Shall I try upstairs?’

‘Would you?’ His face was grim.

She went upstairs to the guest bedroom that lay immediately above the sitting room and peered cautiously from behind the edge of the curtain. Someone passed under the streetlamp on the opposite pavement, head down, small dog in train. A car was backing into a parking place. Otherwise nothing. She was rather disappointed. A man got out of the parked car and crossed the street diagonally, heading straight for the house. The next moment she heard a bell sound deep in the house.

She raced downstairs to hear Nick giving instructions that he was abroad and not available for comment.

‘Didn’t take them long!’ he remarked bitterly.

‘Nick, what
is
it?’

He lit a cigarette, shut his lighter with an angry snap and sucked the smoke in greedily. ‘You’re trapped as well, I’m afraid – unless you want to get snapped, of course. They won’t leave, you know, not until they get fed up. Or it’s near closing time.’

She took a few steps closer to him. ‘Who?’

‘The papers! The tabloids!’ He gestured towards the front of the house. ‘They won’t give up.’ His tone was belligerent, indignant.

‘Nick …’ She made a calming voice. ‘What’s it all about?’

He gave a harsh chuckle. ‘You might as well know. The whole of the rest of the bloody world’ll know by the morning, so there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be the first.’

She went up to him and, kneeling at his side, tugged gently at his arm. After a moment’s hesitation, he sat down beside her on the rug, resting his elbows on his knees.

‘There’s this research project I got involved with, a scientific project,’ he began slowly. ‘Well, the building – the laboratory they were using – it got burnt down in the night, totally destroyed.’ He snorted mirthlessly. ‘By animal rights campaigners, of all people. Angry at what the evil scientists were planning to do to the rats and mice. Protesting … Funny really …’ He dropped his head onto his knees for a moment, then flicked a sideways glance at her. ‘You see, I funded the place.’

Susan maintained her expression of concern. ‘I see,’ she said gently, not seeing very much at all. ‘You, er – ’ She grappled with her available ideas. ‘It was a good cause, was it?’

He told her. He explained it fully, from the beginning, although afterwards she realized it wasn’t quite the beginning, because he didn’t disclose his real interest in the chemical called Silveron, not until a little later.

He told her about Catch and what they were trying to achieve with the Octek project, how the boy in Scotland had got sick, how several other forestry workers had been affected. How he had provided the funds on the condition that no one knew of his involvement.

A million pounds, a hidden laboratory: the extravagant whims of a rich man. The images were like breaths of excitement.

‘I asked for total secrecy,’ he murmured bitterly. ‘I should have known.’

As if to emphasise the press interest, the phone rang. They waited for the unseen housekeeper to silence it. It rang again almost immediately and, with an exclamation of impatience, Nick jumped to his feet and took the receiver off the hook. He returned to the rug.

He went on, his voice thin and rough. He told her, haltingly, circuitously, why secrecy had been so important to him, and finally she understood. It was all about his wife. He thought this chemical had killed his wife.

He lit another cigarette, and she saw that his hands were trembling slightly.

‘And now, just to put the lid on everything, they’ll brand me a vivisectionist!’ he cried painfully. ‘Bloody great! Bloody terrific!’

She put a hand on his arm and squeezed it. ‘They’ll understand, once they know your reasons for doing it.’

He twisted his body away to look at her incredulously. ‘Know my reasons?’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m not bloody telling them. Christ, no! It’s bad enough them having this, without giving them …’ He couldn’t say it. ‘No, I’m not going to tell them anything.’

She wanted to say: But they’ll work it out for themselves. Perhaps he realized the inevitability of it, because all the energy went out of him and, turning back to the fire, he slumped his arms on his knees. His shoulder came up against hers. ‘You mustn’t tell them anything you don’t want to,’ she said reassuringly. She stroked a finger across the back of his hand, very lightly, as she had done for Camilla when she was small. ‘Poor darling,’ she murmured. ‘Poor love.’ It seemed to pacify him. She slipped her hand over his, and clasped it. He didn’t pull away.

‘What about a statement?’ she suggested. ‘To give your version.’

‘I’ve done it,’ he said exhaling smoke slowly downwards. ‘I just told David what to say.’

‘So there’s nothing more to be done?’

‘No.’

‘Well, then.’

But he wasn’t quite talked out yet, and it was another ten minutes or so before his despondency finally bordered on resignation.

She said again: ‘Well, then.’ He was very close. With her free hand she brushed the back of her fingers lightly across his cheek, once, and again.

‘Poor love,’ she breathed. A warmth hit her stomach, her heart fluttered nervously.

For a moment neither of them moved, then he flicked his cigarette into the fire. He closed his eyes, tightened his lips and, dropping his head, pressed his cheek against her fingers.

‘Poor love.’ She heard her voice from a distance, deep and uneven.

He twisted his head slowly towards hers, his eyes still closed; she turned her cheek to meet his. They stayed like that for a moment, their cheeks touching, then she reached up and put a hand on his neck and stroked it gently.

‘Poor love.’

He moved first; she met his lips as they turned to find hers. He had moved first, and the triumph roared in her ears.

‘Miss Field, would you mind?’ The inspector leaned in through the open door and beckoned outwards. ‘Something I’d like to discuss.’

Daisy pushed the remains of her cold hamburger back in its carton and climbed stiffly out of the police car. The inspector turned and led the way through the slanting rain into the Octek compound, past the last remaining fire engine, the flattened hoses, the piles of charred furniture. A group of workmen were hammering boards over the gaping holes that had been the doors and windows. On the outside walls the taunting graffiti stood out garishly, its lettering untarnished.

Inside, a fire officer was waiting for them. He introduced himself as a senior investigator and led the way into B-Lab, or what remained of it. Half the roof had gone, and most of the contents, blackened, pulverised or otherwise destroyed.

‘Very methodical,’ said the fire officer. ‘Smashed everything first. All the glass, all the equipment, then stacked the combustibles in the centre here. Very methodical. Axes, from the look of it, like they used on the front doors. Then an inflammatory agent – undoubtedly petrol. You can see the way everything burnt outwards from here.’ He indicated the concentric circles of water-soaked ash and debris.

‘And the animal quarters …’ interjected the inspector. ‘Took every cage out – they were clipped down, you said?’ – this to Daisy – ‘Now
that
couldn’t have been done in a hurry.’

The inspector’s name was Brent. At the beginning of the long day, when she was still in a state of numbness and shock, she had misheard his name and called him Bent.

‘They took their time,’ commented the inspector enigmatically.

He was waiting for Daisy to draw some great conclusion. A gust of wind rattled through the remains of the roof.

‘Did they?’ she echoed dutifully.

With the air of someone grudgingly revealing a valuable card, Brent said: ‘The alarm sounded at 0235 hours. We have a resident on the other side of the main road who can confirm that exactly. In the bathroom at the time, he was. Heard it go off and looked at his watch. Then a couple of minutes later, looked out of his window and saw the glow of the fire. Phoned the fire brigade straight away. Got here in six minutes.’

She still hadn’t made the great connection. ‘So? I’m sorry …’

‘The fire was already well away when he looked out. Which means it was already burning when the alarm went off.’ The inspector looked at her as if this explained everything. Catching her expression he continued heavily: ‘Which suggests our friends got in well before it went off – must have done, to have got all this work done. Unless the alarm was faulty. But you said you had the security firm check it a month ago, so it doesn’t seem very likely, does it?’

There was a pause. Rain dripped off a beam and spattered noisily onto a curl of charred roofing felt. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I don’t see …’

‘Seems like they got in without setting off the alarm.’

She waited.

‘Like they had access.’

He was watching her carefully. Ah, she was beginning to get the idea now. It was an insurance job. She herself had set it up for the money.

‘There was very little insurance cover, Inspector. Certainly not enough to make it worthwhile.’

He absorbed this impassively, then ignored it. ‘It makes the job very professional, Miss Field.’

Wherever this was meant to be leading, she really couldn’t guess. ‘But I thought animal rights groups
were
professional nowadays,’ she said. ‘You know, all geared up …’

‘Not so professional that they’d reset the alarm as they were leaving so as to make it look as though they hadn’t got past it in the first place.’

‘I’m not sure of what you’re getting at – ’

The rain had formed a droplet on the end of his nose, which vibrated as he spoke. ‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me, Miss Field.’