Requiem (90 page)

Calthrop, keen as ever to get his chronology right, interjected with a request for dates. While Dublensky leafed through some old diaries he had brought, Nick helped Jenny to stack the supper plates onto a tray. As he bent over the table he became aware that Anne Dublensky was staring at him.

‘Where’s Daisy Field?’ she asked tensely.

‘Something important must have come up,’ he said.

‘Important?’ Her tone demanded to know what on earth could have been more important than this.

Returning to his chair Nick too wondered what could be so vital that it could keep Daisy away from this meeting which she had fought so hard to stage.

‘I thought and thought, but it didn’t get me too far,’ Dublensky was saying. ‘So I got methodical. I went through all the test data I’d read in the last three years or so. Quite a job. Even then, I missed it first time round because the 8,3,5-Q file was never on my official reading list, so to speak. Picked it up by chance and zoomed through it, you know.’

‘What product was that?’ asked Calthrop.

‘8,3,5-Q? It was an insecticide that never got beyond development stage. It was in initial development at the same time as our big seller Bulwark – was quite similar to it chemically in fact – but once it was realized that Bulwark was the more effective product, 8,3,5-Q was put on what turned out to be permanent hold, and the data buried, forgotten. But not’ – he made a sound of fresh surprise – ‘by TroChem.’

‘TroChem had carried out trials on 8,3,5-Q?’

‘They had.’

‘So when you looked through the 8,3,5-Q data you found what?’

‘I found that many of the haematology results between Silveron and 8,3,5-Q were identical.’

‘When you say identical …?’

‘I mean identical. Ten sheets of results that were the same in every respect. Coincidence wasn’t in it. I mean the chances were so remote as to be mathematically incalculable. No – TroChem had simply lifted the data and reused it.’ With this, a dreaminess crept over him as if he were reliving the moment of discovery. It was a moment before he responded to the next question. ‘Why would TroChem do it?’ he echoed. But he’d obviously thought about it a great deal because his reply flowed easily: ‘Commercial pressure. Lack of staff. Human nature. The temptation to take short cuts. A desire to please the client. A belief that no harm would come of it.’ He spread his hands. ‘Any of those. All of them. Who knows.’

‘But how could they expect to get away with it?’ Nick chipped in.

‘Oh, easy. It goes like this. They sincerely believe the product’s okay – I mean, it’s been developed by Morton-Kreiger, hasn’t it? All the expertise, all those expensive labs – they think the trials are just a question of waving things through, of rubber-stamping something that’s bound to be okay. They’ve no reason to think the data will ever be queried. So they cheat things – or maybe only one man cheats things, an overworked head of department, a guy who’s under pressure to hurry things along, who’s got problems with his budget. He just slips in some ready-made data that no one’s ever seen – or he
thinks
no one’s ever seen, stuff from a defunct product. No problem. End of story.’

‘Were no genuine tests done at all then?’

‘Oh, I’ve no doubt TroChem got the trials under way; it was just the analyses they didn’t get round to doing.’

There was a silence. Dublensky rubbed his eyes, Cal-throp shuffled thoughtfully through his notes, Anne Dub-lensky watched, looking worried.

‘Can we move on to your dealings with Morton-Kreiger then?’ murmured Calthrop. ‘How you reported your worries to them and what sort of a reaction you got?’

Just then Mrs Alton buzzed through to say Mr Weinberg was on the line and needed to speak to Nick ‘very urgently’. Nick took it in the hall.

‘Where the hell are you?’

‘I’m here, David.’

‘You’re meant to be bloody rehearsing.’

In all their years together Nick couldn’t remember David swearing at him, however mildly.

‘A couple of days won’t make much difference.’

‘The tour starts in one
week
, Nick! Not only can’t it wait, it’s beyond a bloody joke. I never thought I’d get this sort of prima donna shit from you, Nick. Never! Joe, Mel – I’ve never expected anything but grief from them, but
you
… Christ, the entire band managed to turn up at the studio at ten sharp this morning, just like yesterday and the day before, and what do they find? What are you trying to do to us, Nick? Just tell me? Mmm?
Mmm?
’ Words temporarily failed him.

‘I’ll be there, David.’

‘But
when
? Listen, I’ve been on the phone the whole bloody day getting these lawyers to pull out the stops and get these charges dropped. The rest of the time I’ve been telling the underwriters it’s all a terrible mistake and you’ve never touched drugs in your life and the newspaper stories are crap and begging them on my hands and knees not to pull out the rug from under the tour, and all to no bloody avail because their hearts are made of concrete, and I find I’m wasting my breath anyway because I’m getting shot in the back by my own team. You’re killing me, Nick, killing me. Tell me, just tell me,
why
are you trying to stymie the whole goddam thing? Huh? Is it that you don’t want to do this damn tour?’ He sounded close to tears.

‘David, I’ll be down tomorrow.’

There was a silence. ‘You promise?’

‘I promise.’

‘First thing?’

‘Well … No. Can’t do first thing. Later, David, later.’

A weary pause. ‘Nick, you’re the one person who can kill me, you know that?’

‘Tomorrow, David, I’ll be down tomorrow.’

‘Suppose there’s an alarm?’

But Campbell, having pocketed a torch, was already hoisting himself up the low wall at the back of the property and hooking his heel over the lip. After a great deal of heavy breathing he heaved his bulk onto the top and for an instant lay there, face down, limbs hanging loose, like a lion resting on the branch of a tree.

Someone came round the corner: a leather-jacketed youth in a hurry, hands thrust in pockets, head down. Daisy glanced up to warn Campbell, but he was already gone. She passed the youth at a stroll, face low. Rounding the corner she went a few yards along the main street, looked in the window of an electricity showroom then sauntered back. Reaching the door in the wall, she gave a sharp tap. Someone came out of a house in Peregrine Road. Moving quickly away from the door, she went to the car and pretended to let herself in. Two minutes later she returned to the door and tapped again.

There were two bells by the door, she noticed, a large brass-mounted one next to the engraved plate of Reynard Associates, and above it a small plastic type marked by a blank label stuck into a cheap metal surround. Campbell hadn’t mentioned a second bell. A second bell meant a flat, a flat with occupants who came back at all times of the day and night. She began to feel jittery again.

There was a sound, a scraping scrabbling noise to her left; quite close. A movement took her eye up to the top of the low wall, and she watched Campbell’s dark bulk appear over the top and drop untidily to the pavement.

‘Couldna’ make it up the back. Nowhere to get a grip,’ he panted as he dusted himself off.

‘Well, we tried.’

The sweat shone on Campbell’s temples, he blew out noisily through his lips. ‘We’re no’ finished yet.’

‘But how?’

He jerked his head towards the door in the wall.

‘Jesus, Campbell.’

He was already sliding the jemmy out of the warren of pockets and compartments that lined his jacket.

‘Isn’t there another way?’

‘Eh?’ he answered distractedly, already moving towards the door.

‘What about keys – can’t we use those skeleton things?’

He threw her a protesting look. ‘I dinna’ carry stuff like that!’

Now you tell me, she thought as she took up station to one side of the door, trying to shield Campbell from casual observers in the main street, a fairly ludicrous exercise when she was half his size.

‘Isn’t it going to show, the damage?’ Daisy called nervously. ‘The Bill always check doors.’

In reply, there was a grinding sound, a vicious groaning of timber and an almighty report, so loud it was like a pistol shot. A pedestrian on the far side of the main road paused and looked across. When he didn’t move on, Daisy uttered a loud yelp of laughter. Behind, Campbell gave a startled exclamation and grabbed her am. ‘What is it?’ She laughed again and jerked her head towards the pedestrian who, convinced he was hearing nothing more than a couple of people returning from an alcoholic afternoon, gave one last look and moved on.

Inside, Campbell found a light switch and Daisy held the door while Campbell wedged it closed with rolled pages torn from a stack of telephone directories sitting on the floor. The door was severely damaged, the wood badly splintered around the lock and jamb so that, even when it was closed, a large chink of light showed through from the street outside. No bobby in his right mind would miss something that obvious, but she tried to close her mind to that as Campbell led the way through the narrow hall to a flight of stairs which wheeled round a blind turn to a first-floor landing.

Daisy’s back crawled, she felt a deep foreboding: what Campbell would probably dismiss as first-time nerves, and he would be right.

Campbell found the next switch and the landing was flooded with light from an array of spots splaying out from a central ceiling rose. There was new carpet, bright paintwork, a prosperous look. The area contained five doors and no windows. Campbell took the left-hand doors, Daisy the right. The first door on the right was marked ‘Private’ and opened onto a continuation of the stairs. Here the stair carpet was very far from new, the paintwork visibly worn, and a musty aroma of ancient damp and old cooking fat wafted down the stairs, mixed with an odd animal odour, like wet fur.

She moved on. Next was a toilet, the door labelled with a cheap stick-on sign. Last was an unmarked door, also open, that led into the rear extension that she had seen from the street.

From the sound of rattling door handles, it appeared that Campbell was having less success with the two doors at the front of the house. One was a frosted glass-panelled door with ‘Reynard Associates, Investigation & Security’ in concentric arched gold lettering and on the rail underneath, a stick-on sign: ‘Please Enter’; the second had ribbed glass, and was marked ‘Private’.

Daisy called: ‘This one’s open.’

Abandoning his rattling, Campbell swept past her into the back extension. She followed and in the light from the hall saw what appeared to be some kind of conference room with easy chairs, a low table, a coffee-making machine and a tall metal cabinet in one corner. An odour of newness mingled with the strong smell of stale cigarettes. There was a large spill of some dark liquid on the carpet near the door.

Campbell switched on the light, cutting off her objections with a gruff: ‘Might be keys.’

‘Keys?’

‘The office there.’ He indicated the door he had left, and started to search the filing cabinet.

Daisy went to the window to watch for signs of approaching danger in Peregrine Road but, feeling conspicuous, pulled back.

Campbell, tiring of his search for keys, went back across the hall to the office door.

‘Try not to make so much noise,’ she called as Campbell grew more ferocious with the door handle.

He made a sound, a non-committal grunt before punching a hole in the glass with his elbow. Daisy sucked her breath as the sound reverberated into the night.

She warned: ‘No lights, Campbell’ as he reached through and slipped the latch.

There were blinds at the windows, venetian blinds with knotted cords and jammed pulleys which she closed before allowing Campbell to switch on his torch. Then, with Campbell angling the light, his body masking any stray beams that might find their way through the blinds, they went to work.

The offices consisted of two rooms separated by a chipboard and frosted-glass screen. The first room contained two cluttered desks, a photocopier and a wall of filing cabinets, the second, reached through a connecting door stamped ‘C. Hillyard, Director’ or by means of the locked ribbed-glass door from the hall, had one much larger desk clean of papers, two easy chairs, an exercise bike and four gleaming filing cabinets.

It was a mistake to start at the filing cabinets, but she didn’t realize that straight away. In its time, Reynard Associates seemed to have dealt with large numbers of clients. Each drawer contained dozens of files, and while the file tabs bore numbers which suggested some sort of system, the files themselves appeared random, and she began to realize that, approached this way, the job could not be done in a single night.

One of the cabinets in the inner office refused to open, and leaving Campbell to pick the lock – which in Campbell’s repertoire meant to break it – she went back into the outer office and, by the light from the hall, searched the tops of the desks. The larger desk was the more obviously occupied, with in- and out-trays, two telephones, piles of papers and files, a couple of unemptied ashtrays and a stack of tape cassettes. She picked up a cassette and, holding it up to the light, read the label. There was a date – it was five days back – and the word ‘Jackie’. The rest of the cassettes – there were twenty or more – seemed to relate to Jackie as well, with the exception of two labelled ‘Charlie’. On the windowsill beside the desk there was a cassette player with headphones. Dropping one of the Jackie tapes into the slot, she sampled the buttons until, hitting the right one, the machine gave a click and began to play.

The voice when it sprang into life was both strange and familiar. She recognized the inflections and flat south London vowels and other oddities of her own voice, even recalled the precise conversation – she’d been speaking to Jenny early one morning – yet at the same time the voice sounded disconnected and alien, grotesquely so. Partly it was the recording, which was distorted, partly it was the sheer surprise of hearing her unguarded words relayed back to her in this unlikely place.