The Lucifer Network (18 page)

The caption was simple but explicit –
Ms
Julie
Jackman,
virologist
daughter
of
the
murdered
gun-runner,
with
alleged
MI6
officer
‘Simon
Foster'.
The article itself filled the bottom right quadrant of the front page under the
headline D
EATH OF A GUN-RUNNER
. D
ID
W
HITEHALL PULL THE TRIGGER
?

‘Jesus . . .'

As his eyes flicked through the text his anger grew. They were as good as accusing him of murder, of setting up the killing of Harry Jackman on the orders of the government.

‘Bollocks . . .'

He shook his head in dismay. That picture would be stared at over breakfast tables the length and breadth of the country. Businessmen he'd chatted up in bars abroad would study it on the train to work and start remembering the confidences they'd let slip. His neighbours in Brentford would gossip like hens.

‘God damn you, Julie Jackman.'

He combed the text in more detail. Harry Jackman's letter to the
Chronicle
had been thorough. The guns, the money and the identification of Simon Foster as the rep from MI6, all there. A direct quote from the dutiful daughter was the cream on the cake – a statement that ever since the Bodanga coup's embarrassing failure her father had lived in fear of being silenced by British intelligence, and by Simon Foster in particular. She'd nailed him to the cross. Any lingering sympathy he had for her, any readiness to forgive had evaporated. He wanted her dead.

He conceded that there was a token attempt at balance in the article – the reporter had damned Jackman's unsavoury career, describing him as unscrupulous and amoral. Also a quote from Zambia's police chief about Jackman being murdered by robbers and a ‘nothing to say' from the Foreign Office. But the denials wouldn't help. The mud had been thrown.

Sam stared at his image on the page. The beard had been grown two years ago as a flimsy shield against the
Voroninskaya mafiya. Now it must go again in an even feebler effort at protection, this time against his fellow countrymen.

He quickly checked that the
Times
's early edition hadn't picked up on the story, then dumped the newspapers on the bed and stepped into the bathroom. He filled the basin with hot water, removed the complimentary razor from its cellophane, lathered his face with hand soap and began to scrape at his jaw. It gave him pleasure to be removing a part of his persona that he'd never liked.

Ten minutes later he had two small cuts underneath a chin that looked startlingly white. Not bad for someone so out of practice. Deciding to be on his way, he packed quickly, took the shortbread biscuits from the tea-maker tray and pushed them into a side pocket of his rucksack, then left the room. As he passed the dining room the smell of bacon tempted him, but he strode out into the street, unlocking the car and throwing his bag onto the back seat.

He sat there for a moment, gripping the wheel and staring out towards the still choppy waters of the firth. One way or another the woman who'd dumped him in this mess was going to have to be taught the error of her ways.

When she began her journey to work on the tube, Julie found herself sitting opposite a man reading the
Daily
Chronicle.
To see her own face staring across the
gangway brought home what she'd done. Whichever way she turned, she imagined people ogling her. The paper's front page had been shown on the morning TV news. She put her glasses on and hid behind a book, holding it high to conceal her face.

Halfway through her journey she felt a hand touch her knee and nearly jumped out of her skin. She lowered the book to see a grubby-faced child waving a plastic cup at her. Towering above the girl, clothed like a Russian doll, stood her fat-faced, olive-skinned mother holding a card on which some sad story of suffering had been written in broken English. Julie shook her head and raised her book again. She was fed up with Balkan beggars. The other day she'd watched one step from a train onto the platform and pull a mobile phone from the folds of her clothes.

Her feelings about her appearance in the newspaper were confused. She'd had to admit to a sneaky sense of exhilaration. For the first time in her life she knew her father would have been proud of her. She'd taken a big, public stand on his behalf. But there was a price. She'd thrust herself into the public gaze and she wasn't suited for it. And it disturbed her how hard the paper had gone on the insinuation that Simon Foster had had a direct hand in her father's murder. She still found it difficult to believe that a man she'd rather liked could be a murderer.

She'd considered not going in to work today, but decided she had to face things. When with deep trepidation she passed through the doors of the department, Ailsa Mackinley was the first to confront her, rising awestruck from behind the reception desk.

‘Jul! Brilliant!' she beamed. ‘You're famous!'

‘I hope not,' Julie answered, making straight for her office. ‘That certainly wasn't my intention.'

‘Well I'm with you all the way,' Ailsa assured her, hanging on to her arm. ‘People like that shouldn't be allowed to get away with it.'

‘Oh Ailsa,' Julie moaned. ‘It's not that simple.'

‘I'll bet.' She gripped Julie's arm more firmly and blocked her path. ‘
He
wants to talk to you.' She pulled a long face.

‘The professor?' Julie's heart turned a somersault.

‘Asked me to tell you as soon as you got in. Said you should see him before you did anything else.'

‘Hell.'

‘Don't let him bully you. Stick up for yourself.'

‘Oh sure. Don't fuss, Ailsa.'

Inside her office her two colleagues were already at their desks. Janet smiled awkwardly, then looked away. George, her unsuccessful admirer, took it upon himself to voice what the two of them had just been saying to each other.

‘We wondered whether this was your idea or someone else's?' he asked without any preamble.

‘What d'you mean?'

‘This accusation about spies and dirty tricks. Hardly your style, we'd have thought. Someone pressure you?'

He's being patronising, thought Julie. The little woman unable to take big decisions for herself.

‘It was my choice,' she answered sharply. But yes, she had been pressured. By a man now dead. ‘And I don't want to talk about it. I . . . I'm not in the habit of discussing my personal life with the people I work with.'

‘But you're quite ready to discuss it with the rest of the nation,' George snorted. He turned back to his computer and began downloading a screensaver from the Internet.

Julie put her bag on the floor and sat down, blinking
back tears and forcing herself to ignore what had just been said and to think about the day ahead. There were some test results to be studied. God knew how she would be able to concentrate. She picked up the phone and dialled the professor's number.

‘Norton.' He had a soft voice.

‘Professor, good morning.'

‘Ah, Julie . . .'

‘You wanted a word, I believe.'

‘Yes. Would now be convenient?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘Good. Come on in, then.'

She stepped out into the corridor and walked to the room where she'd first crossed paths with Simon Foster four days earlier.

‘Come and sit down.' The professor, a tall, thin man, of the old school as far as women were concerned, rose to his feet, his lined face a picture of discomfort.

‘This business with the newspapers.'

‘I'm sorry. I should have told you in advance,' Julie mumbled.

‘Yes. I'd have welcomed knowing it was coming, rather than reading it over breakfast.' He sat down as she sat. ‘Now look. As far as I'm concerned this is your private affair. I have no wish to know anything about it. I have no views on the likely truth of the allegations you've made, nor on the rights and wrongs of getting mixed up with the papers like this.' But he did have, Julie realised. Strong views. And they weren't supportive. ‘My sole worry,' Norton continued, ‘is that this institution might in some way be tarnished by it.'

‘Tarnished? I don't see . . .'

‘No, I'm sure you don't. If you did, you'd have discussed it with me beforehand.' He clasped his hands on the meticulously tidy desk. ‘The point is this. What
you've launched yourself into comes under the heading of scandal. And scandal tends to stick to anything mentioned in the same breath. I was relieved to see that the St Michael's Hospital Group and this department were not named anywhere in this morning's article . . .'

‘No. They weren't,' Julie interrupted defiantly.

‘. . . but there will doubtless be many more. Both in the
Chronicle
and in other parts of the media. Presumably the journalists you talked to know where you work?'

‘I don't think I ever said . . .' She racked her brains, trying to remember.

‘Well it doesn't matter whether you did or not. The job description “virologist” will be enough. A quick search of the websites and they'll find your name on our department's. I expect we'll be inundated with calls in the coming hours.'

Julie sank back into her chair. It hadn't occurred to her there'd be follow-ups.

Norton pulled himself up straight. ‘I've instructed Ailsa to say you're not here today.'

‘But there'll be legitimate calls for me, there always are,' she responded, startled.

‘Others can deal with those. For now I'd prefer your absence to be fact rather than fiction.'

‘What d'you mean?'

‘That you stay away from the lab until this blows over.'

Julie gaped. ‘But I've got loads to do. What are you saying? You're suspending me from duty?'

‘Oh no. Call it compassionate leave. I just don't want us to be involved in any way.' He stood up again to show her the interview was over. ‘Why don't you give me a call in a couple of days and we'll see how things look?'

She hated being railroaded. ‘But . . .'

‘Best not to hang around,' Norton interrupted, opening his office door as she stood up. ‘And best slip out through the goods bay at the back. In case there are camera crews.'

Julie turned to leave, saying nothing. A great lump blocked her throat. Back in her own room George was on his own. He watched Julie pick up her bag and head for the door.

‘Anything I can do?'

‘No. I'm taking a few days off.'

‘And if anyone rings?'

‘Better say you've never heard of me.'

The deliveries entrance was in a mews which joined the main street twenty metres from the front entrance. A quick glance revealed no media types anywhere. She headed for the underground station, uncertain where to go. The
Chronicle
people knew about her room in Acton. In the clubby world of journalism others would soon know it too. She'd do better in Woodbridge, she decided. At least Liam would be glad to see her.

Suddenly a hand grabbed her elbow, making her jump.

‘Excuse me, Miss Jackman.' A male voice close by her ear.

She turned. A man and a woman stood each side of her, boxing her in. Media, she decided.

‘I'm sorry,' she began, heart thudding. ‘I've got nothing more to . . .'

‘We're police officers, Miss Jackman.' The man flashed an ID. ‘You're to come to Paddington Green for a chat.'

‘Why?'

‘We're investigating your father's involvement in the illegal transportation of strategic materials,' the woman told her.

‘But I've already told the intelligence people I know nothing about his business dealings.'

‘Except when the newspapers ask you about it, eh, Miss Jackman?' The male officer's manner was unpleasantly aggressive.

‘Come on, Julie,' the woman pressed. ‘There's some important people waiting to speak to you.'

‘Do I have a choice?' Julie was scared. This was a whole new ball game.

‘Not really,' the man told her. ‘I'm entitled to arrest you on suspicion of concealing information relevant to a breach of the nuclear non-proliferation treaty.'

‘This is outrageous . . .' Julie mouthed.

‘Our car's round the next corner,' the woman told her as she took Julie's arm. ‘I really would advise you to co-operate. It'll save so much time.'

‘They're on their way,' said Detective Chief Inspector Stephanie Watson as she entered the interview room where the SIS woman was waiting. ‘Be about fifteen minutes.'

‘Excellent.' Denise Corby crossed and uncrossed her legs. She wore black stockings beneath a dark grey skirt. ‘Thanks for setting this up so rapidly.'

‘Not at all. I needed a break from the Southall business,' said Steph. ‘White nationalists aren't my favourite sort of people.'

The arrangement to bring in Julie Jackman for further questioning had been made little more than an hour ago. The call to Special Branch from Vauxhall Cross had found a depleted team on the sixteenth floor at Scotland Yard because of summer leave taking, but they'd agreed to spare Steph for the morning. Which had pleased her, since she had a personal interest in the case.

‘What exactly have you got on this girl?' she asked, sitting down on the opposite side of the interview table.

Corby held out a plastic folder. ‘Something highly significant. Proof that she lied about her involvement with her father's business activities.'

‘May I see?' Steph took it.

‘When I talked to her on Friday,' Corby continued, ‘she denied all knowledge of her father's scams. And she repeated those denials on Saturday when the letter turned up. The so-called red mercury – and Vienna? It was all in the fax I sent you.'