“Fire fighters are still attempting to bring a blaze at a research facility outside Cambridge under control. Police say an investigation will begin as soon as the building has been made safe to establish the cause, which appears to be the explosion of a chemical storage unit. It is thought there were a number of research staff in the building at the time of the incident, but the precise number of victims isn’t yet known.”
The shot cut from the presenter to a wide angle view of the scene, flames still dancing over the rubble, unwilling to give up their hold on the cracked and charred concrete. The sign ‘Marcon Pharmaceuticals’ sooted by smoke, letters peeling off in the heat.
Amanda nearly dropped the plates.
“Marcon Pharmaceuticals. Jack, Jack did you see that?” He wasn’t listening, his eyes fixed on the screen. He reached out for her, hands shaking. “Listen, just promise me you’ll listen, no matter how crazy this sounds. I’m about to tell you something and you sure as hell aren’t going to believe it,” he said.
7
Ed Garner sat in the Copper Kettle café opposite King’s College watching the students come and go. A cold, bright day. He checked his watch, half eight. Must be on their way to morning lectures, scarves trailing behind them, billowing coats, shadows long and untidy.
He’d sent Gavin MacCallister back to his regiment. A first rate soldier, but he stuck out a mile in this civilian context. It was the way he carried himself, dominating his surroundings, eyes constantly assessing the horizon, fists planted defensively on his hips. Might as well be wearing a regimental coat and bearskin. No, Ed was better off on his own for this one.
He stirred his tea and chewed away at a pastry. The tea had the unpleasant tannin tang of an unwashed pot. The pastry was stale. Some things didn’t change, Ed thought ruefully, thinking back to his own university days 20 years ago. His tie was dark blue, not the light blue of Cambridge, but the carefree student life wasn’t for him. He’d found himself frustrated by academic work, itching to get out there and make his mark on the world. He’d put all his energy into rowing and rugby. Latin and Greek had fallen by the wayside.
Still, he was confident enough in this environment to slip in and out of the Colleges unchallenged by overzealous porters. You just had to look like you belonged, and he could certainly pull that off. He’d even popped into Ryder and Amies to pick up a stuffy tweed jacket. A pair of green cords and brown brogues set off the image nicely. All he needed was a second-hand copy of Ulysses peering over the top of his jacket pocket and the academic uniform was complete.
Sir Clive had sent a picture of Jack to Ed’s phone. It was taken before the drug trial began. They’d provided a series of mock-ups. With beard, without, shaved head. Ed had a good idea of the face he was looking for. He’d vary his locations later in the day. Try the College bar, the porter’s lodge. For now, though, he was content to watch the street outside Jack’s College, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
Amidst the students he spotted something. Blond hair, moving in the opposite direction to everyone else. Hurrying when others were walking, pushing impatiently through a group of Japanese tourists. He had no reason to suspect her, no reason to follow her, but something about her wasn’t quite right. Heading into College when others were heading out, the expression on her rather pleasant face a little too intent, a little too distracted. It might be nothing, but then again it might be something, Ed thought. And in this business it paid to trust your instincts. He looked again at the photo of Jack. Pulled out his phone.
“Sir Clive, Ed here. Do we know if our boy has a girlfriend?” The blond head approaching King’s College. A brief pause, Sir Clive’s voice barking an order at someone in the background.
“Mary’s doing a quick search, social networking sites, message boards. Quite a few pics. Looks like he’s popular with the ladies.”
“I’m after a blonde, tall, thin. Think Lana Turner.”
Aren’t we all? Sir Clive said under his breath. “We’re sending through some photos now.”
“Thanks,” Ed said, stepping away from his table, leaving the half-eaten pastry to sweat it out in the sun streaming through the window. The girl was heading through the gateway of the College, he didn’t have long. She might disappear into any of the buildings in First Court and he would be none the wiser.
He made his way across the cobbled street, through the imposing sandstone gateway, past the students milling about, self-consciously puffing away on hand rolled cigarettes. A quick check on the photos filling up the screen. Party scenes. Jack confidently posing with his arm around various girls. Then the blonde from the street. A different look on Jack’s face. A nervousness, their hands touching. Someone had snapped them unawares.
She was already on the other side of the court, almost running, along the stone path towards the Cam. Ed made a conscious decision to cut across the grass, ignore the plethora of signs reminding him this was strictly forbidden. A memory from his Oxford days, only Senior Fellows and visiting dignitaries were allowed the privilege of walking across the manicured College lawns. Sod it, he thought. As long as you look the part you can get away with anything.
It didn’t help, the woman was gone before he got to the other side. Only two paths she could have taken. One lined with bare winter trees, stark branches interlocking over the path, away towards the bridge. The other went left, towards student accommodation.
He walked slowly towards the bridge, doing his best impersonation of an academic ambling from one lecture to the next, pausing to watch the river flowing beneath. The punts ferrying early-rising tourists up and down the Cam. The woman hadn’t gone this way. There was no one ahead of him. He turned round, resting his hands on the stone wall, his face in the warm sun.
A tour guide was heading his way, leading a party of French school children. He decided to wait it out, see if the target emerged from the building.
He didn’t have to wait long. The woman reappeared, small suitcase in tow, bumping over the uneven paving slabs, same frenetic pace. Now Ed was more convinced. She was on her phone, he couldn’t hear what she was saying but the fearful expression on her face told him this was no mere student late for a field trip.
He fell into step behind her. A difficult pace to maintain without drawing attention to yourself. Through the gates of King’s, across the market square. It was busy now, people jostling, knocking against his shoulders, a busker wailing a terrible version of Bob Marley’s Redemption Song outside the Guildhall. He was worried he might lose her, lose sight of her dark blue coat. Down a side road, onto St Andrew’s Street. Past the shops selling hooded tops emblazoned with the University logo, surely only ever bought by American tourists. The centre of Cambridge was compact, pedestrianised. He could see the blond head bobbing up and down in the distance. Ed was confident she wasn’t on to him. Far too intent on getting where she was going. They hurried across a park, Amanda checking her watch, checking her phone, Ed trying to balance proximity with discretion. It was difficult, he didn’t know the town. At last she turned onto Jesus Lane, a quick dash up the steps to the front door, key at the ready, she was inside in a second.
Ed paused, clocking the house number. He walked past without reducing his pace, checked his watch as if he had somewhere important to be. A red phone booth across the street. He crossed the road quickly and took up position behind it, eyes on the house, fingers fumbling with his phone, punching in the number to HQ, the Field Support team.