‘What on earth’s going on?’ asked Jack Martin, appearing at the railings by Gavin’s shoulder.
‘Tom Baxter,’ said Gavin.
Martin looked at him quizzically.
‘He put the ether in the beaker. It was meant for me.’
‘Baxter? Jesus Christ, what was he thinking about?’
‘He thought my work was going to stop him getting his dream job with Grumman Schalk. He seemed to think the company was going to withdraw the postdoc job offers as well as the grant.’ Gavin looked directly at Martin, making it a question.
‘There has been some talk along those lines,’ conceded Martin.
‘First they threaten the university with withdrawal of funds if work on Valdevan doesn’t stop, then they tell the postgrad students that their jobs are going down the tubes as well. Nice people.’
‘Where’s Frank?’ asked Martin, clearly not wanting to be drawn.
‘He went to meet Mary’s parents at the hospital.’
‘Shit. Now he has this to come back to.’
Both men looked down again at Tom Baxter’s body, which had now been covered by a white plastic sheet. The police had arrived.
Twenty-one
Gavin couldn’t bear to be in the lab any longer. He knew that the police would want to speak to him, but at that precise moment, he didn’t want to speak to them, or anyone else for that matter. His world had collapsed and he needed to be away from the epicentre of the disaster. He collected his rucksack and left the building by the back stairs, where he paused for a moment, undecided as to which direction to take until he remembered the package in his rucksack. He would have to go back to the flat and put the drugs in the fridge before he did anything else.
As he crossed the road, he saw a number 27 bus coming up Lauriston Place and sprinted to the stop in Forrest Road where he got on board, fumbling in successive jacket pockets for his travel pass, to the annoyance of the driver, who sucked his teeth and tapped his fingers on the wheel.
Back at the flat, Gavin removed the ice from the polystyrene box, resealed it carefully with tape and put it in the fridge. He was out again within five minutes and, after a short walk, standing in the Abbotsford in Rose Street, where he had two packets of crisps and a pint of lager for lunch. It was still early: the bar was quiet. Another half hour and it would be buzzing with the atmosphere Gavin liked so much, but not today.
‘Day off?’ asked the barman, wiping the bar top.
‘You could say,’ replied Gavin, putting an end to conversation. Normally, he welcomed talk with strangers, often finding it, as most people did, easier than with people he knew, but today he needed to be somewhere where he could think clearly and without distraction. A pub wasn’t going to fit the bill. He drained his glass and left, still not sure about where he was going.
He joined Princes Street at its east end and started walking west past a row of buses, waiting line astern like a string of sausages as they took it in turn to move in to their appointed stops. The one at their head had ‘North Berwick’ on its destination board. On impulse, Gavin got on. He’d never been there, but he knew that it was beside the sea and about twenty miles or so east of the city. The plan was to find a beach and start walking. On a cold day in February this should afford him the solitude he needed.
There was an icy wind coming from the east so he decided to walk in the opposite direction, so that he would have it behind him. The tide was out, so he was able to walk on firm wet sand instead of the strength-sapping soft stuff at the head of the beach, something which also meant that he wasn’t forced to adhere strictly to the line of the shore and could cut across small bays and inlets at will, making straight lines out of curves.
His attention was drawn to a big rock situated about a hundred metres out from the shoreline. It was over two metres high, but had barnacles all over it, suggesting that it was routinely covered at high tide. Feeling drawn to it, Gavin went over, doing his best to avoid the puddles and rivulets left by the receding water, which threatened to swamp his trainers. He rested his hands on the surface, very conscious of the weight of its years.
‘Well, big rock,’ he murmured. ‘What are you saying? I’d appreciate your input. You were here a long time before I was born, and you’ll be here a long time after I die. What’s it all about, eh? Why do we do what we do?’
Gavin found a smooth section to rest his cheek against while he looked idly at the water, which was lapping the sand with a sluggishness that suggested extreme cold.
‘Nothing to say, huh? Maybe you don’t know either.’
As he turned away, Gavin looked back and said, ‘You’re quite right: saying nothing is probably the best policy. That way, you don’t upset anybody...’
Gavin had been walking for just under an hour when he came across a log that had been washed ashore and sat down on it for a few minutes to give his legs a rest. Almost immediately, he felt himself grow colder as the wind caught his right side, making him pull up the collar of his denim jacket and fold his arms, although this had little effect. It was less than five minutes before he decided that he had to start moving again, but as he stood up, his mobile rang. He could see on the screen it was Carrie. It had rung four times before he summoned up the courage to answer.
‘Hello.’
‘Gavin? Can you talk?’
‘Sure.’
‘What’s that sound in the background? Where are you?’
‘It’s the wind. I’m on the beach.’
‘Where?’
‘Somewhere near North Berwick.’
‘What’s going on, Gavin?’
‘Where do I begin? There was a fire at the lab — Mary was burned: she’ll probably be scarred for life. Tom Baxter has committed suicide because he caused the fire. He meant it for me. Apart from that...’
‘Stop it, Gavin! Talk sense.’
Gavin took a moment to pull himself together. The enormity of all that had happened had given him a strange feeling of detachment which, even in his upset state, he recognised as an escape mechanism from the hell of reality. ‘Tom thought my research was going to screw up his job prospects with Grumman Schalk, so he set me up to have an accident in the lab.’
‘An accident?’
‘A flash fire involving ether, only Mary Hollis got it instead. She was doing me a good turn — setting up some cultures for me. She was badly burned: she’s in intensive care. When he realised what he’d done, Tom couldn’t handle it. He threw himself down the stairwell. End of story.’
‘Oh, my God.’
‘Why did you phone?’ asked Gavin, closing his eyes.
‘I need to talk to you.’
‘It’s bye bye Gavin time, right?’
‘No, you idiot, I just need to talk.’
‘I’m not dumped?’
‘You can be a prat at times, but I still love you.’
‘You do? Christ, I thought it was all over.’
‘No, but I do need to talk to you, although, after what you’ve just told me, this is probably not the best time.’
‘No one else wants to talk to me. I think even Frank wishes he’d never laid eyes on me. If I hadn’t come to his lab none of this would have happened.’
‘Don’t blame yourself, Gavin. None of this was your fault.’
‘What was it you want to talk about?’
‘My mother.’
‘I’m sorry I said all those hurtful things. I wasn’t thinking straight.’
‘Oh yes you were,’ said Caroline. ‘It’s just that sometimes it’s so painful to be confronted with the truth. It can be so cold and unforgiving, not what you want to hear at all...’
‘I guess.’
‘Let’s not talk over the phone. Maybe we can meet up later? I came back this morning. I’m in Edinburgh.’