Vernon pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his face. He pulled a chair out from beneath the table and sat down, ignoring the bloodied fork which lay before him. Kelly watched as he popped a menthol sweet into his mouth and sucked it. His face was still tinged red with anger and he shuffled his fingers impatiently before him.
Kelly licked her lips, finding them dry, like her mouth. She wanted to ask Vernon what Fraser had meant, just as she had when he’d made the other cryptic remark two days before.
‘… whatever it is you’ve managed to hide for so long.’ Fraser’s words stood out clearly in her mind. Why had Vernon reacted so angrily?
‘Dr Vernon, Grant said that he’d killed his wife. It was like a confession,’
she said. ‘It’s all on the tape, every word.’
Vernon didn’t speak.
‘What could he have meant?’ she persisted.
it must have been the effects of the drug, you said he was hallucinating.’
‘Yes, but no one mentioned to him that a neighbour had identified a man like him the day his wife and son were butchered. Why should he say that?’
‘Look. Kelly, I think we have enough to worry about with what happened today,’
Vernon said, evasively. ‘And it would be best if you left here. I’ll call you in a fortnight or so, the research can’t continue until after the enquiry anyway.’
‘Can the authorities close the Institute?’ she wanted to know.
Vernon shook his head.
‘No. And don’t worry, your job will still be here when you come back.’
‘Why didn’t you accept my resignation?’ she asked.
‘Because what you did was based on sound theory. It was a chance which had to be taken eventually.’
Kelly nodded although it was not an explanation which wholly satisfied her.
Vernon appeared to have more than a scientific interest in the outcome of the research. The question was, why?
Finally, she slipped off her lab coat and decided it was time to leave. She and Vernon exchanged brief farewells and he repeated his promise to contact her in two weeks.
Vernon waited until she had left the room then he walked slowly around it, his eyes drawn occasionally to the spots and splashes of congealing blood, now slowly turning rusty as it solidified. There was a slight smell of copper in the air. He eventually reached the tape recorder. He pressed the re-wind button and watched as the twin spools spun in reverse. When the process was completed he took the full one and dropped it into his pocket, deciding to listen to it in the privacy of his office. As he made his way out of the room,
two cleaners were entering armed with mops and dusters. They set about removing all traces of the horrors which had occurred in there.
Vernon crunched his cough sweet up and replaced it with another as he walked up the stairs towards his office. His secretary had gone home an hour earlier so he had the place to himself.
Nonetheless, he locked his office door before settling down to listen to the tape.
Twice he played it through, his face impassive, even when Maurice Grant’s shrieks of agony began to erupt from the speaker. Halfway through the third play Vernon switched it off. He sat for what seemed like an eternity, his chair facing
the window, then he swung round and reached for the phone. He hurriedly dialled the number he wanted and tapped agitatedly on the desk top with his stubby fingers as he waited for the receiver to be picked up. He heard the click as it finally was.
‘The Metapsychic Centre?’ he asked. ‘This is Dr Stephen Vernon. I want to speak to Alain Joubert. Tell him it’s important.’
10.06 p.m.
Kelly folded the last of her clothes and laid the skirt gently on top of the other things. The only light in the bedroom came from a bedside lamp which cast a warm golden glow over the room. Kelly decided that she had packed enough clothes and lifted the case from the bed onto the floor. She felt stiff all over, her neck and shoulders in particular ached. She resolved to take a shower and have an early night.
She intended leaving early in the morning.
The day had been an exhausting one both mentally and physically and she felt the need to relax more than she usually did upon returning home in the evenings. She’d only half-eaten her dinner, washing it down with two or three Martinis. The effect of the drink was beginning to make her feel pleasantly drowsy. She unbuttoned her blouse, laying it over a chair before slipping out of her jeans and folding them carefully. Standing before the full length mirror on the wardrobe she unhooked her bra, her breasts remaining taut even when the garment was removed. Kelly skimmed off her panties and tossed them to one side, glancing at herself in the mirror. The reflection which stared back at her was a pleasing one.
Despite the fact that she was only five feet two inches tall, her slender frame gave her an appearance of striking elegance which was normally reserved for tailer women. She had small but plump breasts, her lower body tapering in to form a tiny waist and smooth lean hips. Her legs were slim, usually appearing longer when she wore the high heels she favoured.
Kelly walked through into the bathroom and turned on the shower, stepping beneath its cleansing jets when it was at a suitable temperature. She stood motionless, allowing the
water to run over her face, washing away what little make-up she used. She began soaping herself.
As she stood beneath the spray she allowed her mind to back-track to the events of earlier in the day. To Vernon.
Why was he protecting her? It didn’t make sense. Unless, as Fraser had intimated, he did have something to hide. Vernon obviously saw Kelly as a useful tool.
As she closed her eyes, the vision of Maurice Grant, his eyes ripped from the sockets, flashed before her and she jerked her eyes open again.
She thought of his confession.
Had it been the drugs which had caused his outburst, she wondered? Instinct told her that there was more to it than that. And yet. how could he have killed his wife and son? She and three other people had seen him strapped down at the time the killings supposedly took place.
She stood beneath the shower a moment longer then flicked it off, dried herself and padded back into the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the phone.
It was a recorded message, which suited her because she didn’t feel much like talking. She scribbled down a few details as the metallic voice droned on then, finally, she replaced the receiver, glancing down at what she had written.
She would catch the 9.30 flight to Paris in the morning.
Paris
The restaurant in the Place de Wagram was crowded, more so than usual because many had sought shelter inside from the rain which was pelting down. Waiters threaded their way through the maze of tables balancing trays and plates precariously on their arms. A wine glass was dropped and shattered loudly on the wooden floor. Lasalle spun round in his seat, startled by the sound. He saw a waiter picking up the pieces of broken glass while a customer complained loudly.
‘Did you hear me?’
The voice brought Lasalle back to his senses.
‘What did you say?’ he asked, blankly, turning back to face Joubert who was chewing hungrily on a piece of meat.
‘I said, I don’t like the idea of her working with us,’ Joubert repeated.
‘Come now, Alain, when these experiments first began it was agreed that there would be co-operation between the two Institutes. I don’t understand your objections.’
‘The experiments carried out in England have not been as successful as ours,’
Joubert complained.
‘How do you know that?’ Lasalle asked, sipping at his wine.
His companion paused for a moment, swallowing the piece of food he’d been chewing.