‘You dug into my life, Sam. You told me that when you met me up at Pittwater. I can dig into yours.’
‘Go right ahead.’
‘What will I find if I do?’
‘Someone who’s very sure about what they’re doing and what they’re going to achieve. Happy now? Let’s move on.’
They reached a junction at the far end of the corridor that marked the northern apex of the building: a wide area that served as an antechamber. As well as a lift, there was a flight of stairs in front of them leading downwards. To their right was a closed door.
‘What’s in there?’ Harrigan asked.
‘A corridor leading into the second storey of the north-western sector. That door’s always locked. I don’t know anyone who can get in there. Elena’s office is on the floor beneath it. You might have noticed that at each junction there are lockable doors at the end of all the corridors,’ she said. ‘If there was a lockdown, they’d all shut and lock automatically. That would isolate all the sectors and everybody in them.’
‘Why is all this security necessary?’
‘Some of it’s because of fire regulations. Elena will tell you about the rest.’
They went downstairs to another open area, also a junction of corridors. In front of them was a set of double doors, at that moment open onto an entry point staffed with security guards and watched by video cameras. Behind this was the delivery dock, also open. Harrigan saw a delivery van and, behind it, a flash of blue sky.
‘This is the most vulnerable entrance,’ Sam said. ‘On week days, it stays open to the outside world for varying lengths of time. On weekends, it’s usually closed up and unstaffed. But if there were any attempts to break in through here, these internal doors would shut and lock immediately, isolating any intruders.’
‘What about breaking out?’ Harrigan asked.
Sam laughed. ‘No chance. Once you’re in here, you can’t get out without all the right passwords.’
A short corridor immediately behind them continued in a curve towards an unknown destination.
‘What’s down there?’ Harrigan asked.
‘That leads past the door to the main air conditioning unit to the animal house,’ Sam said. ‘We can’t go in there either, it’s quarantined. But I have been in once. That was an experience. It was vile, smelt of piss and fear. Everything in there is as good as dead. Their end point is to disappear up the smokestacks as environmentally friendly waste.
‘You know a funny thing about those monkeys in there?’
‘What?’
‘When I saw them, they were completely passive. They didn’t move. They just sat there waiting. They know what’s going to happen to them. So they deal with it by going dead. There’s nothing else they can do.’
‘You wouldn’t be like that, surely?’ he asked.
‘No way. You should always go down fighting whoever you’re up against. But you’ve got to think like that if you’re in this business.’
It was an argument Harrigan had heard often enough in his job: the police were the thin blue line keeping back the forces of darkness. Often, it didn’t matter how you did it.
‘I’ve always seen it more in terms of protecting people,’ he said.
‘Isn’t it the same thing? I bet it’s not for you, is it? You haven’t had your mind changed about that point of view yet. But you must get pretty bleak about your work at times. Who do you protect, really?’
‘As many people as I can.’
‘Bullshit! People like you never protect anyone.’ She spoke with sudden, unhidden and, it seemed, uncontrollable contempt.
‘You want me to tell your boss you just talked to me like that?’
She drew a breath and stepped back. From the expression on her face she knew she’d gone too far. ‘I get carried away sometimes. Sorry.’
It was a brush-off apology. Harrigan debated whether to push it a little more or let it go. On reflection, he had bigger fish to fry just now than resentful bodyguards.
‘Let’s move on,’ he said.
They continued down another corridor. ‘There are no windows here,’ he said.
‘No. There’s no source of external light in this sector except in Elena’s office.’ Sam stopped outside another set of doors.
‘You’re about to meet her. Best behaviour now.’
She led him into a large, well-equipped laboratory. At one of the benches in the centre of the wide white room, a slender woman in a red suit was standing talking to a man with a ruined face. Another taller and more strongly built man stood directly behind her. Numbers of people were busy working throughout the room. There was a hum of activity. When Harrigan walked up with Sam, the woman in red turned to smile at him.
‘Commander Paul Harrigan, Elena,’ Sam said. ‘I’ve just taken him on a tour of the building. We went through the security features like you asked.’ Then she stepped out of the way, quietly withdrawing herself.
‘Commander Harrigan. I’m very pleased to meet you. I’m Dr Elena Calvo.’
They shook hands. Her touch was firm, her skin cool. She appeared younger than her photographs and spoke with a faint accent, attractive to hear. Her face was handsome, her hair cut into a soft, curled style.
‘Pleased to meet you too, Dr Calvo,’ he replied. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m pleased to put a face to the name.’
‘Call me Elena. We prefer informality here, I like people to feel at ease. Let me introduce you to a very good friend of mine and the head of our signature project here at LPS. Everything you see around you in this laboratory is dedicated to burns research, and the success of this work is attributable to its director. Dr Daniel Brinsmead.’
Calling on a career of meeting the atrocious without betraying a thought, Harrigan extended his hand. He didn’t recall seeing a face more badly scarred than Daniel Brinsmead’s. His features were slashed across with broad scarlet and pallid markings. He had no hair or eyebrows, his ears were stubs, and the skin on his neck was as damaged as his face. Sharp blue eyes like chips of shining porcelain looked directly at Harrigan. His right hand grip was strong. His left hand, its fingers reduced to stubs, was encased in a fingerless glove. Under his lab coat he wore a light white suit. Harrigan saw a badge, gold-plated like his own, pinned to Brinsmead’s lapel.
‘How do you do,’ the man said. His voice was strange, damaged, almost a whisper. ‘You see in front of you the motivation for this research. I hope you don’t find it too shocking.’
‘I see a lot in my work, Dr Brinsmead. It’s not a problem.’
‘Good.’
In his mask-like face, his sharp eyes were sizing Harrigan up, much as he might have examined cells through a microscope.
‘I’ve asked Daniel to explain to you what he’s doing here,’ Elena said. ‘It will help you understand why I’ve worked so hard to establish this place.’
‘You’re here, Commander, because of my face and body,’ Brinsmead said. ‘My skin is my project. I’m looking to see if the human body can be regenerated after burns of even greater magnitude than I have.’
‘I wouldn’t have said yours were trivial,’ Harrigan replied.
‘There are people worse off than I am. After my face, it’s mostly the left side of my body and my torso that’s been affected, and I’ve been repaired to some degree by skin grafts. Other people need virtually new skins. There are other effects which aren’t always immediately apparent. Nerve damage, constant pain and, paradoxically, loss of sensitivity as well. Let me take you through what we do in this big room.’
If Harrigan hadn’t had so much on his mind, the details of Brinsmead’s explanation would have fascinated him. One thing he did notice: from the way Brinsmead spoke and the response of the people working for him, he was a driving force here regardless of his injuries. He led them to a computer where he displayed a detailed transparency on the monitor.
‘Let me introduce myself to you again. I’m here in more than one way. This is a piece of my burnt body magnified. It’s been taken from the dermis, the under layer of skin, which doesn’t regenerate after severe burns. In this laboratory my researchers dissect me, even if they do it by biopsy. I’ve set this project up so I don’t have to be here for it to work. They have bits of me to use in my place. They’ve charted my skin, my injuries, my DNA.’