The Man on Hackpen Hill Page 24

  ‘Anyone’s guess. No employment record – not one that involved paying tax, anyway.’ Strover returns to her laptop and types. ‘There’s something else.’

  Silas is still trying to get his head around Jim working at a pet shop. ‘I came across a chemistry department interview Jim gave at Warwick uni after he won a prize,’ Strover continues. ‘He mentioned his parents, both academics. Sadly, his mum died when he was very young. Took her own life – in a secure psychiatric unit.’

  Silas nods but he’s thinking of Conor and of Mel’s last text. A moment later, he’s looking up the unit where Conor’s staying and staring at a photo of the building – on AP Brigham’s corporate website. It’s the American company’s latest UK acquisition.

  80

  Jim

  ‘Why are you taking me back to Harwell?’ Jim asks, looking from one man to the other in the back of the ambulance. It doesn’t make any sense.

  ‘Your work isn’t finished there,’ the man with the goatee says.

  Another bump in the road forces both men to brace themselves in their seats. Jim falls to one side. He’s still in a straitjacket, strapped into a wheelchair.

  ‘It was a three-year deployment,’ Jim continues, trying to figure out why MI5 wants him returned to Harwell. The Lab deploys a lot of scientists into the field to provide advice and analysis, most notably in support of military operations in Afghanistan. ‘I’m not sure anyone could be there for much longer, to be honest,’ Jim adds. ‘It was hard work. Intense.’

  For the first couple of years, Jim had put on a lot of weight, comfort eating to deal with the stress of life in The Lab. There’s still so much he can’t remember about his time there. The work was endless, days dissolving into weeks and months. Writing the diary has helped, but it’s patchy, a series of snapshots.

  ‘It seems you have unfinished business,’ the man says.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jim says, increasingly worried. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Why is he being driven back to one of the government’s most sensitive scientific facilities, having just leaked national secrets to a journalist? He was expecting to be taken into custody, not returned to Harwell. He glances again at the syringe on top of the filing cabinet. For a moment, he’s back in the high-containment facility where a lot of the tests were conducted, where the air was thick with screams. ‘Hold him down,’ someone shouted. The young volunteer writhed on the floor, trying to break free from his straitjacket, his head twisting from side to side as the needle plunged into his thigh.

  ‘Jim?’ the man with the goatee asks. ‘You OK?’

  Jim looks around the ambulance and then stares at him, taking in his other features for the first time, the flat nose that looks as if it’s been broken; the tobacco-stained teeth. Has he seen him somewhere before?

  ‘Why am I going back to Harwell?’ Jim repeats, holding eye contact. He’s been doing well at Porton Down since his return, been a diligent employee. Apart from leaking classified information, of course.

  This time, the man doesn’t answer. There’s no need to. Deep down, Jim knows. He’s not returning to Harwell as a scientist. He’s going back as a volunteer, a human guinea pig. It’s the only explanation, what they do with renegade employees. And if he dies, no one will care. No one will know. It took fifty years for the truth to come out about Ronald Maddison.

  He’s back at Harwell again, on a bench outside the high-containment facility. He’d stepped away for a break from the intensity and secrecy of the work. This particular lab was biosafety level four and security was intense. How was he to know that breaks outdoors weren’t allowed? Two MOD Police officers approached him, and then another two from the opposite direction. The place was fanatical about security, paranoid about intruders.

  ‘Get back inside,’ one of them barked. The younger guards were the worst. They were excitable, new to the job, eager to impress their colleagues, show off their training.

  ‘I’m having a break,’ Jim said.

  ‘He’s having a break,’ another replied, his voice heavy with disdain. ‘Did you hear that? You’ll have a broken neck if you don’t get back inside.’

  Jim refused to move. Relations between the academic staff at Harwell and the MOD Police had deteriorated after one of Jim’s colleagues had two vertebrae broken by heavy-handed security guards. A decision was taken by The Lab’s scientists to draw a red line, not stand for any more abuse, which was why Jim decided not to move. Big mistake.

  It took all four guards to drag him off the bench, but once Jim was on the ground, he could do little to stop them piling on top of him, like a rugby maul, kneeling on each of his limbs. They used to do that at school, until he was big enough to look after himself. This time there were too many of them. His face was pressed down into the soggy ground, a hand pushing on the back of his head until he could barely breathe.

  ‘My glasses,’ he tried to shout, but it was too late. They were already off and disappearing beneath the shoe of one of his assailants, crushed and trodden deep into the mud.

  He tried to fight back but they were too strong. And as they restrained him, twisting his limbs as if they were wringing them dry, and ignored his muffled cries for help, all the guards could do was talk about the summer – and what they had planned for their holidays.

  81

  Silas

  Silas pulls up in the car park of AP Brigham’s UK headquarters outside Reading and turns to Strover. They are early for their meeting with the CEO, an American who seems to work weekends and was happy to see them this evening when he rang him. Silas didn’t say what the meeting was about – it’s always best to catch someone cold, see how they react to tricky questions. He was also worried that he might mention Conor, reveal that he’s on their case as a father as well as a detective.

  ‘Could murder a coffee, sir,’ Strover says, nodding at a Starbucks across the car park.

  Five minutes later, they are in the corner of the coffee bar. Strover hasn’t made any more discoveries about Jim Matthews’s life, but Silas is convinced that the young government scientist remains crucial to their investigation into the crop circle murders. He has also asked Strover to bring along the key that was found with Jed Lando on the hillside.

  ‘We’re missing something obvious about Jim,’ Silas says, sipping on his double espresso.

  ‘If the boss is covering for Porton Down and Jim does still work there,’ Strover says, glancing at her phone, ‘then HMRC are lying about his PAYE contributions and so is the pet shop.’

  It seems unlikely. Strover had rung Porton Garden Aquatic and Pets on the drive over to Reading and was told that Jim Matthews was not only an employee but also in the doghouse. He had failed to show up for work today.

  ‘The missing three years are what interest me,’ Silas says. Jim just seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth between his aborted career at Porton Down and his apparent arrival at the pet shop.

  ‘You really think Jim carried on working at Porton Down?’ Strover asks.

  ‘We can’t rule it out,’ Silas says. ‘You have to keep an open mind when you’re dealing with the funny brigade.’

  ‘And if he was, what’s the connection with the crop circles?’ she asks.

  Silas thinks back to his odd interview with Jim at his house in the village. ‘Jim was convinced that the first pattern represented BZ, which we know is kept in small quantities at Porton Down.’

  A few grams as laboratory stock, stored in the vaults for research purposes. It’s an unsettling thought. Silas glances around the half-empty coffee shop. Nobody’s within earshot.

  ‘Let’s assume, just for a second, that Jim’s right about BZ and that he has continued to work for Porton Down in some capacity,’ he says. ‘We also know that he’s into crop circles – complex mathematical ones. What if we’ve got this wrong and he was more involved in their creation than we originally thought? Not personally responsible for murdering the victims but maybe he helped to place them in the c
ircles? What would his motive be?’

  Strover looks away, lost in thought.

  ‘He’d be a whistle-blower,’ she says, turning back to face him. ‘If the victims are also connected to Porton Down. A very cryptic whistle-blower, but that might make sense for someone like him.’

  ‘It doesn’t explain the pet shop, though,’ Silas says, glancing at his watch. It’s time for their meeting but Strover’s phone has started to ring. He waits for her to finish.

  ‘That was my friend in Hackney again,’ she says, as they leave the coffee shop. Silas wonders if he’s more than a friend. He’s certainly gone the distance for Strover.

  ‘There’s been an incident at Studland Bay involving a young man and woman,’ Strover continues. ‘The police are in attendance. Someone took the number plate of a car that drove off at speed. It belongs to Bella’s mum – that’s why my mate called me. He also said there was another vehicle involved.’

  ‘Another Range Rover?’ Silas says.

  Strover nods. ‘I’m getting the full report sent over from Dorset Police in Poole. A private ambulance was in attendance too – blue-lit but not NHS-registered.’

  It’s a growing problem, not least in Swindon. Private vehicles have to be approved by the ambulance service in order to display a blue flashing light.

  ‘Isn’t Studland Bay where Bella was once arrested?’ Silas asks, thinking back to what Strover had found out earlier.

  ‘This time it seems she left before the police arrived,’ she says.

  ‘Who was the ambulance for then?’

  ‘Tall man, big feet, thick glasses. Sound familiar?’

  ‘We need to talk to Jim again.’

  First, though, they have an appointment with Jed Lando’s boss. And as they walk back over to the glass and steel entrance of AP Brigham’s HQ, a black Range Rover with tinted windows pulls off the road and slides into a space in the company car park.

  Definitely not a florist.

  82

  Bella

  Bella sits back in the driver’s seat and puffs out her cheeks. Her mum’s car is warm, even though the windows are open, and she steps out for some fresh evening air. She wasn’t expecting to read Jim’s personal account of his time working at Harwell, of being trussed up in a straitjacket. When did he write it? It feels wrong to be intruding on something so personal, but he gave her the USB stick, so he must have meant her to read it.

  She glances around the dark, deserted woodland, tenses at the sound of another passing vehicle on the main road, and gets back into the car. Dusk always makes her nervous. From what she has read so far, it seems that all ongoing chemical warfare experiments – the main angle of the story she will file – take place at Harwell in Oxfordshire, far removed from the Porton Down site in Wiltshire.

  It makes sense, allowing the authorities to legitimately deny that human guinea pigs are subjected to chemical experiments at Porton Down, where the testing is solely for safety equipment and military clothing. But what about Erin? Was she an unwitting human guinea pig at Harwell? It might explain the straitjacket she was found in. Except that the only volunteers are apparently the scientists themselves, who conduct experiments on each other.

  She scrolls down to another entry and sits up.

  Week three

  Everything changes in my third week at Harwell. It’s inevitable, I suppose – we can no longer keep subjecting each other to tests. There has to come a point when we increase our sample size and expose a wider section of the population to non-lethal doses of the chemical weapons we are working on.

  Since the late 1960s, the government has insisted that Porton Down’s work is about defence rather than offence. And a key part of that strategy is to study the effects of chemical weapons on humans. In the past few years, there have been more chemical attacks than ever before – in Homs, Kuala Lumpur airport and in Salisbury. The need to steel Britain’s defences against them has never been greater.

  My own focus is still incapacitating agents – ‘humane’ weapons that disorientate rather than kill, psychochemicals like BZ and LSD. Other scientists are assigned to work on lethal nerve agents – VX, sarin and novichok – as well as deadly, naturally occurring pathogens such as the Ebola and Marburg viruses. We all work in the high-containment facility, which at times has the feel of a hospital. White, featureless corridors, a strong smell of cleaning fluids, steel doors.

  Incapacitating agents were first explored in depth at Porton Down in the 1960s and I’m charged with revisiting the data. Monday morning and I am given a young volunteer to work with – it’s very much sold to us as a collaboration rather than an experiment. I’m not sure if the volunteer is aware of what he has signed up for, but I doubt it’s being subjected to incapacitating agents. He’s fresh out of university with a first-class chemistry degree and keen to get a toehold in the world of research science. He’s probably on an internship, but we are encouraged not to bond too much with our allocated subjects, ask too many personal questions, and I soon discover why.

  One of the key characteristics of incapacitating agents such as BZ, which mimic psychosis, is that they induce acute brain syndrome, characterised by delirium and delusions that can last for up to three days. There is also a lot of vomiting, staggering and stumbling, not to mention restlessness, dizziness, blurred vision, high temperature and tachycardia. My man experienced all of the above on our first day, in between bizarre, inappropriate laughter, dribbling stupors and bouts of irrational fear.

  On Tuesday morning, I watch him in the test chamber from a reinforced viewing window in the door. He’s a man about my age and it’s horrific to look at him suffering, particularly as all I can do is observe and take notes on a clipboard. As I watch and write, he rips off his clothes – disrobing is a common side effect of these drugs. Once naked, he has a look of utter perplexity on his flushed face, as if he can’t understand the world, let alone his place within it.

  At one point, when he is falling around the padded room, he stops to look over at me. We hold each other’s gaze for twenty, maybe thirty seconds, every sinew in his body pleading with me to let him out. And then he runs headlong at the wall and knocks himself out. I put my hand to my mouth in shock and look around the corridor to see if anyone else has seen what’s just happened. He’s managed to find the one place where the wall padding is worn and smashed his forehead against it. A part of me can’t help but admire him – he’s found an escape from his torment.

  83

  Silas

  Silas has learnt not to let personal prejudices interfere with professional judgements, but he’s taken an instant dislike to the young American CEO of AP Brigham Inc. And he and Strover have only been talking to him for a couple of minutes in his shiny new office. It’s not the thought that this man is ultimately responsible for Conor’s welfare. Nor is it the pornographic posters of glossy pills on the walls, the electric guitar leaning against an amp in the corner, or the framed photo of him in what appears to be a rap video, dancing with an inflatable syringe. Nor the man’s habit of smiling after each sentence, a grin so pronounced he’s given himself dimples in his schoolboy cheeks. Smiling is a good thing – Mel’s always telling him to try it more.

  ‘So, guys,’ – that’s what it is: Strover and him being called guys – ‘much as I love talking about the British weather, you need to tell me why I have the pleasure of your company this evening.’

  Earlier, Silas had invited Strover to take the lead – he doesn’t trust himself, now that there’s a personal element to their investigation – but the look she gives him suggests she’d rather not. He doesn’t blame her. It’s the American’s hoodie too. And the Adidas trainers. This man’s CEO of a multinational company, not a bloody rock star.

  ‘We’re here about Jed Lando,’ Silas says, watching for a twitch of the mouth, a touch of an earlobe – any telltale sign of a liar.

  ‘Jed?’ he says. ‘He’s left the company.’

  The CEO’s good if he is lying. Just not
quite good enough. His body is still – too still. ‘When did he leave?’ Silas asks.

  ‘Couple of weeks ago.’ He looks from Silas to Strover and back at Silas again. ‘Is there a problem, officer?’

  Silas has broken a lot of bad news to people over the years, but this feels different, as if it will come as no surprise and bring little sorrow.

  ‘I’m afraid Jed Lando died earlier this week,’ Silas says, trying to sound sympathetic. As he suspected, he needn’t have bothered. The CEO seems more concerned with brushing a speck of dirt off his chinos than by the news of a former colleague’s death.

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ he says, struggling to sound sincere. ‘Do we know what happened?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Silas says. ‘Why did he leave the company?’

  The CEO gets up from his desk and walks over to the window. ‘Professional differences,’ he says, his back to them. ‘I’m not sure I’m allowed to say much more – there was some ongoing legal action between him and the board over the terms of his departure.’

  ‘Your website says he’s still on the board,’ Strover says.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ he says, turning around. ‘I’ve lost count of the times I’ve asked IT for a site-wide refresh.’ He slumps back down at his desk again and swivels from side to side in his chair.

  Silas could do with a site-wide refresh himself.

  ‘Jeez, I’m so sorry to hear about Jed,’ the CEO continues. ‘Sure, we had our differences, but he was one of the good guys.’

  ‘What exactly does your company do in the UK?’ Silas asks, unable to cope with much more insincerity.

  ‘That’s one thing we do get right on the website,’ he says. ‘We provide a network of secure mental health services, run by us, funded by your wonderful National Health Service. And no, it’s not an American takeover. Our sole mission, in collaboration with the NHS, is to progress service users, many of whom may be exhibiting challenging or dangerous behaviours, through a full-care pathway that’s both therapy and recovery focused.’