Forty-Four
Alexander Buchanan wiped the blood from his visor. His white overalls and mask were splattered with gore, as if he was a chainsaw killer fresh from a spree. He lifted a glass beaker in the air and said, ‘An extreme game of paper, scissor, stone. Acid versus a bullet.’
Stevie was still on the ground. She scooted backwards, through the slick of blood, until she felt one of the workstations at her back and propped herself against it, the gun pointed at Buchanan.
William had sunk on to the couch. He whispered, ‘Dad, I’m scared.’
Stevie said, ‘You should look to your boy. He’s dying.’
Buchanan kept his eyes on Stevie.
‘William, I want you to take the gun from Ms Flint, give it to me and then go to bed. I’ll come and see you soon, I promise.’
Buchanan’s son had taken the worst of the blood bag’s impact and his white-blond hair, flushed face and overalls were drenched scarlet. He put his head in his hands and coughed as if he was trying to expel his lungs. Stevie felt an unexpected stab of pity.
‘Don’t let your father send you on another suicide mission, William. He could have kept you safe from the sweats, but he sent you out to do his dirty work instead. You’re going to die soon. It’ll be sooner if you take a single step towards me.’
William wiped a hand across his face. He looked at his father.
‘What you were working on might cure me.’
‘It’s not ready yet.’
‘Then make it ready. I don’t want to die.’
‘I can’t, son, not while Ms Flint is pointing a gun at me.’ The acid shimmered in its flask, so clear Stevie thought that if she didn’t know what it was, she might drink it without a thought. Buchanan said, ‘Take the gun from her, and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘If your father was capable of making a cure, he would have done it by now,’ Stevie said. ‘I saw signs of the sweats on you hours ago, William. Your father must have seen them too. But he wanted to use you, the way he’s used you all along.’ She got to her feet, keeping the gun trained on Buchanan, ready to switch aim if his son made a move towards her. The only exit from the room lay behind the two men. She said, ‘Get out of my way.’
Stevie caught a cartoon glimpse of how it would be if she managed to shoot the flask of acid, the chemist dissolving from the feet up, his mouth and eyes the last to go, his scream sizzling to a fade.
Buchanan said, ‘Has anyone ever told you how impressive you are?’ His voice was like silk. ‘You’re astounding, far too good for Simon.’
Stevie stepped slowly towards the other side of the room. The rows of workbenches hampered her escape, and so she moved in a straight line, her back to a counter littered with equipment. She asked, ‘Why did you kill him?’
It was the question that had driven her, but now that Stevie was on the edge of finding an answer, it seemed unimportant. Simon was dead and there was no resurrection in sight.
‘I didn’t have any choice.’
‘This virus, the sweats, whatever it is, is programmed to kill. It doesn’t have any choice. You did.’
She had reached the middle of the room. Someone had been looking at samples in a microscope, and slides were scattered across the surface as if the viewer had suddenly been interrupted. Buchanan was straight ahead of her, three workbenches away, the acid still cradled in his hands. He said, ‘Why don’t you ask me about Geoffrey Frei again?’
‘Did you kill him too, or was he another of your son’s victims?’
‘Neither.’ Buchanan held up the flask, as if admiring it. The light hit the liquid and projected a small rainbow against the wall. ‘Frei was Simon’s conquest.’
Stevie could feel the chemist’s eyes on her, watching to see what effect his revelation would have.
She said, ‘I don’t believe you.’
Buchanan looked at his son. ‘Ms Flint never believes anything I tell her.’
Stevie glanced quickly at the door, wondering if she should make a run for it, or keep her back towards the wall and continue her slow progress. She shouted, ‘How are you doing, William?’
Buchanan replied for his son, ‘William’s strong. He’ll pull through.’
Stevie marvelled at the jocular note in the chemist’s voice and wondered again if he had been self-medicating.
‘Why would Simon kill Frei?’
Buchanan swirled the acid in the flask and held it up to his visor, regarding her through the eddying liquid.
‘I would have thought that was obvious. Frei had got wind of our little difficulty, via Mr Summers. It was Frei’s wet dream. A chance to get back at the boys he hated at school.’
The blood was crusting on Stevie’s skin and hair, turning to powder on her eyelashes.
‘I thought he was one of your set.’
‘Every schoolboy gang needs a whipping boy. Frei was ours. He was John Ahumibe’s pet really. That was the reason we tolerated him at first, but he found his place. Simon was our noble leader, I was his deputy and John Ahumibe was my faithful lieutenant. We were all officers and no men. Without Frei we would have had no one to lead.’
Stevie rubbed her cheekbone and felt the dried blood crumble beneath her fingertips. ‘You told me, Ahumibe and Frei were lovers.’
‘Lovers.’ Buchanan laughed. ‘That’s rather dignifying it. Most of us put these practices away when we grow up, but for some, like Ahumibe and Frei, it becomes a habit they can’t break. I found it childish, but I ignored it.’
‘Did you use Frei sexually, when you were at school? Is that the real reason he was so keen to destroy you? Or was it just that he cared about justice and helping children in a way you never have?’
‘Ms Flint,’ Buchanan’s voice was mocking. ‘What a mind you have.’ But instead of answering her question he said, ‘I don’t think Simon had an inkling that Frei disliked him, until the night he killed the boy reporter.’
Stevie was almost at the end of the workbench. When she reached it, her only option would be to make a dash, past Buchanan and his son, for the door. She paused, hoping that some crisis would hit William and distract the chemist from her escape.
She said, ‘Simon wasn’t a violent man.’
‘No,’ Buchanan conceded. ‘Not normally, but guilt does strange things to some people.’ The chemist looked directly at Stevie and she thought he might be smiling. ‘Or so I’ve heard.’ He placed the flask of acid on the workbench in front of him. Stevie willed him to walk away from it, but he picked it up again. ‘Once Simon agreed to more time for me to refine the formula, we decided he would visit Mr Summers and convince him that his concerns about the treatment were unfounded. “Blind him with science” was the phrase I think we used. Being Simon, of course, he put off the task. In the meantime, Summers must have got in touch with Geoffrey Frei because he was on our case sooner than you can say British Medical Association. He got in touch as a courtesy, he said. His story was ready to go to press but he wanted to give us an opportunity to give our side of the story.’ Buchanan shook his head. ‘Even as a boy he was pompous. Simon and I arranged to meet him in a bar near King’s Cross.’
Stevie said, ‘Simon had a meeting with Frei marked in his diary for two days later.’
‘That was typical. Simon was always punctual when he had surgery to perform, but outside of the hospital, his timekeeping was chaotic.’ The chemist now held the acid flask in his right hand. He let it go, and caught it with his left. It was a risky move and Stevie realised that he was gearing himself up for action while trying to lull her with his story. He said, ‘I called Simon to make sure he’d be there. When he arrived it was obvious he’d been drinking. It was unlike him, but then again, he was under a certain amount of strain. Geoffrey was waiting for us in the bar, but whatever he’d said about hearing our side of things, it was soon clear he’d only come to rub our noses in it. Simon and I tried to persuade him to hold off. We even offered to suspend operations, but he was determined to ruin us.’ Buchanan shrugged and the liquid in the flask trembled. ‘Geoffrey was a cunt. He deserved everything he got.’