“Zembla-4 is unaffected, Ingram,” Burton Keegan said, raising his hand as an afterthought. “I think everyone should know: nothing of Philip’s work will have gone to waste. The programme continues — full force.”
Ingram paused, irritated: Keegan should have sensed he wasn’t finished.
“Well, I’m delighted to hear that, of course. Still, Philip Wang’s contribution to the success—”
“Actually, Philip had pretty much signed off on phase three, isn’t that correct, Paul?”
De Freitas responded to Keegan’s cue.
“Yeah…Effectively. I spoke with Philip two days before the tragedy. We were at the end of the third stage of clinical trials — and he was more than happy with everything. ‘Full steam ahead’, were his precise words, if I recall. He was a happy man.”
“But he hadn’t actually signed off, as far as I’m aware,” Ingram said.
One of the professors chipped in (Ingram couldn’t remember his name). “Philip was more than happy — the data was really superb. He told me himself just last week — superb.”
Now that Ingram had been interrupted so comprehensively a general buzz of conversation grew around the long, glossy table. Ingram leant towards Mrs Prendergast.
“Remind me of that man’s name, Mrs P.”
“Professor Goodforth — Green College, Oxford.” She looked at her list. “Professor Sam M. Goodforth.”
Ingram remembered him now, another new appointee to the board, simultaneous with the arrival of Keegan and de Freitas. Ingram cleared his throat, loudly.
“Good news, excellent news,” he said, aware of how bland he sounded. “At least Philip’s work will survive.”
Keegan had the grace to hold his hand up this time.
“Burton, do go ahead.”
“Thank you,” Keegan said, smiling politely, “I’d like the board to know that we’re flying Professor Costas Zaphonopolous in to take over the day-to-day supervision of the final stage of the trials before we submit our NDA to the PDA. Our New Drug Application,” he added politely for the benefit of any uncomprehending nonexecutive directors, “to the Food and Drug Administration.” He turned to Ingram. “Costas is Emeritus Professor of Immunology at Baker-Field.”
Reverential mutters of approval from the other professors round the table. Ingram felt a twinge of unease — who was this man they were flying in, and at what cost? Why hadn’t he been consulted? He saw Ivo cleaning his fingernails with the sharp tip of the pencil that had been placed on the blotter in front of him.
“So much the better,” Ingram said, feeling that he had to reassert his authority — he still hadn’t had the chance to reveal his piece de resistance.
“Right, now—” he began and then stopped. De Freitas had raised his hand. “Paul?”
“I should say, for the record, that there is some data missing from Philip’s files.”
Ingram kept his face blank, authoritatively blank. “Data missing?”
“We think,” de Freitas flourished his copy of the Kindred profile, “that Kindred may have it.”
The professors gasped. Ingram felt that sick premonition again. Something bad was going to happen, he couldn’t see it yet, but this awful death was just the beginning.
“What kind of data?” Ingram asked, in a quiet voice.
Keegan pitched in now. “Data that is incomprehensible to anyone not wholly cognisant of the Zembla-4 programme. We think Kindred has it — but he doesn’t know what he has.”
Ingram’s instincts were hard at work — he felt high anxiety now: Keegan and de Freitas’s insouciance didn’t fool him at all — this was very serious. He was suddenly glad he’d had an apple juice and not a brandy.
“How do you know this data is missing, Burton?” he asked, carefully.
Keegan smiled his insincere smile. “When we went through the material recovered from the London flat we became aware of inconsistencies. Stuff we expected to see wasn’t there.”
Ingram eased himself back in his chair and crossed his legs. “I thought the London flat was a crime scene.”
“Correct. But the police were most accommodating. We informed them of the importance of the Zembla-4 programme. They gave us complete access.”
“I don’t get it,” Ingram said. “Do the police know data is missing? Doesn’t that provide motive?”
“They will know, in the fullness of time.” Keegan paused as de Freitas whispered something in his ear. Keegan fixed Ingram with his dark, intense eyes, and then they traversed the table. “For the sake of the Zembla-4 programme it’s best that this knowledge is kept within this room.”
“Absolutely,” Ingram said. “Absolute discretion.” There were mutters of agreement from around the table. Then he said ‘Good’ three times, cleared his throat, asked Mrs Prendergast for another cup of coffee and announced that he had decided that Calenture-Deutz should offer a reward of £100,000 to anyone who assisted the police in the capture and arrest of Adam Kindred. He put it to the board for a vote of approval, confident that it would be unanimous.
“I couldn’t disagree more fervently,” Ivo, Lord Redcastle said loudly, casting his pencil down on his blotter where it bounced, impressively, twice and then skittered off the blotter to the floor with a thin wooden clatter, less impressively.
“Ivo, please,” Ingram said, managing a patronising smile but feeling all the same a surge of heartburn warm his oesophagus.
“Just let the police do their job, Ingram,” Ivo said, pleadingly. “This only muddies the water. We offer this kind of sum and every money-grubbing loser will be deluging the police with spurious information. It’s a terrible error.”
Ingram kept his smile in place, reflecting that it was rather rich for one money-grubbing loser to so denigrate his tribe.
“Your objection is noted, Ivo,” Ingram said. “Will you note it, Pippa?” Pippa Deere was keeping the minutes. “Lord Redcastle disagrees with the Chairman’s proposal…Good, duly noted. Shall we vote on it? All those in favour of the reward…”
Eleven hands went up, including Keegan’s and de Freitas’s, Ingram noted.
“Against?”
Ivo raised his hand slowly, a look of disgust on his face.
“Carried.” Ingram basked in his insignificant triumph for a few seconds, knowing full well that this small revolution on Ivo’s part was a misguided act of revenge for the hair-dyeing accusation — clearly it still rankled. Ingram wound up the meeting and everyone dispersed.
“Nothing personal,” Ivo said, as they left the room. “I just think that rewards are iniquitous, corrupting. Why not hire a bounty hunter?”
Ingram paused and tried to look Ivo in the eye but he was too tall.
“One of your close colleagues has been horrifically murdered. You’ve just voted against the one thing we as a company, as his friends, can do to help bring his murderer to justice. Shame on you, Ivo.” He turned and walked into his dining set ready for his brandy. “Have a nice day,” he said as he closed the door.
7
AS SERGEANT DUKE HOMED in for a farewell kiss, Rita took last-second avoiding action and ensured his lips did not meet hers — he would be allowed to kiss her cheek like everyone else at the station.
“Going to miss you, Nashe,” he said. “Where we going to get our glamour, now?”
She knew he fancied her — Duke being a married man with three children — and he was very aware that she and Gary had split up: his commiserations had been both heartfelt and eager. She would have to watch him later, at the farewell party. Sergeant Duke, off duty, drink taken…She felt her heart heavy, all of a sudden: she didn’t like goodbyes.