‘Millions,’ the driver said enthusiastically.
Tom knew the total population of the city was less than one million, but he wasn’t going to correct him.
‘First Turkey, then America,’ continued the driver. ‘Where next?’
The same question had crossed Tom’s mind when he’d been told about the quake in the interview room. There had to be a connection somehow.
‘Did the news reports give any indication of what caused the quake?’ he asked.
‘Yeh, bloody big fault — Saint Andrews.’
‘San Andreas?’ He couldn’t let that one slip.
‘Yeh, that’s what I said, Saint Andrews. Apparently, it was long overdue. Why do they build cities if they know there’s going to be an earthquake? Don’t make sense.’
He has a point, Tom thought. ‘Because it’s human nature to think that it will never happen to them,’ he replied.
Driving conditions were visibly deteriorating. They passed several lorries spreading grit on the roads, but they were fighting a losing battle. The taxi’s windscreen wipers were having difficulty clearing the snow from the screen and visibility was down to less than a hundred metres. None of this seemed to bother the cabbie, who was in full flow, espousing the probable causes of the disaster.
‘I blame scientists, myself,’ he went on. ‘They always meddling with nature — genetically modified crops, global warming. We don’t know half of what they get up to.’
Tom moved in his seat to escape the man’s eyes reflected in the mirror. He hoped it wouldn’t take too much longer before they arrived at the facility.
‘What you do at CERN?’ the driver asked cautiously, suspecting that he may have put his foot in it.
‘Er… I’m the Catering Manager,’ Tom lied to save the other man’s embarrassment.
‘Phew! I thought for a minute you were going to say a scientist.’ He laughed nervously. ‘Anyways, as I was saying…’
The driver was quite content to listen to the sound of his own voice, so Tom switched off and watched, out of his window, as the residents of Geneva trying to cope with the blizzard. Most people had taken the sensible approach of staying indoors. There were hardly any pedestrians on the streets. The ones that had braved the elements, through necessity rather than choice, had their full winter garb on — woolly hats, gloves, scarves, overcoats and boots. Tom looked down at his own clothes — jumper, trousers and brogues. He wouldn’t be venturing out anywhere in this weather.
They finally arrived at the main entrance of the facility and stopped at the barrier. The man in the security hut slid back the window and shone a torch into the back of the taxi. Tom had seen him around the complex but didn’t know him by name. He wound down his window and handed his ID card over.
‘Have a good evening, Professor Halligan,’ the guard said, handing it back and pressing the button to raise the barrier.
The driver caught sight of Tom’s sheepish expression in the mirror. ‘What you Professor of then? Soup?’ he said chuckling to himself.
Tom sunk lower in his seat.
They pulled up outside the accommodation block where Tom got out. He fished in his wallet and handed several notes over; he felt obliged to give the cabbie an extraordinarily generous tip to ease his own conscience. The driver thanked him profusely and set off back the way he had come, with a big smile on his face, leaving Tom standing ankle-deep in the snow, a few Euros lighter. The price you pay for dishonesty, he thought to himself. He shrugged it off and made his way to Serena’s apartment.
CHAPTER 22
‘Where’ve you been? I was getting worried about you,’ Serena said, standing back from the door to let Tom in.
‘It’s nice to know you care,’ he replied, kissing her on the cheek as he brushed past her. ‘I’ve been down at the police station helping Inspector Gervaux with his enquiries.’
‘Did they arrest you?’
‘No — well, not yet, at least. Did you see the news about the San Francisco earthquake?’
‘Yes, I’ve just switched it off. It’s very disturbing. So, tell me what happened.’
It took Tom over an hour to recount the details of his brush with the law, aided by an ample supply of malt whisky courtesy of his hostess.
‘Have you had anything to eat?’ she asked, filling his glass for the third time.
‘Not since this morning.’ The effects of the alcohol on his empty stomach expedited his tipsiness. ‘Are you trying to get me drunk, Miss Mayer?’
‘No,’ she said putting the bottle on the table. ‘But I think you should eat something.’ His vulnerability was bringing out her maternal instincts.
‘Well, I’m not exactly dressed for going out,’ he replied. ‘And, with the state of the roads, you can forget about pizza deliveries.’
‘I’m sure I can rustle something up for you,’ she said, leaving him on the couch and going into the kitchen.
The layout of the apartment was the mirror opposite of his, but it was what she’d done with the furniture that made it look more spacious. The large orange sofa, which she had covered with a rust-coloured faux fur throw, had been pushed up against the wall, leaving space in the middle of the room for a round shag-pile chocolate-brown rug. A large parlour palm sat on the small imitation wood table, which had also been concealed by a throw, but this one was covered with geometric patterns of African origin. The unit housing the TV was in the same position but, as well as the appliances, it housed photographs and ornaments. She had managed to find a painting, the hues of which complemented the colour scheme of the apartment perfectly. A large picture of a sunset over the Serengeti, featuring the silhouette of a solitary elephant, hung on the wall above the sofa.
‘I like what you’ve done to the place,’ Tom shouted into the kitchen.
‘Thanks. Is there anything you can’t or won’t eat?’ Tom could hear her rummaging through cupboards.
‘I’ll eat pretty much anything, as long as it’s not moving.’ He thought back to the dinner he’d had with Frederick and shuddered at the thought of the lobster.
He got up, taking his whisky with him, and stood in the doorway of the kitchen. She was wearing a pair of pink cut-off jeans and a simple vest T-shirt. She would have looked good in a bin liner, he thought, as he watched her from afar. He’d learnt from bitter experience not to cross the threshold into a woman’s domain when she was preparing a meal. That occasion had ended in a huge row, with him taking the blame for the burnt offering that was presented on the table. Words like interfering and distracting came to mind. He had to admit to himself, that he had been partially responsible; after all, it was he who made the first move that culminated in them making love on the kitchen work surface.
‘How does chicken foo yung grab you?’ she said taking a half-eaten roast chicken out of the fridge.
‘I can’t wait. What is it?’
‘Mashed-up chicken, mushroom and onion omelette.’
‘Since you put it so eloquently, it sounds very appetising. My taste buds are already tingling.’
‘Okay, you take the meat off the carcass and I’ll prepare the other ingredients.’
‘What, eggs, mushrooms and onions?’
‘There’s an art to chopping onions, I’ll have you know,’ she said scornfully.
They worked side by side, him hacking the meat off the bones with a knife, and she wiping the tears away as she sliced the onion.
‘So the police didn’t believe there was a connection between the earthquakes and the Collider?’ she managed to say between sniffs.