‘What then?’
Clement shrugged. ‘I let him go. Keys could be awkward, and obstinate. I figured he’d get the same response from the others and would eventually give up on the idea. But next morning, before breakfast, I decided to check in on Keys. I found him in the infirmary again, on his own. When I asked if he was okay, he said he’d made a mistake the night before, that he hadn’t seen Feliks. He seemed ashamed. More than that, he appeared… scared.’
‘Why did you think that was?’ asked Purkiss.
‘I guessed he was worried I’d think he was losing his mind. He was always a little wary around me, because of what I do. Telling the resident psychologist you’re seeing things… well, he may have thought I’d report him or something.’
‘Did you discuss it with anyone?’
‘No. But he was even more avoidant of me than usual in the days and weeks after that.’ Her eyes probed Purkiss’s face. ‘What do you think?’
‘Did you know Keys was a heroin addict?’
Purkiss had never seen her surprised before, thought she probably seldom revealed when something startled her. But there was a flaring of her eyes, a slow drawing of breath.
‘My God,’ she murmured. ‘Yes. It makes sense.’
‘It doesn’t explain why he said he saw Nisselovich, though,’ said Purkiss. ‘You said he was sweaty and jittery, which suggests he might have been in need of a fix. Opiate withdrawal doesn’t cause visual hallucinations as a rule.’
She continued to watch him, her gaze questioning.
‘Two possibilities come to mind,’ said Purkiss. ‘One is that you’re lying.’
The amusement was back, playing around her mouth. ‘I suppose. What’s the other?’
‘The other is that Keys was right. He did see Nisselovich through the window.’
Clement’s eyes narrowed.
‘Here’s a scenario,’ Purkiss said. ‘Nisselovich starts to become suspicious about one of his colleagues. Maybe that colleague is showing an unusual interest in the Nekropolis when he’s out on field trips with them. Or he notices something incriminating on their computer. Or overhears something when they’re on the phone. So he manufactures this story about how he wants to collect plant samples in the middle of a storm. He disappears with one of the snowmobiles, assuming correctly that a search party will be organised. But he doesn’t go far from the station. Once the search party has left, he sneaks back reasoning there’ll be more chance of his avoiding being noticed now that at least some of his colleagues are away from the premises, looking for him. Maybe he intends to search the room of the person he’s suspicious about. But he’s out of luck. He encounters the person, who attacks him, either killing him then and there or chasing him out into the tundra, where he’s killed or dies of exposure.’
Clement looked sceptical.
Purkiss went on: ‘It’s rank conjecture, yes. We’ll never know exactly what happened. But it’s at least plausible.’
‘And Keys sees him.’
‘Keys sees him, tells everyone about it. Nobody believes him, except the person Nisselovich is investigating. That person disposes of Nisselovich, and then, later that night, pays Keys a visit. He discovers Keys has seen too much — has maybe even witnessed him chasing or killing Nisselovich — and blackmails the doctor into silence, either with a threat of direct violence or by using his addiction against him. That’s why Keys recants his story to you the next day, and it’s why he’s frightened. Two months later, I show up and interview Keys. The killer decides enough is enough, the end game has arrived, and Keys has to be terminated before he opens his mouth and scuppers the whole operation.’
The room was quiet apart from the whirr of the computer and the thin whine of the wind outside.
Clement said, ‘Okay. Let’s assume it played out like that, or something like it. It rules out any of the members of the search party as the killer. Oleg, Frank Wyatt — who obviously didn’t do it — and Gunnar.’
Purkiss had been rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He stopped.
‘Say that again.’
‘It rules out —’
‘No. I mean the names you listed.’
‘Oleg, Wyatt and Gunnar.’
Purkiss turned back to the computer monitor, clicked through the spreadsheet until he found the date he was looking for.
He stared at the entry.
To Clement: ‘You’re one hundred per cent sure of those names.’
‘Yes. I have almost perfect recall.’
Purkiss looked up at her.
He said: ‘I know who it is.’
Twenty-five
His flailing arm caught the computer monitor and sent it toppling to the floor in a cascade of paper and pencils, the crash echoing off the walls and ceiling.
Purkiss pivoted in his chair so that his back was to the desk, his head reeling, waves of nausea eddying up from his stomach. For a second the room around him took on the distorted quality of a dream image, and he felt himself on the cusp of passing out. He let out a groan through his clenched teeth.
Clement, blurred through a river of pain, raised her arms once again, the trophy from Medievsky’s shelf poised in her hands. Purkiss lunged groggily sideways as the steel container came down, connecting with the side of his head where Haglund had kicked him earlier, reopening the scalp wound and flicking blood across his shoulder.
He half-flopped over the corner of the desk and turned towards the door as it swung open. Medievsky stood with the Ruger raised.
‘What the hell…’
Clement backed away into the corner, the trophy clanging on the floor. Purkiss straightened, peered at her. Her eyes were wide, feral, her greying hair tousled where it had escaped her pony tail.
‘She’s…’ Purkiss tried. ‘She attacked me. She’s the one. The terrorist.’ His slurring tongue struggled with the syllables. He thought: she hit me too hard.
Medievsky’s gaze swept the room. His eyes flicked from Purkiss to Clement and back.
‘Out,’ he said. To Clement: ‘You first.’
He backed into the corridor, the rifle level on her. Clement didn’t look at Purkiss as he stepped out of her way. He followed her out.
Medievsky said, ‘Hands behind your head.’ He glanced Purkiss over. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’ll live.’
To Clement, Medievsky said: ‘Walk ahead. Don’t run.’
As they began to move down the corridor, he said to Purkiss, ‘What happened?’
The walls were starting to tilt less alarmingly, and the nausea had morphed into a cracking headache at the back and the right side of Purkiss’s head. He focused on Clement, shuffling six feet ahead of the two men with her hands clasped at the nape of her neck.
‘I was checking the movements log. She came in, asked if she could help. I made two mistakes. I told her what I was doing, and I let her get behind me. Next thing, she’d cracked me with that trophy.’
Avner emerged from his lab further down the corridor, a briefcase in each hand. ‘What’s going — ’ He gaped at Clement, then at Purkiss and Medievsky.
‘She’s the killer,’ Purkiss said.
Medievsky jerked his head. ‘Come, Efraim.’
Avner watched them pass, then hurried after them, jabbering. ‘Hey. Wait. No way, man. No fuckin’ way.’
The group moved along the passageways, picking up Montrose on the way. When Budian appeared, saw Clement, the gun at her back, she clamped one hand to the side of her face, her mouth wide.