Bad Intentions Page 16

  'Yes,' answered Jack, trying to pump some confidence into his voice.

  'Inspector Lamming, Scotland Yard,' he said. 'This is Inspector Gilbert.'

  He pulled a wallet from his pocket and flashed an identification badge in front of Jack. The second man stood to attention and did the same. Jack glanced at the badges but realised he had no idea whether they were genuine. He could not recall ever having seen a police badge before.

  'Yes,' he answered cautiously. 'What do you want?'

  'We need to ask you some questions,' said Lamming.

  'About what?'

  'About the counterfeiting of pharmaceutical products,' Lamming replied. 'We have reason to believe you may be involved in the manufacture and supply of counterfeit substances.'

  Jack paused. 'What reason?' He was trying to control himself, but he could hear the fractures in his voice, and he knew he was betraying his nervousness.

  'We can discuss that later,' said Lamming. 'If you would like to accompany us down towards the station.'

  Jack turned and looked about himself, his eyes swivelling up and down the street. Nobody was present, but at the top of the road he could just see a car approaching. 'I'd like to call a lawyer.'

  'You're not under arrest,' snapped Lamming. 'This is just questioning. You can call a lawyer if we charge you.'

  The navy-blue Golf GTI was closer now, its driver slowing down as she scanned the numbers on the door, looking for Jack's apartment. 'If you come this way,' said Lamming, extending an arm towards Jack.

  The tone was fierce and harsh, a voice that allowed no room for disagreement. Jack turned on his heels. The Golf was nearing the side of the kerb, slowing down to just a few miles an hour. Unthinkingly, Jack lunged several strides towards the car. The two detectives made a grab for him, but their reach just failed to catch him. He tried the door. Unlocked. Thank God, he whispered to himself. He pulled the door open, leapt into the seat, slamming it hard behind him, pushing down the lock.

  Tara turned to look at him, her expression a mixture of bemusement and bafflement. 'Jack,' she started. 'What is it?'

  'Drive,' he shouted. 'Please, just drive. Drive as fast as you fucking can.'

  As the wheels spun on the Tarmac Jack turned to look out of the rear window. The detectives had already started climbing into their car.

  FIFTEEN

  The scent of her body next to his was warm and intoxicating. Tara was lying at Jack's side, half asleep, the side of her face creased up into the pillow, her lips slightly apart, the sound of her breathing slow and steady. Her long black hair nestled up against the thick white, hotel dressing gown she had wrapped around herself. It was, Jack reflected, some time since he had slept with a woman.

  Tara and he had tumbled into bed together as if it was the most natural thing in the world, but they had not made love. Since yesterday, Jack felt, they shared a bond; the comfort of refuge. They were running from the same monsters. It was intimacy of a sort, a closer intimacy than Jack had felt for a long time, but not yet sexually charged. They shared common fears, not hopes. That might come, thought Jack. Perhaps. In time.

  He ran his hand along her hair and along her back. She murmured something – what, he could not hear – under her breath. But otherwise she paid no attention to his caresses. Don't push it, thought Jack. Not now. Too soon and too dangerous.

  Neither of them had known what to do at first. He had leapt into her car on an instinct; it was an unthinking reaction to an immediate threat. In those split seconds Jack had thought very quickly, and it was only afterwards that he rationalised and organised his decision. If the detectives wanted to talk to him about his involvement in the counterfeiting ring, if they had grounds for suspicion, their information could only have come from one place: Kizog. And if the company had talked to the police, he could be certain they would have lined up evidence and Jack would be trapped. No. He needed his own time and space to act. He would not allow Kizog to dictate events. The company was not a friendly presence in his life.

  Tara had not questioned him when he asked her to drive. She had not stopped and asked for any explanation for what was happening. Her reaction, too, was instinctive and immediate. To assist. She had slammed her foot hard on the accelerator, and disappeared down the road, both of them silent, while Jack peered desperately through the back window, searching for signs of the policemen on their backs. She had been there when he needed someone. And he was grateful for that.

  Neither of them had known where to go. Tara headed across the river and twisted her way through the streets of south London, until Jack assured her that they were not being followed. In truth, he was not sure, and the uncertainty worried him. He had never been followed before; never scanned the streets for someone who might be trailing him. He was not sure what to look for. Several times he was suspicious of cars that seemed to be behind them for several miles, but as they drove through empty residential streets they appeared to lose them. He scanned the skies. Helicopters, perhaps? he thought. But he could see nothing. Unless their tracking devices were very sophisticated – more sophisticated than he could imagine – they were free.

  Free, but far from safe, he reflected. The instinct of the moment had told him to flee, to evade whatever questions the police might have for him, but so far he had given little thought to what happened next. Keep on running? he asked himself. The adrenalin of the escape had drained now that he was clear of immediate danger, and in its place there were only questions and doubts. How far? How long? Perhaps he should turn back, talk to those men, explain himself, tell his story. Perhaps.

  In time. But not now.

  'Where shall we go?' Tara had asked once they were clear of the immediate threat.

  'I don't know,' Jack had replied. 'Just away from here. Out of London.'

  Tara turned on to the M25, and drove along until they reached the M40, heading out past Oxford, finally turning off into the Cotswolds. They drove almost in silence. Jack was preparing his thoughts, pondering his options, and wondering what they would do next. He sensed that she was doing the same. He understood that she was anxious to escape as well. There was more than just kindness to this trip; she had not just taken pity on him and decided to help him escape. Too unlikely. No. She too wanted to escape, and was glad, he sensed, of some companionship.

  They had been driving for three hours and it was after eleven when Tara pulled up the car in a small town called Northleach. She parked in the square, and the pair of them climbed out. It was typical rural England. A fine old mill town, with a market square and a high street full of familiar shops. The pubs were just shutting and a few people were starting to make their way home through the dark and empty streets. It was peaceful and tranquil, a good place to relax. A good place to rearrange your priorities.

  'We'll stay here,' said Tara firmly.

  There was a tone in her voice that did not invite disagreement, and Jack was happy to let her take control. She walked into the single hotel in town, an eighteenth-century building with three stars, and booked a room. Jack was surprised that she booked a double, but said nothing about it as they walked upstairs. 'Get some rest,' she told him as they entered the room. 'We'll decide what to do in the morning.'

  'I'll sleep on the floor,' Jack volunteered.

  Tara shook her head. 'You need some proper rest. And you're too much of a wreck to try anything.'

  They had left the conversation there. Both found they were so tired, there was little talk or speculation left in them. Just a desire to put the day behind them, to make it disappear. They lay down together, and no sooner had Jack felt the pillow on his head, and the sound of her breathing at his side, than he fell into a fitful sleep.

  Jack woke first, lying in the early morning light, reviewing the events of the past few days, turning them over in his mind. They still made little sense. When Tara woke, he said good-morning with a formality that seemed forced and strained. She asked him what time it was, and he told her that it was just after eight. />
  They both showered, taking exaggerated care to dry and dress behind a closed bathroom door, before they went downstairs to breakfast. Jack found that his appetite had grown; a reaction to the stress, he suggested to himself. He ordered a full English breakfast, whilst Tara contented herself with a croissant and an apple and some black tea. From the lobby Jack had picked up copies of the Telegraph and the FT. He rustled through the papers, distracted briefly by the market report – Kizog was up 8p, it said, on hopes of a swift conclusion to the Ocher bid – before he found what he had feared.

  The story was nestling on page five of the Telegraph. 'Drug Counterfeiters Sought', said the headline. Jack read intently.

  Police are hunting down a ring of pharmaceutical counterfeiters who are believed to be operating throughout Europe. Officers yesterday attempted to arrest an unnamed executive of a leading British pharmaceutical company who is believed to be working with the counterfeiters, but the executive evaded capture. Police sources said last night that a nation-wide hunt was underway for the man. He is understood to be working with a researcher at the same company who may also be involved in the counterfeiting operation. Pharmaceutical counterfeiting is a growing problem in Europe. The police warn that many of the counterfeit medicines may be of substandard quality, and could pose a significant health risk to patients. Police sources said the manhunt was part of a wider European initiative to crack down on pharmaceutical counterfeiting.

  Jack handed the paper to Tara. 'We're famous,' he said.

  Jack ate his breakfast whilst she scanned the paper. He felt numb inside, and his appetite was already starting to disappear. The events of yesterday had faded in his mind; he had begun to wonder if it was all a mistake, something that could be talked through rationally. Now he knew there had been no mistake. They had wanted him, and they would have arrested him. A manhunt, he reflected. He was the man. Jack glanced around the breakfast room. There were two other couples, and one person sitting alone. None of them appeared to be looking at him. Why should they? They would never suspect that he was a wanted man.

  'At least it doesn't mention us by name,' said Tara, putting down the paper.

  She seemed, to Jack, strangely calm. 'Do we keep running?' he asked.

  Tara shook her head. 'We are amateurs,' she said. 'We don't know where to run. We don't know where to hide. Sooner or later we will be caught.'

  Jack noticed the look in her eye; fiery, determined, defiant. It was a transformation, different from the mood of worldly indifference he had associated with Tara up until now, and one that heightened her appeal. 'Is there still a chance?' he asked.

  'What other options do we have?' replied Tara.

  'None,' answered Jack.

  'Then we fight back,' said Tara firmly.

  Jack looked at her closely, wondering if he could find anything in her eyes. 'What was too personal to talk about earlier?' he asked slowly.

  She turned her face away before replying. 'Someone I lost,' she said hesitantly.

  'Who?' asked Jack, leaning forward across the table.

  'A boyfriend,' she replied.

  Jack had never imagined her as part of a couple, and the idea of her having a sexual history took him sideways; he was, he reflected, feeling something that could only be described as jealousy. 'Long-term or short-term?' he asked.

  'Very long-term,' she replied. 'Years.'

  The word captured the sadness in her eyes, and Jack realised that they had never really talked, that there had been little real intimacy between them. She started by telling him something of her childhood, about her time at Harvard, and about the young man she had met there. David was three years older than her, and studying as a postgrad medical student. They met in her first year, and . by the second term they were dating regularly, a couple. They spent three years together, living in a small apartment they shared, working towards their separate degrees.

  Tara had been sure that they would spend the rest of their lives together. It seemed the most natural thing in the world, and there was nothing she wanted more. And so, when he decided to spend a year after graduation working with Medicins Sans Frontieres, it seemed to her a matter of little importance. They had their whole lives together. What difference did one year make?

  He was posted to Angola. Tara went to visit him there once. They spent two weeks together, roaming around the South African savannah by Jeep; Angola itself was too dangerous for a vacation. That was the last she really saw of him. She had gone back and waited for him to return. In the last month of his tour she received word from the camp director that David was seriously ill. She flew at once, arriving only thirty-six hours after receiving the message.. It was too late. David was not quite dead yet, but he was far beyond knowing who she was or what was happening to him. His body was almost totally paralysed, incapable of any form of movement, and strange dark spots, where the skin was rapidly peeling loose from the body, had appeared on his arms and legs and back. He seemed to have lost all feeling, the nerves inside his body seizing up, and when a finger fell loose from his hand, it was as if he had not felt it. A raging fever had left him close to deranged, and the paralysis had made it virtually impossible for him to drink, exacerbating the fever and causing him to dehydrate rapidly. The doctors had pumped him full of antibiotics but none of them seemed to have any impact. Tara spent the last few hours desperately trying to pour water into his parched throat, but it was no use. His glands were too swollen or hardened for any of the water to reach his body. It was the dehydration that finally killed him. Within twelve hours of her arrival, David was dead. Although Tara did not know it at the time, it was one of the first cases of Ator taking a Western victim.

  'So you see,' Tara said, the words pronounced slowly and clearly, 'this disease is very personal to me. I was devastated by the loss. I still am, and it seemed the only thing I could do, the only thing that would keep me sane, was to spend my life finding out about Ator, discovering what caused it and how it could be cured.'

  Jack had listened intently as she rushed through the story, captured by the vividness and pain of her recollections, and realising for the first time the intensity of emotion she brought to her investigations into the origins of the virus. He leant over the table and reached for her palm, surprised by the willingness with which she accepted his hand in hers. 'OK,' he said. 'We fight back.'

  The meeting was just breaking up when the Chairman called Simon Morrison to one side. It had gone well. The bankers and brokers had all gathered with the key Kizog executives for a final session before everyone disappeared to the country for the weekend. The bid closed in seven days' time, and next week would be crucial. Kizog had already bought eight per cent of Ocher's stock in the market, and their share price was languishing just below the offer price. There were rumours of a counter-bid but so far no sign of another offer. 'Just the usual market chatter,' said Morrison reassuringly.

  Privately, the Chairman wanted to thank Morrison for all the hard work he and his team had been putting into the bid. And he wanted to warn him that there might be some rather strange reports in the papers this weekend, and to reassure him that it was nothing to worry about. 'We have everything under control,' he said quietly.

  Morrison nodded and said he understood. 'I can't see much going wrong now,' he replied. 'We should be able to shake loose another seven or eight per cent of the stock next week, once our chaps start ringing round the small holders. The big fund managers here and in the States will side with us, so I think we only have to capture a few of the Swiss shareholders and it's ours.'

  'It's virtually sewn up?'

  'Virtually,' Morrison replied.

  The Chairman thanked him, collected Ralph Finer, and strode back towards his own office. Just one more meeting, he told the finance director. And then they would be done for the week.

  'Almost there, Chairman,' said Finer as they walked through the corridor.

  'Almost,' replied the Chairman. 'A few more loose ends, but I think we can make it.'


  'How did your conversations with the Government go?' he asked.

  'Perfectly,' the Chairman replied confidently. 'They swallowed the whole story and have agreed to co-operate. Quite an achievement, don't you think?'

  There was a nervous look on Finer's face. 'They can be trusted?' he asked.

  The Chairman nodded. 'The Ministry of Defence is as deeply involved in everything that has happened in the past as we are,' he replied. 'And just as keen to put that episode behind them. The ministers are in the dark, of course, but their officials know what needs to be done.'

  'We are sure?' persisted Finer.

  'Of course,' answered the Chairman with a smile. 'I have made it quite clear to them. We all swim together or we all sink together. They understand.'

  The finance director smiled. 'Fine,' he said confidently.

  'You know,' continued the Chairman, patting his finance director on the shoulder. 'That applies to the company as well. We sink or swim together.'

  Inside his office, Geoff Wheeler, Dani Fuller and Angus Shane were already waiting for them. Wheeler and Fuller stood up when the Chairman came in, but Shane remained seated, his body slunk back into the deep leather sofa. The Chairman walked over to the cabinet and pulled out a decanter of whisky. Time for a drink, he declared, pouring himself a shot and offering the decanter around. Wheeler and Shane accepted. Fuller and Finer declined.

  'You saw the story about our two young friends in the paper this morning, I trust?' the Chairman said to Wheeler. The PR man nodded. 'A good journalist?'

  'Very reliable,' replied Wheeler. 'Writes it straight, pretty much as it is given to him. We may use him again.'

  The Chairman took the paper and passed it on to both Dani Fuller and Angus Shane. Shane took it and glanced through the story before passing it on to Fuller.

  'What's the gameplan?' asked Fuller. 'With the media.'

  A broad smile spread across Wheeler's puffy red cheeks. 'Deception and subterfuge,' he replied.