Changelings Page 4

  ‘If you hadn’t called I was going to call you. I wanted to assure you that if this man really has got hold of botulinum, he didn’t get it from us.’

  ‘You can be sure of that?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Dr Black, nodding vigorously. ‘Our systems would show any shortfall. They could not be suborned by any one member of staff.’ He smiled, showing massive white teeth. ‘Even me.’

  ‘That’s reassuring,’ said Liz. ‘So really you’re saying it isn’t a credible threat.’

  Dr Black rocked a stubby hand. ‘I don’t think he has or can get botulinum toxin from us. I couldn’t rule out him acquiring some elsewhere.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘A hospital path lab. Botulism is fortunately not common in Britain, but there has been an increase in many forms of food poisoning – ask Castle General if they’ve had a botulism case recently. If they have, that’s two places you could get it – the hospital, and wherever the patient picked it up.’

  ‘How transmissible is it? I mean, is it catching?’

  He shook his head. ‘The vector material would have to be ingested. You could get it from a contaminated yoghurt, you couldn’t get it from standing beside someone who ate a contaminated yoghurt.’

  ‘But if you did get it, it would be bad news?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ agreed Black fervently. ‘The toxin attacks the nervous system. Botulism kills by paralysis.’

  Liz frowned. ‘Then what on earth are the commercial applications? I thought we’d gone out of the biological warfare business.’

  The director chuckled. ‘Even Porton Down is cleaning up its image these days. Actually, I believe they’re working with cosmetic botulinum too.’

  ‘Cosmetic?’ Liz heard her voice rocket.

  Black was enjoying himself. ‘Face cream. The toxin is scaled down and ring-fenced until its effect is merely to suppress the layer of cells implicated in causing wrinkles. And tics, in fact.’

  Liz was staggered. Never a massive consumer of cosmetics, from now on she would be downright abstemious. ‘Can I see where you’re doing this work?’

  ‘Of course.’ He conducted her through a maze of corridors, pausing to use his swipe card at regular intervals.

  In fact, seeing the laboratory told her nothing more. It was people in white coats working mostly with computers. Dr Black pointed out a locked refrigerator marked ‘Caution: Bio Hazard’ but that was about as scary as it got.

  ‘Most of the preliminary work is done with computer models,’ admitted Black. ‘Which makes it even harder for someone to steal actual biological material.’

  Liz didn’t know enough about biology or chemistry to learn anything by looking for longer. She signalled her readiness to leave, began thanking Dr Black for his help.

  One of the white coats came over, a young man with a ginger moustache and a petulant expression. ‘Dr Black, if Miranda is absent again tomorrow we’re going to need another technician. I’m being held up.’

  ‘All right, Dr Soames,’ said the director, the faintest edge on his voice. ‘I’ll find you someone.’

  Mostly to make conversation as they walked back Liz said, ‘Staff problems?’

  Black shook his head. ‘Dr Soames enjoys a little drama. Ms Hopkins’ absence from work for one or two days can have no long-term effect on his research. When a valued member of staff doesn’t feel free to take a couple of days off to cope with a family crisis, that’s when you start losing your valued members of staff.’

  ‘Crisis?’ Certain words, that cue discretion in the rest of us, make police officers prick up their ears.

  ‘Only a little one. Her daughter was playing hockey at Castle High yesterday afternoon. I don’t think she was hurt but she was upset. Miranda wanted to stay home with her till she was over the shock.’

  ‘Another coincidence?’ Liz’s tone was so ambivalent Shapiro wasn’t sure if he heard a question mark or not, if she was telling him or asking his opinion.

  He hedged his bets. ‘Hard to know. I mean, if there was botulism in the yoghurt it would have been very interesting – a woman with two distinct connections to this, with access to the contaminant through her work and to the school changing rooms through her daughter. But it was jelly in the yoghurt. I dare say she had access to that too, but it’s hardly grounds to arrest someone.’

  ‘Should I pay her a visit? I could say I was checking that all the girls were OK. It’d give me a chance to weigh her up, see if she’s suspect material. Though from what Dr Black said I doubt it. He called her a valued member of staff.’

  ‘Perhaps she never mentioned her plans for germ warfare over the coffee and croissants.’

  4

  Miranda Hopkins answered the door at the second knock. In her mid-thirties she was a few years Liz’s junior, a faintly exotic-looking woman with her long, slightly metallic fair hair crimped and held back by a bandeau. She wore a dark ankle-length skirt and, despite the weather, no shoes. ‘Yes?’

  Liz introduced herself and asked after Saffron – she’ d got the name from the school before coming. Ms Hopkins stood back from the door to invite her in. ‘We’re playing Scrabble.’

  A less exotic-looking child than Saffron Hopkins would be difficult to imagine. She had her mother’s. fair hair but it hung very straight, shone with health and was chopped off at shoulder level. Broad bones gave her a square face, a love of sport gave her scrubbed ruddy cheeks, and for a moment Liz thought she was looking at herself at the same age.

  She’d been a plain child, but she hadn’t spent enough time looking in mirrors to worry about it. As long as her pony attracted its share of admiration she was happy. It came as a genuine surprise when, in her late teens, she started attracting admiration as well. She still did. No one but immediate family had ever called her beautiful, but she was both handsome and striking: tall, strong and fit.

  She introduced herself again, to the girl. ‘I just stuck my head in to see how you were feeling.’

  Saffron shrugged. ‘I’m all right. But Mum said I could stay home if I wanted, so I did.’

  Liz nodded. ‘Good choice. What do you get on Tuesday – geography?’

  ‘Double maths.’

  ‘Eeugh!’ They traded a companionable grin.

  Liz turned to Miranda. ‘It must have given you a hell of a start when you heard what happened.’

  ‘Heard about it? I was there. I was more hysterical than Saffron was. It seemed forever before we could be sure that, actually, no one was hurt. Until then we all thought something terrible had happened. The place was a mad house, with parents trying to find their children and children trying to find their clothes.’

  ‘Did all the girls have parents there?’

  ‘Not all. There were probably five or six of us cheering from the sidelines. Or not, in fact, because it was a pretty pathetic performance.’ This time she and Saffron swapped a grin.

  ‘If the game wasn’t worth watching, maybe you had time to look around a bit. Did either of you see anything odd? Anyone acting strangely; anyone round the changing rooms who didn’t seem to belong there?’

  They thought for a moment but remembered nothing out of the ordinary. ‘Of course, there was a lot going on,’ said Miranda, ‘with the rugby match as well. There were a lot of people, adults and children, who didn’t look familiar and were wandering round as if they weren’t quite sure where they were going.’

  ‘The jelly was in a white plastic drum about so big.’ Liz demonstrated with her hands. ‘Did you see that at any point?’ But they hadn’t.

  ‘I was over at BioMed earlier today,’ Liz volunteered. She thought it best, since someone was bound to mention it when Miranda returned to work. ‘The previous threat mentioned botulism, and I heard the laboratory was working with it.’

  Miranda Hopkins nodded. ‘I work with it myself.’ She frowned, concerned. ‘Does that make me a suspect?’

  ‘Not for the moment,’ smiled Liz. ‘Right now we’re concentrating on people with access t
o raspberry jelly.’

  The rest of the day passed without incident. Close of play found Liz and Shapiro sharing a last pot of coffee in his office. Like most police stations, Queen’s Street ran on coffee and angst.

  ‘What do you make of it?’ asked Shapiro. ‘Has he had enough? Made his point and called it a day?’

  It was a nice thought but Liz wasn’t convinced. ‘Made what point? If he was a disgruntled ex-employee taking a swipe at the supermarket, what was the business at the school about? And if it was about showing he can strike at this town anywhere and any time, why call it a day before he’s got a penny out of us? He can’t be scared we’re on to him – he hasn’t given us enough to work with. So why go to the trouble of setting it up and then lose interest? I’m sorry, Frank, but no. He hasn’t gone away. He has something else in mind.’

  Shapiro thought so too. ‘So what’s he been up to this last twenty-six hours that’s more important than making his next move?’

  ‘Maybe he caught a cold,’ said Liz, not altogether seriously. ‘There’s a stinker going round: Donovan had it.’

  Shapiro wasn’t concerned with his sergeant’s well-being so much as the mindset of the man they were dealing with. ‘He could have caught a cold,’ he conceded; ‘or he could have been knocked down by a bus; or he might have had to attend his aunty’s funeral. But the likeliest explanation is that he’s working on something that requires a bit of time. Something more dramatic than terrifying twenty-two schoolgirls. He’s planning something nasty, I’m sure of it. One good sock in the teeth, then he’ll hit us with his demands.’

  ‘And we’ll tell him to get lost,’ said Liz. ‘Then what’s he going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I bet he does. Maybe that’s why he needs a day off: to set up the next two attacks. The one he doesn’t expect will scare us into compliance, and the one he does.’

  ‘We’re still talking about he,’ Liz noticed. ‘You agree with me, then – Miranda Hopkins isn’t much of a contender?’

  ‘I doubt it. Though I may change my mind if suddenly the town’s full of botulism. No, I think it probably is just a coincidence.’ He gave a little self-deprecating grunt. ‘That has the ring of somebody’s famous last words.’

  ‘Whose?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Quite possibly mine.’

  Liz chuckled. ‘Go home, Frank. Give Angela a treat.’

  Shapiro’s eyebrows rocketed. ‘I know my back’s a lot better, but the rest of me’s still fifty-six!’

  ‘That’s not what I meant!’ giggled Liz. ‘Though far be it from me to discourage you … I meant, if you’d got home by eight o’clock more often she’d probably never have divorced you.’ The visit Mrs Shapiro made after her ex was shot had stretched to a longer visit while she saw him settled back in his cottage and by now was acquiring an air of permanency.

  Shapiro bent a quizzical eye on her. ‘And what about Brian? Is he supposed not to mind that you work most of the hours God sends?’

  Liz blinked. She honestly hadn’t seen that she was subjecting her own marriage to the same abuse that had ended Shapiro’s. ‘That’s different. Brian’s—’

  ‘Brian’s a patient man,’ said Shapiro, ‘but he didn’t get married for the privilege of snatching breakfast together. It’s a job, Liz. Remember that. Whatever your ambitions, however hard you’re prepared to work for them, remember it’s still just a job.’

  What he said was true. But – as he also knew – it wasn’t a job you could throw half of yourself into. Either you did the best you could, taking the consequences of that on your home life, or you marked time – kept an eye on the clock, kept your spouse happy and kept your children under the same roof. There were people who managed the juggling act of throwing themselves with equal vigour into both family and work, but not many; and fewest of all halfway up the promotion ladder. Of course, Liz had no children to worry about. Less stress on the marriage; and also less glue in it.

  ‘I know I neglect him,’ she admitted. ‘I think he’s resigned to it. He knows I love him.’

  ‘Contrary to the words of the popular song,’ intoned Shapiro, proving – if anyone had wondered – how out-of-touch with popular music he actually was, ‘love is not all you need.’

  She would have brooked such criticism from almost no one else. But she’d known Shapiro a long time, owed him a lot, both personally and professionally. She knew he had her interests at heart. They enjoyed a relationship that was more than purely professional, and the bit that was extra was not so much friendship as family.

  It came of doing hard time together, of seeing each other at their best and their worst; of having to depend on one another, occasionally for their very lives. People whose idea of a work crisis is a downturn in the sales figures, a new-broom boss or a tax on office car-parking cannot be expected to understand how frustration, exhaustion and occasional deep terror combine to forge relationships that can shatter like glass or endure like iron but nothing in between.

  ‘It may have to be,’ she said quietly.

  Shapiro nodded slowly. He hadn’t meant to criticize, just wanted to be sure she recognized the problem as he had not. Almost the first he knew that he had been a failure as a husband and father was Angela coming downstairs with a suitcase. ‘Have you thought any more about going for your promotion?’

  ‘Yes. I want it. I’ve earned it, and I want it.’ When they’d first discussed this she had sounded uncertain; now she was sure. ‘Not right now, but soon. Somewhere in the next four years.’

  ‘It would be the ideal solution,’ agreed Shapiro. ‘They won’t let me go on doing this for ever, and there’s nobody I’d sooner see in this office after I’ve gone. But it won’t be my decision.’

  ‘I know. All the same, it’s pretty obviously a good idea. Unless the powers-that-be decide I’m not up to it.’

  He shook his head firmly. ‘That’s not what I’ve heard. They’re under pressure to promote good women officers: it would solve a lot of problems to move you in here.’ For a moment he said nothing more, considering. ‘I know you won’t ask, so here’s my position. I can retire any time in the next four years. I’ll stay on as long as it’s helpful to you, and leave as soon as you need me to. Don’t think of it as a favour. I want to leave the place in safe hands. If I can do that by careful timing, I’ll be happy whenever it comes.’

  Her hand reached across the desk and folded over his. ‘You’re the most generous man I’ve ever known.’

  He smiled and squeezed her fingers before releasing them. ‘It isn’t generosity. If you like, it’s the last really useful thing I’ll be able to do for this town. I’d like to get it right.’

  Liz said, ‘I’ll try to justify your confidence, Frank. Assuming it works out the way we hope.’

  ‘It will,’ promised Shapiro. ‘Or I’ll damn well stay where I am, and visit crime scenes in my bath chair.’

  Nothing happened overnight. But at ten fifteen on Wednesday Sergeant Bolsover phoned from the front desk in a state of panic. He had a young woman and a baby in reception, both of them were screaming, he gathered one of them was hurt and it was something to do with a bottle of baby lotion, and that was the most sense he’d been able to extract from the situation.

  Liz went down to sort it out.

  The mother was not much more than a child herself. She might have been seventeen, she could have been less. She was angry and tearful, and at first Liz too had trouble making out what had brought her to Queen’s Street. ‘Try to calm down and tell me what’s happened. First, are you all right? And is the baby?’

  ‘No thanks to that!’ She picked up the plastic bottle she’d placed on the desk in order to slam it down again, emphatically. Then she whined in pain and held out her hands like a boxer waiting to be gloved. ‘Look at them!’

  The palms were bright pink. Scalded? ‘What did that?’

  ‘Caustic soda.’

  Liz frowned. ‘What happened?’

  The girl picked up the
bottle once again, this time upended it. An address label was attached to the bottom. In large, regular black letters it said, ‘This was caustic soda.’

  Liz deferred any further questioning while she sent for the police surgeon. ‘Have you done anything about it yourself?’

  ‘I washed them in lots of cold water,’ said the girl, a tremor in her voice. Now she was being treated seriously the anger was giving way to shock. ‘I couldn’t think what else.’

  ‘How does it feel now?’

  ‘Going off a bit. Hurt like hell half an hour ago.’

  Dr Greaves was there within five minutes, swabbed her hands with some solution to take the heat out of them, injected an antibiotic to guard against infection. ‘I think that’s all we need do,’ he said. ‘Go to your GP tomorrow, tell him what happened, but I think you’ll be on the mend by then. The burns haven’t gone very deep. Cold water was the right idea. It’s the best thing for all burns. Cold running water and plenty of it.’

  Her name was Sheila Crosbie, and she couldn’t believe she was getting a First Aid lecture right now. ‘Yeah, right, I’ll remember that next time some freak tries to burn me!’

  Dr Greaves beat a tactful retreat. ‘Let me know if there’s anything more I can do.’ Liz nodded.

  ‘Where did you buy the lotion?’ she asked.

  ‘Simpson’s, in Brick Lane.’ She lived in a block of council flats opposite The Jubilee; Simpson’s would be the nearest chemist.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday. About five thirty, on my way home. You get through a lot of the stuff with a four-month-old baby.’

  ‘But in fact you didn’t use it on the baby.’