=02:38 hrs=
Having backed up Frank Booker’s incriminating telephone conversation with Holland onto her laptop, Sheena sat at her desk thinking. She felt uneasy about trusting Frank Booker with her future. What guarantee did she have that he wouldn’t somehow put the blame for all this on her? For the past seven years he’d been a chauvinist, could he really have changed so much, so quickly? Rubbing tired eyes, she sighed.
Pulling her laptop nearer, Sheena created a secure partition on the hard drive onto which she transferred all the AspByte files and records from Area 7’s computer network. She might have no option but to go along with Frank Booker’s plan, but she didn’t have to do it without some sort of alternative backup. Next she searched the internet until she found the programme she was looking for. Downloading it, she let it install on her laptop, working her way through the usual screen prompts and disclaimers.
Satisfied that she had done all that she could to protect the information, Sheena left her office, hurrying down the corridor to the lift, which she took to the lower-basement. Entering the hot atmosphere of the server room, she crossed to the nearest terminal, where she sat down and pulled out the paper-clip tray above the nested drawers to the right of her knees. Feeling under the edge, a smile broke across her face when her slim fingers detected the paper taped there. Tearing it off she smoothed it on the desk, then tapped that weeks Administration Password into the server’s keyboard.
Reaching behind her head, Sheena tied her hair back into a ponytail. She was tired and wanted to go home but there was a lot of work to get through before the Tech guys got in tomorrow morning. Pushing such thoughts from her mind, she pulled a thumb-drive from her pocket and slipped it into the nearest USB port. Booker had guaranteed that the programme on it would destroy all the files on the mainframe server. When the programme had finally run its course, Sheena repeated the operation on both Dr Mani Vasant and Frank Booker’s Personal Accounts.
Knowing the programme would take a long time wiping the files, Sheena went through to the animal house and began euthanising the research subjects. Luckily they hadn’t started any research work with the pigs yet.
Two hours later she was back at the server, nodding in satisfaction. If Booker was to be believed, now only somebody with access to the latest forensic recovery software and a lot of time stood any chance of recovering the files.
The back-up copies of Area 7’s projects were kept at Frank Bookers mansion and he would wipe those when he arrived home. It would create some chaos when the facility opened in the morning but they would talk their way around that as best they could. The important thing was to cover their tracks and get rid of any incriminating information.
They hoped that they could persuade the staff that somebody had hacked the system and intended telling them that, when they arrived in the morning.
=03:35 hrs=
Sheena arrived back at her office, hair in disarray and clothes dirty from handling the animals. She had burnt three large bin-bags of papers and files, along with all the carcasses in the large basement incinerator. The pungent smell of burnt paper and fur still clung to her skin and she longed for a hot shower.
Sheena tidied herself up as best she could in her en-suite toilet and she made herself a cup of coffee, sitting at her desk with a soft groan. She drank slowly, her eyes tired and gritty. Putting the empty mug on her desk, she picked up the telephone. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so exhausted.
As Sheena expected, the call went straight through to voice-mail. Cutting the connection she redialled, repeating the process twice more before a sleepy voice answered.
“This better be good.”
“Dimitrios, listen it’s Sheena. I’m really sorry to be ringing you so late but I need some advice.”
“Early,” the voice mumbled.
“What?”
“Early Sheena. It’s half-past four in the morning for God’s sake!”
“Yes Dimitrios, I know and I’m really, really sorry.”
“Hang on a sec.”
Sheena heard the sound of a match striking and then a soft cough as her friend filled his lungs with smoke.”
“I thought you’d given those up Dimitrios.”
“Yeah well, enough of my troubles. What’s up with you that you’re dragging me out of bed at this unearthly hour?”
Dimitrios Hampus was a young up-and-coming biochemist who had made a lot of contacts among scientific circles, including one or two in the M.H.P.R.A.. Sheena had run across him when he’d contacted her about some tricky virus he’d discovered in a fungus some years ago. It had led to a new research opportunity that had given Dimitrios a high standing among his peers. Now it was his turn to help her.
“Listen, have you heard of any research being carried out for the armed forces on aggression?”
Dimitrios whistled and chuckled quietly. “What the hell have you got yourself involved in now Red?” he asked.
Her nickname went back to a drunken night a few weeks after their first date, when they had watched Gone With the Wind and fumbled around on the couch. The dates had led nowhere but the nickname had stuck.
Sheena chuckled. “The same old Dimitrios I see. I’ve been doing a little digging around for a book I’m writing and I’ve come across one or two rumours about some research being undertaken by the army on induced aggression. I just wondered if you had heard anything about it.”
There was a long silence on the line as though Dimitrios was considering his answer, but he just said, “No Red. Nothing at all.” Another pause. “And you just happened to call me at four-thirty to ask me that? All I’ll say is be careful girl, that type of research is usually backed by hard-ball players who don’t like publicity.”
Sheena’s voice took on a defensive tone. “Look, I’m sorry I bothered you Dimitrios. It’s just that my publisher wants to put the book to bed tomorrow.”
“Okay then,” he said. “And you owe me a free signed copy when it comes out.”
“You’ll have it,” Sheena said. “Bye Dimitrios.”
Putting down the telephone, Sheena rubbed her temples. She hoped that her call wouldn’t get Dimitrios thinking too hard. He had a quick mind and it had been chancy calling him, but if anyone outside of Area 7 were to have any hint of whispers regarding what was happening at the AspByte project, it would be him.
Sheena was satisfied that she’d done all that she could to cover their tracks and pulled herself out of her chair. It was time to go home. Shrugging on her coat, she switched off the office lights and closed the door behind her.
Calling a tired, “Goodnight,” to the cleaning crew working their way through the empty offices, Sheena made her way out to the car park. She couldn’t wait to tuck herself up under her duvet and get a good night’s sleep.
In his comfortable Chelsea flat, Dimitrios Hampus frowned, picking up his mobile. Having worked for Biosphere Cojoin Ltd for the past two years, he felt his boss, Sir Craig Holland, would be interested in the telephone call that he’d just had.
=05:33 hrs=
Edna Riley moaned as she turned in her bed, trying to get comfortable. Her stiff old joints were giving her more trouble than usual. She’d have to ask Shirley to get that nice young doctor to call around with some stronger pain-killers tomorrow.
Edna, eighty-nine, had been bed-ridden for the past five years and spent most of her time listening to Radio 4. Her thin white hair hardly covered her scalp anymore and the veins on the back of her hands, plainly visible through her translucent skin, were like blue faded branches that had been painted on. Arthritis had made Edna’s joints so stiff and painful that she could barely move, so she relied on the wardens of the sheltered housing complex to help her shower twice a week, cook her meals, and do a little cleaning now and then.
Edna was picking at the bedsheets with knobbly fingers, wondering what time it was. Something had woken her. She knew it must be early because the darkness still held the daylight at bay and a full moon flooded through her window, reflecting from the TV screen at the end of her bed.
What had woken her, she wondered.
Edna frowned in concentration. The TV was off - it was seldom on - yet she’d seen a movement in its screen.
There it was again. What was it? Something . . .
Edna’s breath caught in her throat when she realised the movement wasn’t in the TV at all but was a reflection. Something was moving outside her bedroom window. Concentrating harder on the screen, she made out the shape of a large cat, stretching itself up against the window, trying to reach the half-open top casement.
Edna’s old heart fluttered in her chest. It was her Candy come back to her after all these years. They’d told her that he was dead, but she’d never really believed them. He wouldn’t do that to her, not her Candy. Edna suspected that they had taken him away to some cat’s home because she wasn’t able to look after him anymore. Like her, he’d grown old and had found it difficult to jump up on her bed. He’d never get in the window, poor thing. Edna fussed at the sheets, praying to the Lord that her beloved cat wouldn’t go away before Shirley came in the morning and let him in.
Please God, please!
The cat patted at the glass with its paw and Edna saw that he couldn’t quite reach the top window, and that even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to squeeze himself through the small opening, he was far too big. Her Candy patted at the casement again, giving a low yowl, so full of meaning that it melted her old heart.
As Edna listened to her cherished pet trying to reach her, tears flooded down her face. Why was life so hard, so cruel? Then, painfully, a centimetre at a time, she began rolling over on her side, a determined look in her faded blue eyes.
“I’ll be there in a minute my darling, just wait. Just wait now.”
The cat watched the old woman through the window while she struggled in her bed, its tail whipping back and forth, sitting patiently on the sill as though it understood every word.
Edna reached out a trembling hand, her crumbling old joints making her cry out in agony at every movement.
Just a little further, please, just a little further. Don’t go away again Candy. Please, just . . . a . . . little . . . bit further.
Then Edna had it and relief flooded through her trembling body. She’d done it, as she knew she would. They might have marked her down as a feeble old trout but she knew better.
Holding her heavy walking stick in one withered hand, she raised it above her head, cradling her elbow with her other hand to lend support, the stringy, worn out muscles hanging from her arms like curtains. It was so painful that she almost gave up, but the thought that her wonderful Candy had come back to find her after all these lonely years drove her on.
The rubber feral of the walking stick slid its slow, tremulous way up the glass of the window until it reached the top casement. Edna held her breath, knowing this was her one and only chance.
“Please God . . .” she whispered.
With the last of her strength Edna pushed the window further open and collapsed back on to her pillows, the walking stick falling to one side, knocking over the bedside table-lamp. She smiled, she’d done it. She’d opened the window.
As Edna felt her cat’s weight drop down onto her bed, the sun rose above the horizon, flooding the room with a red wash, like blood on an empty white canvas.
=08:30 hrs=
Dawn opened her eyes and yawned loudly. It took her a few moments to remember where she was and that the comfy king-sized bed she was lying in was real and not part of some dream. The room was suddenly flooded with bright sunshine and she screwed up her eyes.
“Good morning Dawn,” a crisp voice greeted her. “Breakfast will be ready in half-an-hour, just enough time for a shower.”
Dawn watched Helen Booker tie the curtains back, then disappear from the bedroom. She groaned. This was worse than being at school. What time was it any way?
Looking at her mobile, Dawn saw that it was eight-thirty. Raising her eyebrows in surprise she smiled happily. Not so bad after all then. She had slept like the proverbial log and obviously Helen Booker didn’t expect them to be early risers. She was going to enjoy her stay here.
Returning from a hot shower in the en-suite, Dawn found Carolyn sitting on her bed. “Hi Dawn, I’ve bought you some clothes. I know you didn’t bring many of your own.”
Dawn and Carolyn were the same size and often swapped clothes at school. She looked at the stuff spread over the bed; jeans, tops, tee-shirts, all with the latest labels. She picked out a nice pair of jeans and a bright tee-shirt, dropping her towel on the bed as she stepped into her underwear.
Carolyn helped Dawn make the bed and then they ran down the stairs into the enormous country-style kitchen. Sitting beside Carolyn at the big wooden table, Dawn’s eyes widened as she looked around the room, her stomach rumbling at the wonderful smells hanging in the air. The Booker’s must have spent a fortune on the kitchen fittings she realised, taking in the double gas oven and hob. Everything was finished in stainless steel, just like the equipment on the chef programmes she sometimes watched on TV.
Helen Booker was cooking their breakfast on a smaller hob at a central unit and smiled at them when they entered, asking Dawn whether she wanted one egg or two.
“Two please, Mrs Booker.”
“Helen,” Helen Booker said.
“Okay then,” Dawn responded, biting into some toast that Carolyn handed to her.
Helen Booker served the girls their breakfast and left them to it.
“This is great,” Dawn said, mopping up the egg yolk with a piece of toast. “Breakfast in our house is usually cornflakes.”
“Oh, did you want some?” Carolyn asked.
Dawn giggled, shaking her head. “So what are we going to do today?”
“Dad said we could go shooting. If you want to?”
Dawn spluttered on her diet coke. “Shooting? With guns?”
“Yeah with guns.”
“Wow. That’d be great. What sort of guns? AK47’s?” Dawn made a sweep of the kitchen with an imaginary machine gun. “Bang, bang . . . bang bang. Bang bang bang.”
“Grow up Dawn,” Carolyn laughed. “It’s clay pigeon shooting. With a shotgun. You sound like one of those kids from the council estate near our school.”
“Oh horror of horrors,” Dawn teased Carolyn, “that you should be forced to have contact with low-lives such as them.”
Dawn got up and put the dishes in the sink, then began running hot water over them. “Where’s the washing-up liquid then?”
“Oh please!” Carolyn said, leaning over Dawn’s shoulder and turning off the tap. “We’ve got a dishwasher and a cleaning woman. We don’t do dishes.”
“Lazy bitch!” Dawn responded.
Dawn slipped away as Carolyn launched a slap at her and they ran from the kitchen into the hall. Helen Booker was coming down the stairs, raising her eyebrows when she saw them.
“So what are you girls planning on doing today?” she asked.
“Carolyn said we could go shooting,” Dawn replied.
Helen Booker looked at her daughter.
“Dad said it would be okay, if Terry supervised us.”
“Carolyn, I don’t like you getting so familiar with the staff. His name is Terrance, please remember that.”
“Yes mother. Will it be okay?”
“Well, I suppose so. If your father said that it would be alright that is.”
Carolyn hugged her mother, winking over her shoulder at Dawn. “Thank you mother. Where is father anyway?”
“He went to work early. I’m surprised the racket of that horrible contraption didn’t wake you two up.” Helen Booker straightened the collar on Carolyn’s red blouse and brushed some invisible fluff away. “Be careful and don’t keep Terrance from his work for too long.”
They watched Helen Booker disappear into the back of the house and smiled at each other. “Terrance?” Dawn smiled.
“Yeah I know,” Carolyn laughed. “Come on, let’s go and find Terry.”
Linking arms they headed for the door.
=08:30 hrs=
Shirley Dibs hurried along the path, aware that she was late. Being late annoyed her. She hated her routines being upset this way.
At fifty-nine, Shirley Dibs had grown to appreciate a regimented life and being late wasn’t part of that schema. Rounding the corner of the house, she quickened her pace, high heels tapping on the paving stones.
Shirley Dibs may have been long on years, but she was far from short on energy, and as she hurried along she went over all the things she needed to do that day. The first task was to get Edna’s breakfast, then give her a quick wash before hurrying off to her next client. Shaking her head she chastised herself. A late start like this could mess up her whole day.
Shirley Dibs had worked in the caring business since leaving school, dedicating her life to the comfort of others. In that time she’d seen plenty of changes, many of which she’d welcomed, but being made to call her old dears, clients, always grated. It sounded so unemotional, so detached, nothing at all like the feelings she experienced on her day to day rounds of the Sheltered Accommodation complex.
Opening Edna’s front door with her master-key, Shirley Dibs entered the small house, wrinkling her nose at the slight smell that often permeated her older client’s homes. Edna’s house had been rearranged so that the bedroom was now in what had once been the lounge. Kicking off her high heels, she slipped on a pair of flat shoes that she always carried in her handbag.
Shirley Dibs wouldn’t be seen out and about in anything but high heels, even though they added an extra two inches to her six-four stature, but they were too uncomfortable for housework.
“Morning, Edna,” she called in an unexpectedly deep voice - the years of smoking having taken their toll. Slipping an inhaler from her cardigan, she took a couple of puffs. “Edna,” she called again. “Are you awake?”
Walking into the kitchen, she held the kettle under the tap, coughing gently while it filled with water. It was past time for her first cigarette but that would have to wait. She’d have it on the way over to Mr Dunn’s, her next client. He smoked like a trooper, even though he was in the last stages of cancer.
“Edna?” Passing the radio on the kitchen counter, she flicked it on, frowning as she listened to the news and waited for the kettle to boil. So much trouble in the world these days, so much horror. Never mind, she’d get Edna a nice cup of tea and help her wash and comb her hair. The poor old thing was waking up later and later these days. Perhaps she should suggest cutting back on the sleeping pills. The kettle boiled and clicked off.
Padding down the corridor, Edna’s tea in hand, Shirley Dibs pushed open the bedroom door, her attention still on the latest news from Libya. She stopped on the threshold, stock still for a moment, a puzzled frown on her face, not really registering the scene in front of her.
Something is very wrong, she told herself.
Then her eyes and mouth widened, her pupils narrowing as her skin turned cold and clammy. Edna had turned red. In fact the whole bed had turned red. And a big red splodge ran down the wall behind the bed-head onto the floor.
Then the smell hit her - a smell of faeces and blood, something she remembered from her days as a nurse.
The cup and saucer finally slipped from her trembling fingers, crashing to the floor, tea splashing her leg. The hot liquid against her skin hardly registered as her gaze stayed locked on the scene.
She stepped closer to the bed, hand covering her mouth, stifling a not yet formed scream. She stared at the body, then at the redness on the white wall, understanding flooding her mind.
Shirley Dibs later recounted the one enduring memory that would forever haunt her to a newspaper reporter; Edna’s feeble body, ripped to shreds, pieces of her intestines hanging from a gaping wound, laying like a disembowelled child on the blood soaked bed.
But worse than that, and something she never did disclose to anyone, was the old lady’s untouched face bearing the beautific smile of someone who’d seen an angel.
=08:30 hrs=
Alex yawned, climbed out of bed and stretched, rubbing his back, which still ached from being curled up under the Dawn’s console. Walking to the bathroom he stepped into the bath, pulling the shower curtain closed behind him, wishing he had enough spare cash to have a separate shower put in, rather than the over-bath one he had to make do with.
Ten minutes later he finished his shower and pulled on a pair of old jeans and a black tee-shirt which had, ‘I Love Cockles’, emblazoned across the front. It had been a present from Karen years ago, and tattered as it was, he still wore it when he could.
Opening a packet of breakfast cereal from the cupboard above the sink, he stood with his back against the worktop eating straight from the box, his mind occupied with the intricacies of the wiring he’d replaced yesterday. He’d check it out today, then carry out a trial run. If that went okay, then he’d try a longer run tomorrow and after that a full sea trial.
Alex was an old hand at submersible maintenance, often asked to undertake sea-worthiness tests on equipment owned by other companies. In fact this was his only income at present, which was why he’d been so glad to get the Dawn at such a bargain price. Now all he needed was some work.
Checking the time, Alex shoved the packet back in the cupboard, wondering if it was too early to ring his contact in the oil business. The man had given him some work a couple of months ago. Perhaps he might have some more.
No, that would have to wait, he told himself. He had to catch up on the dreaded paperwork first.
Walking down the path from his house, Alex raised a hand at the, “Good morning,” he received from Mr Waverly, out early tending his roses.
Smiling, Alex thought that maybe he should offer to put some outside lighting in the old man’s garden so that he could spend even more time digging. Chuckling to himself, he creaked open the door of his battered old car.
After he’d turned it over a couple of times the Fiat spluttered into life and he set off towards Mudeford and the bay where his business was located. It was a sunny morning, a gentle breeze blowing in off the sea.
Alex inhaled the sea air as he got out of the car, savouring the ozone. He didn’t bother locking the battered vehicle, figuring that if anyone was desperate enough to steal it, they were more than welcome.
Unlocking his workshop, Alex slid the big doors aside and walked into the cool, shaded interior. He’d been lucky finding the premises at such a reasonable rate. Property was expensive in Christchurch. Walking through to the offices at the back, he checked his answer-phone. It had one message from an old friend who wanted to meet up for a drink.
Settling down at his untidy desk, Alex spent the next couple of hours catching up on paperwork and telephoning around his contacts, letting them know he had his own submersible and was looking for contracts. A couple of people said they’d get back to him but none gave him a firm promise. Maybe his luck would change when Dawn got home from her holiday on the Isle of Wight. Things always seemed brighter when she was around.
At lunchtime Alex pulled a pizza from the freezer in the workshop and stuck it in the microwave, making himself a cup of tea while it warmed up. As he ate the tasteless meal, he poured over the wiring diagrams for the Dawn, brushing away the crumbs that fell from his fingers.
By the time he’d finished lunch he was happy that the rewiring he’d undertaken was good, and folded up the cheese-spotted drawings. Squinting through the thin film of dirt covering his office window he saw that a strong wind had blown up, buffeting the tall bushes outside.
Switching on his computer, Alex checked the Met Office weather site and then looked outside again. The sea was choppy but not so bad that he wouldn’t be able to launch his submersible. If he got a move on that is.
Opening a steel cupboard at the rear of the workshop, he rummaged around inside until he found the can of white spray paint he was looking for. Then using a small craft knife, he cut out a template from a piece of thick card, using it to test spray a name on a small piece of plywood. Standing back he studied his work.
Yeah, not bad. Not bad at all, he thought.
Digging out a can of black acrylic paint, he repeated the process on both sides of the submersible, then stood back, inspecting it from every angle. The italicised letters seemed to flow along the sides of the craft. It looked really good. Walking back into his office, he opened a drawer and pulled out a miniature bottle of Champaign that he’d been saving for the occasion.
After easing the submersible down the concrete ramp into the sea and releasing it from its cradle, Alex waded into the water and opened the bottle, pouring Champaign over the front of his new acquisition.
“I name you Dawn,” he said proudly. “God bless you and all who sail in you. Especially me.”
Chuckling to himself, he manoeuvred the craft against the large tyres hanging down from the quayside, tying it off to a bollard with a painter. Then walking back to the workshop, he hauled the empty cradle back up the ramp with an electric winch. Finished, Alex stood silently for a moment, wishing with all his heart that Karen had been at his side for the launch.
The submersible - an Explorer 1000 - had a working depth of 305 metres and could take two passengers, four in an emergency. The large, bulbous bow port gave a wide angled view but was only useful in clear water. The sea off the coast of Christchurch could be murky and Alex would need to use the on-board radar he’d installed to supplement the sonar set-up.
Latching down the top hatch he settled in the captain’s seat and ran up the various systems, using the check list he’d drawn up the previous night. As he worked his way through the list, various instruments and dials came to life, until the interior of the submersible began to resemble the cockpit of a jumbo jet.
Lastly he checked the batteries, which he’d left charging over-night. Fully charged they would power the Dawn along at a cruising speed of four knots. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, Alex donned the marine VHF radio headset and contacted the Harbour Master, advising her where he was going and how long he expected to be.
Casting off by way of a specialised retractable painter that he’d designed himself, Alex engaged the main motors and took the submersible out to sea. For safety reasons he should have had another person in the sub with him but he was far too impatient to wait until he could arrange that. Once clear of shallow water he kicked in the main ballast thrusters and took the Dawn down until she was running a few metres above the sea bed, the steady ping of the sonar sounding the way in his headset.
It was some three hours later that he returned to the quayside and tied up his craft, his face lit up with a big smile. The tests had all gone well, only needing a few tweaks here and there. The pressure had held up but the faulty seal definitely needed replacing. If he ordered it now he could pick it up and fit it tomorrow. All-in-all he was happy with how the sea trials had gone. Tomorrow he’d take the submersible out farther and make the last few checks.
It took an hour to haul the submersible from the water back into the shed, and it was getting late by the time he’d finished. Alex felt ravenous.
Setting the burglar alarm, he locked the door and headed off to the pub, leaving his car where it was. Alex knew that the Christchurch police loved nothing more than lurking in the hedgerows, waiting to catch the unwary motorist, and he was determined that nothing would spoil his mood tonight.
“Alex,” the barmaid greeted him as he settled himself on the high barstool, “What can I get you?”
“A lager-top please.”
Alex watched Carol pull his pint. She was the archetypical barmaid - blond, big busted and flirtatious - but Alex knew that was just a façade for the punters. Underneath lay a rather shy but gracious woman, who held a Ph.D. in Politics and was someone who, given the chance, could hold a listener enthralled for hours with her wide-read knowledge and interests.
Alex sat by himself drinking his beer while Carol chatted to a couple of guys at the other end of the bar. After a while she drifted over and poured herself a small port. Sipping it, she smiled at him.
“So how’s it going? I haven’t seen that old man of yours for some time,” Alex said by way of an opening.
Carol sighed, leaning back against the shelf behind her. “His month on the rigs,” she said, a wistful look in her eyes.
“Miss him?”
“You’ll never know how much.”
Alex thought about his daughter, away at boarding school for most of the year, and even during her holiday still not here at his side. He nodded slowly. “Wouldn’t bet on that girl,” he said slowly.
Carol flushed slightly, looking embarrassed. “Oh I’m sorry Alex . . .”
He smiled at her. “It’s okay, been a long time now.”
“Yeah but you still miss her a lot, don’t you?” When Alex didn’t r