Scorpion [Scorpions 01] Page 5

  There was a thump as the car breached the grass verge and hit the tarmac road. The rear tires howled, smoke streaming from the tortured rubber. Then they gripped and the sports car leaped forward. This stretch of the coast road was fairly straight, with nothing to slow a vehicle down; the speedometer needle rose at an alarming rate.

  It was doubtful whether Fran Collingwood would have reached Long Point’s hospital without having an accident even if she had managed to negotiate the coast road. As it was the question became academic.

  She had travelled for just over one mile and was doing exactly 121 miles an hour when the front offside wheel struck a shallow pothole in the road. It was enough at that speed to jerk the steering wheel from Fran’s grip. If she had not been suffering from the weakening effects of the poison spreading through her body she would probably have corrected the alteration in her line of travel without any problems. Instead she panicked, clamped both hands on the wheel and pulled. The car swung in towards the grass verge in a screeching half-circle. The car’s weight plus its forward momentum flipped it over. Landing on its roof, the car carried on along the road, sparks trailing behind it. Again its own body mass became its worst enemy. The car began to roll, bouncing along the road. Debris flew from the disintegrating wreck. One of those pieces of debris was Fran Collingwood’s body. Her momentum carried her out of the shattered car and took her screaming along the road. The screaming ceased as her body hit the tarmac surface. It took the flesh from her bones, smearing her blood and her entrails in a greasy splash of red and white and grey against the black road. Her mangled remains came to rest against the side of the road. There was barely an unbroken bone left in her twisted corpse. One arm was completely torn from her body. Her face was unrecognizable, the features reduced to pulped flesh and blood and ground-in dirt from the road. All the dreams that had existed inside her beautiful head were gone. The future plans, the fame and fortune that was to have been hers, all gone. There were no erotic images to be captured on photographic paper. The last picture of Fran Collingwood was taken by a man named Milo Wallace. He was a police photographer, called out by the accident unit which went to the scene of the fatality out on the coast road.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘I don’t give a damn what Camperly says - it’s got to be more than just a coincidence!’

  Allan Brady paced impatiently back and forth across the lab.

  ‘Why, laddie?’ McFee inquired.

  ‘Hell, Fergus, can’t you see?’ Allan turned on his heel. ‘First Les Mason. Yesterday this Lippman chap. The same symptoms.’

  ‘With a wee difference, Allan,’ McFee pointed out. ‘Lippman died within a few minutes of suffering a massive coronary.’

  ‘Brought on by something injecting him with venom. Something which stung him,’ Allan insisted.

  ‘All right, let’s agree that the sting contributed,’ McFee said.

  ‘What about the girl who crashed the car?’

  ‘Come on, Allan,’ McFee said. ‘That imagination of yours is working overtime.

  Ever since you got involved in the Mason case you’ve been prowling around like Doctor Kildare.’

  Allan ignored the jibe. ‘Did you look at the girl’s body?’

  McFee shook his head. ‘No. And I’ll tell you why - because it was nothing to do with me or this department.’

  Allan sat down. ‘That’s what I thought until I heard the details. She crashed her car on the coast road. She was doing 121 miles per hour, and she was driving that car naked.’

  ‘So?’ McFee questioned. ‘Maybe she was a kinky speed freak.’

  ‘The police found where she’d had her car parked. And where she’d been sunbathing. But she left that spot in one hell of a hurry, Fergus. So quickly that she didn’t even bother to put on her clothes. She left all her stuff behind. A woman wouldn’t do a thing like that unless she was in a real panic’

  ‘So you sneaked a look at the body?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Find anything?’

  ‘A single puncture mark on the inside of the right thigh. She was pretty badly smashed up. It took some finding.’

  McFee scratched the side of his chin. ‘You’re not thinking of telling Camperly, are you?’

  ‘You don’t think I should, do you?’

  ‘Look, Allan, he’s already had one go at you. Warned you off. All you’re liable to do is make it worse for yourself.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, Fergus, I’m only doing my job.’

  ‘And as far as I’m concerned, Brady, all you are doing is wasting time. Your own and the department’s!’

  Allan turned to find Andrew Camperly standing just inside the open lab door. Camperly’s face was taut with anger, his eyes glittering icily.

  ‘I thought the function of this department was investigative,’ Allan said, refusing to back down from Camperly’s hard stare.

  Camperly closed the lab door.

  ‘The function of this department is my affair, Brady,’ he said. ‘You are here to do as you are told. I put it in such simple terms because it’s obvious you are incapable of understanding.’

  Allan would have stepped forward if Fergus McFee hadn’t tugged at his lab coat.

  ‘Doctor Camperly,’ McFee said, ‘I think it ought to be appreciated that Allan did what he thought was right.’

  ‘What was right in this case,’ Camperly snapped, ‘was to abide by my instructions.’

  There was a strained silence.

  ‘Doctor Camperly, I’m serious about this matter,’ Allan said.

  ‘So am I, Brady,’ Camperly retorted. ‘I’ve heard about your inquiries and your poking into matters which do not concern you.’

  ‘Have you stopped to look at the results?’ Allan protested.

  ‘Results?’ Camperly laughed harshly. ‘All right, let’s analyze your findings, Doctor. You’ve based this whole episode on the fact that one man had a severe reaction to an insect sting. Now you are assuming that the second man, Lippman, died from the same causes. The post mortem revealed that he was suffering from a defective heart. He could have dropped dead anywhere at any time.’

  ‘But he was stung.’ Allan insisted.

  ‘I don’t deny that, but my tests have proved there was very little poison in the bloodstream. Facial discoloration is not uncommon with this kind of attack.’

  McFee cleared his throat softly.

  ‘Now,’ Camperly continued, ‘we come to the young woman who overturned her car on the coast road. Fatal injuries were received after she was thrown from her overturned car… at the speed she was travelling there was no chance of her surviving. You’re maintaining that she was stung?’

  Allan nodded. ‘I found a puncture mark on the inside of her right thigh.’

  ‘After an accident like that I’m sure there must have been many puncture marks on the body.’

  Allan opened his mouth to speak but Camperly cut him off.

  ‘We’ve wasted enough time over this matter,’ he said. ‘You, Brady, will concentrate on the work I assign. Nothing else. There isn’t room for individual flights of fancy… not in this department. We’re part of the Health Service - remember that. Taxpayers’ money built this place and keeps it running. I will not allow any behavior liable to jeopardize this department’s existence!’

  ‘So as far as you’re concerned there isn’t any basis for further investigations?’

  ‘Correct, Doctor Brady,’ Camperly said briskly. ‘Now, let us get on with our work!’

  He turned and strode out of the lab. As the door closed behind him Allan glanced across at Fergus McFee. The Scot shrugged and moved off to his bench. Mentally chalking up a round to Camperly, Allan turned to his own work.

  He concentrated hard, taking his frustration out on his work, and by lunchtime he had completed a series of tests that would have normally taken all day. At one o’clock he took off his lab coat, picked up his jacket, and crossed to McFee’s bench.

  ‘Coming for lunch?’
he asked.

  McFee shook his head. ‘I want to classify these cultures first,’ he said. ‘You go ahead, Allan, I’ll get something later.’

  Outside the building Allan paused on the steps. The controlled temperature in the building protected the department’s staff from extremes on the outside. Now Allan was subjected to the full force of the cloying, clinging heat. He glanced up at the cloudless sky, wondering when the weather was going to break.

  ‘Hello!’

  The voice was female and vaguely familiar. Allan glanced down and saw Chris Lane.

  ‘I was on my way in to find you,’ Chris said as he joined her.

  ‘How are you?’ Allan asked.

  Chris smiled quickly. ‘Better than I was the last time we met.’

  Allan took a long look at her and decided that she was still looking pale. There were faint rings around her eyes.

  ‘Did you want to see me about anything in particular?’ Allan asked, though he admitted that any reason was good enough - he was only too pleased to meet her again.

  ‘I wanted to say thanks for your help last week. You appeared at just the right moment.’

  ‘That’s the way it is with us Good Fairies,’ Allan grinned. ‘But I’m glad I was able to do something.’

  He touched her arm. ‘Are you still feeling down because of Les?’

  ‘It still bothers me.’

  They crossed the car park, silent for a moment.

  ‘Have you had lunch?’ Allan asked suddenly.

  Chris shook her head.

  ‘There’s a nice little pub about half a mile down the road,’ Allan said. ‘The Greener’s Arms. Shall we use my car?’

  ***

  The Greener’s Arms had its usual lunchtime crowd but Allan managed to find them an empty corner table. Chris sat down while Allan collected plates of cold chicken and salad and a bottle of chilled wine.

  ‘Do you come here often?’ Chris asked, and laughed at her use of such an old line.

  Allan responded to her laughter, relaxing for the first time that day. They began to talk easily, steering away from the matters that had brought them together.

  Chris told Allan about her work as a freelance illustrator. She took commissions from book and magazine publishers, creating visual interpretations of the written texts. Her most recent work, she told him, had been for an American paperback publisher - six paintings to be used on the covers of a new series of science fiction novels.

  ‘It was quite a feather in my cap,’ she said, ‘getting a commission like that against American competition.’

  Allan raised his glass. ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘Even if they are a little late.’

  Emptying her glass Chris allowed Allan to refill it for her.

  ‘Allan,’ she began, her light tone vanishing, ‘what killed Les?’

  Allan stared over her shoulder at the clock on the far wall. He noted absently what time it was. He’d been expecting this question all through lunch - yet it still caught him off guard.

  ‘In simple terms he died from blood-poisoning, brought on by the toxic venom introduced into his system by whatever stung him.’

  ‘But what?’ Chris asked.

  ‘We don’t know. I was unable to pinpoint the venom.’

  Chris studied him for a time. ‘Is there more?’

  Allan didn’t hesitate. He decided that if anyone had a right to know what he thought it was Chris.

  ‘There have been two more deaths since Les Mason’s. Both over the weekend, in the same general area where Les Mason was stung.’

  ‘You mean people being stung, and dying as a result?’

  ‘In one case, yes. The second death was as a result of a high-speed car crash - but I’m certain in my own mind that before the accident the victim had been stung.’

  Allan described the details concerning the deaths of Jack Lippman and Fran Collingwood. He also told Chris of his clash with Camperly and the playing down of the mystery surrounding the cause of the fatalities.

  ‘The question is what stung the victims? In the beginning I considered some kind of snake, but that has been ruled out now. The wounds are suggestive of an insect, and in this country that brings us back to bees, wasps or hornets.’

  ‘Could it be a new species?’ Chris asked. ‘One that has adapted itself to the changing environment? I’ve studied this subject a little since my involvement with the protest group - some animals have been forced to change, adopt new lifestyles simply because of the way we’ve been treating the world around us.’

  She stopped suddenly, a self-conscious smile appearing on her face.

  ‘There I go - up on my soapbox!’

  ‘Don’t stop on my account,’ Allan said. ‘I’m all for keeping nature the way it is. If it isn’t already too late.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, if I don’t get back I’ll be forced to change my lifestyle - to being out of a job!’

  As Allan drove back to the hospital Chris asked: ‘Do you think there could be more of these fatal stingings?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell. I hope there aren’t - but until we know what’s causing them we can’t do anything to stop them.’

  ‘But if your Doctor Camperly has ordered you to leave the matter alone what can you do?’

  ‘As well as being extremely curious I’m also very stubborn.’

  ‘Allan, please let me help if I can.’

  He smiled at her. ‘I will.’

  He eased the Capri into the hospital car park and they got out.

  ‘Thanks for the lunch, Allan. I really enjoyed it. And the company.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ Allan ran his fingers through his dark hair. ‘I don’t want to push so soon after Les Mason’s death, but maybe we could do it again?’

  Chris’s smile was instantaneous and genuine. ‘I’d love to. Give me a call whenever you’re free. My number’s in the book.’

  ***

  Chris drove back through Long Point to her small cottage. She parked in the drive and went inside.

  For some odd reason she felt restless. She made herself a cup of coffee. She decided that her mood had been generated by her talk with Allan about Les Mason. She felt angry - angry at the way Les had had to die in such a wasteful way when he’d had so much to do with his life. She sat down and started to read through the manuscript she’d been studying the night before. The script had been in Les’s car, and noticing the heading Chris had brought it home to read. It was the rough draft for an article Les had been preparing - an in-depth investigation of the problems of nuclear energy. Les had often talked about the article; it had been his pet project. As she read through the draft Chris saw that he had put a great deal of effort into the research. From what she could see the article was pretty close to completion. As she read the notes Les had jotted down Chris realized that he had died before following up one last important piece of information - and that information directly concerned the Long Point Nuclear Plant. Written in the margin of the last page was a name and an address, and beneath it Les had added his own comments. Chris read what he’d written and felt a tingle of excitement. It appeared that someone had information regarding the plant that would be of great interest to anyone objecting to its existence - the kind of information that the authorities would want to keep quiet about.

  Chris got up and hurried out of the cottage. On her way to the door she picked up a notepad and a pen. She climbed in her car and drove towards Long Point. Parking in the town square she hurried across the street and entered the old, grey stone building that housed the printing works and offices of the local newspaper. The Long Point News had been established, so the story went, somewhere back in the dark ages, and there were those who suggested that the editor, Harry Farnum, went back even further. Farnum was a living cliche, the model on which every fictional newspaper editor had been based. He was a hard-drinking, blunt, often melodramatic character who ran the paper with the power of a Mafia Godfather.

  Climbing the dark stairs leading t
o the editorial offices Chris made her way through the big newsroom. Most of the time it was alive with noise but today, oddly, the place was deserted. Chris recalled that a special church service had been arranged for Les Mason’s friends in the newspaper business. Even though a lot of them had attended his funeral on the previous Sunday, the emptiness of the newsroom showed the depth of their feeling for Les.

  A partitioned section with frosted glass panels stood at the far end of the room. Chris could see a bulky figure moving about behind the glass. She tapped on the door and heard a muffled acknowledgement from inside the office.

  ‘Hello, Harry,’ Chris said as she entered the office.

  ‘Chris.’ Harry Farnum, a bulky file in his big hands, crossed the office. He put a powerful arm around Chris’s shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. ‘How are you, love?’

  ‘I’m fine, Harry.’

  Farnum dumped the file on his untidy desk and lowered his solid bulk into the creaking swivel chair. He gestured for Chris to sit down, his keen eyes noting her pale complexion. ‘Shouldn’t you be taking things easy?’

  ‘I don’t think that would help, Harry.’

  Farnum nodded. He tugged at the collar of his crumpled shirt. ‘Damn heat,’ he muttered. ‘That was a good service they held for Les on Sunday,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I didn’t see you there, Harry.’

  He smiled. ‘You know I’m not one for crowds. I had a nice view and I heard every word.’

  ‘I see everyone has gone to the special service they’re holding today.’

  Farnum scratched the top of his balding head. ‘Any excuse to get out of the office,’ he said gruffly. ‘I probably won’t see ’em again today.’