The Invisible Assassin Read online

  ‘It wasn’t,’ insisted Jake. ‘I saw it. They saw it. And at least one of them will tell what happened, and some news editor hungry for an interesting item for page two will write it up.’

  Paul shook his head.

  ‘It’ll soon get squashed,’ he said. ‘H or H.’

  Jake frowned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘H or H,’ repeated Paul. ‘Hoax or Hallucination. The standard rebuttal to any story of that kind, whether it’s UFOs, people vanishing into thin air, weird monsters, spontaneous combustion, anything out of the ordinary. I’m surprised you weren’t told about H or H.’ Paul shrugged. ‘But then, you’ve only been here . . . what?’

  ‘I’ve been here nine months!’ protested Jake.

  ‘But you haven’t had to deal with one of these stories so far. So, now you have. Welcome to the wonderful world of H or H.’

  Jake was about to carry on his protest about what he’d seen, when his phone rang.

  ‘Jake Wells,’ he said.

  It was Gareth Findlay-Weston, his head of section in the press office.

  ‘Jake,’ said Gareth. Even though Jake couldn’t see Gareth, he could tell by the tone of his voice Gareth was smiling. Or, at least, that he had a smile on his face, which wasn’t necessarily the same thing. ‘Can you pop up to my office?’

  Gareth’s office was on the third floor. Jake and Paul and the rest of the grunts in the press office were on the first floor. As Jake walked up the stairs he reflected on how the floor levels indicated seniority. In fact, the whole building that was the Department of Science reflected levels of seniority. The higher you went, the more intimidating the building became: the banisters changed from ordinary metal to brass. The light fittings, which were plain white plastic up to the second floor, became shining gunmetal from the third floor upwards. Jake wondered what the fittings were made of when you got beyond the fourth floor: solid gold, perhaps, or maybe platinum.

  He walked along the narrow corridor, panelled with dark oak, the wood adorned with old paintings showing an England long past: hunting scenes, old countryside celebrations, all of it looking backwards. It hardly went with the image the Department of Science liked to present, as thrusting boldly into the twenty-first century. Though the public would never come this far, never see these pictures or the dark oak panels. They’d be kept at the lower levels, the second floor and below, where it was all chromium lighting, modern prints and small abstract shapes, models of molecular structures and large plasma screens.

  Jake arrived at Gareth’s door, knocked, and went in to be met by Gareth’s assistant, Janet.

  ‘He’s ready for you,’ said Janet, ushering Jake smartly over to an inner office.

  Gareth was sitting behind a huge desk that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a James Bond film. There was very little on the desk, except two telephones and a photograph in a silver frame showing his wife and sons.

  ‘Jake!’ Gareth greeted him, the usual broad smile. He waved him to a chair. ‘Well done, Jake. Damn good stuff yesterday! For a trainee, you did a magnificent job under difficult circumstances. You did absolutely the right thing, getting on to me. Averted what could have been a mass panic.’

  ‘What about the man?’

  ‘Which man?’

  ‘The building worker. The one who . . . you know . . . turned into that thing.’

  Gareth frowned.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, Jake?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jake. ‘Obviously a bit shaken up. I mean, it’s not every day you see something like that . . .’

  Gareth got up from his chair and came round the desk to Jake, a look of concern on his face.

  ‘Did you get yourself checked?’ he asked. ‘By the medicos, I mean.’

  ‘Well . . . no,’ said Jake. ‘If you remember, you ordered me to come back here to deal with the press because you sent Algy to take over control of the press at the site. You said the situation called for someone with more experience.’

  Gareth shook his head apologetically.

  ‘I’m dreadfully sorry, Jake. I was terribly lax. Trying to stop it turning into a media circus. I think you’d better go and see the quack and get yourself checked out.’

  ‘But the man who tuned into that . . . thing,’ insisted Jake.

  Gareth gave Jake a hard look.

  ‘It didn’t happen,’ he said firmly. ‘There was some sort of leak of toxic gas which gave everyone the heebie-jeebies and made them see things.’ Then his expression softened. ‘I’m sorry, Jake. After all, as your immediate boss I have a duty of care to you and everyone in my department. So, go to the medico department and get yourself checked out. It could be you’ve still got traces of the gas, whatever it was, in your system. Get fixed up now. Then we’ll talk afterwards.’

  Gareth gave a smile and patted Jake on the shoulder, then he picked up his internal phone and tapped out a number.

  ‘Infirmary,’ he said, ‘Findlay-Weston. One of my department needs a check-up as a result of this gas leak that happened in Bedfordshire. Yes, he’s still suffering the after-effects, so I’m sending him along to you. His name’s Jake Wells. Give him a full once-over, and any treatment he needs. Bill my department. Quote my name as reference.’

  Fifteen minutes later, a semi-naked Jake was in the basement of the building, being prodded and poked by a doctor in a white coat while a nurse stood by and made notes. It was a thorough examination, no doubt about that. Blood pressure. Blood sample. Urine sample. Weight. A lung test, blowing into a funnel connected to some machine. Eyes tested, lights shone into them; followed by a standard optician’s eye test.

  At the end of it, when Jake had dressed, the doctor handed him a prescription.

  ‘You’ll need to take these three times a day,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ asked Jake. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

  ‘We’re not sure,’ said the doctor. ‘You’ve apparently been exposed to some kind of toxic gas, but there’s no indication of what sort of gas it is, what the constituents are. All we know are the symptoms, a kind of hallucination.’

  It was on the tip of Jake’s tongue to say, ‘It wasn’t a hallucination! I saw a man turn into some kind of heaving mass of vegetation!’ but he decided against it. It might make the doctor send him for psychiatric reports, and who knew what that might unleash?

  Jake took the prescription.

  ‘So, what are these things?’

  ‘They’re anti-hallucinogens,’ said the doctor. ‘You should be back to normal in a day or so, once they’ve cleared through your system.’ He scribbled on another piece of paper, tore it off a pad, and handed it to Jake. ‘This is a sick certificate for twenty-four hours. Come back and see me on Thursday and we’ll check you over again. Make an appointment with the nurse on your way out.’

  As Jake left the room, he was sure of one thing: he wasn’t going to be taking the pills. What he’d seen hadn’t been a hallucination.

  Chapter 3

  Ten minutes later, Jake was back in Gareth’s office, showing him the sick note and the prescription. This time Gareth didn’t smile. Instead he sighed heavily and sympathetically.

  ‘My poor Jake,’ he said. ‘It looks like you’ve become a victim of this tragedy.’ Then the sigh switched back to a reassuring smile again as he added, ‘But only temporarily, if the medico’s right. And there’s no reason to think he isn’t. After all, this is the Department of Science, and if we can’t have the best that modern medicine has to offer in this country, then who can?’

  Taking Jake’s arm and steering him towards the outer office and Janet, Gareth continued, ‘Twenty-four hours, then I’m sure everything’ll be fine. And don’t worry about work. I’ve detailed Paul Evans to take care of your stuff until you get back. The main thing is: rest and recovery.’ Gareth opened his door and patted Jake on the back in a blokey sort of way. ‘You’re a good man, Jake, with a future here. You’ve already shown that with the way you handled this situation. We need you,
and we need you in good form. Look after yourself.’

  Jake trudged down the marble stairs with their brass handrails, crossing the boundary to stairs with metal handrails, and back to the big open-plan office. Paul was sitting at his desk, on the phone, which he hung up as Jake returned.

  ‘I’ve got the news,’ he said. ‘Janet phoned me. You’ve got tomorrow off and I’ve got your workload.’ He grinned. ‘Lucky beggar. Maybe I ought to pretend to be seeing things and get a day off.’

  Jake shrugged and forced a grin. ‘It worked for me,’ he said.

  He saw that Paul had already added Jake’s most recent files to his own pile of work in his pending file. On the top was a fresh folder marked ‘Bedfordshire Incident’.

  ‘Things have moved fast,’ said Jake, pointing to the file.

  Paul nodded.

  ‘Remember the first rule: being in the press office means being one step ahead,’ he said. ‘The modern media work by split seconds, not hours. Something happens in the UK, within seconds the rest of the world knows about it.’

  Jake flicked opened the file. Inside was his own report on the incident, along with a list of names and addresses: the people who’d been there: building contractors, protestors, Penny Johnson, the paramedics who’d attended, even the SAS men who’d arrived, although they were only identified as ‘Soldier A’ and ‘Soldier B’, and so on. Halfway down the second page, where there was the description of the man ‘apparently becoming infected’ (the phrase was in inverted commas and the letters ‘H or H’ next to it), someone had written the word ‘SIGMA’ in capitals.

  ‘What’s this mean?’ asked Jake. ‘Sigma?’

  Paul looked.

  ‘Ah yes, I’ve seen that before,’ he said. ‘Gareth’s writing. I think it’s a kind of shorthand for H or H.’

  ‘Hardly shorthand,’ said Jake. ‘It would take longer to write.’

  Paul shrugged. ‘You know these Oxford types. They like to use phrases that sound classical. Have you noticed the amount of Latin they use when they talk to one another. A bit pretentious, if you ask me.’

  Paul was a Cambridge man.

  ‘Possibly.’ Jake nodded.

  ‘So,’ Paul grinned, ‘that’s you off. What will you do?’

  ‘Rest and recover,’ said Jake. ‘Those are my orders from upstairs, and I mean to obey them to the letter.’ He headed to his own desk. ‘I just need to sort out a couple of things, and then I’m off.’

  ‘No need,’ said Paul. ‘Janet was most insistent that you just pack up and go now. Gareth’s orders. She said he’s worried about you.’

  ‘That’s very flattering,’ said Jake. Then Paul’s phone rang.

  ‘Evans, press office,’ he said briskly, and whatever the query was immediately grabbed his full attention, so Jake was able to get back to his desk without further arguments.

  Beneath his apparent happiness at getting two days off on full pay, Jake was puzzled. It was all too easy. Was it really concern about his health? And he had seen what he’d seen at that building site, he was sure of it. But had that really been a hallucination, as Gareth and the doctor suggested? And was this feeling that something wasn’t right an extension of that, a linked form of paranoia?

  Jake sat down at his computer. He was about to switch it off, when something made him go to the department’s internal search engine and type in ‘Sigma’. Immediately, the message came up: ‘Restricted to Level 4 or above.’ Jake’s security clearance was Level 2. Receptionists were Level 1. Trainee and junior press officers were Level 2. Cleaning staff were Level 3.

  Jake closed down his computer, picked up his briefcase, then waved goodbye to Paul as he headed for the door. Paul was still on the phone and gave him a wave and a thumbs-up back.

  Jake knew it would be the wisest thing to just leave the building and go home. Watch a DVD or two. Eat pizza. Take a walk. Do a gallery. But instead he went down to the basement level of the building, to the archives. He showed his pass to the security guard on duty, and then went to the central desk marked ‘Information’. Two librarians were there. One was busy at her computer terminal, too busy to take notice of Jake. The other, a middle-aged man, smiled at him.

  ‘Yes?’ he asked. ‘Can I help you?’

  Jake proffered his pass to the man.

  ‘Jake Wells, press office,’ he said. ‘I’m looking to see if you’ve got anything on Sigma.’

  ‘Sigma?’

  Jake spelt it for him, and the man typed it in. There was a pause, then the man gave a rueful smile.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Wells, the Sigma files are for Level Four and above only, and as you know, your pass is only Level Two. I’m sure if you talk to your department head, he or she will be able to access whatever information you want.’

  Jake was hitting a brick wall. He forced a smile.

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I’ll do that.’

  He half turned to go, and then turned back to the librarian again.

  ‘Oh, one more thing,’ he said. ‘A different question this time. I had a call from a local paper, the Bedfordshire Times. A reporter called Penny Johnson. Do you have a file on her?’

  ‘I’ll check.’

  Once again the librarian typed a few words in, and this time he nodded.

  ‘Yes, there is a file,’ he said. He pressed a key on his keyboard, and a small piece of paper rolled off the printer on the desk. The librarian tore it off and handed it to Jake.

  ‘Take that to the search desk and they’ll hand you the file. But remember, you are not allowed to remove it.’

  ‘I understand.’ Jake nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  He went to the search desk at the other side of the archive library and handed in the slip of paper. The search desk librarian disappeared, then reappeared a few moments later with a slim file marked ‘P. Johnson’. Once again, Jake was instructed that he couldn’t remove the file from the archive library, and he nodded and took it to one of the tables.

  There was a lot of information about Penelope Barbara Johnson. Her age, her address, her parents, her schools (even including her pre-school), where she’d studied journalism on a media studies course. Jake made a note of her phone numbers, both at home and at the office of the Bedfordshire Times. There was no note of her mobile phone number. The very last page was the most recent: the incident the previous day at the building site. The details were those written by Jake, detailing the protest at the site, and the transformation of the building worker into a hideous form, with additional material from Algernon Ainsworth about the mass hallucination caused by the leak of toxic gas.

  So Algy has put the official spin on it, mused Jake. He turned over the page and saw on the back that someone had written in pencil, Sigma – poss Malichea?

  What did ‘Malichea’ mean?

  Jake returned the file to the search desk, thanked the assistant, then went back to the information desk and the librarian.

  ‘Sorry to keep troubling you,’ he said with a smile, ‘but there is one last thing I need to check on. Have you got anything on Malichea?’

  ‘How do you spell that?’ asked the librarian.

  Jake spelt it out and the librarian typed it in, and then gave Jake an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, that information is also restricted to Level Four and above. You’ll need to talk to your department head.’

  ‘I will.’ Jake smiled. ‘Thanks anyway.’

  ‘Jake!’

  A familiar voice behind him made him turn. It was Gareth.

  ‘Jake, still here? I thought you’d be at home by now.’

  Jake gave an apologetic smile.

  ‘There were just a couple of things I wanted to check . . .’

  Gareth chuckled.

  ‘Be careful, Jake, or you’ll be turning into a workaholic. Believe me, it’s not a good thing to be. You never see your kids, your wife thinks you’re having an affair because you’re never at home . . .’

  ‘I’m not married,’ said Jake.

  ‘And being
a workaholic means you’re never likely to be,’ said Gareth.

  He gave Jake a sympathetic squeeze on the shoulder, the second that day. It struck Jake that Gareth had never done such a thing to him before, touching him like this. Was it some kind of secret Freemason sign, perhaps? Or maybe Gareth was gay and this was his way of hitting on Jake?

  ‘Go on,’ said Gareth. ‘Go home, Jake. Get some rest and recover. You’ve had an ordeal. Come back Thursday, see the medico and get yourself cleared as fit, and then you can throw yourself back among the files. We need you, Jake, but we need you fit. No work for the next twenty-four hours. And that’s an order.’

  Chapter 4

  Jake stood on the platform at Victoria underground waiting for the train. The platform was packed with people. Where do they all come from, he thought. At rush hour, he could understand, but this was supposed to be the quiet part of the day. He heard the approaching sound of the train. Automatically, he edged forward, eager to be one of the first on the train and so get a seat. He hated standing, his nose pushed into someone’s else’s smelly armpits, but it nearly always happened.

  The train was nearly out of the tunnel when Jake felt a push in the small of his back. Someone trying to shove in! Jake pressed back, but then was shocked to feel the pressure on his back was firmer, harder, moving him firmly towards the very edge of the platform, shoving hard. If he hadn’t already been resisting he’d have been pushed forward on to the lines, right in front of the train.

  Jake turned, trying to see who was behind him, and as he did so the person gave one last hard push and he felt himself stumbling and falling, into the path of the oncoming train!

  ‘Look out!’

  A man grabbed him and pulled him back, just as the train surged past him. Jake even felt the moving train hit him on the arm. Then he was stumbling back, the man who’d saved him holding his arm.

  ‘You all right, mate?’ asked the man, concerned.

  Jake studied him. The expression of concern on his face looked genuine.

  ‘Yes.’ Jake nodded, still shocked.