Killing Eva E-Book

Alex Blackmore

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Eva Scott Thriller
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 453

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Witnessing a dramatic death at London's Waterloo Station triggers a series of events that shatter Eva Scott's world. Dying words uttered on the station concourse awaken a history she had thought long buried. But the past is about to be resurrected, in all its brutal reality. Soon, Eva's life is out of her hands. A genetic key is keeping her alive; but foreshadowing her death. People she loved and lost materialise and then disappear, testing the limits of her sanity. Inextricably linked to her survival is the potential takedown of an economic power, on which hang the lives of many others. The only way out is through. But Eva's life is no longer her own. And it's killing her.

Leseprobe

KILLING EVA

Witnessing a dramatic death at London’s Waterloo Station triggers a series of events that shatter Eva Scott’s world. Dying words uttered on the station concourse awaken a history she had thought long buried. But the past is about to be resurrected, in all its brutal reality.

Soon, Eva’s life is out of her hands. A genetic key is keeping her alive; but foreshadowing her death. People she loved and lost materialise and then disappear, testing the limits of her sanity. Inextricably linked to her survival is the potential takedown of an economic power, on which hang the lives of many others.

The only way out is through. But Eva’s life is no longer her own. And it’s killing her.

About the Author

Alex Blackmore gained an LLB and LPC in Law at Nottingham University and went on to practice as a finance lawyer in the City.

After five years in the world of corporate finance and banking, she moved into legal and financial writing and editing before becoming a freelancer full time.

She runs a copywriting business and a fashion retail website championing new designers, and lives in North London.

For John, Vicky, Pippa and B.

With special thanks to my family who have listened, supported and been there on repeat. Thanks to Henning Mankell for taking the time to get to know Eva and providing feedback on my writing, as well as being an inspiration. To everyone at No Exit for bringing the book into being, especially Ion, Claire and CQ, and Jem for the digital skills. Thanks to Annette for tireless support and enthusiasm and Steven for perceptive and intelligent editing. To Jill for showing me a Ceret sunrise and Anna for the therapeutic phone calls and generally being an awesome woman. Thanks also to some of the finest human beings in existence: Jacinta, Emily, JP, Christophe, Katie, Bea, Helen, Adam and Leora who have, at various points, provided exactly what I needed to take a next step, sometimes without even knowing they’re doing it. And finally, the pup, who cannot read or write, but who has kept me sane and down to earth, mostly by eating my favourite shoes.

ONE

Eva drew back from the dying man. His breath was hot on her face, the grip he had on her wrist was tight, but she knew that he had just moments left.

Her heart was beating fast – too fast – and the adrenaline pumping through her body made her muscles burn.

There was now a large crowd of onlookers – it was Waterloo Station at rush hour – but no one else had stepped forward. People just stood and watched, texting or tweeting what was unfolding before their eyes, one eye on the departure boards. Don’t miss that train.

The man had collapsed only moments before. Almost in front of Eva as she ran from a tube train to a bus that would take her to the pub after an unforgiving day. For a split second she had almost swerved round him but the look in the man’s eyes – the terror – stopped her in her tracks.

‘Are you ok?’ she had said, breathlessly, as she tried not to stumble under the man’s weight. His eyes had rolled up towards the ceiling before settling on her once again as he tried to speak. His breath smelled of stale alcohol and he had the unmistakable odour of someone who had not been under a shower for weeks. But he was still alive. Just.

‘Are you ok?’ she had said, again, lowering the man to the cold, hard floor, requiring all her strength to prop up at least 180 pounds of bodyweight. Her muscles shook from the effort. No one helped. It was easy to see why the flock of commuters around her kept their distance. The man had string tied around his waist where the belt to his stained raincoat should be. His hat, now on the floor, was full of holes, and frayed at the brim. Eva could see a sock through the toe of one of his shoes.

Finally, she managed to gently lay him on the floor, took off her scarf and folded it, trying to make him a pillow. She heard mutterings in the crowd – ‘should we call the police?’ ‘tramps, I’m so sick of them’ ‘this problem is getting worse’ – and she saw a flicker of what looked like shame cross the man’s face. He looked at her, eyes suddenly lucid and clear.

‘Kolychak,’ he whispered firmly.

What was that – Russian? Czech?

‘I’m sorry I don’t understand.’

‘Kolychak,’ he said again. And then louder, but still whispered, ‘KOLYCHAK.’

He made a sudden grab for the front of Eva’s coat and pulled her face next to his.

‘Ko-ly-chak,’ he said fervently and tears started to fall from his eyes.

Somewhere in Eva’s mind, recognition flared. But she couldn’t reach it.

‘I don’t understand. Can you tell me who you are, what’s happened to you? We need to get you some help.’

Suddenly, the man let out an ear-piercing shriek that echoed around the station hall. Every person in the enormous space stopped; most turned to face the direction from which the unearthly sound had come.

Eva pulled herself away, stumbled, fell and then sat and stared at him in horror. The noise made her blood run completely cold.

Then the man began to buck and writhe, as if someone was extracting his insides with a toasting fork. No one else moved. Liquid began to bubble and froth at his mouth. It had a bluish tinge. Abruptly, he stopped choking. His body became completely rigid, his eyes wide. Finally, he was still.

Eva heard her heartbeat thumping in her ears. She stared at the man on the floor. Reaching out a shaking hand, she felt his wrist for a pulse. Nothing.

‘Shit, is he ok?’ asked one of her fellow commuters. She looked at him for several seconds.

‘He’s dead.’

When she reached the pub – a ‘historic’ site just off High Holborn – she walked up to the ground floor bar and ordered a straight shot of brandy. She had barely reacted to the dying man at the time – the desire for flight had been too strong – but now she felt shaky and unsettled. Her friends, she knew, were in the bar upstairs in an area reserved for some birthday or other but she needed five minutes alone. Not that she would have it here. Even though it was only a Tuesday night, seething crowds had descended on the City and the man to her left appeared to be planning an imminent introduction. She turned away from him, looked out at the room around her and finished her drink.

‘Do you have a cigarette machine?’ she asked the barman.

‘No, love. There’s a supermarket round the corner though.’

By the time Eva returned to the pub, she was 20 minutes late for the party but still she didn’t go upstairs. She bought herself another brandy from the bar and leaned against the wall outside the building. She smoked three cigarettes in a row. After that, she felt pretty awful.

‘There you are! We thought you weren’t coming!’

Three of Eva’s friends tumbled out of the pub door, rosy cheeked from booze and laughing. Behind them came Sam, the man who had most recently shared Eva’s bed. She looked at him and he smiled. She smiled back but there was no stomach flip.

She made her excuses for being late but when she tried to tell the story of the man on the floor at Waterloo words failed her. She tried again when Sam went to the bar but she couldn’t. Ok, she reasoned eventually, why ruin their night with something she wanted to forget anyway. Sam returned with the drinks and then was at her side. He took her hand. She freed it to light a cigarette.

‘You’re smoking?’ He raised his light eyebrows towards a shock of blond hair.

She nodded and smiled. ‘Bad day.’

He gave her a hug. ‘Go on, give me one too then,’ he whispered in her ear.

She pulled back and then handed over the slim white cigarette and watched him try not to smoke it like a non-smoker.

Conversations in the group continued as one, and then two, more cigarettes were smoked to avoid a return to the cold for an hour at least. Then, the others drifted back inside. Sam pulled at her hand but she remained planted against the wall.

‘Are you ok?’

He came and stood opposite her, put his arms around her waist and stepped forward so that their faces were close.

‘I’m fine.’ She could feel that she was rigid in his arms. You’re still adjusting to being in a relationship, she told herself. It’s not him, it’s you.

He kissed her. ‘See you upstairs,’ he said and walked back into the pub smiling at her over his shoulder, attracting admiring glances as he went.

Eva turned the other way and leaned sideways against the wall. Her head hurt.

The word the man at the station had uttered was circling round and round her mind: kolychak-kolychak-kolychak. It was maddening.

She didn’t understand, she had never even seen him before. But she couldn’t forget what he had said – the incident had shaken her more deeply than it should.

She felt her phone vibrate in her bag and, grateful for the distraction from her thoughts, dug it out.

The display showed two words, starkly white against the blood red background she had chosen as a screensaver:

‘Jackson Calling.’

When she arrived at her flat that night, Eva double locked her front door and drew the chain across – something she never really did, despite living in one of the more ‘up and coming’ neighbourhoods of London.

Once inside, she stood with her back to the door and took several deep breaths.

As soon as she had seen that name on the display of her phone, Eva had started to run. She wasn’t sure where the instinct came from but she hadn’t even picked up the call. In fact, she had dropped her phone and had to rush after it as it skittered towards the edge of the kurb. A bus pulling up at a stop she hadn’t noticed was forced to skid to a halt, the driver sounding the horn angrily. She had been shocked, unaware of the peril so close, and had snatched her phone from the gutter and continued to run.

After that, a bus opposite Holborn station transported her to Camden, where she decided to walk home. On the way, a supermarket stop: a bottle of wine, another packet of cigarettes – a tin of tomato soup as an afterthought.

She’d made the journey home on autopilot. In her head the words ‘kolychak’ and ‘Jackson’ revolved mercilessly.

Jackson was her brother – her dead brother.

She had last seen that caller ID 13 months ago before she had journeyed to Paris and then Paraguay to try to find out what had happened to him. It had been a reckless, dangerous trip – and one that had nearly cost her her life – but she was still none the wiser about the circumstances of his death. Or who it was who had called her from his phone the last time, and why.

For 13 months she hadn’t had to think about it.

Eva moved away from the door and dropped her purchases on the sofa. She noticed she was shaking.

She walked quickly into the bedroom and stripped off her clothes, shivering in the cold air of the spacious flat. She should learn how to set the timer on the heating. She pulled on a pair of running leggings, sports bra and a fluorescent lightweight running top. She tied her long, dark hair back into a ponytail and secured it loosely with a tattered elastic band. It swished from side to side as she walked back through the flat, collected her phone, headphones and keys, slammed the front door behind her and made for the street.

Outside, it was dark and the street was quieter than when she arrived home several minutes earlier. She lived in an area where ‘people like her’ had chosen to put down roots because it was well connected, up and coming but the rent wasn’t yet eye-wateringly expensive. It suited her – it was a cheapish taxi fare home and there were great local pubs. She had been unable to stay in her old flat in Camden as the memories there were too overwhelming.

Outside, she walked for several minutes as she connected her headphones, selected a playlist on her iPhone and then began to run. Her feet pounded the pavements and, gradually, as she settled into a rhythm, she began to relax.

She could think clearly for the first time that day.

Jackson. Jackson was dead. Even before she had gone to Paris 13 months ago to try and follow in his footsteps, she and her father had been told Jackson was dead – a fatal gunshot wound to the head, apparently by his own hand.

By the time Eva returned from Paris, she knew her brother had been working for the government and that he may or may not have been tortured to death. Ultimately, no one – not Irene Hunt, Jackson’s handler, or even Daniel – could confirm or deny whether her brother was still alive. As she thought of Daniel, she felt her fists clench. He had been a friend of Jackson’s at school – a privileged and manipulative boy who had grown into a violent and cruel man. She had encountered him on her first few nights in Paris. He had casually assaulted her when she needed his help. But that was not the only part he had played.

With the calculated cool of a sociopath, Daniel had driven development of a virus that he had planned to release to create a market for a new drug. In the end, his ‘people’ – the Association for the Control of Regenerative Networking – had found his greed made him dispensable. He became a liability and so he was killed. Even now, Eva could remember the look on Daniel’s face in the moment that the shot exploded his skull; she could still smell the metallic odour of his blood on her skin.

Jackson.

She stopped running as she realised she had said the name aloud. She quickly picked up her pace again and continued moving almost soundlessly through the dark streets, her wraith-like figure flitting in and out of lamplights at a steady pace.

She had received several similar calls from her already dead brother in Paris but had never been able to figure out who had made them. Since his death, Jackson had existed only as a caller ID on a smartphone screen – not the Jackson she knew, or even a tangible pretender. Then for 13 months he had been silent. But now someone somewhere wanted her to believe that he was still alive.

‘How do you invade a country without an army?’

‘You don’t.’

‘But you just said…’

‘An invasion does not have to involve movements of troops.’

‘Then I’m not sure I understand.’

The conversation was taking place in the hushed environs of a thickly carpeted Geneva hotel lobby. It was casual, the two participants apparently uninvested. But the first was better informed about the second than the second man would be comfortable with – if he knew.

‘England is a nation of shopkeepers.’

‘Bonaparte.’

‘He was a wise man.’

‘He died a prisoner.’

‘Nevertheless…’

Two tiny white coffee cups with shimmering gold rims were deposited onto the table between the two men by a crisp suited waitress, who departed in silence. Both cups were left untouched.

‘Your intentions are unclear. I think you have obtained this meeting under false pretences.’

‘My intentions are the same as yours.’

‘No, what I mean is I do not understand why you have come to me.’

‘Because I believe I have what you’re looking for.’ He had carefully rehearsed the line.

‘And what might that be?’

‘The key you need.’

‘I do not need a key.’

The air around the two men was becoming hostile. That one could know anything about the other was inconceivable to him. And a threat. The particles bristled as the conversation continued.

‘You have no idea who I am,’ deflecting the threat.

‘I know everything about you.’

‘That… is not possible.’

One of the men – the younger by some decades – reached into the pocket of a cheap suit and pushed a blue memory stick across the gleaming walnut wood of the low coffee table.

The other man looked at it. He was middle aged but well kept. He had a ski tan and it was possible to see the outline of where his goggles had sat. He looked at the memory stick.

Then, he looked up at the younger man. An almost imperceptible flicker of fear passed momentarily in front of his eyes.

‘You know I will not take it.’

‘Take it. Read it. And then we will meet again. I believe that this is the final step for you.’

After some hesitation, the man across the table reached for the memory stick. He held it up in the air and waited. A second man rose from a chair at a table behind. Silently, he took the memory stick, sat down and reached under his chair for a slim laptop case. He opened the zip, flicked up the screen on the machine and inserted the stick into the side of the brushed metal.

‘Unless you can back up your boldness you will not leave here alive.’

The younger man was surprised. He had not expected such an immediate test. Nevertheless, he refused to allow his face to betray him. He waited.

The associate with the laptop stood and deposited the machine in front of the older man, who spent several minutes scanning the information.

‘What do you want in exchange for this?’

‘I want to work with you. I want to be part of it. Use me where you can.’

‘And that is all?’

‘That is all.’

Suspicion in the eyes of the older man. ‘That is never “all”. What else is it you want.’

‘I am ambitious. I want to progress. Nothing more.’

It was plausible. Just.

‘You could not have a position of authority.’

‘I understand.’

A second silence, deeper than the first, settled on the area around the two men. The air of hostility had faded but a deep distrust remained.

‘I still do not understand how you came upon this.’

‘You do not need to know.’

‘I wonder whether that is the case.’

‘It is genuine.’

‘That’s not something I can verify without knowing its origin.’

‘Scott.’

The older man glanced up quickly at the younger man, who was about to play the trump card.

‘Scott,’ repeated the younger man, ‘Jackson Scott.’

TWO

The next morning, Eva struggled even more than usual to push herself through the daily commute. Whether it was the cigarettes from the night before or the two hour run through a heavy rain shower, her cheeks were flushed and feverish and she felt uncharacteristically shaky. She left her flat, slamming the door and pulling up the collar of the thick blue oversize coat she had bought in a fit of fashion. An Investment Piece. The quality material was solid and warm and she felt comforted as she went to the mobile coffee cart under the glass canopy next to the station. As she stood in the queue, she watched the hordes of people flowing into the Underground, heads down, eyes glazed, the odd angry shove or curse when personal space was breached.

When she had bought the biggest, strongest coffee she could, Eva began to walk down the hill, through the busy high street, towards the nearest bus stop. It would take her along a circuitous route to work but she could not face Waterloo today. Besides, the bus offered better thinking time. After her experiences in Paris and Paraguay, she had tried to figure out her life and had concluded she needed to do something vaguely ‘worthwhile’. The job at the environmental NGO had appeared from nowhere. She almost couldn’t remember whether she had applied for it, or whether it had applied for her. It had seemed the perfect option – a worthy cause, a better salary, a role that sounded just about challenging enough. Whilst she may not have achieved some other ‘adult’ milestones – the husband, the house, the pension, the baby – she did at least have a ‘grown up’ job. Whether she herself was happy about that she hadn’t yet worked out. She wasn’t even sure how much the concept of ‘adult’ appealed.

And then there was Sam. Much like the job, he seemed to have appeared out of nowhere and, before she knew it, she was tentatively taking first steps towards something more than her accustomed-to flings. Or was she? Eva was unable to shift the feeling that, deep down, she had opened up nothing, that she remained as shut off from Sam emotionally as she had done from every other man she had met in the last ten years. What she struggled to understand was why.

‘We have a new project for you – algae.’

Eva looked up, surprised, from her seat opposite her line manager. Janet had a nasal tone of voice that was coma-inducing and she had been half asleep.

‘Algae?’

‘Yes, an outbreak in an area around London.’

Eva’s heart began to thud. The genetically engineered strain Daniel had developed to spread his virus had begun its release like this.

Eva realised she was sitting forward in her chair. ‘Is it serious?’

Her line manager laughed, sneered a little. ‘Relax Eva, it’s just a little algae – all we need is someone to write a report on it.’ She pushed a file across the desk.

Eva sat back. She was one of the few people in the country who knew how many people the PX3 algae could have killed in the name of commerce. Were it not for the fact that she couldn’t prove any of it she wondered whether she would still be alive. Cleaning up that mess quietly had posed only a temporary inconvenience for the powers that be, more important to hide what had happened than show the vulnerability it revealed. Who really cared about algae anyway? A strain of bird flu that claimed a number of lives and coincidentally appeared at exactly the same time got much more coverage. It was expert media-manipulation, using one already established fear to cover something much worse.

Eva had once felt a passion for politics but now it seemed like a sham – behind it sat the real web of control: money. Global finance, profit motive and the sway of influence held by large corporates defined political policy, whether with respect to global warming emissions targets or food labelling. Most people would believe what they read in the news and never see the world they lived in for what it really was.

‘Read this. Everything’s in there. Any questions, just ask Sam.’

Her supervisor Janet smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. Eva knew Sam – who also worked at the NGO – had been Janet’s favourite before Eva had arrived. As Janet was fond of jokingly stating herself, she was now 38, single and ‘desperately looking (lol)’. Eva had endured several weeks of having doors slammed in her face and being cold shouldered in front of other staff after her and Sam’s ‘relationship’ was revealed. Eva had heard the rumours about Janet and other men in the office but she knew that gossip in a place like this was rampant, thanks to the boring nature of the work, and a nearly-40 single woman always seemed to attract the same kind of slurs. Although she didn’t understand why Janet willingly made herself such a caricature. Eva didn’t like the woman but, for the sake of sisterhood, had stayed away from bitching about her.

She picked up the file. ‘Thanks.’ She stood up. She felt appraising eyes on her back – and lower – as she left the room.

Outside the door, Sam was there.

‘What happened to you last night?’

‘I didn’t feel well, sorry.’

They started walking in the direction of the office kitchen that was only a few paces from her desk. Sam lowered his voice. ‘I hope you’re ok,’ he said and then, very self-consciously, kissed her on the side of the head. She had the odd feeling he was looking at someone else when he did it.

In the kitchen, Eva made yet more coffee. Sam was silent until she sat down opposite at the table. He pulled something out of his pocket.

‘I got you this.’

A small, colourfully wrapped chocolate biscuit in the shape of a heart. She smiled at him, but it was a mechanical response.

‘You’re sweet.’

He smiled as if she had declared her love for him. Which she hadn’t. Even though he already had to her. After three months. A shaft of sunlight streamed in and illuminated his blond hair, as if it were a halo.

‘I have to go,’ he said, suddenly standing up. ‘See you for lunch?’

She nodded and he bent down and kissed her again.

Eva pushed the little heart around the table with her finger. She watched it fall to the floor, sparkling in another shaft of sunlight. She realised she was thinking about Leon.

Eva took a long sip of her coffee and opened the file she had been given. She read the contents once, made herself another coffee and read it again. She sat back in her chair. The information was fluff. It was pointless and groundless. The algae outbreak was minimal, it wasn’t even worth a report. She was being given something to write that was essentially a waste of everyone’s time.

Eva picked up the biscuit heart Sam had given her from the floor, unwrapped the paper and shoved the whole thing in her mouth. Love tokens when you were not in love… awkward.

She turned the final page of the report and there at the back was a sheet of questions. She skimmed through them. Whether generated by the enormous amount of caffeine she had drunk or the sugar hit of the heart she had just consumed, anxiety plucked at her insides. The questions seemed personal – very personal – and apparently directed specifically at her – despite the ‘hypothetical scenario’, she was being asked to record her own experiences of dealing with an algae outbreak ‘for the report’ and to give details of everything from the type of algae involved to the eventual resolution of the situation. It wasn’t exactly subtle.

She flicked the file shut. What was going on?

All through the expensive lunch with Sam at the local deli (he paid), Eva just couldn’t stop thinking about the algae questions in the file. She had drunk far too much coffee that morning – that always made for spiralling paranoia – but, nevertheless, the task felt strange. She generally wasn’t asked to produce content but to edit it and it was, on the whole, newsworthy content that the NGO would use to generate a media profile for itself. This algae information was pointless and would do nothing to attract the right kind of attention – it wasn’t what they had hired her for.

Was it a coincidence it had ended up on her desk or was it intentional?

She looked at Sam and realised he was waiting for a response.

‘Hmmm?’

‘You’re half asleep today, Eva.’

‘I know, sorry, too much coffee this morning, I’m having a post caffeine slump.’

He laughed enthusiastically.

‘Paris this weekend.’

‘What?’ Eva looked at him shocked. Paris was where Jackson had died.

‘I-I-I I thought you’d be pleased. It’s such a romantic city.’

Eva stared at him.

It began to get uncomfortable.

‘I’m sorry, Sam, I’m really not feeling that well today, I think I might go home.’

‘Want me to come over later?’

‘I think I just want to go to sleep.’

Eva left work without bothering to make excuses. She had to get out and, besides, she knew that Sam would make them for her. Back in her flat, she changed out of her work attire and into her running clothes. She took to the streets for two hours and, by the time she returned, she had quelled what was probably caffeine-induced paranoia. More than once when she had tried to draw some conclusion in terms of what to do about Sam, her thoughts had turned to Leon. The ex-addict, her brother’s friend and a self-admitted mercenary, he had both assisted and saved her life in Paris and then, at the end, tried to kill her. When she returned to London, she had no idea if he was still alive. It troubled her and it excited her. And the fact that it excited her troubled her even more.

When she had showered after her run and changed into comfortable clothes, Eva decided to make a phone call. She called Irene Hunt’s office – if there was one person who could put an end to this gnawing paranoia, it was her. The phone was answered by her secretary.

‘She’s on indefinite leave.’

‘But I spoke to her two weeks ago and she didn’t mention anything about that – has something happened?’ Irene and Eva stayed in regular contact. Eva was never sure whether it was motherly or monitoring.

There was a clicking sound on the other end of the phone. The secretary took too long to answer.

‘Family affairs, I think.’

‘Right, ok. Thanks.’ Eva hung up.

Something wasn’t right.

Perhaps he knew something was wrong when he left the research lab that night. But Stefano Cirza was simply too preoccupied with the intricate details of his research to be troubled by instinct. He was excited by the leaps forward he had made in recent months – the project he was working on was virtually complete. Two projects, interlinked, although one he preferred to talk about more than the other. The first (and the more citizen friendly) was an ingenious key that allowed an individual to use their own unique genetic code as a ‘lock’. A simple blood sample could be used to create it and he had even come up with a way of ensuring that, when it came to using the blood key to open whatever it was required for, this could not be done under duress. The second project was still in trial but used a combination of drugs, cranial implants and face mapping technology to give one person the power to change their appearance in the eyes of another. It was not yet complete but, when it was, it would give the technology-user the ability to appear to be whoever they needed to be to convince a specific person to trust them. Trust – that most fragile of things – could be established artificially.

Stefano would not be feted for curing an incurable disease, or wiping out famine, but what he had done was still important. Not just important, but lucrative too.

His mentor had been a great man, a renowned scientist whose work had done much for the world. But he had died almost penniless, troubled by the heavy burden of debt until his very last day. And with nothing to leave his daughter or ex-wife, he had died with disappointment in his eyes.

Stefano was as yet unmarried and had no children, but he did not intend to go the same way. Which is why he had chosen an area of genetic science he knew was marketable.

But also pioneering.

There would be acclaim as well as money. When he was approached about developing the key he had hesitated but the Englishman who had later become his business partner was convincing. So convincing, in fact, that they had been friends. At least, until the man disappeared.

When Stefano had made the decision to work on the project, he comforted himself that at least he was not working on genetics that could cause loss of life – biological warfare, for example. Far worse causes existed to which he might have applied his very considerable skills for a significantly larger sum of cash. There was little chance that his coding could be used for anything ‘bad’. It was important security technology. And it was inevitable progress.

In fact, neither project had been much of a leap from technology that already existed but there were few people in the world who really understood it – at least outside the scientific sphere – and it was in such technology that the money lay. If he had not produced this, someone else would have done it.

He had initially struggled with the idea of finance backing science, of monetising his research. Just like every other area of life, as soon as there was a profit motive, only those who could afford to pay would benefit. As a scientist and medical professional, Stefano knew there should be no barriers to anyone accessing medical innovation – especially if it related to life or death – but, as a person, he was not sure the future of the world would be positively influenced by such an approach. Everyone surviving everything. It was unsustainable. If we all survived every disease, the drain on resources would be too much. Some had to die. And perhaps the easiest solution was simply to offer survival to those who could pay – it was something people could work for, they could create their own opportunities to have the lives they wanted, to afford treatment they needed. As long as you didn’t believe in luck, that is – or bad luck to be more precise.

Anyway, Stefano thought to himself as he began to shut down his equipment for the night, he was becoming distracted. For both projects there had been only one live test subject so far. That first test had been a bad decision, perhaps his only one recently – using someone so completely unknown who had offered himself up for the testing. And testing the two products together… Stefano had allowed his ego to get the better of him and accepted the volunteer because he claimed to be a fan.

The man had been older and, looking back, had seemed frightened, perhaps as if he was being coerced. Realistically, there was no reason anyone would put themselves through the process involved voluntarily unless they had their own agenda. The drugs, the implants, the mental effects of the unfinished product were harsh indeed.

The man had disappeared, taking the evidence of a substantial part of Stefano’s work with him. But it was several months ago and he knew from personal experience that, if his work had fallen into the hands of another scientist, it would already be on the market – but it wasn’t, so it couldn’t have. Perhaps the procedure had killed the man, and Stefano’s secrets had died with him. The only other key in the system belonged to a woman connected to Stefano’s ex-business partner – but she had been set up remotely using a sample and the entire test system had not been run on her. Not yet. That was the next step for both projects, a new test subject, someone within Stefano’s control – otherwise this woman remained the only person who could be used to activate Veritas. He often wondered whether she was aware of her importance, whoever she was.

Regardless, it looked as if Stefano’s key was still going to be the first of its kind to make it onto the market. And without his English partner, the revenue would be his and his alone.

Feeling satisfied, Stefano finished shutting up his lab. The rest of the building was almost entirely dark, it was late. He was just about to input his code into the main door to the lab when he stopped. He felt someone was watching him.

Ridiculous, he thought but, nevertheless, he moved his body to block the keypad.

Then, he silently left through the back entrance. He was not in the mood for a conversation with the jolly security guard.

THREE

‘Her name is Eva Scott. She is resident in London. We found her yesterday.’

Two sharp-suited men in a darkened room gazed at a projection of Eva’s face on the wall opposite.

‘She’s pretty.’

‘Hmmmm.’

‘Is there anything full length?’

A snap of the projector and the image changed again. This time, the shot captured all of Eva, straight backed, hair shining in the wintry morning sun as she waited at the mobile coffee stand under the glass canopy in her oversize coat.

‘What would you suggest that we do?’

One of the men, who wore a slim-cut grey tweed, turned away from the image on the wall. He was not a young man anymore, he felt the effort of middle age underneath his fading Mediterranean tan. He reached for a thick cigar and rolled it between his fingers before cutting and lighting it. He could feel his younger colleague becoming frustrated, both by the smoking indoors and the time he was taking to respond. He sat down at an enormous walnut wood desk and took several long, luxurious puffs on the cigar. His colleague said nothing.

‘What would you suggest we do, Paul?’

The younger man was a new addition to the team. He was an untested quantity and no one had taken kindly to such a late arrival, especially one so unexplained. Nobody intended to make things easy for him – he had an excess of ambition written all over his face.

This time, it was the younger man’s turn to respond slowly. He leaned against one of the antique bookshelves in the library, knowing full well that his disrespect of the priceless furniture would drive the older man mad.

‘Well, I know less about this business than you,’ he appeared to concede.

The older man nodded and continued to smoke.

‘But it seems to me she is a loose end. Her presence at Waterloo Station – was it really a coincidence, given her history?’

The smoke in the room was thick now, hanging blue and fragrant in the warm morning air.

Neither of the men spoke for some time, as the effect of the younger man’s words began to sink in.

Suddenly, the subject was changed. ‘What have you planned for the man?’ asked the elder, still working his way through the cigar.

A noticeable ripple of excitement travelled through the younger man and he moved quickly to sit opposite the desk.

‘I’d like to eliminate him. Now that she,’ he gestured at Eva’s worried face, ‘has surfaced, I think the threat – whilst minimal – is enough to warrant it.’

‘But are they even connected anymore?’

‘Why take the chance?’

‘And her?’

‘Maybe we should let Joseph Smith decide.’

For the second time that day, Eva found herself running. Only this time it was to escape. After leaving work early she’d gone home and curled up in bed. But by the evening she had allowed herself to believe her own lie about feeling ill and decided to walk to a late night chemist for some painkillers; no amount of water had been able to soothe the now continuous thumping inside her skull. It was almost 10pm, it was a Wednesday – the streets were wet with rain but empty of the usual crowds of revellers who would populate this area from tomorrow through to the end of the weekend. But as she left the chemist and crossed the road to make the ten minute journey back to the flat, the hair had begun to stand up on the back of her neck. A figure seemed to be shadowing her, stopping when she stopped, running when she ran, sticking to her like glue. It was impossible to tell whether it was male or female. She considered turning around and shouting a challenge but the streets were completely empty and the chances of anyone coming out of their home to help her were slim to none. She crossed the wide road in front of the station, walked by the glass canopy where she had bought her coffee that morning and jogged quickly up the small hill that led home. She felt her shadow follow, she even heard the footsteps. They weren’t trying to hide.

Eva could hear her heartbeat thudding heavily in her ears. She was exhausted and drained, as if recalling past events had somehow opened up everything she had stored away after another very similar experience all those months ago. She drew another breath down into her lungs and forced herself to remain focused. In Paris, she had ended up bouncing off Leon’s car bonnet after she had convinced herself she was being pursued and reacted like a frightened animal. This time, she would behave differently. She didn’t like to make the same mistakes twice.

At the top of the hill, the road curved to the right and Eva quickly made her way down the turning that would take her back to her own flat. Unexpectedly, she turned left, slipping inside the narrow alleyway between two shops. She flattened herself against the wall. Her breath was fighting to escape in large, anxious bursts but she forced herself to be controlled. Sure enough, seconds later the shadowy figure slipped past the alleyway. From the brief glimpse that she had Eva recognised it was a man. But he was wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up and a dark woollen hat covered most of his hair and the forehead of his profiled face. Eva waited several seconds for him to pass and keep walking and then stuck her head out of the alleyway.

What she saw made her heart skip a beat.

The man was standing just a couple of metres away under the darkness of a street lamp with no bulb. He was still, looking directly towards the alley in which she stood, the shadow of his hood creating a dark, faceless pool from which she knew two eyes were focused in her direction.

Eva stood frozen to the spot. Her heart was hammering frantically. The man didn’t move. It was a surreal scene worthy of the finest Hollywood horror.

What was he going to do? Eva glanced around at her options – go further up the alley and become trapped, run at him and risk finding herself a stabbing statistic or run away from him and wait for him to chase her; wait to feel strong hands close around her neck and choke the life from her. Just like Paris.

Suddenly, voices broke the silence of the wet, cold streets. Drunken male and female voices heading towards where they were. The hooded man reacted briefly, glancing in the direction of the noise, and then slowly, almost unnaturally slowly, his head rotated back towards Eva. She still could not see any of his features. He looked almost as if he had none. Eva was frightened.

Then, without warning, the man turned and walked in the opposite direction, his hands in his pockets. Eva watched him go. The gaggle of Wednesday night revellers hustled past the alley, obscuring her vision of the departing man. None of them noticed the lone woman who had retreated, shaking, into the shadows. When they had moved on, she scanned the street for several minutes but could see nothing at all.

Her flat was just minutes from where she was standing. She could move, or she could remain cornered in that cold alleyway. She started to run. When she reached her front door, she drove the key home and flung open the door. It squeaked on its hinges. She leaped inside and felt for the handle behind her. A gust of wind blew in her face and, suddenly, she felt as if she was being pushed back, the door wrenched from her grasp. She felt a scream settle in her throat as she expected to see that empty hood appear around the door. The gust of wind died away. Quietly, Eva closed the door.

Once she had downed a glass of brandy to steady her nerves, Eva sat on her Swedish designed sofa and tried to stop shaking. The entire experience of the last hour was unpleasant, but what had shaken her most was that the man had done nothing. Perhaps he had been interrupted by those kids, but she wasn’t sure. He had not tried to mug her, he had not tried to hurt her, he was apparently not trying to commit an opportunistic crime but just to intimidate. That meant there was another reason for his presence. Once again, Eva felt things slipping from her grasp. The steady, normal life she had constructed for herself over the past year seemed to be going up in smoke. Something was happening, she could feel it. Something she had no control over.

Her mind flicked back to the dying man at Waterloo Station earlier in the week. That seemed to be the point at which things had started to change.

She poured herself another drink and leaned back into the sofa. Then she stood up, walked to the kitchen and flicked the heating switch on the boiler before returning to the sofa and her drink. She tried to remember the man’s face but it was difficult. She thought of his battered hat lying on the floor and felt sadness that someone in such a state could still do something as quaintly well mannered and old fashioned as wear a hat.

Where had he come from?

Again, Eva heard the word that he had said to her as he died, ‘kolychak’. She realised she had said it out loud.

She leaned over and opened the notes app on her phone and typed it into the lined yellow page. She stared at it. It meant nothing to her. But it had meant something – at the time. Or had she imagined that in the drama of the moment.

She stood up, walked over to a vintage chest of drawers and pulled it open, the pale wood so smooth under her touch, contrasting with the clean modernist lines of the sofa. It was a contrived ‘look’ but she quite liked it. She retrieved a piece of paper and a black pen and wrote the word, first in large capital letters and then in standard sized text. She propped the sheet of paper on the arm of the sofa next to her and continued to stare. She was sure she knew that word. She had heard it before. But where had she heard it and what did it mean?

When she finally persuaded herself to go to bed an hour later, she took her laptop with her. She had bolted, locked and chained her front door, checked every window and even picked up an empty wine bottle and a kitchen knife, a small arsenal of weapons, ‘just in case’. And she could use them, she knew that now – she had killed two people in Paris.

In the warm light of the cosy bedroom, she began to search the internet for the word ‘kolychak’. She passed the term through several search engines but soon felt her mind begin to slow. The brandy was relaxing her body and she now realised how very tired she was. She looked at the screen but couldn’t read what was on it. She closed the computer and shut her eyes.

Stefano Cirza stared in horror at the man in front of him, who held a metal claw at his throat. At the end of another late night in the lab, a feeling had crept over him that he wasn’t alone. It was the same instinct he’d had several nights previously. When he had finally seen the stocky black man standing silently watching him, it had dawned on him he had indeed not been alone that night either. In fact, ever since that night he’d instinctively felt someone was in his life, silently watching, and now this man had let himself in with a code known only to Stefano and his research assistant – who had been on an extended holiday for the past three weeks.

When the eyes of the two men had met, neither had moved for several seconds. But then, before Stefano could summon security, the metal claw was at his throat.

‘W-what do you want?’ he stuttered, every nerve ending on the back of his skull alight.

‘I am sure you already know.’ The accent was most definitely African but, other than that, Stefano could not tell.

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Joseph Smith.’

With a sinking feeling, Stefano realised that the ease with which the man had revealed his name did not indicate a positive outcome. One in which Stefano was left breathing.

He felt the metal implement begin to graze his skin and he wondered why the man didn’t just carry a gun. Why bother with the theatrics of such a cruel thing?

‘What is that?’ he asked, nodding as far as he could without the metal piercing his skin. Perhaps he could appeal to the man’s better nature, make a connection with him.

‘Bagh nakh. Tiger claws. They are from India.’

Stefano started to speak again but the other man interrupted. ‘No,’ he said and took a step back, removing the tiger claw from Stefano’s throat.

Stefano tried to calm his heart but he knew what was coming.

Smith stepped forward and drove the metal implement through Stefano’s thigh, slashing it down so that it was possible to hear the tearing of skin and muscle as it was ripped from the bone.

He covered Stefano’s mouth to stifle the scream. ‘If you give me what I need I will slash your throat so you die quickly. If you don’t I will butcher your body so that you feel every single cut.’

Stefano clutched at his thigh, the blood was running warm and sticky through his hands. His eyes met those of his aggressor once again.

‘I want to live!’ It was a cry that bubbled up from Stefano’s very core. He did not want this choice. It wasn’t any choice at all.

There wasn’t even a flicker of empathy in those black eyes. ‘You cannot. Now make your decision.’

Shaking, Stefano closed his eyes. That it should come to this. Had his ex-business partner died at the hands of this man too – was that why he had disappeared? When he opened his eyes again, there was an acceptance of sorts. He was not a coward and he would die with as much dignity as he could. The pain in his leg from the first cut was bitter and he knew he could not take that over and over again.

He began slowly to lift a chain from around his neck. On it hung a small metal box. His entire body was shaking almost uncontrollably. The other man steadied his hands. Stefano opened the box and handed over a boxy key. He tried to speak but Joseph Smith was too fast.

FOUR

When she opened her eyes, she felt she was dead straight away. There was a lightness to her limbs and a heaviness in her heart that told her she hadn’t managed to escape this time with her life. She didn’t live in fiction; she wasn’t superhuman and her dreams of being something more had all been snatched away.

And then the pain started.

First, a gnawing sensation in her stomach that grew in intensity like a rising decibel and suddenly was so loud that she felt as if her entire body might split in two. She was bent double, screaming now.

Agony.

She couldn’t end the pain, she knew that. There was no way to stop this anguish that had sliced through her and opened her up from stomach to heart. She would be stuck, forever – screaming.

Eva awoke with a start. She was sweating heavily. She reacted instantly to the darkened room and lurched for the light switch, knocking a book and a bottle of water on to the floor as she did so.

She pushed herself upwards against the headboard and ran a hand through damp hair.

The room around her was entirely still; outside the windows, a velvety darkness enveloped the peaceful sleepers of London.

She realised she was shivering, reached for a white robe that lay on the chair next to the bed and pulled it over her shoulders.

Her first nightmare in more than six months.

Eva had the distinct impression her dream had a vaguely religious undertone, that she had somehow dreamed herself into a state of purgatory.

She leaned back against the pillows and sighed out loud. While no one else had held her accountable for those two deaths in Paris, she seemed unable to allow herself to forget them. She was her own worst enemy, judge and jury.

One had been a fight to the death – if Eva hadn’t fired that fatal shot, she would have been killed, without a doubt. As for the other, it was an unknown assassin wielding a needle filled with the virus that would have killed her exactly as it killed him if she hadn’t pushed the plunger home into his flesh. He had died quickly and she had never forgotten the look on his face as his organs collapsed and the virus took control of his body, reprogramming his own immune system to kill.

‘I had no choice,’ she said out loud. Her voice sounded uncharacteristically weak and strained.

I’m actually going crazy.