didn’t want to talk to him anymore. And that would be terrible – not only because it meant that this link to his brother was lost, but also because . . . well, he liked her.
‘Stop the car, I need to get out.’
The driver glared back at him. ‘You what?’
Paul thrust a ten pound note at him. ‘Sorry. Changed my mind.’
He needed to talk to Kate again, to apologise. And maybe he could help her recover her memories, find out what it was that had happened that summer. This fire – the official story was that it was an unfortunate accident, but what if that was a smokescreen? Bad choice of words, he thought to himself, grimacing. It had always seemed like a weird coincidence that Stephen had written this strange, emotional letter a few days before he died. Before, he had never had any way of going about finding out the truth. But now he’d found Kate, there was surely a chance. He would go after the truth, for his brother’s sake. To make amends for all the times he’d wronged him in the past. He cringed at the corny sentiment – but it was true.
The lift doors pinged open and Kate made her way towards her room. She glanced at her watch. Nine o’clock – Jack should be asleep by now. The babysitter would probably be watching TV and would be surprised to see Kate back so early. She might raise a questioning eyebrow, wonder what had gone wrong. Maybe this overprotective parent couldn’t bear to be away from her child for more than a couple of hours.
Kate took her keycard out of her wallet and swiped it in the lock. She pushed the door open.
The room was empty.
The babysitter, and Jack, were gone.
John Sampson glanced at the LED clock on the dashboard. 22:02. He’d been parked outside the McDonald-Taylor Research Institute, on the outskirts of Oxford, for hours now. This part of Oxford was industrial and grey – out of sight of the dreaming spires, but still connected to the university. Here, research was carried out in anonymous, flat buildings. Tourists didn’t wander round this part of town gaping with awe, buying postcards and photographing one another in front of places they’d looked up in their guidebooks and found their way to. Nobody looked twice at these buildings except for a few animal rights protestors. And it was those protestors who were responsible for making Sampson wait.
They were hanging around by the fence. A couple of middle-aged women; a younger woman, quite attractive in a sallow vegan way; and a bloke with a beard. Sampson had driven by earlier that day and seen the same group, plus a half-dozen others. Now only the hardcore remained. They carried placards that said STOP THE CRUELTY. Some featured grim pictures of monkeys with the word TORTURED above them. Sampson wondered what they’d think if they saw the things he’d seen a few days ago: the sick women imprisoned in tiny rooms; their blank despairing faces, shivering and whimpering. Would the protestors be as upset at the sight of cruelty to people? The question genuinely interested him. He wondered idly if these bleeding hearts would be able to teach him how to feel.
He took a long drag of his cigarette then crushed it to death in the car’s pull-out ashtray. He didn’t have time to think about that shit right now. He had a job to do. And the fucking protestors were stopping him from doing it.
How long were they going to be? Beyond them, a single light was burning in the window of the institute. Only one car remained parked in the staff car park.
The car belonged to Dr David Twigger, a scientist specialising in the study of viruses in animals. The protestors were outside because of the macaque monkeys and rats he used in his experiments. He argued that although he wished there was an alternative, using the animals was essential. He pointed out that the research carried out here was on diseases that affected animals not humans. They were trying to save animals, stop the viruses that affected pets, farm animals and wild creatures. The protestors argued that this was all very well, but why should some animals suffer so that others might be saved in the future? They also stated their belief that the only reason so much effort was put into studying these diseases was because scientists were worried they may spread to humans. Avian, or bird, Flu was a prime example.
It was a moral maze – Sampson was glad he had no morals – and in actual fact the institute did not attract much in the way of protests, unlike Huntingdon Life Sciences and other controversial places where the scientists and staff were threatened daily. The protests here were low-key and mild-mannered, carried out by a small bunch of locals.
Ignoring the protesters, Dr Twigger worked until after dark, dedicated to his research. All the other staff had gone home and now it was just Dr Twigger and a couple of security guards. The building was surrounded by CCTV cameras and barbed wire, but because this lab concentrated on animal diseases and didn’t store viruses that could harm humans and because of the low-level protests, security was not too tight, especially compared to some of the research facilities Sampson was familiar with. The protestors waited outside so they could scream abuse at Twigger as he drove home, possibly pelting his car with eggs for good measure, but no-one had ever physically attacked him or the building.
Tonight it looked as if Twigger wasn’t going to come out. Not until the early hours anyway. Sampson watched the little group of protestors gather in a huddle, debating what to do next. From their body language it looked like the younger woman wanted to stay, but the others, especially Beardy, wanted to go home to their beds and the sleep of the righteous.
The majority won the argument and they shuffled away, taking their placards with them.
Sampson watched them go. At the corner of the street, they parted, the three older members of the group heading one way while the young woman went the other. For a moment he considered following her. He could grab her and lock her in the boot of his car until later. See if she could teach him something.
But he didn’t have time. Twigger might come out while he was away, meaning Sampson would have to come back tomorrow. That wasn’t going to happen. He wanted to get this over with tonight.
He watched the sallow vegan woman walk away. She was probably a student at the university. She would never know what a lucky escape she’d just had.
He opened the glove compartment, grabbed a balaclava and pulled it over his head. On the front of the balaclava were three letters: ALF. Everyone would think the protestors had suddenly decided to step up their efforts. Next, he put on a pair of black leather gloves, then opened the car door, got out and walked towards the fence.
On the way, he spotted some leaflets that the protestors had dropped. He picked one up and studied it. A cat stared out at him – the most miserable cat he’d ever seen – and the text below detailed the experiments that had been carried out on this cat and many others like it. ‘Tortured in the name of science.’ Sampson shook his head. These people didn’t know the true meaning of torture. He could have taught the vegan girl if he’d had time, but now it was too late. The leaflet would come in handy, though. He folded it and stuck it in his back pocket.
Climbing the fence was easy for him. At the top he used a pair of wire cutters to snip through the barbed wire, then dropped gently onto the grass on the other side. He was thirty yards from the building. He took a deep breath. He needed to work quickly; this was what he was good at.
A camera swivelled towards him as he broke into a jog towards the building. He knew the camera would record the letters on the balaclava. He knew the security guards – probably ex-police or ex-army, dulled by too many nights sat staring at screens on which nothing ever happened – would panic and come out to meet him before calling for back-up. And even if they did call for back-up, Sampson would be in and out before they arrived.
He was right. The outside lights came on and the door was flung open. Two guards came running out, one with a crewcut, the other with short blond hair. The crewcut came towards him first, shouting ‘Stop’ as he ran. But in the harsh light Sampson saw confusion on the guard’s face. He didn’t understand why the guy in the balaclava was still running towards him in a straight line. Charging him. As Crewcut stopped and raised his gun, Sampson, without stopping,