Chapter 14
14
Fiona was generally a stickler for rules and regulations, but now was not the time for recriminations as she raced for the turnstile and hoisted a leg over the top. It was a far from flattering pose; she’d never appreciated how efficient the design was at stopping unauthorized entry until this moment. In hindsight, going under might have been a better choice but, with one leg already hooked over the top bar, she was now committed. Bracing herself against the sides, she toppled forwards onto the floor on the other side. She was through! The first hurdle had, quite literally, been overcome. Less than six feet in front of her were the elevators.
‘Come on, come on.’ She jabbed at the call button frantically, whilst keeping an eye on the door the receptionist had gone through. ‘Hurry up!’
Above her head, the numbers counted down. Four. The lift lingered there. Three, two – it was on the move – only to stop again. Come on! This was her only chance. If the lift didn’t arrive, she would be out in the open, exposed. One. Ding!
‘Yes!’ The doors sprang open and she leapt through, straight into a group of people on their way out.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she muttered, slipping between them and ignoring their grumbles and glares.
Finally, she was alone. Leaning against the cold, metal wall, a sigh of relief burst from her lungs as the doors closed.
‘Okay. Now you just have to work out where you’re going.’
While the signage helpfully identified some of the key points of the building – Floor 2: Education Centre; Floor 3: Visitor Centre and Observation Deck – nowhere was it labelled Lab where you would take a bloody great whale for dissection , leaving her no option but to hazard a guess. The visitors’ floor was definitely out, as, in her opinion, was the second floor. It seemed unlikely that they would have an elevator large enough to get Martha in – or that anyone would even consider travelling in one with a decomposing sperm whale. So that meant the most obvious floors were either the one she was on or the basement. Given that there was a fair chance of stepping back out and finding herself confronted with an angry receptionist, she hit B and waited to descend.
After a few moments, the elevator pinged open onto a dimly lit corridor with strip lighting reminiscent of a hospital wing, she thought. Not that that was a bad sign. Hospitals, animal mortuaries, there had to be a similarity in there somewhere. If anything, it meant she was on the right track. Tentatively, she headed forward.
The smell of the sea, mingled with the pong of disinfectant grew stronger the further along she walked.
Taking her time, she scrutinised the name on each door she passed.
Professor Holland, Marine Microbiology , the first one read, followed by Dr Genis and Dr Krishnam-Jones, Cellular Biology . Her footsteps reverberated on the stone floor. Next time she attempted something like this, she would wear trainers, she told herself. She was damn lucky she hadn’t broken her ankle jumping-slash-falling over the turnstile. If that was her only way out, she would probably abandon her shoes. Especially if she had to run. They were replaceable.
Less than two doors from the end of the corridor, she stopped and a new sense of panic rolled through her. Her hands suddenly became slick with sweat as she read the metal sign.
Professor Ben Arkell. Environmental Toxicology
It took more than one steadying breath this time. What she needed was a strong drink, but that wasn’t possible. Nor was dithering. If the receptionist had any sense at all, he would have already rung security to tell them where she was heading.
‘It’s now or never,’ she told herself. With a trembling hand, she knocked. The sound echoed accusingly up and down the corridor. She stepped back, waiting for a response. Silence. She tried again. This time, when nothing happened, her eyes went to the door handle.
It’ll probably be locked , she thought. It was a long handle, the type that can be pushed down with an elbow when the person entering has their arms full of heavy books or whale parts, rather than the round type you see in American films, when people are about to break in somewhere. It wasn’t as if she was breaking in though, Fiona tried to convince herself. After all, she’d asked to see him. And it wasn’t like she was going to take anything. All she wanted to do was look. Maybe find a large, brown box labelled Balloons from Martha’s Stomach and make a closer inspection.
Knowing she’d reached the point of no return, she pressed down on the handle, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
Like the foyer, the room was flooded with light although, rather than the clinical laboratory setting she’d been expecting, she found herself in a small but airy office. Surprisingly for a basement, there was a large window with a spectacular view looking out to sea. The Institute must have been built on a slope, dipping down at the back. A desk, which faced inwards rather than towards the wonderful vista, took up the majority of the space. The Feng shui seemed a mistake on the owner’s part, although she conceded it was probably more productive that way round.
Time was of the essence but she had failed to focus on anything other than the view. She brought herself back to the moment. According to the clock on the wall, it was twenty to five, meaning that there was a chance Professor Arkell had already left for the day, if he’d even been in. She didn’t know what sort of hours a marine biologist kept, but she guessed they wouldn’t be a normal nine-to-five, not when they could be called upon at any time of the day to go on national television, or organise the dissection of the rotting remains of a giant mammal. She should wait five minutes though, she thought, taking a seat on one of the chairs facing the view. If he wasn’t back by then, she would go.
The desk was far tidier than she thought a boffin would keep it. Although, on closer inspection, it was somewhat reminiscent of a school lab table. She was busy admiring the aesthetics of the chairs and pen pot, too, when her eyes fell on a pile of flat, brown folders. Physeter Macrocephalus , the top one was labelled.
A week ago, that would have meant nothing to her. It could have stood for a tree or an earwig or even a saucepan for all the Latin she knew. But now… Her eyes went quickly from the files to the door and back again. They were in there, she could tell. The facts she needed about Martha were right in front of her.
Pulling a pen from the pot, she tapped the folder. Pages shimmied out into the open. She tapped again. Her heart leapt. Photos!
Trying to stop herself from trembling, she strained to hear if anyone was approaching. Her own shoes had sounded like a jackhammer, she reminded herself, so she should get plenty of warning. Besides, she only needed a glance.
Holding her breath, she slipped the pen under the cover of the folder and flipped the whole thing open.
‘Oh God,’ she gasped.
Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she’d hoped that perhaps, today, she would get to see Martha herself. That, by some miracle, she might be allowed to stand next to the mother who had spent her last week so close to Fiona’s home. Maybe get to place her hands on her scarred, grey skin and offer a silent apology for the way the world had treated her, to let her know how much her plight had meant to Fiona – the bond she had felt. She realised now it had been a na?ve pipedream.
Her hand went to her mouth, as she moved from the top image through to the second and then the third. Some of the photos had been taken as workers were hoisting the whale out of the water; others later, on the lorry, a tarpaulin inadequately covering her, as her tail lolled off the back. Even that was bearable, compared to the ones that came later, of Martha in the lab. It could have been a scene from a sci-fi movie – no, more like a horror film: flesh ripped open, coils of intestines flowing out.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
She snapped the folder shut, jumping from her seat.
‘Professor Arkell,’ she faltered, reeling from what she’d just seen. ‘I’m sorry. I just?—’
‘That’s private information. Bloody press! This is how you spend your time, really? Like you didn’t get enough shots earlier. This is breaking and entering. Who do you work for?’
‘I, I’m… I’m not press.’
‘Then who are you?’
She swallowed, a whale-sized lump blocking her throat.
‘My name is Fiona Reeves. I just wanted to speak to you about Martha. I’m just an ordinary person. I’m not a journalist or anything. I wanted to ask you some questions.’
His angry, red face was a far cry from the gentle one she’d watched when he’d been talking so passionately on the television. His jaw jutted forward as he held the door open. ‘If you don’t leave now, I’m going to call security.’
‘Please, please.’ She lifted her hands in supplication. ‘I’m going. I really am. I just need to know if there was anything on the back of the balloon. Any writing.’
‘The balloon?’
‘The balloon you pulled out of Martha. The one that… one of the things that…’ The one that killed her , was what she wanted to say. She stopped herself. Even now, there was no way she could manage to get those words out. ‘I need to know if there was anything drawn on the parakeet balloon you found.’
His brow loosened slightly, switching from anger to confusion. ‘The press called it a parrot.’
‘I’ve told you, I’m not with the press. And it wasn’t a parrot, was it? It was a parakeet.’
‘Well, I’m no ornithologist…’ he replied. The rest of his sentence was left hanging. They were at a tipping point. She could feel it. He was only an arm’s length away from the telephone. Lifting the receiver was all that it would take to get her removed.
‘Why does this matter to you?’ he asked.
‘Why do you think?’
From outside there came the lapping of waves on the shore. Seagulls squawked, dipping and diving at the white caps that broke on the pebbles and were sucked out again.
He bit down on his lip. ‘When we pulled out the balloon, it was scrunched up in a ball,’ he told her. ‘Most probably due to the way it was swallowed. When it went into her digestive tract, it remained crumpled.’
She didn’t understand what he was saying but knew he was trying to explain something , so she waited.
‘One side of the balloon remained protected. That’s why all the colours are still visible. The other got the brunt of the stomach acid.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning even if there had been something drawn on that side, it’s gone now. All the ink, all the colour was eaten away – nothing left to see.’
‘Meaning I’ll never know.’
The floor began to shift beneath her feet. Somehow, in the silence, the importance of her quest registered with him. He didn’t need to enquire further. When he did finally speak, it was to apologise.
‘I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t know what to say.’
She forced her lips into a smile, although how she had no idea.
‘“Innocent until proven guilty”, isn’t that what they say? I guess that means I’m off the hook.’
‘Ms Reeves?’
She moved towards the door, barely aware of him any more. ‘“Innocent until proven guilty”,’ she repeated. Only it didn’t feel like that. It didn’t feel like that at all. It felt as if she had just taken her first steps towards the gallows.