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Chapter 6

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, unsheathed the knife he had just pulled out of his pocket, releasing it expertly, it spun in the air before landing deep in the guard’s throat.

Crewcut dropped to the grass. A few steps behind, the blond guard saw his colleague fall, and stumbled to a halt. He raised his gun and fired, but Sampson had anticipated this and veered to the left, the bullet cracking past him. Before the guard could fire another shot, Sampson was upon him.

He grabbed the guard’s arm at the elbow and wrist and, raising his thigh, pushed his forearm swiftly down and snapped it. The guard choked on his own scream. Sampson took hold of the sides of the man’s head and, with a single twisting motion, broke his neck.

He stepped over the body and ran into the building through the door the inept security guards had left open, looked left and right to get his bearings, and ran towards the laboratory where Dr Twigger’s light burned bright.

Sampson kicked open the lab door and found Dr Twigger waiting for him. The scientist stood at the far end of the laboratory, holding a metal bar. Sampson imagined the doctor probably kept this bar with him for security. What a waste of time. Behind him stood a row of six cages, each containing a macaque monkey. The brown-furred monkeys stared at him implacably from behind the bars. Between Sampson and the doctor was a bench bearing lab equipment: high-powered microscopes, a computer, test tubes, a jumble of flasks and dishes and the other paraphernalia of lab life. A pair of rubber gloves lay inside-out on the bench, as if they’d just been hurriedly removed.

Dr Twigger was a thin man in his late forties with hair that needed cutting. He looked like a frightened man who was desperate not to show that fear.

‘Get out,’ he said shakily, holding up the bar.

Sampson walked up to him and punched him in the face before the doctor could swing the metal bar, which he wrenched from Twigger’s grip. He threw it across the lab, the loud clanging making the monkeys jump and screech. They leapt about their cages, baring their teeth. Sampson glanced at them.

Twigger pulled himself upright. Blood trickled from his left nostril. He wiped it on the sleeve of his white coat.

‘If you’re planning to free these animals you’re making a big mistake. They’re sick and will attack humans. A monkey in that condition can do a lot of damage.’

Sampson ignored him. He walked over to the computer and pressed a key on the keyboard, keeping one eye on the doctor. He examined the figures on the screen, then crouched down and unplugged the hard drive.

‘Where are the backups?’ he said.

‘Backups? There aren’t any.’

Sampson put the hard drive down on the bench and walked towards Twigger, who took a step back towards the cages. The monkeys leapt forward in their cages, hissing.

‘Where are the backups?’ he repeated.

‘There aren’t any . . .’

Sampson grabbed the doctor and turned him round, clutching the back of his neck. With his free hand he opened the door of the closest cage and pushed the doctor’s head inside. Dr Twigger knew not to cry out. Sampson felt him tremble.

The monkey sat on the floor of the cage, eyeing the doctor’s scalp and baring its sharp teeth.

Sampson said, ‘So they can do a lot of damage?’

The doctor spoke in a whisper. ‘Yes. Please.’

‘I can’t hear you.’

‘Please.’

He pushed Twigger’s head in further, glad of the leather gloves. The other monkeys were clinging to the bars of their cages, watching, waiting. If monkeys could make plans, dream of revenge, then surely they’d dreamt of getting revenge on this man who caged them and made them sick.

‘Where are the backups?’ he repeated.

Twigger’s voice had risen an octave. ‘In the safe.’

‘Where’s the safe?’

‘In . . .’ Without warning, the monkey jumped across the cage, screaming. Twigger screamed too, but at the last moment Sampson pulled him clear and slammed the door in the monkey’s face. It struck the bars and landed on the floor of the cage, screeching.

‘The location of the safe and the combination,’ Sampson said in his usual quiet monotone.

Twigger had pissed himself; Sampson could smell it. Twigger looked nervously over his shoulder at the monkey, who was now prowling around his cage, shaking his head.

Sampson was beginning to lose his patience. He took hold of the doctor again and moved to push him back towards the cage.

Twigger yelled, ‘No. The safe is next door. Combination 6471.’

‘Thank you. And the AG-769 virus?’

‘What?’

‘AG-769. Where is it stored?’

The doctor was clearly confused. ‘Why do you want that?’

‘Just tell me where it is.’

But the doctor had already given it away. His eyes had flicked towards the left.

‘Thank you,’ Sampson said.

He pushed the doctor to the ground and knelt on his chest. He squeezed Twigger’s nose between forefinger and thumb and clamped a hand over his mouth. The doctor’s eyes were wide, pleading. The monkeys gazed down from their cage. Eventually, Dr Twigger stopped trying to struggle. Sampson had hoped he might feel something at the moment of the doctor’s death – not sympathy or sadness, necessarily, words he’d looked up in the dictionary and tried to understand – but something.

As always, he felt nothing.

Aware that he’d wasted precious seconds getting the combination out of the doctor – next time, he’d just go for the testicles; that always worked quickly – he opened the freezer and removed the vials containing the AG-769 virus and stored them in a padded wallet which he kept in his inside pocket. Back in the car he would transfer them to a portable freezer. He picked up the computer hard drive and realised he’d almost forgotten something. He took the animal rights leaflet with the picture of the cat out of his back pocket and left it lying on the dead doctor’s chest.

In the office, he opened the safe and removed the backup disks that contained the crucial data.

He exited the building and walked through the darkness towards his car.

As he got in, one of his two mobile phones rang. It was his second phone. Only one person had this number. Was Gaunt checking up on him to make sure he’d done what he’d said he would? The arsehole. He’d never let him down before.

‘I’m done,’ he snapped as he answered the call.

The voice on the other end was calm. ‘Excellent. I knew you would. But that’s not what I’m calling about.’

‘No?’

‘No. I’ve got another urgent job for you. We’ve just had a tip-off about an old . . . patient who’s just returned to the UK.’

‘Right.’

‘Her name’s Kate Maddox.’