Experiment With Destiny (11 page)

All the same, he knew it was only a matter of time before whoever was behind this cover up realised that not everyone had bought the official version of events. Steven assured himself he had at least a day before he had to face that eventuality. It was, after all, Sunday. He held the advantage for another 24 hours and it was important he use that head start to pin down the story…before they could pin it down for him.

* * *

              The Western Mail & Echo’s electronic library yielded nothing of use for the year stamped on the medal and certainly no reference to any significant event at somewhere called Abamae that year. Steven learned that it was a turbulent 12 months but there was little in the way of military conflicts involving British forces, other than the ongoing Gulf and central African peace-keeping commitments. There was certainly no reference to the use of SAS or special forces. It was the year the European nations, as they were then, fell out with the United States over oil. The American president negotiated virtual control of the Gulf’s dwindling reserves with the new Saudi Federation of Islamic fundamentalist governments in return for arms. Europe withdrew its peace-keeping troops from the Gulf, the NATO alliance collapsed soon after and the oil sanctions began. The Socialists swept to power in most European countries, only Britain and Sweden remaining on the political right. France, Germany, Russia, Spain and Italy proposed the Europact as a means of breaking the American-Japanese Alliance’s stranglehold on the global economy. British Prime Minister Sir James Irwin Renner refused to participate in talks and his efforts to renegotiate oil trade deals with the American-Japanese Alliance prompted a Continental boycott of British products. British unemployment and inflation rocketed and Renner’s standing in the opinion polls plummeted. When the Islamic federation fell apart and fierce in-fighting between rival factions, the Gulf oilfields were scorched and talks with Washington and Tokyo were abandoned. Renner remained resolute over his refusal to sign the Europact but he was assassinated en route to a meeting with the German Chancellor in Berlin. Political correspondents speculated the hastily arranged meeting was a last ditch attempt to pressure the German leader into abandon the Europact. Far left ‘unitarian terrorists’ were implicated but nobody was ever arrested. The Conservatives lost a November election and Labour returned to Westminster. The following year Parliament was dissolved for the last time when Britain became the 12th nation to sign the Europact.

             
It was amazing how much history could change in 365 days, thought Steven, though he was disappointed at the lack of any obvious military conflict involving the British. It was possible Renner had sent SAS soldiers into Africa that year, or perhaps there was a covert mission to the Gulf to assist the American-Japanese Alliance. He switched from the archive intranet to the web and ran a fast-search on ‘Abamae’. Not a single reference. He tried numerous geographical reference sites and a selection of online cartographers to no avail. Finally, he set a compound trawl in motion, switching it to background while he logged a second computer into Yell.com and ran ‘Gusso’. Surprisingly there were three in Cardiff and one in Caerphilly. The only E Gusso listed was in Grangetown – the Taff Embankment. Steven noted down the address and phone number before returning his attention back to the trawl. Ten minutes later he had grown bored with staring at a screen gradually filling with the words ‘nothing located’ beneath the name of each search engine. Leaving the trawl running, he went for a coffee, the instant vending machine variety, and a stroll through the newsroom to see who was around. It was unlikely any of his Echo colleagues would be around today. There was a quiet murmur of activity from the adjoining Western Mail section but he did not recognise anyone he categorised as an associate, never mind a friend. He decided to check his work e-mails and glance down the Press Association list of incoming weekend copy before returning to the library.

             
Powering up his workstation, he noticed that some of the icons had been moved around on his desktop. It was not unusual for other people to use his workstation as hot-desking was a common and necessary practice, but it annoyed him when somebody messed with the settings…his settings. He was surprised to see ‘no new messages’ flash up when he clicked open his Western Mail & Echo e-mail account and typed in his password. Surprise turned to anger when he checked the inbox to find several messages, mostly from public relations companies with press releases attached, had arrived since he left the office on Friday night. Perhaps he had left the e-mail window open and Menna couldn’t resist being nosey. Perhaps Jerry…

             
“Shit!” Steven suddenly realised that the JPEG files of his photographs were no longer among the icons on his desktop. After checking his virtual wastebasket he ran a quick ‘find’. They were no longer on his system. Somebody had wiped them. He glanced around. The idiot box was on Menna’s desk…or rather the desk Menna had been using on Friday night as she was currently counted among the newsroom’s hot-deskers. Opening its protective case, panic rising, he switched it on and read the display. ‘Available memory – 100%’ “Shit! Shit! Shit!” Somebody had cleared the camera’s disc. He logged on to the staff contacts list and found Jerry’s home number. Those pictures were vital evidence.

             
“Jerry, did you wipe those pix from my workstation on Friday, the ones of the crash victims?” Jerry looked momentarily baffled.

             
“No. You in the office? Come up with something good?” Steven’s mind was racing. Wiping the camera disc was not out of the ordinary. It could have been any one of the Saturday morning staff. Having his desktop rearranged was also, annoyingly, not unusual.

              “Someone’s wiped those pix off my desktop…and the camera disc has been erased.”

Who opened his e-mail? Who deleted the pictures? Why? “They’ve gone!” The picture desk would have a copy of the one used in yesterday’s edition, but that was no use.

              “Calm down, Steve. They’ll turn up. Nobody would have…” Two sets of poor quality printouts, one of which Giles was sure to have misplaced and the other was crumpled in his coat pocket. “…I can’t believe anyone would have deleted them. How’s the story shaping up, anyway? Sounds like...”

             
“Gotta go. Call you later.” Jerry vanished into a dark pinhole at the centre of the vidiphone screen. Steven ran through the list for Menna’s number, his mood blackening. It was all perfectly innocent, he told himself, just one of those things…a simple cock-up. He still had the medal. Menna’s number rang and rang. He gave up. Giles had warned him to be careful…or had he just said ‘take care’? It was hard to remember. Had Giles been reluctant to help him in the end? Or was that Giles just being Giles? Giles had spoken to Elton, or whatever his name was. What if…get a grip! He remembered the black motorbike, its faceless rider. Was it the same bike he had glimpsed turning into the side street by the hospital? Did despatch riders work on Sundays? Steven’s heart was pounding. Of course they did. This is just paranoia. If Elton had raised the alarm, if Gwynfor had contacted the police, or Heggie, they would come by car, a squad car, perhaps an unmarked car. What was the worst they could do? Invite him to the police station to answer a few questions, find out how much he knew? He didn’t yet know enough. He still had time. How much time?

             
“Eleanor Gusso,” he said aloud. He had to find her. He had to find her fast.

By the time Steven reached the Taff Embankment he was breathless, soaked to the skin and half way through his second packet of cigarettes since Saturday night’s relapse. He had decided to walk, despite the rain, hoping it would help to clear his head. Every step of the way he had fought the contradictions of his uncertainties, trying to keep control of his imagination. Continually glancing around at the traffic, expecting to catch sight of the motorcyclist, his journey had been an arduous battle against a growing fear that he was out of his depth. The city around him seemed oppressive, closing him in, watching him. But why? He had done nothing wrong, except take a few unsavoury photographs and pick up a medal that did not belong to him.

Those were not real crimes. He had nothing to be afraid of. He was a journalist in search of the truth. This was his job. They were in the wrong…whoever had tried to cover up the identities of…

              Steven stopped. He was stood outside number 24, the address he had for Eleanor Gusso, Corporal Eleanor Gusso, 22nd Regiment Special Air Service, as Heggie had revealed what felt like an age ago. It was a shabby three-story block, its brickwork streaked with grime, wooden window frames and doors chipped and peeling, its front wall crumbling and sprouting weeds. He remembered the woman on the roadside, her bloodied breast exposed through her ripped blazer and blouse but an elegantly attired woman nonetheless. This ragged old property did not seem a likely home for such a woman, for a heroic commando of the SAS. He pressed the buzzer then, unsure if it had sounded, knocked three times against the grubby door. There was movement from inside. Steven braced himself for another dead end.

             
“Hello?” Unlike Eleanor Gusso, the face that appeared from behind the door and peered out at him was not out of place here, he thought. “What do you want?” The words seemed to slur into each other. The eyes were weak and watery. Steven noticed the man had no teeth. His lips were severely chapped and his skin was red and blotchy. He wore a dark suit, its material worn and stained with an oily, or greasy sheen. His shoulders were speckled with flakes of dandruff.

             
“I’m looking for Eleanor Russo.” Steven feared the worse. This man was of a different generation to the woman he had seen on the roadside, and of a different class. There could be no connection. “I was told she lives here.”

             
“She did.” It was like a surge of electricity from the pit of his stomach. Steven’s mouth gaped. “Until yesterday. She died. But who are you?” The eyes searched him up and down, the blotchy face scowled. “You don’t look like police.” Steven searched for his press card.

             
“No. No I’m a reporter with the Echo. I…we know about the car crash and…”

             
“Car crash?” The man frowned. It dawned on Steven that he displayed surprisingly little emotion at the very recent loss of his wife or partner…or sister…or daughter.

             
“Yes, she was killed in a car crash on Friday. Didn’t the police…”

             
“You must be mistaken. The police said it was a heart attack. They came yesterday and took all her stuff away, so there’s nothing left here now for you to be poking your nose around.”

The door began to close again.

              “No, wait!” Steven fumbled in his pocket for the medal. “We wanted to do a story…a tribute piece.” He waved the medal in the gap between the door and its frame. “About her bravery at Abamae. Surely as her husband you’d want to see her properly honoured for…”

             
The door stopped. Steven heard a hoarse chuckle, then it opened again and the face peered up at him. “Husband. I like that. Husband indeed.” He chuckled again.

             
“Sorry, I assumed that you…” If not husband, then what? At least Steven had bought a few moments longer to talk his way inside. “Forgive me. So Eleanor was your…” he was about to say ‘daughter’.

             
“Tenant. Eleanor was my tenant.” Steven found this even harder to believe but tried not to let it show. Why on earth would a woman like Eleanor Gusso rent a place like this? “I’ve a few tenants. I couldn’t afford the upkeep without them.” Upkeep was stretching it somewhat, Steven thought to himself.

             
“How long had she been a…tenant here?” Steven tucked the medal away and produced his notebook. “If you don’t mind me asking.” The man, Eleanor’s landlord, stroked his chin, loosening a shower of fresh flakes of dried skin. “It’s just that I need a few details for my tribute piece…what she was like, the people she lived with…you know.”

             
“Well…” Steven could detect a softening of tone and began scribbling on a rain-soaked sheet of paper. “…I guess it wouldn’t do any harm. You’d better come in out of the rain for a minute.” Steven smiled. It never ceased to amaze him how many ordinary people were unable to resist the lure of having their names in print.

             
“Thanks. That’s very kind of you.” The door opened fully and Steven stepped inside. There was a hint of whisky and stale tobacco as he held out his hand to his host. “Steven, Steven Elan.” Then his nostrils caught the deeply unpleasant stench of damp.

             
“John.” His grip was returned and Steven detected a slight tremble. He guessed at the onset of Parkinson’s disease, or perhaps it was alcoholism. “John Griffiths. This way.”

             
Steven was led along a long dark hallway and into an equally gloomy lounge. The floorboards creaked beneath a threadbare paisley patterned carpet and his eyes were immediately drawn to the large patches of mould eating away at the wallpaper in each corner. John gestured to an ancient looking armchair, the least worn of a matching pair. Steven tried not to inspect the arms and cushions too closely as he sat. In the nearest corner an old electric lamp struggled against the gloom, its shade was moth-eaten and its decorative tassels frayed. A settee, part of the same suite as the armchairs, crouched against the bay window. There was a large blackened fire place, cluttered with ash and cigarette ends, and above it a mantelpiece labouring beneath a host of painted porcelain figurines – the ugly type he so often saw in pensioners’ homes – and a handful of ornately framed photographs. There was an overflowing bookcase and a clock, the old fashioned kind with a face, numerals and hands. Steven was instantly taken by its hypnotic ticking. It seemed to be the only sound in the house.