A car waited for us when we landed on the spit. Driven by a plain-clothes policeman. The mile long road to the compound required some repair, as the driver did his best to avoid the potholes and other detritus which rested in his way.
The vehicle stopped short of the boom and lowered his window as an officer approached. He carried a machine pistol slung over his shoulder, and not pointing at the ground either.
He caught sight of Fitzgerald, dropped his gun, and gave a signal to a man we couldn't distinguish. The red-and-white barrier went up, the car moved on, halted before heavy iron crash-gates, before leaving the automobile, and proceeded through a side door, and made our way into a one-story block marked 'RECEPTION'.
A small receptacle committee greeted us. Mark Wheatley, Secretary of State for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, Dr. Sheena Ryder, though under Wheatley's command the real boss of the establishment. Mid-forties, and yet, at a distance, pass for ten years younger, possessing beautiful clear blue eyes, but wore too much make-up and exuded a sweet, opulent scent of perfume.
Alleged to be an outstanding doctor, the DEFRA structure stayed her life, being one of the few with her own sleeping accommodation on the premises. Wheatley joked during her introduction, she never went outside the gates more than twice a year.
The third individual, Grant Tilbury, dressed in a bulky shapeless tweed outfit, presented himself as the Minister for Agricultural and Biosecurity.
Introductions over, we followed Sheena into the interior of the building, trailing in her cloud of aroma. She possessed fine legs, her thighs swished nylon as she walked. She showed us into a room full of red leather furniture, poured us all some coffee from a jug in the corner, before disappearing. The others mingled, I stood isolated for a while at the French windows, with my mug looking out over the back of the property.
No flower beds existed, a stretch of stones which expired about a hundred yards away in sparse undergrowth. Beyond, the North Sea, at present as smooth as a mill-pond under an immense aluminium sky. To the left, the land rose to the dunes, marking the edge of the beach. The waves settling and retreating from the shingle, silent, as the glass doors sat too thick -- bullet-proof, I later discovered.
To my left, the former Anglo-American experimental over-the-horizon radar station now run by the BBC. It felt bizarre and strangely comforting see the old-fashioned BBC logo on the side of the wall. Slender white poles reached half a kilometre high with wires strung between them like an intricate net.
The sound of high heels clicking on the floor signalled the return of Sheena Ryder.
"Sorry, but our head of security, Neil Morris and our chief scientist Dr Inga Luzhny both failed to turn up for work today."
Sheena's smile hardened somewhat, as natural as her nail polish.
"So, if all can finish their coffee, please follow me."
"What happened?"
I asked.
"An intentional discharge of infectious effluent from a laboratory took place. This is leading us to believe someone did the last one on purpose, but almost certain this occurrence remains deliberate."
"So, the missing staff might not be a coincidence?"
"No."
After a meandering walk through a labyrinth of corridors which all resembled the same, we came to a sealed door. Sheena typed in the numbers on a keypad, and the door opened with a quiet sigh.
We all filed through and turned down another long passage to our left. The purification area stood at the far end of the corridor, but the way we went remained the only entrance to the entire building.
Safety prevailed.
On the way, we walked through half a dozen entrances, some opened by movement sensors, and the rest by vibration pads fitted in the floor.
We came to the last door before the cleansing machinery and found Morris, the head of protection. The bullet hole, icy and grim, rough at the edges and scorched. The others stared after Sheena's initial gasp and focused on the wound.
I spotted the surrounding person, recognizing the pain in the one still living, and the potential of those who lay cold in hushed greyness. The skin, the arms, the mouth, which must experience laughter at one time. The human, rather than a statistic, is experiencing the grief of those who loved them and the fracturing echo of the universe.
The eyes stood astonished, staring at someone who transcended the realms of sanity into a total and terror-induced madness. The lips strained back over clenched teeth in the appalling rictus of his dying agony.
No one who stared at the face, at the tumultuous contorted limbs, would doubt Neil Morris passed as mighty as man ever endured.
Under scrutiny, I went forward and stooped over the victim, sniffing, and apologized to the dead man for the involuntary wrinkling distaste of nose and mouth. I glanced at Sergeant Fitzgerald, and he stepped forward and bent beside me for a moment before straightening, looking at me.
"Cyanide?"
"Yes."
"Why shoot him afterwards?"
"Prussic acid can kill in seconds or minutes, depending on how ingested. If the killer raced against time, he sped up the process by shooting him at close range in the head. Hence, the scorching around the injury."
"Sure, he perished here?"
Sheena Ryder uttered, keeping a lid on her emotions.
"He died here, doctor. Those faint scratches on the plaster of the wall give a distinct sign. He clawed for support as he fell to the floor."
"How did they administer this?"
"Inhaled somehow, I should imagine."
"Should I call in forensics from Suffolk police headquarters?"
Fitzgerald asked.
"Yes, Fitzgerald, but no rush. The prints on the door would be only of those permitted to move through the door. What I want to find out lingers, whether any evidence of smearing, as with a handkerchief or gloves, on the key-pad combination."
Fitzgerald nodded.
"In particular, if an inside job."
A guard produced a huge fibre case and a small, covered container, placed on the floor, and left. I witnessed the inquiring life of Fitzgerald's eyebrow.
"I intend to go into the effluent plant, and I plan to go in alone."
Sheena Ryder said and walked towards the case.
"I propose to wear a hazardous costume, lock the steel door behind me, open the inner door, and take the animal in this enclosure with me. If he or she is still alive after a few minutes, all traces of methane gas become dissipated."
"I didn't realize this vapour might be toxic."
I said.
"Exposure, when experienced in high concentrations, can lead to severe poisoning. We consider the fume non-toxic, the primary threat functions as an asphyxiant, similar to the danger posed by carbon monoxide detection."
Sheena explained.
"A hamster?"
Tilbury moved across to the cage and lifted the cover.
"Poor little sod. Where did this rodent come from?"
"This complex stays the easiest place in the world to acquire any creature with ease."
Sheena said.
"Hundreds of them nearby, plus a few thousand guinea-pigs, rabbits, monkeys, parrots, mice, and fowls."
"The R.S.P.C. A. and the National Anti-Vivisection Society would sell their souls to gain access."
I interjected.
"This place continues to be their waking nightmare, and I don't blame them."
"We are all entitled to our opinions."
Wheatley said with indifference.
"I don't say I disagree."
He smiled without humour.
"The right place for airing such sentiments, but the wrong time."
I nodded, acknowledgement, or apology, while I opened the case.
Sheena straightened, hazmat suit in hand, and I gripped her arm. My face is tight with worry.
"Don't go in."
My voice, deep, urgent, almost desperate.
"Please! Don't go inside."
"No choice."
I said nothing but gazed at her. I liked Sheena in many ways. She didn't secure the job because everyone liked her. I reputed her to be one of the most brilliant microbiologists in Europe. A Californian professor of medicine, in this facility eight months. The biggest catch DEFRA ever made, but continued in uncertainty for a while, coaxing conferences at the highest levels before the American government agreed to release her for an unspecified period.
"Yes, you do."
"How?"
"I can go in."