The room went eerily quiet. Esther’s cup clinked against the saucer and she fumbled with the hem of her cardigan. Nathalie waited a while and, when no further comment was forthcoming, leaned forward to touch Esther gently on the arm.
‘What is it Esther? What’s worrying you?’
Esther took a deep breath and shook her head. ‘I’m really sorry Miss Thompson but one of the reasons I wanted you to come round was to find out more about my past. I really thought you must have known me. I had your card, I thought we may have worked together or even been friends. I hope you don’t think badly of me inviting you around.’
Nathalie smiled at her. ‘Not at all Esther. In fact I’ve a confession too, I’m as curious as to why you had my card as you are.’
Esther’s hands were still shaking. She put the cup down to stop it rattling further. ‘I’ve tried everything, even walking up and down to the outside of your office to see if I could remember anything. From time to time, especially after the medication, I get flashes of recall but it disappears as quickly as it comes.’
‘What sort of recall?’
‘The doctors have told me that I mentioned something about a place I stayed in once. Apparently the hospital wards reminded me of it. Also something to do with taking little pink pills. I thought maybe it was just recent memory because of my treatment, but they said the rooms and pills I described were totally different.’
‘Can you remember anything about the place now?’
‘Not really. As I said I can’t remember if it’s my recall or what the doctors have told me I said.’
Nathalie tried to normalise the situation by taking a sip from her cup. The acrid taste of the tea came as a shock to her and she remembered the smoky hut in Zimbabwe with Lloyd and the terrorists.
‘Esther,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You don’t happen to have any cleaning fluid in your flat?’
Esther looked at her in surprise. ‘Why, have you spilt something?’
‘No, but I’ve just had an idea.’
‘I’m not sure, the kitchen cabinet is where I keep things like that.’
‘Do you mind if we take a look?’
‘Of course not,’ said Esther. ‘The kitchen is straight through that door.’
The two of them made their way to the kitchen and Nathalie rummaged through the cupboard to find a small bottle of methylated spirits.
‘I can’t remember what I bought that for,’ said Esther. ‘But I can’t remember much nowadays,’ she added sadly.
Nathalie unscrewed the top and waved the cap under Esther’s nose.
‘Remind you of anything, a sense of place?’
Esther closed her eyes and thought for a while.
‘The hospital you mean.’
‘Yes but any hospital in particular?’
Esther took another sniff and closed her eyes again. Nathalie waited patiently and looked around the small kitchen. The usual paraphernalia. Hanging saucepans, kitchen cupboards and a small noticeboard attached to one wall. She walked up to it.
‘Do you use this?’ she asked holding up a thin folded booklet.
Esther opened her eyes and blinked getting accustomed to the light. ‘What is it?’
‘A monthly calendar, can I take a look?’
‘By all means, I didn’t realise that it was there.’
Nathalie flicked through the pages. The last few weeks were blank but further back were some entries in small spidery writing. Most were for items of shopping: scouring pads, tomato soup, stock cubes. Others were for appointments: dentist, hairdresser, and then the shock entry, Clinic Dr B. Nathalie folded over the page and took it to Esther.
‘Did you write this?’
‘I think it’s my handwriting.’
‘Does this mean anything to you?’
Esther stared at the words. Clinic Dr B. She closed her eyes and then shook her head.
‘Sorry, it doesn’t mean a thing.’
Nathalie looked at the date, May, several months ago. She was desperate to shake Esther Phillips to get more information out of her, but she knew it would be no good. Esther was a delicate frightened woman. One who had had her memory stolen from her. She had to be patient.
‘Esther, it says here “clinic”, I think that at some point you may have mentioned to the doctors that you were on a clinical trial. Is that right?’
Esther was becoming agitated, she walked up and down the kitchen. ‘I don’t know, I really don’t know. I’m sorry, but I remember small things and then I forget them again, I don’t know what I’ve said.’
‘It’s all right, I understand, but if you were on a trial there would have been paperwork. Where would you have kept that?’
Esther began to cry. ‘I wish I knew, I can’t pay the gas bill, I can’t find my bank details, if it wasn’t for the lady from Social Security…’
Nathalie ushered her back into the living room. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you Esther, I’m just trying to help. Can I look around your flat?’
‘Please do, if you can find anything, anything that will help me get my life back.’
The flat was small and very tidy. Nathalie methodically went through the shelves and cupboards. Not a scrap of paper to be found.
‘You’re very neat Esther. I’m sure you would have put your paperwork in one place somewhere, but it’s not in this room, do you have anywhere else?’
‘My bedroom is through the other door over there,’ said Esther pointing. ‘You’re welcome to take a look, I have nothing to hide,’ she smiled forlornly. ‘At least, I don’t think I have.’
Nathalie went into the room. It was as well-ordered as the others: a small dressing table under the window; a few items of jewellery hanging on a ceramic hand. A standard size double bed filled most of the room. One small bedside table held some pots of pills. Nathalie began to walk around the bed to take a look when her feet touched an obstacle under the canopy. She leant down and found a thin brown leather suitcase. It was of the old-fashioned type with two locks either side of the handle. Nathalie flicked them open. Inside were a number of Manila folders. She studied them for a moment before taking them through to Esther in the living room.
‘Esther, I think I’ve found your bank details,’ she said opening one of the folders. ‘And, if I’m not wrong, the reason why you were given my business card.’
The silhouette of the Alhambra Palace cut into the ochre sky. The Moors had labelled it the crimson castle and it was not difficult to see why. Nathalie loved Granada. She had been here before on holiday but had missed the chance to visit Flamenco. They had one evening before driving off to Morocco; she wasn’t going to miss it again. Tom and her cameramen John McCord had agreed to go with her. Walking along the valley between the two hills that dominated the city, they were seeking a nightclub under the ancient stone arches. It was easy to find; a dark-haired lissom woman dressed in a low-cut red polka dot gown leant against the corner of an alley. She was drawing erotically on a cigarette.
‘Flamenco?’ her husky voice exhaled the smoke as she made the invitation.
They nodded and she gestured towards a small doorway set in the rocks. Inside a young man took the money and showed them to a bench seat opposite a long table. They ordered a drink and looked around. It was very small. A low white-washed arched ceiling above their heads and a narrow room leading to a small wooden stage containing two rustic chairs. The room was lined with bench seats and tables like the one they were sitting at. When full it would only hold about thirty people.
‘Who’s for a cold beer?’ perfect English with a slight Spanish accent, the waiter was clutching three large glasses of frothing gold liquid.
They all raised their hands, and gratefully took the drinks. It was hot in this part of Spain and even the thick stone walls around them provided little protection.
‘Thanks guys, I appreciate you coming,’ said Nathalie wiping the froth from her lips. ‘We’ve got a long drive tomorrow but I really didn’t want to miss this.’
‘Cheers Nathalie,’ said John McCord clinking her glass. ‘Good to have some relaxation on these trips. Everyone thinks it’s a glamorous life travelling with a film camera, they don’t realise that most of the time we don’t have time to take in the places we’ve landed in. Been to New York twenty times, most of it filming hospital interiors and offices. Never seen the Statue of Liberty.’
‘Yeah but you get to see things through the back door,’ said Tom. ‘Stuff tourists can’t get access to.’
John downed his drink in one and indicated to the waiter that he wanted another. ‘True, but when you’ve done as much travelling for work as I have it’s good to be a tourist from time to time.’
Within half an hour the club filled and the performers came to the stage. The show was everything they expected it to be. Raw, rhythmic and energetic. Despite the small platform the dancer flung herself into a hypnotic trance and the singer and guitarist filled the chamber with harmonic structures punctuated with sharp handclaps and a struck guitar. At the end of the evening the three left the club and walked into the warm evening air with the mesmerising sounds still filling their heads.
‘I’m really glad we went to that,’ said Tom. ‘I never understood what all the fuss was about before. They were amazing.’
‘Yeah, the real thing,’ said John. ‘Not the commercial crap you find in the tourist traps.’
‘Thought you wanted to be a tourist,’ laughed Nathalie. ‘Come on you two, I’ll buy you a nightcap in the hotel bar in exchange for a briefing, how does that sound?’
‘Sounds like we’ve stopped being tourists,’ said John. ‘But, as I’m being paid for being here, why not.’
The hotel was set just below the old quarter of the town. It was modern with all the amenities and the staff had taken care to lock John’s camera gear in a secure room. Nathalie knew that this was the only way John would have accepted the invitation to have a night out, otherwise he would have sat in his room the whole evening on top of the camera case. The bar was pleasant, warm lighting with low music. They sat in a corner and Nathalie handed out the call-sheets.
‘We are being picked up early by the Spanish crew. Two of them, one sound, one sparks. We’ve got two trucks, they’ll do the driving. Tom and I’ll go with the sound guy, and John, you can ride shotgun with the sparks. We’re catching the ferry at Tarifa and should be in Casablanca before nightfall. The next morning we have to cut across inland to the laboratory. Apparently the road is pretty rough so that’s why we’ve got 4×4s. When we get there Tom will introduce us to Temba. We’ll just proceed with filming according to the schedule leaving Tom to see if he can persuade Temba to take part in our sting in his own time. If he’s successful we’ll build in a private interview on camera. Any questions?’
John took his call-sheet and tapped on the table. ‘No, just as we discussed. I had a chat with the sparks on the phone and he knows what he’s doing so we should be okay on the technical front. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to bed. See you at six.’
The two men rose and started to make their way to the elevators. Nathalie remained seated.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ asked Tom.
‘In a moment,’ said Nathalie. ‘Have to make a phone call to Stefanie. I’ve asked her to follow up something in London for me. Want to know how she got on.’
Sebastian and Axel turned up on time. They carefully loaded John’s camera equipment into one of the trucks and were on the road within minutes. There was little traffic on the autopista and the olive groves sped past them at a hundred and twenty kilometres an hour. The idea was to get to Tarifa before eleven. From there it was only an hour’s ferry ride to Tangier in North Africa. There was plenty of time to brief Sebastian, the sound recordist, and so Tom and Nathalie dozed in the back seat trying to catch up on some sleep. After a fuel stop and coffee they felt more alert and made conversation with their driver. Sebastian spoke perfect English, had worked for Bagatelle before and, from some of his stories, sounded pretty experienced. Nathalie felt in safe hands; there was nothing worse than getting to the edit suite with perfect pictures only to find out the sound was muffled.
‘Any time you want to hear playback, just give me the nod,’ he said. ‘If I hear any background noise I’ll tell you by lifting a finger. I know how directors get frustrated by a sound guy shouting out “cut” during a sensitive take.’
‘Sounds like we are singing from the same call-sheet Sebastian,’ said Nathalie. ‘I wouldn’t worry, you’ve come highly recommended. Stefanie thinks you are the real deal,’ she chuckled. ‘But that may be something more to do with your photograph.’
Tom saved Sebastian’s embarrassment by intervening.
‘Talking of Stefanie, did you get through to her last night?’
‘That I did Tom, and very interesting it was too.’
‘Are you going to tell me about it?’
‘You’ve got your plateful with Temba so I was going to leave it till later but I might as well fill you in now, as you’ve asked.’
Tom looked at her with exasperation, ‘Go on then, spill the beans, I knew that phone call was important.’
‘I’m not sure if we’ve got the whole story yet but it’s to do with Rob Barnes. Geoff kept telling me to leave it alone but I knew there was something not right with that guy.’
‘I thought you’d sorted all that; why we found the Biomedivac paperwork in Surabaya.’
‘Yes, but we still don’t know how he found out about that particular laboratory, although I have a hunch on that.’
Nathalie turned around to look at the truck following them. ‘Good they’re keeping up, I hope when we get to that lab we’ll find out a little more.’
‘So that’s all she said?’
‘Who?’
‘Stefanie, who else?’
‘Sorry Tom, just remembering my second meeting with Rob Barnes. I left him with my bag for a moment, had all my papers in it. All your research on Surabaya.’
‘You mean he could have taken a look.’
‘Wouldn’t put it past him, slippery character.’
‘So is that what you talked to Stefanie about?’
‘No, but it could be connected. Remember I told you about overhearing a conversation with Barnes and a guy called Roszak in Los Angeles?’
Tom nodded.
‘Barnes is obviously up to something, trying to discredit Townes and Biomedivac. Could be jealousy, but I think it’s more than that. Anyway I made a visit to that poor woman with memory loss, you know the one who had my business card.’
‘How is she?’
‘Not good Tom, I don’t think she’ll ever get her full memory back. She let me look around her apartment and I found some paperwork relating to clinical trials.’
‘What, testing drugs on people with poor memory?’
‘No, quite the opposite. The trial was testing a new Alzheimer’s drug on healthy volunteers.’
Tom sat back in the seat of the truck and took in a deep breath. He was suddenly getting the idea.
‘You’re now going to tell me that the trial was Biomedivac’s.’
‘Precisely Tom, and the leader of the trial was Doctor Robert Barnes.’
Tom whistled. ‘So that’s where she got your card from, you told me you’d met Barnes earlier.’
‘That’s right, when I was starting research on this project. The thing we have to establish now is why he gave Esther my card. But I have a theory on that one too.’
They were approaching the Tarifa ferry. Nathalie was obviously not going to expound any further so Tom busied himself fishing out their documentation from his bag. The two trucks were waved into a short queue of cars and vans by a port official. They presented their passports and vehicle papers and after a short while were guided onto the roll-on roll-off ferry. They had been told the trip would only take an hour. An hour on a boat from Europe to Africa, it seemed strange, but the timetable was correct and it wasn’t long before they were being shepherded into a large arrivals hall. The exit of this hall took longer than the passage of the ferry. One by one men in military type uniforms came up to them asking them to fill in paperwork. They did this repeatedly a number of times. Eventually a senior official, senior by his groomed grey beard and authoritative cap, walked up to Sebastian and asked him to go with him to the office. Sebastian kept very cool.
‘Won’t be a moment, have to technically import the vehicles,’ he said to the others. ‘Normal procedure. They’re looking for a backhander,’ he whispered to Nathalie.
Half an hour later the military bureaucrats opened the gates and the two film trucks drove into the outskirts of Tangiers. Once through the city Sebastian and Axel pulled over to fill up with diesel. John suggested that, as the journey to their hotel would take another four hours, they should take some lunch in the service station. All were in agreement so they bought sandwiches and soft drinks and sat around one of the restaurant’s Formica tables.
‘Not very Moroccan,’ said Tom looking at the cloned service station decor.
‘They’ve upgraded the roads and gas stations,’ said Axel. ‘We should be grateful, ten years ago it was difficult to find a fuel pump.’
‘I was hoping for something more exotic; you know, decorative carpets, exotic pottery, hookah pipes.’
Nathalie laughed. ‘Don’t worry Tom. Next stop Casablanca.’
‘Play it again Sam,’ said Tom.
‘He didn’t say that!’ they all shouted in unison.