CHAPTER 1
Being a creature of unerring and predictable habit, Edward James Higgins, professor of tropical plant science at Oxford University did what he always did when it rained during his bike ride to work. He hung his wet socks and sandals next to his bicycle clips on the radiator to dry. Then he spent the rest of that Saturday morning padding around the laboratory in bare feet whilst offering a student the benefit of his knowledge of Curvularia aragrostidis as a cause of leaf spot in pineapples.
An hour later, alone once more, he sat quietly at his corner desk examining a computer print-out and glancing occasionally at the faded remains of an old newspaper cutting pinned to the cork board.
With the dark, shoulder-length hair and central parting, few would have recognised the accompanying photo as a forty-year old photo of himself as a short-lived celebrity, a student demonstrator and a fanatic, pale-faced environmental activist who the press had dubbed “Huggy”. A few old friends still called him Huggy, but nowadays, he was mostly known, even by first year students, as Eddie.
Eddie, his bicycle, his sandals and his flapping old raincoat were well known around the streets of Oxford but, at sixty-two years old, the one-time Ozzie Osborne look-alike now sported a central parting that had broadened to six inches. “Hope springs eternally, but there’s nothing wrong internally,” he’d say in response to cruel jibes about his hair that had receded to a ring of sparse grey threads and fluff. Eddie was an enthusiastic writer of satirical poetry in what little spare time he had and whenever he looked at that old photo, he felt inspired to scribble another.
He’d just taken a sheet of paper and scribbled, “there once was a boy of twenty who’s now approaching seventy,” when the phone rang.
“Your visitor’s here, Eddie,” said Charlie who combined janitorial duties with unlocking the front door on quiet, Saturday mornings.
“Send her over, Charlie.”
Eddie knew who it was although they’d not yet met. This was the chairman or chairwoman, whatever it was she described herself as, of a local, Oxford-based cosmetics company who had offered the university money in the form of a student bursary. Universities grabbed any cash on offer and Bill Hughes, the head of department, had done his best to quell Eddie’s well-known opinions on industry and capitalism and especially what Eddie called ‘the vanity business’ and accept.
Remembering his bare feet, Eddie sat on the floor to drag on his socks and thought back to how Bill Hughes had finally persuaded him.
“We could use the money, Eddie, so can you try putting aside your well-known personal opinions, prejudices and suspicions about businesses for once?”
Eddie had been adamant. “No.”
“Come on Eddie. Not all of them are so bad and you know as well as I do that your opinions are quickly seen for what they are – unfounded, private vendettas.”
“No.”
“Not even if, as part of the deal, you become their appointed scientific adviser, Eddie?” Bill had winked. “With all that that might offer? Influence? Powers of persuasion? Change for the better?”
“Well, if you put it like that.”
That was almost a year ago. Now, wearing his damp socks, Eddie went to the door and opened it to a wall of perfume.
Standing there was an unexpectedly tall, slim, black-haired woman in a dark suit who looked much younger than he’d imagined. This wasn’t the squat, savage-looking, bespectacled and mousy-haired chairman and chief executive of his imagination but a taller, more delicate creature with pure white skin, shiny red lips and deep brown eyes surrounded by thick, black paint. She smiled at him.
“Professor Higgins?”
“Call me Eddie.”
“May I come in?”
Baroness Isobel Johnson (she was one of those who had acquired a title for being well connected in circles that Eddie would deliberately avoid even if the opportunity arose) slipped passed him and he checked her from behind. She was wearing shiny, red, high-heeled shoes and black stockings. A flimsy red scarf was draped over a dark grey jacket and beneath that was a matching grey skirt. A red handbag hung from her shoulder.
Eddie’s low interest in personal details meant he hadn’t learned much about her beforehand. Had he bothered he’d have discovered that Isobel Johnson was highly regarded in some circles. She was a regular contributor to magazines on fashion and such-like and was often called upon to speak on the radio or TV or at conferences in support of women in business All Eddie knew was that not a drop of rain had touched her so she’d clearly arrived by car or taxi, certainly not by bicycle.
He was still holding the door open with his glasses hanging on the cord around his neck. “We banned those sorts of shoes some years ago,” he said. “They leave marks on the laboratory floor.”
Isobel turned and looked at him and Eddie saw a striking resemblance to a waxworks model of a Chinese concubine he’d once seen.at Madame Tussaud’s. It was the glossy red lipstick that clinched it.
“Of course,” Isobel said. “How thoughtless of me. Shall I leave them outside?”
Eddie wondered about that because he’d also been at the forefront of a ban on high heels in corridors but at this rate, she’d need to return home for a complete change of clothing. “Outside is fine,” he said beckoning to the corridor.
He replaced his glasses to watch how she bent over in the tight skirt and removed each shoe by balancing on one leg. Eddie, himself, would have sat on the floor. He watched her place them neatly against the wall, brush the skirt down and then turn to look up at him from a slightly lower altitude. “Better?” she asked.
“Thank you,” Eddie said. “Please come in. Take the stool by the incubator.”
“Did you put the kettle on as you said you would, Professor Higgins?”
“Yes. It has already boiled. Twice. Tea?”
“Thank you.”
“Milk? Sugar?”
“Neither thank you. It’s a big laboratory, Professor Higgins.”
“Call me Eddie. “
“And you’re in charge?”
“Yes.” Not only was Eddie in charge but the laboratory bore his name on a plate fixed to the door. ‘Professor Edward J. Higgins. Plant Pathology.’ Had she not noticed it?
“Biscuit?”
“What sort do you have?”
“Osborne. Rich Tea. Or whatever they’re now called.”
He busied himself with two mugs of tea, one with milk and two sugars, the other without. He squeezed the tea bags with the spoon, checked they were fully spent of colour and polyphenols and dropped them in the pedal bin. Then he grabbed four biscuits from the packet.
“This looks very complicated Professor Higgins.”
In looking to see what it was that was so complicated, the tea from one mug spilt on the floor so Eddie wiped the splashes with his foot hoping she hadn’t seen. Hot wetness seeped into his still damp, grey socks. “Gas chromatographic and mass spectrographic printouts. Some students’ work. Results from a few tests on krabok nut oil,” he said.
Eddie was a world expert on tropical hardwood trees such as kraboks, their nuts and their fungal diseases but he tried hard not to bore anyone with too much science. He’d seen too many eyes glaze over in the past to even try.
“And what does it tell you?”
He slid the mug of tea towards her leaving a trail of wetness and put two biscuits alongside it. That’s when he noticed her fingers, the shiny red nails and three rings – gold with clear little stones.
“My students were asked to look for therapeutic properties, particularly antifungal ones amongst the aldehydes and esters components in nut oils.” He was speaking somewhat distractedly because nail paint always intrigued him. Why did they do it? What was the purpose?
“I see,” Isobel replied.
“In your cosmetics business, you call them essential oils, Baroness Johnson.”
“Isobel, please.”
“In theory, when choosing an essential oil for human use you would want one with a high therapeutic value and low toxicity. There are many different compounds within each of the major categories – in fact there are several hundred individual chemical substances in these oils. That makes it difficult to evaluate them chemically. Even though a chromatograph may show only a few of the constituents of an oil, one still needs knowledge of many individual substances and their properties to read and understand a GC-MS report. Some components can be quite toxic in large quantities.” Eddie glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “But you know all that of course. You’re in the cosmetics business.”
Isobel tried sipping her tea but Eddie knew it would be far too hot for her delicate red lips. She put the mug down.
Over his half-moons he watched her looking at the screen through two strands of straight black hair that had fallen forward. Her brown eyes peered through long black eyelashes that were either false or fluffed up with those little black brushes they use to improve the flutter effect. Her eyebrows were thick, black and neat mirror images of each another.
“This,” he said pressing a few keys, “is a comparison of two oils that you might think were identical – lavender oils. Lavender is useful for teaching students. If lavender is grown above 2,000 feet, the ester content increases. This, some say, makes high altitude lavender oil more useful in aromatherapy and therefore more profitable.
“We’re talking serious biochemistry coupled with complex benefits and toxicity testing, Baroness. Claims, for instance, that lavenders have calming effects and antispasmodic properties are - what shall I say? - mostly hearsay. Most users and sellers of aromatherapy products don’t have the slightest understanding of the chemistry behind the ludicrous claims they make.”
Eddie was getting into the swing of things now. He pulled up another stool and sat down close enough to find her perfume quite overpowering. “And neither do perfume and cosmetics manufacturers,” he added, wrinkling his nose.
She smiled. “But whoever heard of someone dying from an overdose of skin cream, Professor?”
“And whoever heard of someone taking an anti-ageing cream who finds the ageing process has been stopped in its tracks,” he snapped back.
“But it’s their choice.” She said checking the heat of her tea again. “If they feel and look better then…”
Eddie erupted. “The word anti means against,” he said. “Anti-ageing therefore means against ageing. It means something, in this case a mix of chemicals, that acts against ageing or at least delays the biological process of ageing. No such single chemical exists. Anti-ageing does not mean lessening the visual signs of ageing. The cosmetics industry uses expressions to distort scientific fact. It turns clearly understood words and changes their meanings. It distorts truth to get around advertising standards that are, in themselves, inadequate. The cosmetics industry lies, misrepresents and steals words to sell products that don’t work.”
“Really, Professor, I don’t quite…” but there was no interrupting Eddie when he was on a roll.
“Take the word serum,” he said. “Ask any woman these days what serum is and she’ll tell you it’s cosmetic. No. it’s not. Serum is a highly complex body fluid in which blood cells circulate in blood vessels. Serology is a scientific subject in its own right. Serum is not, and never can be, a mix of a few synthetic chemicals in a drop of oil sold in pink tubes and little bottles. They stole the word, Baroness.”
Isobel looked appalled as if no-one had ever spoken to her like this but Eddie still hadn’t finished.
“And do you think that someone in a society like ours where good quality food of all types is cheap and available in indecent abundance needs to take food supplements and consume energy drinks as if they’re vital for general health and performance?”
He was pleased how he’d slipped in that indirect reference to the new range of Vital Sports drinks. He made a noise that was meant to sound triumphant and went on:
“What on earth is meant by replacing lost electrolytes for example? Do they really mean the sodium chloride in sweat? If so, say so. Does anyone who drinks these concoctions properly understand words like hypotonic, hypertonic or isotonic? And, even if it was possible, would anyone really need to improve and speed up their metabolism?”
Baroness Johnson wriggled off her stool. “Professor Higgins. I thought I was here to listen to your views following a talk you gave to our staff a short while ago.”
That was true. Talking to staff now and again was one of the jobs of the scientific adviser. So far, Eddie had only talked to them once, formally, but once was enough. He’d walked around their manufacturing area more than once but had found senior staff boring, disinterested, arrogant, flippant and, quite frankly, rude.
Eddie was still seated and Isobel was facing him at eye level so he stood because his mother had always told him to stand up if a seated lady that he was conversing with stood.
“Yes,” he said, “Because according to your short email to Professor Bill Hughes you had concerns about the way your business was being run. You’re in the cosmetics and health products business and you’ve appointed a scientific adviser. Well, here I am – asking questions and advising.”
Isobel sniffed. “Professional advice is one thing. Personal views are quite another, Professor.”
“Not so,” Eddie said crossly. “For a scientist, different sets of views must be allowed to overlap until indisputable facts tilt opinion one way or another. And, anyway, the message I received was that you wanted opinions on staff motivation and commitment, not just their scientific knowledge. That is a pity because as none of your staff are properly qualified their ability to question technical data is very limited. But it was as if you were suspicious of goings on within the company. Am I right?”
She sniffed again so he knew he was right. He continued: “If so, then as your scientific adviser and as I am not at all clear who I actually report to, I would like to say that Vital started giving me cause for concern several months ago. Those concerns have recently increased substantially.”
“I see.”
Eddie swallowed some tea and wiped his mouth. “So, do you want to hear my views?”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. And if you are in any doubt, Professor, you report to me.”
Eddie was pleased she’d cleared up that long-standing question but it was the way she announced it that took him by surprise. It was surprisingly forceful.
At last she took a reasonable sip of her tea and nibbled on a biscuit. She was standing up and he’d always imagined well brought up ladies ate and drank sitting down. “What qualifications does your chief buyer have?”
“That’s him. What is his background?”
“Business, Professor. He was not my appointee. You must understand all the staff were in place before I became Chairman. The chief executive, Nick Carstairs and the finance director, Boris Hamilton, were also in place.”
“Nick Carstairs?”
“He was in banking.”
“Boris Hamilton?”
“Accountancy.”
“The quality manager, Donald McVie?”
“I believe he worked for a local engineering company but why do you ask?”
“I think one or more of them broke into my home.”
That shook her. Her eyes widened and the thick black eyelashes didn’t move at all for a full three seconds. “Broke in? How? When?”
“I trod in a sticky blob of chewing gum outside my front door.”
“Chewing gum?”
“Lester and McVie both chew gum.”
“Do they? But it could have been the postman or a delivery driver.”
“Perhaps, but let’s see what the finger prints tell us.”
“Finger prints? Did you call the police?”
“Finger prints found in dust in my home laboratory are being looked at by my private investigator.”
“Private investigator? Good gracious. But why on earth would anyone break in.”
“To steal my krabok nuts, Baroness.”
“Nuts?” she repeated.
“And to steal my personal data and correspondence. Breaking into my home is far easier than breaking into this laboratory.”
“Your private correspondence? Why?”
“Let’s begin with my nuts,” Eddie said. “Drums of krabok nut oil are used in some of your cosmetics. What’s more, during my jungle forays in South East Asia - which I conduct twice a year, by the way - I came across a type of krabok tree that produced three times as much of a certain vital component as normal. Those trees could become very valuable if protected and genetic and other tests were performed. And that’s not just because of their value in cosmetics. Far more interesting to me is that we’ve shown they produce an interesting oil that could be extremely valuable in medicine. However, Baroness, that is all now very unlikely as those trees were also stolen.”
Eddie stopped at that point and watched her fingers playing around her shiny red lips. Her cheeks, too, showed a slightly rosier tinge. “Stolen?” she said.
“Perhaps I should have said illegally felled – taken from a prized and protected national park and wild life sanctuary in northern Thailand.”
Isobel’s cheeks were growing rosier by the second.
“All that aside,” Eddie said more quietly, “With regard to your concerns about the way your company is run, I’m not a businessman but it’s all about standards. We should all live according to a set of standards. In Vitals’ case staff should be suitably qualified, understand the products they make and sell and should not, whilst being remunerated by Vital, be tempted into doing things on the side that verge on illegality.”
He stopped then, wondering whether he’d gone too far. But it was Mark Dobson, his private investigator friend, who had sown many of Eddie’s suspicions. He watched Isobel remount the stool, wriggle and pull her skirt down to almost cover her knees. She sipped her tea, pushed the rogue strand of hair from her face and took a deep breath. Then came the minor capitulation that Mark Dobson had forecast when he knew Eddie was meeting the top boss.
“We all have to make the best of whatever we inherit,” she said.
Eddie had just dunked half an Osborne biscuit and lost it to the depths of his cup of tea. He decided to search for it later.
“I think, Baroness, that what you’ve inherited is a business philosophy of cutting corners, contempt for quality assurance and, or so it seems to me, total disregard for science, international law and the environment. And, personally, I would never have employed any of your senior management team. How does that make you feel?”
“Bad enough to seek your help, Professor Higgins. A public scandal would not be good for anyone. Despite your obvious passion, your views are, I admit, not too different from my own. The burglary is new though.”
“And I didn’t tell you about the United Nations and Interpol papers I’d been reading?”
“Interpol? Good gracious.”
Eddie wiped tea wetness from his nose and mouth with the back of his hand, but knocked his glasses off in the process. “I was planning some direct action of my own,” he said, hooking them back over his ears, “but I phoned an international commercial crime investigator instead.”
“Interpol? A commercial crime investigator?”
Suddenly Eddie felt sorry for her. Sometimes, he had to admit, he was a little too harsh on people. Students mostly laughed when he’d left the room but he had, once, made one cry. The memory of her screwed up face and the trembling lower lip still lingered. He looked at Isobel over the top of his glasses. He’d never seen a face with such evenly distributed features before and it wasn’t just the eyebrows. One side of her face was a perfect mirror image of the other.
“Would you like lunch?” he said quietly. “If it’s not too crowded, I often eat at Greggs. They do a very nice cheese and ham baguette.”