Lucy was struggling to get her brain into gear. ‘Me too.’
‘We’re so pleased you’ve come to see us.’ Amari smiled. ‘I have to be honest, we’re really very excited about being in the Daily Mail.’
‘That’s if my editor goes for it,’ Lucy said, gradually regaining her composure. ‘Nothing’s guaranteed, as I said before, but I’m confident.’
Amari beamed. ‘Let me show you around.’
Lucy followed the woman on a tour of the manufacturing plant. Apparently, the company also made smokeless ashtrays and three-sided flip phones.
‘We’re always looking for the next big idea. We’ve just started making levitating desk lamps.’ Her expression brightened. ‘You must take one with you when you go. They’re really cool.’
‘Lovely,’ said Lucy.
Lucy learned about respiration, dust and military grade carbon filters. How the masks were designed to block particulate pollution from jet engines, but they could also block viruses too.
‘The masks filter air through four different layers. It will filter ninety-nine per cent of viruses as well as bacteria. So when you fly you won’t just be protected from bled air, but you won’t catch any nasty coughs and colds either.’ Amari’s expression was alight. ‘With all the publicity about aerotoxicity, we can’t make masks fast enough. We’ve just signed a lease on a larger factory nearby. Business is booming.’
She swept through the packing area, past the distribution hub and into a neat office with three desks. ‘Most of our business is through the internet. Mail order. This is our sales director, Adam Mason.’
‘Hi there.’
Lucy took in the man rising from his desk, the grey speckles through his hair, his face lined with laughter.
Her mind was swamped in hissing white light. Her stomach swooped. Her ears were whistling. It couldn’t be possible. But it was. It was Dad.
45
Her father was smiling, exuding bonhomie, but then he saw her. The colour drained from his face. He was wearing a suit. Nicely cut, expensive. A blue tie with little yellow racehorses galloping all over it. Shiny, expensive-looking black leather shoes.
‘I’m Alex Catell,’ Lucy said. She found her press card and held it up so he could see, praying he’d go with it, unsure what the fuck was going on, why he was here, but instinct screamed at her not to let Amari know she wasn’t who she said she was.
‘The Daily Mail?’ he said. And then he was walking towards her, his face open and friendly, his colour returning in a rush.
‘I’m freelance, but yes. I’m hoping to sell the article to them.’
He took her hand in his. Warm, firm. Slightly sweaty, like her own. ‘Nice to meet you. And thanks for thinking of us.’
‘No problem.’
‘I’ve given her the tour,’ Amari said. ‘It’s over to you to fill her in on whatever else she wants to know.’
Her father raised his eyebrows. ‘Any questions spring immediately to mind?’ His tone was, to her horror, almost amused.
‘Oh, lots,’ she replied lightly. ‘So many, in fact, I hardly know where to start.’
‘Why don’t we go and get a coffee,’ he suggested. ‘Talk in comfort.’ He glanced at Amari. ‘I’ll take her to the meeting room, okay?’
‘Sure. She’s all yours.’ Amari shook hands with Lucy once more before moving to sit behind one of the desks, her attention already on her computer screen. She didn’t look at them as they walked outside.
Lucy was opening her mouth to say something, probably What the fuck?!, but her father held up a hand. ‘You’ve seen the assembly line?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the carbon filters being fitted?’
‘Yup.’
‘We have a very high number of filaments,’ he told her, ‘that are woven into cloth, making the speed of absorption really fast. It’s also easy to breathe through…’
He spouted guff about the masks as they walked down a corridor. He opened a door to the right, still talking, but the instant they were inside and he’d closed it behind them, he spun around, taking Lucy’s upper arms in his hands and shaking her.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he hissed.
She stared at him, his face contorted, anxious, fearful.
‘I might ask the same,’ she bit back, her tone like acid.
‘For Chrissake, I’m undercover. If you blow this I’ll…’ He ran a hand over his head. ‘Shit, shit.’
‘Undercover?’ she repeated blankly.
‘Jesus, Lucy. I’m a cop, okay? I’ve been after this lot since kingdom come, and I am so close I can’t tell you. Please do not fuck it up.’
‘You’re a cop?’
‘Yes.’ He closed his eyes. His hands were on top of his head in a position of despair.
He wasn’t a criminal? She looked him up and down, the smart suit, the gleaming shoes. Nausea sat in her belly. Then she heard Colin Pearson’s voice, the SFO intelligence officer as if he was standing right next to her.
I wondered if he’d had some intel to tip him off because if he didn’t, it’s like he had some sort of sixth sense that kept him just ahead of us.
‘Which police force?’ she managed.
He dropped his hands. Opened his eyes. He suddenly looked exhausted.
‘Only three people know about this, and now it’s four.’ A flick of humour crossed his face. ‘I hope you can keep a secret.’
His words sent a shiver through her.
‘Dad… The SFO are looking for you. They think you’re someone called Neil Greenhill.’
Another flash of amusement. ‘I know.’
She searched his eyes, and then something inched into her heart, a brief flurry of fear.
‘Who is Carl Davies?’
He looked away.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
‘Is it your real name? Carl Davies?’
Long silence.
‘Shit. Does this mean my name, Davies, isn’t real?’
At that, his head switched around. ‘Of course it’s real. It’s on your birth certificate, isn’t it?’
‘But it’s not your real name.’
‘What’s in a name?’ He gave a weak smile. ‘You could be called Dorcas Tarantula and I’d still love you.’
Suddenly the penny dropped. ‘Jesus Christ, Dad. Are you saying Mum didn’t know you were a cop when you married her?’
He didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed to the wall. His skin had turned strangely waxy.
‘Oh
