Cold War - Jerome Preisler [28]
There was no wood to polish in the halls, nor was there any in the manager’s office, where the paper-strewn desk, file cabinets, and two movable carts holding computers were all made of metal. John Horace sat behind the desk, his owl eyes blinking once as they entered.
“Come,” he said sharply, though they were already inside.
“My name—”
“Inspector Gorrie, yes. Well?”
Gorrie sat down in the chair across from the manager’s desk. “I am investigating the death of one of your people here.”
“Ed Mackay. Efficient, good at his job.”
The manager’s manner might be common in London where, judging from his accent, he had been raised, but here it was grating enough to be suspicious as well as borderline insulting.
“What exactly was his job?” Gorrie asked.
“Supervised the removal of waste. We follow the Basel Convention in spirit and letter, Inspector. I’m sure that if you check with UKAE—”
“The atomic commission?”
“Quite. We are regulated—heavily regulated. Nothing moves from here without intricate planning. Even the odd hankie tossed in my basket there will be suitably accounted for. We don’t go polluting the environs, Inspector. We have precautions. Our record is exemplary.”
“I see,” said Gorrie. Under other circumstances, he might have been inclined to skip the lecture—he already knew a bit about Mackay’s job. But he generally found it useful to let a man speak, even when he didn’t feel an immediate need for the information. And so Gorrie folded his arms and leaned back as the plant manager began citing safety statistics. In three decades there had been over seven thousand shipments of spent fuel worldwide without an incident; the spent fuel had a better transport record than the average loaf of bread.
It struck Gorrie as Horace continued that the shape of his skull was not unlike the shape of the reactor dome.
“Interesting,” Gorrie said finally. “Did you know Mr. Mackay well?”
“Yes, of course. Not well, as you put it. But of course I knew him. He was staff.”
“He had only been here a few months?”
“Six weeks, two days.” The owl eyes blinked. “He had worked here in the early nineties, before moving on to Numberland Power. There were then a series of jobs of increasing importance. His wife wanted to return to the area, I believe, because they were due to have a child and she wanted to be near friends and family. He was very qualified.”
“I’d like a look at his resume, if that is possible.”
“What is this, Inspector? I read that his wife shot him.”
“We try not to draw hasty conclusions.” Gorrie rose, but then softened his tone, thinking to add to the manager’s willingness to cooperate. “The evidence leans in that direction, certainly. But we must make our inquiries. We have our procedures, as you do.”
Horace nodded almost sympathetically.
“I’d like to speak to some of his workmates,” said Gorrie.
“That can be arranged.” Horace pushed a button on his speakerphone. The woman who had shown Gorrie here reappeared. “Krista will assist you with whatever you need.”
The deceased’s staff members had little information about Mackay, responding to Gorrie’s suggestions that he might have had a randy appetite with shrugs rather than winks. His secretary, however, seemed to have formed a mild attachment. Tora Grant called her boss “charming” and “very able,” but as Gorrie continued with his questions, her answers dribbled down to bare yeses and noes. Finally, the inspector put it to her directly.
“Did you have sex with him?”
Her face turned so red it could have been mistaken for a traffic light.
She started to say something, but quickly stopped. Gorrie waited a bit before gently prompting. “He seemed quite an attractive man.”
“A hug ’n a kiss, a little flirting ’s all we ever did.” She took a hard breath, which made it seem to the inspector that she was lying. “I dina’, but might have, I’ll admit it.”
Her skin color returned to normal with the admission. She looked slightly angry, but gave no