The Nemesis Program

She looked at Ben in amazement. ‘Holy crap,’ she said. ‘Ben?’

Ben blinked in disbelief. It was her.

It was Roberta Ryder.

Chapter Three (#ulink_b9e90dc1-e4f8-5834-8e37-67126ad48063)

The stunned silence seemed to go on forever as they both stood there staring at one another. He was gaping at her; she was gaping at what he was wearing.

‘Are you—?’ she said at last. ‘You haven’t become a—?’

‘Eh? No, I was just trying them on,’ he muttered, glancing down at himself.

‘Oh, right. That explains it.’

Another few seconds passed, neither of them knowing what to say. ‘Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?’ she asked.

Ben led her through into the living-room, stunned and lost for words. Roberta Ryder, PhD, effortlessly attractive and beguiling, brilliantly intelligent, frequently cantankerous, the most opinionated and headstrong woman he’d ever known: the American scientist had once meant a great deal to him and she was someone he’d always known he would never forget.

The last time they’d been together had been on a bittersweet snowy day in Canada, a long time ago. He’d never expected to see her again. And certainly not like this.

‘What are you … doing here?’ was all he could say.

‘Looking for you,’ she replied. ‘What else would I be doing here?’

Ben noticed how agitated she seemed. Her face was pale and tight. She kept peering nervously through the window at the gravelled driveway and the road beyond. Ben followed her eye and saw the empty blue Vauxhall parked outside the gates.

‘I called your old place in France,’ she said. ‘Someone called Jeff told me where I could find you. Said if you weren’t at the address in Oxford you might be at the vicarage in Little Denton.’

‘You found me,’ he said. ‘But why?’

Roberta turned away from the window to face him. ‘I wouldn’t have come here, Ben. But I didn’t know what else to do. Who else to turn to. Something’s going on. I think I’m in danger. Hell, I know I am. It’s serious.’

She tensed as the living room door suddenly swung open. Jude walked in, took one look at her, stopped in his tracks and broke into a beaming smile. ‘Oh. Hi.’

‘This is Jude,’ Ben told her. ‘He’s my … never mind.’ Turning to Jude, he said, ‘How about making a cup of coffee, Jude?’

Roberta shook her head. ‘I don’t want any coffee.’

‘Then go make one for yourself,’ Ben said, giving Jude a stern look.

‘I don’t really w—’ Jude began, then got the point and turned to leave the room. ‘Nice to meet you, whoever you are,’ he called back over his shoulder.

‘What do you mean, danger?’ Ben asked her when they were closed in the room alone. ‘What kind of danger?’

‘The kind where I’m being followed,’ she said seriously.

He blinked. ‘Followed by who?’

‘All I know is that these people are after me, Ben. That’s why I’m here. I’m scared.’

Ben let out a long sigh. This wouldn’t be the first time Roberta, an incurable maverick with an apparently irresistible penchant for researching into areas of science that were liable to draw all kinds of the wrong attention, had got herself into trouble. And it had been big trouble that had brought her and Ben together in Paris that memorable autumn – a scrape that both of them had been lucky to escape from with their lives.

‘Please don’t tell me it’s alchemy again,’ he said.

‘It’s not alchemy.’

‘Or some other hocus-pocus. Go on, then. What’s it this time?’

Her eyes flashed defensively. ‘Hocus-pocus?’

‘Whatever. It got you into a bit of a mess, if you care to remember.’

‘Yeah, well, this time it’s different. This isn’t even about me.’

‘Then what the bloody hell is it about?’ he demanded.

Her defensive look was undiminished. ‘Wouldn’t folks of your, uh, persuasion consider it blasphemous to say that word when you’re togged up in that outfit?’ she fired at him.

‘Never mind the outfit,’ he said irritably. ‘It’s just …’

‘Fancy dress?’

‘A long story, Roberta. I don’t think you’ve come all this way to hear it.’

Somewhere in the house, the landline phone was ringing. Ben faintly heard Jude pick up and talk to someone.

Roberta nodded, swallowed and then began to talk all in a rush. ‘All right. Listen. It’s about my friend. Her name’s … her name was Claudine, Claudine Pommier. In Paris. She was killed. Murdered. The cops say it was the maniac they’re calling le bricoleur.’

‘The “handyman”?’ Ben said, trying to make sense of her flurry of words.

‘A serial killer,’ Roberta explained agitatedly. ‘He’s claimed four victims in different parts of Paris. The cops say Claudine was his fifth. He’s a sick piece of shit who creeps into women’s homes and murders them.’

‘Slow down. Why do they call him the “handyman”?’ Ben asked.

‘Because of the way he kills them,’ she replied with a grimace. ‘You want me to draw you a picture? Power tools. Nail guns. Hammers and chisels.’

‘I get the idea,’ Ben said, repelled. ‘Go on.’

‘Claudine was found with … Jesus, it’s too awful. With her lungs full of expanding foam, the kind builders use to fill wall cavities and things. She suffocated.’

Ben had seen a good number of people die in a good many unpleasant ways, but this was almost too gruesome to imagine, even for him. He felt disgusted.

‘It happened three days ago,’ Roberta said. ‘I only found out this morning. I’d just flown in from Ottawa to see her.’ She paused to wipe away the tears of grief and rage that had clouded her eyes.

‘I’m very sorry. All I can say is that they’re sure to catch this guy. If there was anything I could do …’

Roberta shook her head vehemently. ‘You’re not understanding me. Let me finish. There’s more to it, a lot more. I—’