After a round of introductions, Alexis led Harriet out of the room and Artimus closed the door, leaving them alone with Michael Grayson.
Mister Grayson’s posture screamed stress, his shoulders bunched and his hair unkempt. He took his time to settle, furtively glancing around the room, only occasionally meeting Neil’s look before his eyes drifted away again.
Neil was willing to give Mister Grayson as much time as he needed. He knew an agitated mind bred agitated thoughts, thus influencing the retrieval of memories. Therefore, giving him as much time as possible to find his calm was in everyone’s best interests.
Neil was worried about Artimus. If he decided to be the gigantic arse he had already proven he could be, whatever peace Mister Grayson had managed to find would be short-lived. He would have to keep a very close eye on proceedings to ensure the interview was not derailed.
“I hope you have managed to settle after your experiences Mister Grayson, and that poor Alanis is doing well.” said Artimus, taking up the conversation before Neil could react.
“I think we’re over the worst.” said Michael, his drawn face showing the first signs of returning colour. “Officer Leeks has been exceedingly helpful. I’m not sure we would be…” his voice trailed off as he thought, trying not to let the emotions of the day resurface. “…in quite as good shape as we would be without her. You will have to pass on our thanks.”
“I will.” said Neil, grateful for the show of respect to the efforts of a fellow officer.
“So,” said Michael, taking a deep breath, “how may I assist you today detective?”
“Hello.” said Artimus, before Neil could respond. “We have not met before. My name is Artimus Crane, and I’m assisting on this case at the behest of Detective Townsend’s superiors.”
Michael nodded politely, glancing quizzically at Neil as he considered the reasons why help was required.
“As you can imagine,” continued Artimus, without pause, “this is one of the stranger cases Scotland Yard has encountered in a while, therefore different, perhaps stranger in their own way eyes are required to look into it.”
“I see.” said Michael, not really understanding.
“If I may begin with a question about your origins Mister Grayson.” said Artimus, looking around the lavish finery surrounding them. “I assume you come from a wealthy background?”
“Not really.” said Michael, with an uneasy laugh. “My brother is senior capital analyst for Goldman Sachs. He’s been with them since he was twenty five. In twenty four years it’s fair to say he’s made a decent amount of cash from it.”
“Venture or commercial?” said Artimus, retrieving his notepad and purposefully clicking his pen. He removed his reading glasses from his pocket and placed them delicately on the bridge of his nose, peering over the brim at Michael.
“Venture, I think.” said Michael, unsure why his brother’s work details were being discussed. “Far eastern markets mostly. He says they’re a safer bet than the West.”
“I’m sure he does.” said Artimus, pushing his spectacles further back and continuing to write. “Most of Goldman’s derivatives collapsed with everyone else’s in two thousand and seven. He was probably lucky not to get caught up in it all.”
“Yeah.” said Michael, a more assured tone washing over him. “He said if he’d been part of the US or UK commercial derivative trading desk he’d have been…” Michael stopped; worried he was giving something away.
“It’s alright Mister Grayson, I’m not considering your brother as a suspect in any of this. I’m merely gathering background, that’s all.” said Artimus, deftly placating Michael’s growing sense of worry.
Neil had to admit he was impressed. He thought of Artimus as a tactless, self-indulged egotist. He actually expected to have to interject frequently, but Artimus was handling this conversation well. He was both calming and agitating Mister Grayson with his manner and his questions. It was a difficult skill, but one Artimus seemed comfortably versed in.
“I’m glad your brother’s money has been able to wrap you so contentedly after what happened. It must take a lot of stress away knowing you have family so able to take care of your needs during this time.” said Artimus, his words soft and measured.
“It has been a great help, yes.” said Michael, lowering his head.
Neil caught the action and glanced at Artimus. If he noticed that last comment was not quite the truth, he did not show it.
“You are currently employed by a genetics company, are you not Mister Grayson?” said Artimus, continuing.
“Hybrid Incorporated, yes.”
“Are you still working in the field of Pharmacogenetics, as you would have been with your previous employer?”
Neil was as surprised as Michael was by the use of the word, only realising what it meant when he remembered Mister Grayson’s previous employer was a pharmaceutical company.
“No.” said Michael, seemingly happy his area of expertise was to be discussed. “My doctorate was in cytology, although it was focussed primarily in the fields of proteomics and bioinformatics, my new vocation combines those two disciplines. I’m actually working on a mass-GWAS biomodel for the entire human genome. It’s very exciting stuff.”
It was clear Mister Grayson was energised by his work. His volume had risen tenfold since the topic was brought up and his pallor had all but disappeared.
Neil could not help but feel envious. There was once a time when he would wake every day, filled with pride and resolve to do the very best he could as a detective. However, after one too many gruesome crime-scenes, his passion for his job had begun to wane. Sure, he was still certain it was the right vocation for him, but doubts, just fine granules of them, had inevitably crept into his thoughts. To have none, to be as free from uncertainty about your work as Mister Grayson was, was his Holy Grail; as it probably was for just about everyone with a job.
“Your company hired you to create a mass genome wide association model?” asked Artimus, looking up from his note taking with surprise. “Not for a single gene or disease, but for the gamut of human genes; the entirety of what makes a human, a human?”
“It’s a bold project,” said Michael, brimming with pride, “but I have a team of fourteen individuals and a cloud processor suite of over seventeen thousand computers. I really think we can do it. Just think of it. If we succeed, we will have not just a map of the genes themselves, but of how they interact. If we come across another AIDS, or even a Spanish Flu variant, all you will have to do is determine what genes are affected by your pathogen, and plan a strategy to combat it. It will save years and years of development and testing. It will put the pharma industry into overdrive. It could save millions, if not billions of lives.”
“Impressive.” said Artimus, underlining something in his notes. “I hope your enthusiasm does not outstrip your reach.” He tapped his pen against his notepad, the noise stilling Mister Grayson’s excitement. “Can I ask how your move to your new line of work came about?”
“I was contacted by a representative of Hybrid about a year ago. They saw the research paper from my doctorate into adaptive algorithmic gene sequencing, and said they were interested in giving me a position. Things moved fairly quickly after that.” Michael shrugged as he finished, not knowing what else to add.
“And the re-imbursement package, did you negotiate this for yourself?”
“No.” said Michael flatly. “I accepted their first offer. At the time,” he continued, distantly, “it looked too good to be true…” Michael’s voice trailed off, the colour draining from his face once more.
“I’m sorry.” said Artimus, looking genuinely concerned, “I did not mean to put you through your pain again, but I have to ask these questions.”
“It’s fine.” said Michael, sitting up straight. “I understand. Please continue.”
“Thank you.” said Artimus, still jotting away. “Can I ask how you came to choose your new house in Belsize Park? I assume you were given a list
to select from.”
“Actually no.” said Michael, his brow furrowing as his responded. “They only offered the one house. I think the company owns it.”
Neil could see Mister Grayson weighing up a question, and before he could be stopped, he thought it best to prise it out.
“Is there something you want to ask, Mister Grayson?” said Neil, to the surprise of Artimus.
“You’ll have to forgive me, but are you suggesting…”
“My colleague and I posit nothing at this point.” said Artimus, casting Neil a stern look. “Forget I asked.”
“Oh.” said Michael, still clearly bemused.
“I only have a couple of questions remaining, Mister Grayson. I will be as brief as I can.” said Artimus, returning his focus to Michael. “Do you or your wife have any association with amateur dramatics? Or the dramatic arts in general?”
“Not really.” said Michael, looking completely lost. “I worked in a couple of plays at university. What has that got to do…”
“One last question.” said Artimus, cutting the remark short. “How many times in the last three years have you or your wife had cosmetic surgery?”
“Pardon?” said Michael, not knowing whether the question was intended to be insulting.
“An answer please.” said Artimus, head still buried in his notes.
“Never.” said Michael, shaking his head. “My wife had mild Bell’s palsy after she had Alanis; trapped or damaged nerve I think. She had a few steroid injections and then a series of Botox shots, but it wasn’t cosmetic, it was restorative.”
“Thank you Mister Grayson.” said Artimus, finishing his notes and extending a hand. “Unless Detective Townsend has anything further, I think it’s time we spoke to your wife.”
Neil shook his head and looked at his own notes; there were practically none. He was not even sure why Artimus had even asked the questions he had, let alone have any inclination to write the limited responses down.
“If you could send Harriet into us then.” said Artimus, standing as Michael left the room. “Very enlightening.” he said, after the door closed.
“What part?” asked Neil.
“All of it my boy.” said Artimus, grinning. “Let’s see if Missus Grayson is as forthcoming.”
Chapter 12
Missus Grayson