2009 - Ordinary Thunderstorms (31 page)

“We’ll get right on to it,” Burton said. “Have a good even—”

“Just one thing.”

“Sure.”

“Did they ever find this Kindred guy? It’s the one factor that disturbs my peaceful sleep. He could ruin everything.”

“We’re closing in, is my latest report. He was seen in London a matter of days ago. We have a new description. A new name he’s been using. It’s just a matter of time.”

Now Rilke’s silence grew ominously long.

“This is just not good enough, Burton.”

The rebuke was devastating even though Rilke’s tone was mild. Burton felt the air leave his lungs and his guts contract. Somehow he managed to say, “I’m sorry. We just can’t explain how Kindred—”

“How many times do I have to ask for this? Prioritise it. Call your people.”

They said their goodbyes. Burton felt nauseous. He knew his hands would shake if he held them out.

“Why’s he so obsessed with Kindred?” de Freitas asked, oblivious, with all the confidence of the nearly drunk. “What can he do to us? It’s all too late now, isn’t it?” He put on a bad cockney accent: “Kindred is toast, mate.”

“Yeah,” Burton said vaguely. But he was thinking: that’s the first time in ten years I’ve heard Alfredo Rilke sound worried. That was serious. “I’ll see you downstairs, Paul,” he said. “Take the Scotch with you.”

De Freitas left and Burton thought back to that afternoon’s meeting with Philip Wang…Nice, mild, clever, plump Philip Wang in a shivering incoherent rage, his voice shrill, threatening to bring everything down on their heads—the deaths of children, cover-up, manipulation of research data. The trials would end, he’d go to the FDA himself, he didn’t care. Philip Wang’s fury as he had listed the abuses was almost as if it were driven by the death of one of his own children. Burton had stalled, but it was alarmingly clear to him that Philip Wang had independently figured out almost everything that had gone on in the Zembla trials—indeed, he was even impressed by Wang’s detective powers, in an unhappy, panicky way, feelings that he managed quickly to control.

Philip had said that it was certain aspects in the ‘adverse event reports’ that had first alerted him: compulsory reports that logged patients dropping out of the trials because of certain seemingly mild side effects: shortness of breath, temporary fever. This appeared odd to him—Zembla-4 being so benign—so he had decided to investigate further, personally, and when he had visited the four hospitals and looked through the clinical records in detail he had discovered to his intense shock that of the several dozen drop-outs (perfectly normal figures in a trial of this size) fourteen had later died in intensive care.

“Those deaths were unrelated to Zembla-4,” Keegan had said at once. “They were very, very sick children in the first place, remember. We’ve treated thousands of children with Zembla-4 over the last three years. There is no statistical significance.”

“I know what’s happening,” Philip had said. “This is Taldurene all over again.”

“Those Taldurene deaths are still disputed,” Keegan said, hoping he sounded convincing. He knew the case—everybody in the Pharma world knew the case: five out of fifteen patients had died from renal failure in a particular phase-three Taldurene trial—everyone assumed that, because the patients already had hepatitis, the deaths were nothing to do with the drug they were testing. Turned out they were wrong.

Wang would not be appeased, reminding Keegan that the de Vere Wing children’s trials had not been his idea. “It’s not just children who suffer from asthma,” he said, “I wanted across-the-board population studies. I’m not developing a drug that’s just for children.”

“And you got them. The Italian and Mexican trials are exactly that,” Keegan said. “We just thought that in the UK we might—”

“You just thought you’d go flat out for accelerated approval, priority status of Zembla-4. Choose a niche group—children. Show genuine medical need. What can the PDA do? I know how it works.”

“I’m surprised you’re so cynical, Philip.”

Wang had lost it again at that stage and had begun to detail, very skilfully, the components of the cover-up, explaining how parents, nurses and doctors in the de Vere wings could never have made the connections, how they would think, even in the face of these rare individual deaths, these particular family tragedies, that nothing was untoward. The de Vere staff were just administering, supervising and supplying data. Calenture-Deutz was analysing, collating and categorising it. A very sick child became ill and was logged as a drop-out from the trial, not a death. The deaths were part of any hospital’s inevitable, grim body-count. The trials continued unaffected.

“What were the signs?” Wang had taunted him. “What gave you those four or five days’ notice? Something was telling you. How could you move them out of the de Vere wings so quickly? That’s what I want to know. What was Zembla-4 doing to them?”

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” Keegan had said. However, he had conceded that there might have been some bureaucratic foul-up and feigned his own quiet outrage.

“Look, I’m as unhappy as you, Philip. We’ll investigate, we’ll triple-check again, we’ll get to the bottom of this…Everything goes on hold from this second, everything, until we discover what’s happening…” He had spoken on, continuing to reassure, praise, to promise retribution if there had been any sign of manipulation until he saw Philip calm down, somewhat mollified. They had left each other, not exactly as firm friends once again, but with a handshake at the door.

He had called Rilke immediately Philip had left. Rilke had listened and had told him, quietly, emphatically, what had to be done, now, with no delay—who to call and what precise words to use.

Burton now experienced a sense of deja vu as he picked up the scrambled phone and punched out the number.

“Hi,” he said to the woman who answered, “I’d like to speak to Major Tim Delaporte, please…Yes, I know it’s late but he’ll want to talk to me…My name’s Mr Apache. Thank you so much.”

P
LANE, OAK, CHESTNUT, GiNKO—Adam noted the trees on his way to work as if he were strolling through his own arboretum. High summer now and the sun on the dense leafage this early morning made him feel moderately exultant—if such a state of mind could be imagined. The exultance he owed to sunshine and nature—the moderation arose from the nature of the job he was walking towards, its disadvantages and inadequacies, especially given the profession he had previously occupied. But he shouldn’t complain, he knew. He had woken up in what was his own flat, showered in hot water, breakfasted on coffee and toast and was going to work, however relatively underpaid that work was. It was a routine, now, and one should never underestimate the importance of routine in a person’s life: routine allowed everything else to seem more exciting and impromptu.

He checked in with the duty head porter, Harpeet, and wandered through to the ‘common room’ as he privately referred to the porters’ restroom—a small personal reference to the life he had once led in academe. A trio of other sleepy porters lounged there, the remains of the night shift coming off duty. Adam glanced at the clock on the wall—twenty minutes early—Mr Keen. He had received his first pay cheque and banked it; he had been sent his first utility bill (water) and had paid it—his life, to anyone looking on from the outside, would seem almost normal.

“Hey, Primo. How you do?”

It was Severiano, a young guy whom he liked, who had joined Bethnal & Bow around the same time as he had, and who claimed to have taken up portering to improve his English. They gripped hands briefly, in a kind of high slap, like tennis players across the net at the end of a match.

“So, how was weekend?”

“Quiet,” Adam said. “Just stayed in, watched TV.” He kept all answers to all questions as bland and banal as he could manage.

He poured himself a styrofoam cup of tea from the tureen, picked up a discarded tabloid and began to flick idly through it, heading towards the back pages for the sport, but curious to see on the way what else was going on in the tabloid world. It was summer, the football season was over, but he still felt himself at a serious social disadvantage with his colleagues. Apart from work and its travails all anybody seemed to want to talk about was football—last season’s football and the coming season’s football. He knew a little about English football but he’d lost touch during his many years in the USA—the game had changed beyond all imagination since he’d left the country and he knew he had to learn more if he wanted to converse more naturally with his fellow porters, if he were indeed to become one of them. In his first week someone had asked him idly which team he supported and, not thinking, he said the first name that came into his head at that moment—Manchester United. The shouts of derision and cries of pure hatred that greeted this choice astonished him. But now it was if he came to work every day in a Manchester United strip for he found himself the constant butt of crude anti-Northerner jokes and obscene remarks about the members of ‘his’ team (names that meant absolutely nothing to him). One porter had shouted in his face: “You live in Stepney and you support Manchester United—you WANKER!” Adam had smiled blankly back at him—what hideous sporting faux pas had he committed? So he was teaching himself more about English football against the day when he would publicly switch allegiance to a London club that would be found more acceptable.

As he turned the pages a photo caught his eye—a flicker of unconscious recognition occurring in the same way as you will recognise your own name in a list of a thousand. He turned back

—it wasn’t a photo, it was an ‘artist’s impression’. He stared at it

—the eyes were drawn closed but there was no doubt the portrait had a look of Mhouse about it—a clear look of Mhouse. He read the text beneath it with a cold, creeping sense of foreboding that brought out goose-bumps on his body. “Young woman—early twenties—unidentified—accidental death most likely…” Adam felt light-headed. Then he read about the tattoos on the body and saw, printed bold in capital letters: MHOUSE LY-ON.

He went outside to the staff car park to inhale some fresh air, the newspaper still in his hand, his head a shouting racket of plots and possibilities. No, not Mhouse, surely—he said to himself

—not Mhouse. He re-read the article. The body was found in the Thames by Greenwich…Some decomposition, obviously in the water for many days. Unidentified woman. Anyone with information…There was a number to call.

He paced around for a while, bad feelings accumulating, a scenario building in his head that involved a big ugly man with a weak, cleft chin. How, though? He had left The Shaft within minutes of seeing him there—minutes—there could have been no trail…But Mhouse was dead, that much was certain. But what about Ly-on? He realised he owed it to Ly-on to make the identification—nobody in The Shaft would do it—perhaps that would allow his mother to rest in peace, after a fashion.

He went to the payphone in the lobby and picked up the phone. He put it down. He had to think this through—serious risk might be involved. So he outlined all the reasons why he shouldn’t call and identify Mhouse’s body and he had to acknowledge they were firmly sensible and anyone in his situation would have been well advised to heed them. But he realised that he wasn’t going to act in a thoughtful, logical way. He thought of Mhouse, dead, cold, lying in some kind of steel drawer with a brown label tied around her big toe and a number written on it and his very being seemed to contract and shudder. He knew he couldn’t leave her like that. So what if there were risks—everything in his life was risky, and once you accepted that risk element then another kind of strategic, worldly, impromptu thinking came into play that had nothing to do with reason but everything to do with the person you were and the life you were living. Nobody knew who he was, Adam told himself. Adam Kindred wouldn’t be making this identification, no, it would be Primo Belem, a casual acquaintance of the nameless victim. He could confidently give his name and address—he’d done it a dozen times now—even to the police. There was no mention of foul play in the paper so perhaps a simple identification was all that was required. Mhouse would have her name back and Ly-on would understand, one day, what had become of his mother. More importantly, Adam knew he would feel he had done his duty by Mhouse. His wild, crazy Samaritan would have been repaid. There was no other way. He picked up the phone again.

“Marine Support Unit,” a voice said.

“Hello…” What did one say? “I’ve just seen the paper. The body of the young woman found in the river at Greenwich. I think I know who she is.”

He took a pen from his pocket and noted down the details of what he should do and where he should go. He said he would be there when his shift ended in the evening and hung up.

Mhouse was dead. He had to face that fact—there was no escaping it and no escaping the equally appalling fact that, one way or another, he had inadvertently brought death to her. Whoever was leading this desperate hunt to find him had killed Mhouse in pursuit of information. Guilt overwhelmed him, gathered in his throat like bile. It was bile. He managed to make it outside to the car park before he vomited.

T
HE SETTING SUN HAD turned the river orange—basting the brown waters of the Thames orange, like a Fauvist painting. Rita paused to log this miraculous effect and marvel for a second before she moved on and the vision was erased as she walked from the Annexe to the MSU headquarters building. Emerging from the narrow passageway that led to the main entrance was a tall young guy, looking around him as if lost, with a slip of paper in his hand. He wore a pin-stripe suit, an open-necked shirt, his head was shaved to a dark stubble and he had a dark neat beard.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

He turned. “I’ve come to identify a body,” he said. “I’m not sure where I should go.”

Their eyes met—it was an event that happened dozens of times a day: why should one be more intriguing, Rita thought, why do you register that particular interlocking of two gazes as more significant? All Rita knew was that this meeting of eyes was somehow different, as far as she was concerned, from the dozens of previous ones that had happened that day. Something had been triggered, some neural spasm registering alertness, a change in feeling, a concentration of interest. It must be deep, deep instinct, she thought, something beyond our rational control—the beast in us seeking a suitable mate.