Hypocrite's Isle (10 page)

‘How was it?’ asked Gavin as he took off his denim jacket and draped it over the back of his chair.

‘Much as you’d expect – pretty awful. My mother has changed almost beyond recognition.’

Gavin raised his eyes.

‘I don’t mean physically; it’s more a personality thing. She’s
become
so bitter. She thought that she’d taken on cancer last time and won. She says she only agreed to the removal of her breast because the doctors convinced her it would stop the chances of the cancer coming back, so now that it has …’

‘She feels cheated.’

Caroline nodded. ‘It’s as if an invisible barrier has come down between us and it’s not possible to get through to her, however much I try. She’s there but she’s not there if you know what I mean. Mum and I have always been close, but now when I talk to her it feels like I’m speaking to a stranger. There’s something missing … the bonds between us have gone … she’s drifting away …’

Gavin nodded and put his hand on Caroline’s, but she didn’t respond. She seemed far away.

‘And your dad?’

‘Oh, he’s coming to terms with it. He realises that he’ll have to be strong for her again and it’s going to be a lot more difficult this time, particularly as she no longer has such blind faith in the medical profession.’

‘Not that that would help much in this case,’ said Gavin. ‘Liver cancer …’

‘Thank you … I’m well aware of the prognosis.’

‘Do you think there’s a chance she’ll decline treatment and just go for pain management and hospice care?’

‘You have to be very strong to do that,’ said Caroline. ‘I think she’s going to do what most of us would in the circumstances: grab at any straw that’s offered. Hearing my dad trying to convince her that treatment was improving all the time made me want to run off into the hills and scream my head off until I had no voice left.’

‘And now you’ve got Christmas coming up …’

Caroline closed her eyes. ‘Jesus Christ, Christmas,’ she
murmured
. ‘Deck the halls. Still, I’m sure there’s probably a store out there on the net that does presents for the dying woman.’

‘Ssh,’ said Gavin. ‘That’s not you.’

Caroline looked at him and then patted the back of his hand. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘But it is.’ She straightened her back and placed both forearms on the table. ‘So, what are
you
doing for Christmas?’

‘I might stay here.’

‘But why? You’ve got a big family.’

‘Eating, drinking and watching telly with my sisters and their kids, and their husbands who think that any bloke who goes to university is of questionable sexual orientation? Maybe not. The attraction of doing nothing will wear off after one day and I’d just be sitting there thinking about the experiments I could be doing if I was here. Anyway, I want to see the New Year fireworks.’

‘I think I’ll come back for that too … if I don’t feel guilty about coming away.’

Gavin lowered his head so that he could make eye contact as Caroline cast her eyes downwards. ‘How can I cheer you up?’

‘Tell me you’ve discovered a cure for cancer.’

 

Although Grumman Schalk had promised Frank that they would send their report on why Valdevan had failed, Gavin decided that there would be no harm in giving the matter some thought on his own. There had to be a reason why the drug didn’t work in the human body when it worked so spectacularly well in the lab – something he’d now seen for himself. It was this that kept him in the library until closing time that evening, and on just about every other when he wasn’t seeing Caroline.

By the second week in December, Gavin had the results of his experiments on lowering the concentration of Valdevan. They were disappointing, and he went in to Frank Simmons’ office to tell him.

‘No intermediate effect, boss, but it’s nice and clear: it’s either death or no effect at all. I couldn’t find a concentration that gave us membrane change without the killing.’

‘A pity,’ said Simmons, accepting the notes from Gavin. ‘But if the S16 gene is essential for cell growth and division there’s not a lot we can do about it – unless you feel like checking some
intermediate
concentrations … just to be absolutely sure?’

‘Sure.’

‘But whatever happens, this has been a first-class piece of work, and completed in a matter of weeks. I thought getting this far would certainly take up the first year of your project.’

‘Coming across the paper was a big plus,’ said Gavin.

‘But you were the one who came across it … you saw the relevance. Chance favours the prepared mind and all that.’

Gavin shuffled his feet, uncomfortable with praise.

‘Look, I’m well aware of your misgivings about seminars, but I really think you should consider giving one to the department about this.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Mmm,’ said Simmons, looking doubtful. ‘In the meantime …’ He picked up an A4-size padded envelope. ‘This arrived this
morning
from Grumman Schalk. It’s their internal report on investigations into why Valdevan didn’t work.’

Gavin extracted the plastic-covered file with the Grumman Schalk logo on it and weighed it in his hand. ‘Feels like they did a pretty thorough job.’

‘With twenty million dollars riding on it at the time, I think it fair to assume that they would,’ smiled Simmons.

‘I’m looking forward to reading this.’

‘Stay focused, Gavin. It’s all too easy to get diverted and start
going
up side-streets in the middle of a project. You should be
thinking
about moving on to one of the other membrane genes. Tom has a strain that is partially altered in the S23 gene. It was constructed by one of your predecessors, and I’ve been meaning to have
someone
look at its biochemistry to see if we can find a potential target for drug development.’

‘Okay,’ said Gavin, holding up the file. ‘But maybe I’ll take this home with me if you don’t mind?’

‘Of course … but give that seminar some thought.’

When the door closed, Simmons went back to reading the letter that had come with the report. It included a glossy blurb about a new research grants scheme being sponsored by Grumman Schalk, and a suggestion from Max Ehrman that he should consider
applying
for one. Such grants were an entirely new initiative from the company, and would be available to established researchers who held a recognised university position and were working in the broad areas of cancer diagnosis and treatment. Each grant would provide support for one or more postdoctoral workers and
technical
support for a period of up to three years. Larger grants would be available in exceptional circumstances.

Simmons frowned as he thought about it. In the past he had steered clear of applying to commercial companies for money
because
they usually had strings attached. He preferred funding from the Medical Research Council or the Wellcome Trust, although he had on one occasion been successful in attracting support from the EEC. The problem with accepting funding from drug companies was that they tended to place restrictions on what could and could not be submitted for publication. They often insisted on having the final say and this could lead to conflict.

Getting work published in peer-reviewed journals was essential to young scientists hoping to pursue a career in research, and
equally
so to established workers trying to attract continued funding for their work, but the criteria for publication became more
complicated
when commercial concerns played a part in the process. Scientists had traditionally shared their findings with one another for the common good, but drug companies had little enthusiasm for disseminating information they thought might prove useful to a competitor, and could be equally reticent about publicising the failure of a product they’d hoped might be commercially viable. Share price was all important.

Frank put the letter to one side for the moment and opened an internal mail envelope from Graham Sutcliffe. There would be a meeting with people from the BBC on 9 January to discuss the planned programme on cancer. It had been decided to hold the meeting in Edinburgh because Professors Gerald Montague, Neil Carron and Linda Surrey, who had already agreed to take part in the programme, would be in the city to attend an international scientific meeting at Heriot Watt University on genetic influences in cancer susceptibility. Senior members of staff – which included Frank – were invited to dinner with these three after the meeting. The meal would be at The Witchery by the castle.

Frank told Jenny about this when he got home.

‘Don’t suppose wives are invited,’ she said. ‘I like The Witchery.’

‘Some chance if the university’s paying. They make Ebenezer Scrooge look like Andrew Carnegie.’

‘Thought that might be the case. How come they never have any money? They seem to pull in grants and bequests from all over the place, but they’re always pleading poverty.’

‘Universities are a bit like the National Health Service,’ said
Simmons
. ‘No matter how much money you pour in, it will disappear without trace into an ever-expanding system. I seem to spend half my time dealing with administrators’ unending demands for facts and figures, while they plunder my grants in order to keep their own arses on seats, thinking up new forms to send out.’

‘Do I sense I’ve touched on a sore spot?’

Simmons smiled. ‘I refuse to be drawn on administrators today. Gavin got a clear result this morning. It wasn’t what we wanted but it stopped us wasting our time for twelve months or more. He’s doing well.’

‘Good, I’m glad … for your sake. You went out on a limb for that boy.’

‘I just did what was necessary, but we’re not out of the woods yet. I’m currently trying to persuade him to give a seminar to the department about his work. If he agrees to that it really will feel like I’ve made progress.’

‘If you say so.’

‘How do you feel about asking him to Christmas dinner?’

Jenny’s mouth fell open. ‘I’m hoping that’s a joke,’ she spluttered.

‘He’s not going home for Christmas: Mary told me he’s
planning
to work over the break.’

‘Oh, come on, Frank, this could ruin Christmas for all of us – especially the cat.’

‘Of course, if you feel that way about it let’s just forget it. It was just a thought.’

Jenny looked suspiciously at her husband. ‘You’ve just cast me in the role of pantomime villain, haven’t you?’

‘Don’t know what you mean.’

‘Oh yes you do.’

‘You have every right not to have him here after last time. He may have matured considerably, but we still shouldn’t take the risk …’

‘God damn it, I can feel you playing me like a fish on the end of a line, but I can’t seem to do anything about it,’ complained Jenny.

‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m sure …’

‘All right, I give in. He can come, but make sure our insurance is up to date, hide all sharp objects and check we have enough fire extinguishers – and cat shampoo.’

‘Can you really get cat shampoo?’

‘Call it poetic licence.’

 

When Gavin left Frank’s office he went out to a local shop to pick up a Coke and a sandwich for lunch. He planned to eat it at his desk while he skimmed through the Grumman Schalk report. When he got back, the lab was empty – a bit like the
Mary Celeste
, he thought – lights on, books open on desks, Bunsens burning and incubator lights blinking on and off at the whim of their thermostats. After a moment, he remembered that it was the day of the first meeting of Peter Morton-Brown’s new journal club. He checked his watch and noted that he’d have another thirty minutes to himself.

The Grumman Schalk investigation seemed to be just as
comprehensive
as he’d imagined it would be. Their scientists had left no stone unturned in their attempts to discover why Valdevan had not worked in the human body, but in the end, they had failed. The bottom line was that it remained a mystery.

One thing that did catch his attention, however, was the good quality of the photographs in the report, and a much wider range of them than he had managed to find in the published papers about the drug. He was examining them with an eye lens when Mary and Tom returned to the lab. Frank was shortly behind them.