The Lazarus Strain (10 page)

‘Another thing that works against us. The 1918 pandemic is history: only the facts and statistics remain in the history books. In 1918 the flu virus killed between 20 and 40 million people across the globe. Think about it. The 1918 strain killed more people in one year than the Black Death did in its four-year rampage across the known world in the fourteenth century and it wasn’t the infirm and aged it went for. It was the twenty to forty age groups that suffered worst.’

‘Go on.’

‘In the past few years scientists have uncovered the structure of the 1918 virus in an effort to find out what made it different.’

‘How could they do that?’

‘They obtained nucleic acid remnants of the virus from the bodies of dead soldiers who succumbed to the virus in 1918.’

‘They re-created the 1918 virus?’ exclaimed Steven. ‘What the hell for?’

‘I think the truthful answer to that might well be, because they could,’ replied Cleary.

‘But of course, they wouldn’t admit to that,’ said Steven.

Cleary shrugged and said, ‘The rationale was that by re-creating the deadly 1918 strain they could design a vaccine against it.’

Steven looked incredulous. He said, ‘They created a virus in order to design a vaccine to fight against it?’

‘Does sound a bit suspect when you put it like that,’ agreed Cleary.

‘Jesus,’ said Steven. ‘Isn’t science wonderful?’

‘Science did learn from the study though,’ said Cleary. ‘They learned just how similar the 1918 strain was to some of the avian strains of flu virus we’ve seen emerge over the past few years. So much so, that many workers believe that the 1918 strain actually arose from a bird strain. A small mutation is all it would require for bird flu to turn into the pandemic strain.’

‘Where does Devon’s work come in to all this?’ asked Steven.

‘The World Health Organisation have been aware of the situation for some time. Almost every year avian flu breaks out in the Far East. The WHO swings into action and tries to keep the lid on the situation through mass culls of birds and the like. ‘You’ve probably seen pictures on television of hens being carted off in cages to be slaughtered in Hong Kong.

Steven nodded.

‘The big fear has been that someone suffering from the early stages of human influenza would also come into contract with an avian strain and there would be a genetic cross-over between the viruses.’

‘And we’d end up with the 1918 virus.’

‘Just so. Well, this year there was an outbreak in Cambodia of an avian flu strain that resembled the 1918 virus more closely than ever before. This has convinced the WHO and major western governments that it’s only a matter of time before we have a 1918 situation all over again, a world-wide pandemic. I’m sorry.’ Cleary got up from his chair and made to go the door.

‘Just before you dash off,’ said Steven. ‘Are you about to tell me that that’s the strain Timothy Devon was working on?’

‘More or less,’ said Cleary, breaking off to make a run for the bathroom.

When he returned, Cleary plonked himself down in his chair with a sigh and said, ‘Some lab work was carried out on the Cambodian strain in the lab before it was sent to Tim.’

‘The last step in the mutation?’ asked Steven.

‘From what I could determine from his notes, that’s what it looked like,’ said Cleary. ‘To all intents and purposes, Tim’s strain is the 1918 virus.’

‘I can understand why you are spending so much time in the lavatory,’ said Steven. ‘How much did you already know about this?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Cleary. ‘I swear it. I found this out when I was going through Tim’s papers. I recognised the strain designations from having read about them in the scientific literature and there was a letter from a university in the USA listing induced base mutations in the viral genome.’

‘Is anyone else aware of what you know?’

‘I didn’t tell anyone, not even my wife.’

Steven thought for a moment before saying, ‘Well, at least this explains why the man, Lees, from the Department of Health turned up so quickly on the day of the murder. DOH must know all about this. Did you have any contact with him? Did he say anything to you?’

Cleary shook his head. ‘I met him and he knows I went through Tim’s desk and reached the conclusion that he had been working on flu virus. I didn’t say anything more than that but he may suspect that I know more than I let on.’

‘Just like I did,’ said Steven, ‘But no one from DOH has questioned you since?’

‘No.’

‘I thought you told me that the Crick didn’t have BSL-4 labs for handling high-risk pathogens?’ said Steven.

‘We don’t. BSL-3 is the best we have.

‘So Devon and whoever asked him to carry out the work – probably DOH – were in breach of regulations?’

‘Strictly speaking, no.’ replied Cleary. ‘Flu virus is not on the list of high grade pathogens requiring BSL-4 labs.’

‘But this wasn’t ordinary flu virus.’

‘The rule book wouldn’t know that.’

‘And common sense didn’t come into it?’

‘That’s what it looks like in view of what happened,’ agreed Cleary. ‘The strain Tim was working on wasn’t actually the 1918 virus itself, which would have been covered by the regulations as a special case; it was a genetically altered avian virus . . . It’s called Cambodia 5.’

‘But it’s identical to the 1918 strain,’ said Steven.

‘To all intents and purposes,’ said Cleary.

‘And now we have a monkey infected with Cambodia 5 virus running around the Norfolk countryside.’

Cleary shrugged uncomfortably.

‘You say Devon was working on a vaccine against this strain?’

‘Yes, that was quite clear,’ said Cleary.

‘Could you make out if he was having any success?’

‘There was no indication of that.’

‘Jesus.’

SEVEN

‘I’m afraid he’s not back from the Department of Health,’ said Jean Roberts when Steven arrived to see John Macmillan. ‘He shouldn’t be long: he’s been away three hours.’

Steven took a seat facing Jean and she said, ‘How’s Jenny? I hear you spent your leave with her.

‘She was in good form,’ said Steven. ‘It was good to see her for a decent amount of time. It’s usually just every third weekend.’

‘Must be difficult,’ agreed Jean. ‘What’s she getting for Christmas?’

‘A bike,’ replied Steven. ‘She was quite sure about that. A mountain bike with plenty of gears and lights back and front.’

‘For coming down mountains in the dark?’ said Jean.

‘That sort of thing and oh yes, it should be pink.’

‘Pink?’ exclaimed Jean.

‘Took me a while to find one but I managed.’

The door opened and John Macmillan passed through the office with a face like thunder. ‘Brains in their backsides,’ he muttered to no one in particular before closing his office door.

‘Life’s rich pattern,’ murmured Jean.

‘Sci-Med . . . an everyday story of scientific folk . . .’ said Steven. ‘Do you think he noticed me?’

Jean shrugged and showed the palms of her hands. She pressed the intercom button and said in her business voice, ‘Steven Dunbar is here, sir.’

‘Send him in.’

‘Idiots,’ said Macmillan as Steven closed the door behind him. ‘They open Pandora’s Box and then show me a piece of paper to demonstrate it was all perfectly legal and they’ve done no wrong. It’s not on the list,’ he mimicked in mincing tones. Not on the list! They should be on the list of the certifiably insane. Whatever happened to common sense in this country?’

‘I have this theory that says it was wiped out and replaced by political correctness some time in the early nineties,’ replied Steven. ‘Sounds as if you’ve found out just what kind of flu virus Devon was really working with.’

‘Unbelievable!’

‘Was this solely a DOH initiative?’ asked Steven.

‘Hard to say. They’re passing the buck like the parcel at a kids’ party,’ said Macmillan. ‘But, reading between the lines, I think getting Devon to work on a vaccine against the 1918 strain was seen as being “far sighted” and “imaginative”. Your man, Nigel Lees, apparently had a conversation with some chap from the World Health Organisation who convinced him he might get brownie points for initiative if he commissioned work on a new vaccine against bird flu.’

‘I suppose he might have done if the work hadn’t been assigned to a small institute in Norfolk without the proper lab facilities; one which was vulnerable to outside attack by animal rights extremists,’ said Steven.

‘According to Lees, thought
was
given to the need for heightened security surrounding the storage of such a virus on the premises. Cambodia 5 virus wasn’t kept with the other viruses in the deep freeze. It was stored separately in a safe similar to the sort used on nuclear submarines to store launch codes: two keys were required to open it. Of course, in this case, it also had to be kept at low temperature.’

‘Who was the other key-holder?’

‘It had to be someone outside the institute to guard against the risk of terrorist attack so DOH held the second key. When Devon needed access to live virus he would call DOH and the second key holder would come out to the institute accompanied by security people.’

‘But when it came to testing the new vaccine it had to be done in live animals rather than locked safes,’ said Steven.

‘And that’s when it all went tragically wrong.’

‘Presumably the virus itself is still in that safe?’

‘I’ve never been keen on presumption. Maybe you could check that out?’ said Macmillan.

‘Will do,’ said Steven. ‘Did you manage to get anything out of them about the Elwoods?’

Macmillan nodded. ‘It’s pretty much as you suspected. Harry Elwood didn’t feel well so they are keeping both him and his wife under surveillance for the time being.’

‘And the escaped animal?’

‘The army are still hunting it.’

* * * * *

‘And tonight’s lucky winner in the police computer draw of the week for red-headed suspects is . . . could I have drum roll please?’

‘Get on with it,’ said Morley to his friend and fellow sergeant, Keith Barnes in the criminal records section.

‘Kevin Shanks, aged twenty-four, drop-out from Liverpool University, two illegal substance convictions and three for breach of the peace at hunt meetings. A member of the animal rights movement since 1999. Lives in Norwich . . . and has long red hair.’

‘Address?

‘Last known address at time of arrest seven months ago was a shared flat in Elton Road, number sixteen.’

‘You’re a star Barnesy. Giles will be well pleased.’

‘Anything to help a pal . . . who’ll be buying me a beer at his earliest convenience?’ said Barnes.

‘Don’t hold your breath mate; I’m beginning to think I’ll never see the inside of a pub again.’

Morley relayed the information to Giles.

‘We’re off then,’ said Giles looking at his watch. ‘It’s just about our time anyway.’

‘Our time, sir?’

‘Three a.m. It’s the time when policemen knock on doors in all the best books; something to do with disorientation of the mind in the wee small hours. It makes it more difficult for the villains to lie to us.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Morley. He didn’t sound convinced.

After the third heavy knock, a youth wearing a grubby T-shirt and boxer shorts opened the door to the flat in Elton Road. He blinked against the light, scratched his crotch and mumbled, ‘What the fuck do you want?’

‘Police,’ said Morley, holding up his warrant card. ‘We’d like to talk to Kevin Shanks.

‘He aint here.’

‘I think we’ll just check on that sir,’ said Morley, brushing past the youth.

‘Pigs, everybody! Pig attack!’ the boy cried out.

‘Shut it!’ warned Giles, taking the boy by the scruff of the neck and pinning him against the wall.

There was a general scuffling in the flat: doors opened and shut and there was the sound of a toilet being flushed. ‘They’re flushing away drugs, sir,’ said Morley.

‘I know,’ smiled Giles. ‘Reward enough, don’t you think? Let’s hope it cost them a bundle.’ He was watching bodies emerge from sleeping bags on the floor of the living room, hands held up to shield their eyes from the light he’d switched on. One of the girls had no clothes on. ‘What the fuck are you looking at, you fucking pervert?’ she demanded.

‘A young woman with no brains, no class, no sense and no manners,’ replied Giles. ‘How am I doing?’

‘Here, have you got a fucking warrant?’ demanded a spotty youth with what looked like dried vomit on his T-shirt. He tried to come towards Giles but found it difficult to make a path through the empty bottles on the floor.

Giles ignored all questions as he continued his search for someone with long red hair. He moved through to the first of the bedrooms where a good looking boy was in bed with two girls. ‘What are you looking at, tosser?’ the boy demanded.

‘An arsehole?’ suggested Giles calmly. ‘. . . and that was without phoning a friend.’

‘You’ve got no fucking right . . .’

‘So sue me. Get up.’

‘Fucking pig, you’ve no right to burst in here and . . .’

‘Shut the fuck up!’ snapped Giles as he returned to the living room and silence descended on the flat. ‘We’re looking for Kevin Shanks . . .

‘You’re still looking.’

‘In connection with a murder inquiry,’ completed Giles.

‘He aint here, pigs.’

‘I can see that,’ said Giles quietly. ‘Where is he?’

‘Think we’d tell you?’

‘No,’ said Giles matter of factly, ‘I don’t, but I am obliged to ask you officially so that I can come back and charge the lot of you later with being accessories to murder.’

‘You can’t do that!’ protested the spotty youth.

‘Are you really going to bet your pimply arse on that, sonny?’ said Giles in measured tones.

The boy looked uncertain.

‘Kevin’s staying the night with his girlfriend,’ said one of the others, ‘Her folks are away.’

This attracted the disapproval of the others.

‘Fuck this, I aint getting into any murder rap,’ the boy retorted.

‘Girlfriend’s name? Address?’