The Lazarus Strain (14 page)

‘Hello, what brings you back?’ asked Cleary when Steven knocked and entered his office.

‘DOH are removing the Cambodia 5 Virus and moving it to Porton today.’

‘Can’t say I’m sorry about that.’

‘The place is looking much better,’ said Steven. He’d noticed that there were fewer workmen about and very little mess left in the corridors, although the outside of the building was still badly scarred.

‘We’re getting there. What can I do for you?’

‘It’s a small point but I was wondering if telephone calls were logged individually in the institute?’

‘This is the civil service,’ smiled Cleary. ‘All calls are timed and itemised.’

‘So it would be possible for me to see the log for the Sunday on which Professor Devon was murdered?’

‘I should think so. With a bit of luck I can do it for you right now on the computer. We have an internet link to the BT billing operation.’

‘Great.’ Steven glanced at his watch: it was ten thirty. He sat in silence while Cleary retrieved the information.

Cleary pushed his glasses up on his head and leaned his elbows on the desk while he waited for the screen to fill. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Two calls were made on that Sunday, a three minute call in the morning to a number I recognise as Tim’s home and a ten second call made to a London number I don’t recognise at one-thirty in the afternoon. Not many but it was a Sunday. Tim was the only person here that day.’

Steven wrote down both numbers and thanked Cleary for his help. ‘How’s the race for a vaccine going?’ he asked.

‘Leila Martin is hard at it,’ said Cleary. ‘We’ve all got our fingers crossed.’

‘I was wondering . . .’ began Steven. ‘How you and the staff would feel about having a swab taken for DNA analysis, purely for elimination purposes?’

Cleary shrugged and said, ‘No problem as far as I’m concerned and I’m sure the others will be happy to cooperate too. Anything that helps catch Tim’s killer.’

‘I thought you’d feel that way,’ said Steven. ‘I’ll make arrangements and let you know.’

Nigel Lees arrived at eleven in a small convoy which included himself in a DOH Rover with official driver, a black armoured van with two crew members wearing crash helmets and neck protectors and two unmarked police cars, each with two occupants.

‘Got your key?’ asked Lees.

Steven took out his card and held it up.

Lees smiled and said, ‘Let’s get started then.’

Some people were just born to take charge, thought Steven as he followed Lees inside. Nothing dents their confidence, not even coming up with the cretinous idea of working with Cambodia 5 virus at the Crick.

Lees knelt down in front of the safe and Steven did likewise, Lees to the left, Steven to the right. Behind them the two security men stood ready with a steel canister full of dry ice. The fog from it was spilling over the side and tumbling down to the floor, creating a stage mist effect worthy of a rock concert.

‘What’s the virus held in?’ asked Steven.

‘Sealed glass ampoules maintained at -70 degrees.’

Steven held his card over the right hand slot. ‘Ready when you are.’

‘After three. One, two, three.’

Both men entered their cards and the flashing LED turned to green. The safe handle now turned with ease and a waft of icy cold air drifted out from the thick-walled chamber as Lees paused to put on a heavy glove to protect his skin against low temperature burns. He reached in to remove a metal rack containing eight glass vials and transferred them slowly and carefully to the metal flask the guards were holding. One of them then screwed the top back on.

‘All over,’ said Lees.

‘It will be when you recapture the last monkey,’ said Steven.

Lees smiled wanly and nodded to the guards who left the room with the flask.

‘The army have been asked to step up the hunt,’ said Lees. ‘It can’t possibly survive out there in December.’

‘Let us know when you have the body,’ said Steven.

Lees removed the key cards from the safe. ‘I’ll make arrangements for removing this,’ he said.

‘Nobody knew it was there,’ said Steven, unable to resist highlighting the secret nature of its installation. ‘No one’s going to trip over it.’

Lees smiled wanly again.

‘Just as a matter of interest,’ said Steven. ‘What
was
the procedure for opening the safe?’

‘Professor Devon would phone me at the ministry and I would drive up with the second key at an arranged time.’

‘Can I ask the number at the ministry he would call?’

Lees reeled off the number. ‘It’s my direct line. Why do you ask?’

‘So you wouldn’t be there at weekends?’

‘No,’ replied Lees, ‘unless pressure of work demanded it . . .’ he added lamely. ‘What’s this all about?’

Steven thought Lees’ first response the more likely. ‘I was just interested in how these security measures work in practice,’ he said. ‘Supposing Professor Devon had needed access to the virus at the weekend and you weren’t there . . . did he have another number to contact you? Home number, mobile?’

‘No, there was no need for access at the weekend. That was agreed at the outset.’

‘I see.’

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

Steven watched as the convoy drove off. Lees looked directly at him from the back seat of the Rover as it passed but didn’t smile, neither did Steven. It wasn’t rudeness: he was thinking about the number that Lees had given him. It was the same as the one Cleary had found on the call list for the day Devon died. Someone had tried to obtain the second key.

As he stood there outside the institute in the cold of a grey December day with a bitter wind whipping across the empty courtyard, making his eyes narrow, Steven experienced what his friend and fellow Sci-Med investigator, Scott Jamieson, would have called an ‘Oh fuck moment’. The little puddle he had stepped in was actually six feet deep.

* * * * *

So the animal rights intruders had found the safe that none of the staff bar Devon had known about and had tried to gain access to it. They must have forced Devon to make the call to Lees in an attempt to get the second card but that didn’t necessarily mean that they had any idea about what was inside . . . did it? It was a safe and would therefore be of interest to thieves . . . but these people weren’t thieves; they were idealists . . . but also misfits, losers and probably opportunists went the counter argument. ‘Shit,’ murmured Steven under his breath. There was no way to be sure. He tried telling himself that he should concentrate on the positives. The safe had not been breached. The Cambodia 5 virus was now on its way to secure storage at Porton Down. All was right with the world, wasn’t it?

Steven’s first idea, born at 3 a.m. that morning, had been to ask Cleary about the phone register – and it had come up trumps. His second was to have a chat with Frank Giles, the policeman in charge of the case, about the arrest he had made. He drove over to police headquarters and found Giles about to go out for lunch.

‘Join me?’ Giles suggested. ‘I’ve got to get out of here for a while.’

Steven smiled and agreed. He liked people who wore their hearts on their sleeves – probably a reaction to dealing so much with the denizens of Whitehall.

‘Still looking for your monkey?’ asked Giles as they sat down in the lounge bar of The Green Man and were handed two menus that had seen a lot of service.

‘The army are,’ replied Steven. ‘I understand you’ve made an arrest over the Crick case?’

‘We fingered two but one’s dead,’ said Giles. ‘Robert Lyndon and Kevin Shanks. Shanks stabbed Lyndon when he showed signs of blabbing to us. He’s now going down for both murders. Scampi please, love,’ he added when a waitress started to hover round the table.

‘Same for me,’ said Steven. ‘Did they both have form?’

‘Breach of the peace, possession of Mary Jane, low grade stuff for a pair of low grade losers,’ said Giles. ‘Why?’

‘Do low grade losers usually move up to torture and murder?’ asked Steven.

‘What’s on your mind, exactly?’

‘Was there any chance at all that a third person was involved in the crime?’

‘Bloody hell,’ exclaimed Giles. ‘Every chance. What have you got that I don’t know about?’

‘There was a secret safe in the institute. Someone tried to gain access to it on the day Prof. Devon was murdered. That someone left a DNA fingerprint but didn’t have a record. You’ve just told me that Lyndon and Shanks did.’

‘Shanks maintains there was a third man on the raid – as he insists on calling it. His name was Ali and according to Shanks, he organised the whole thing. He claims that the professor was alive when the three of them left the institute but that this bloke Ali must have gone back later and murdered him.’

Steven looked doubtful.

‘That’s what I thought at first,’ said Giles. ‘It sounds pretty weak but after talking to Shanks at length I think I believe him.’

‘Presumably you’re looking for this guy, Ally?’

Giles shook his head. ‘The Chief Super has pulled the plug on that. Too many Alis to interview.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Steven, realising that they were talking at cross purposes. ‘You’re talking about Ali as in Mohammed not Ally as in Allan or Alistair?’ he said.

Giles nodded. ‘That threw me at first because Shanks didn’t mention that Ali was Indian or Pakistani or whatever. I only found out later when I was talking to somebody else. When I asked Shanks about it he said it hadn’t occurred to him because Ali spoke better English than he did.’

‘And the name Ali is all you have to go on?’

‘Afraid so.’

‘Then I see the problem.’

Their scampi arrived so they paused until the waitress had put the plates down and enquired, ‘Any sauces for you gentlemen?’

‘Tartare,’ said Steven.

‘Same,’ said Giles.

‘My inclination was to pursue him through the connection with hunt saboteurs and animal rights groups. Somebody must know something about him but big white boss say no . . . unless of course he got into this safe you mentioned and something valuable is missing? That might alter things,’ said Giles.

‘No, he failed.’

‘Pity,’ said Giles. ‘I’d have liked to put this psycho away. What was in it anyway?’

‘A virus.’

‘Dare I ask?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘So the suit who turned up from DOH wasn’t being quite honest with his assurances?’

‘Now, there’s a surprise,’ said Steven.

‘I’ve a good mind to . . .’

‘Don’t,’ said Steven. ‘It’s already been decided at high level that no action will be taken against DOH.’

Giles shook his head. ‘You couldn’t make it up, could you?’

‘Good intentions count for a lot apparently,’ said Steven.

‘They also pave the road to hell,’ added Giles. His phone rang. ‘Thanks for letting me know,’ he said after listening for a few seconds. ‘Dr Dunbar will be pleased.’

Steven looked up from his food, wondering if Giles was being sarcastic or not. There was no sign of it.

‘The army have found your monkey. It was found dead near Burnham Market. They’re taking the body back to the institute for incineration.

‘Thank God for that,’ said Steven, surprised at the relief he felt flood through him. ‘Nothing left lurking in the woods.’

‘What was it really carrying?’ asked Giles.

‘Flu,’ replied Steven, feeling more than a little guilty for bending the truth.

* * * * *

‘So that’s it then,’ said John Macmillan when Steven told him.

‘I think so,’ agreed Steven. ‘It was a messy business but it could have been so much worse. It’s probably the wrong man going down for Professor Devon’s murder but he was going down anyway . . .’

‘And it’s not a perfect world,’ said Macmillan.

‘Frank Giles of the Norfolk police has alerted neighbouring forces and they’ll keep an eye out for this Ali character in the future. It’s odds on he’s going to get into more trouble sooner or later.’

‘Remembering these photographs of Devon, I really hope it’s sooner,’ said Macmillan.

‘What next?’ asked Steven.

‘There’s a hospital in Newcastle the computer thinks we should take an interest in,’ said Macmillan. ‘The Victoria Hospital for Children. Its paediatric heart surgery results are giving cause for concern. Pick away at it, will you?’

TEN

Steven completed his investigation into suspicious surgical death patterns at the Victoria Hospital during the second week of January. The inquiry had straddled Christmas, which he had spent with his daughter Jenny and Richard and Susan and their children – a happy time although quickly overshadowed by the
tsunami
that hit the Far East on Boxing Day. Jenny had wanted to send her new bicycle to Thailand to make a child there happier.

The investigation had proved quite straightforward in the end and although the surgical death rates were undoubtedly higher than in other comparable hospitals, examination of the dead children’s notes had revealed the reason why. The head of paediatric surgery at the Victoria had real courage. Unlike so many of his contemporaries who always kept one eye on the statistical returns, Mr Cecil Digby FRCS, had taken on challenges that many other surgeons would have turned down and often agreed to operate on cases which were generally regarded as being too difficult or just plain hopeless. As a direct result of this, the death rate in his unit was much higher than the norm. Common sense dictated that it would be, but common sense didn’t show up in hospital returns; only numbers. On paper - the government’s preferred method for assessing so much, particularly in education and health – Digby’s figures looked worrying but the numbers weren’t telling the whole truth. The babies who died would have died anywhere else. The babies who lived however, had special reason to be grateful – or rather, their parents had - because anywhere else, they would probably have died too.

Steven had been able to determine this without ever confronting Digby personally. It was Sci-Med’s policy to keep their inquiries as discreet as possible and in this case, confidential arrangements had been made with the hospital records people in order to grant Steven access to patients’ notes. He managed to leave the hospital without Cecil Digby ever knowing he’d been investigated . . . or why. Steven was pleased and relieved at the outcome. At the outset, he’d been afraid that he had been sent to investigate the not uncommon problem of a surgeon continuing to operate after his or her abilities had started to decline.