Dust to dust

FORTY

Macmillan joined them. ‘They’ll be here soon and then we can all go home and get some rest. Steven, I’ve asked for a bio-hazard team as well as the cleaners. Perhaps you can fill them in about the location of the spores and how best to remove them?’

Steven nodded.

‘You did well,’ said Macmillan. ‘I know you’re not feeling at your best right now but you did what you had to do. If it weren’t for you, none of us would be alive right now. It sounds very inadequate, but thank you.’

‘Yes, thank you, Steven,’ added Lukas, managing the semblance of a smile. ‘On behalf of my wife and children, thank you very much. I never thought lab work could be so…’ He failed to find the word.

Steven acknowledged their thanks with a nod but really didn’t want to hear any more about it. The horror of what he’d done — had to do — was still too fresh in his mind. ‘Did Monk tell you any more about what’s been going on?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ replied Macmillan. ‘Arrogant, cold as ice and far too clever to engage in gloating or boasting. I’ve come across his type before. He would have killed us all without batting an eyelid. When he discovered you’d disabled his set-up in the ventilation system, there was no display of temper: he just took it in his stride and moved on to Plan B. Nothing was going to stop him achieving his objective.’

Steven closed his eyes and saw Monk pushing Louise Avery over a Solway cliff to her death. ‘And that objective was to keep us all quiet about an operation to change some rich bastard’s HIV status,’ he said.

‘I agree,’ said Macmillan, picking up on the nuance in Steven’s voice. ‘It’s beyond belief.’

Two black, unlettered vans arrived in the car park outside and two teams of technicians, eight in all, clad in white cover-all suits, began the business of cleaning up the aftermath of Dunbar vs Monk, after being briefed by Macmillan. The first thing they did was to zip Monk’s body into a body bag and remove it. There would be no police involvement, no forensic examination, no photographs, no bagging of samples and ultimately no need to call on the Crown Prosecution Service because there would be no court case. Monk had lived outside the law: that’s where he would stay.

Two of the technicians were seconded to Steven to receive instructions for the removal of the spores. One of them insisted on calling him ‘guv’. Their first question was whether or not they’d need full bio-hazard gear. Steven assured them that that wouldn’t be necessary: the container hadn’t been breached. One of them already had a plan of the building ventilation system so Steven was able to pinpoint the location for them. ‘It was inserted from below so it should come out the same way,’ he said. ‘It’s pressurised, so be careful.’

‘Right, guv.’

‘Immerse it in disinfectant fluid as soon as it comes out.’

It was shortly after one a.m. when the vans finally drove off. The lab had been restored to its former pristine state — no mean feat considering the amount of blood that had been around — and the canister containing the spores had been neutralised as instructed. After a short hiatus, the cars that Macmillan had requested to take the three of them home turned up outside. Lukas locked the front doors of the lab and, in an attempt at humour, said, ‘I’m not sure what I’m going to tell my mother-in-law.’

‘I wouldn’t go for the truth,’ said Steven.

Steven knew he wouldn’t sleep so didn’t bother trying. He stayed up, sitting in his seat by the window, looking up at the sky, listening to Miles Davis, drinking gin. He found it hard to analyse his feelings now that he’d had time to consider. The only thing he was sure of was that he didn’t feel good. On the odd occasion he did manage to drift off into shallow sleep, it was to a world full of bad dreams, no place to be; he was glad to be jarred into wakefulness again.

When the first grey light of dawn challenged the orange glow of the city’s street lights, he forced himself to get up and face a new day, starting with a long shower — although he had the feeling of trying to rinse something away that wasn’t going to go — and following that with toast and coffee. He’d been told by Macmillan to be at the Home Office by nine a.m.

‘I’ve asked the commissioner of the Met to join us,’ said Macmillan. ‘We’re going to tell him everything and make it clear that Sci-Med will not be party to any kind of cover-up. We want this whole sorry, misconceived business out in the open regardless of the identity of Patient X.’

‘Good,’ said Steven. He didn’t doubt Macmillan’s sincerity but did wonder about the practicality of what he intended. There had been occasions in the past when Sci-Med had been forced to back off in the ‘public interest’, but to be fair to Macmillan those instances had been few and far between and more than eclipsed by the times the man had stood his ground against some pretty serious pressure from the corridors of power. In his time, Macmillan had presided over the demise of some very influential people who’d imagined themselves above the law. It was common knowledge that this alone had delayed his knighthood for many years.

Steven listened while Macmillan related all that had happened to the police commissioner, adding details when requested, particularly about the treatment of Michael Kelly and the ‘accident’ that had killed Louise Avery. When Macmillan had finished, the commissioner remained silent for a few moments, tapping his pen end over end on the table before finally saying, ‘I knew something was going on. It’s impossible to be in my job and not realise that. Rumours were rife but none of my people could quite get a handle on it. This usually means there’s intelligence service involvement, but that didn’t appear to be the case… at least not officially.’

Steven empathised with the commissioner. He was voicing the sort of frustration that he and Macmillan had felt over the past few weeks.

‘Strikes me the whole thing has been orchestrated by a parcel of rogues,’ said Sir John.

‘But powerful ones,’ said the commissioner.

‘Be that as it may…’ began Macmillan. He launched into a second insistence that there should be no cover-up. When he had finished, the commissioner got up from his chair.

‘I think I should confer with some people and get back to you, say, in two hours, time? Better make that three, as it’s Sunday.’

‘Well, the game’s afoot, Watson,’ murmured Macmillan as he returned from seeing the commissioner out, but there was little humour in it. ‘A drink?’

Steven had no desire to be anywhere near alcohol. ‘Maybe a walk in the park?’ he suggested. ‘Or by the river?’ he said quickly when he realised that seeing joggers in the park was only going to invoke memories of the previous evening. ‘The river,’ said Macmillan, who’d seen the same thing.

They had scarcely started to enjoy the sense of stability that Sunday morning by the Thames was giving them when Macmillan’s phone rang. Steven couldn’t deduce much from his monosyllabic replies. Occasionally, Sir John asked questions but didn’t seem happy with the replies he was getting.

‘That was the commissioner. A meeting’s been called,’ he said, ending the call.

‘Where?’

‘At an MI5 safe house in Kent,’ he said, taking care to enunciate every syllable.