Lost causes

ELEVEN

Steven did not make much progress over the next three weeks. The information which Jean came up with on the Paris flat victims only served to confirm Charlie Malloy’s cursory assessment of them: two names in the business world, a merchant banker and a senior civil servant. None of them had a criminal record or had been associated with any scandal considered newsworthy by the press.

Paul Schreiber, however, had thrown up a more interesting CV. He had been head of a pharmaceutical company before being implicated in a price-fixing scam and forced to resign. He had remained as a major shareholder in the company, Lander Pharmaceuticals, with a big say in its running. He had been responsible for supplying the medicines requested by Charles French’s software. He had died in a fire along with a male nurse in the pharmacy department of College Hospital.

Gordon Field, the hospital manager, also had a bit of a shady past, having had some involvement with a dodgy PR company before reinventing himself in health care administration. Not much to go on, thought Steven, although Field, as far as he knew, was still alive… somewhere. A big plus in this investigation.

Carlisle, French, Freeman, Schreiber, Field… as fine a body of people as you could ever hope to meet, thought Steven. And the only thing on their mind had been the improvement of health services in the north-east. Not.

Charlie Malloy’s ‘discreet’ inquiry into Carlisle’s suicide had not come up with anything new either. The pathologist had been in no doubt that he’d died of a broken neck, sustained after falling a fair distance with a noose around his neck. How he had managed to get up high enough to achieve a drop of a ‘fair distance’ was not something that could now be investigated. People often managed feats of considerable strength under conditions of extreme stress, Malloy pointed out.

‘There was one thing that came up, though,’ he added. ‘The suicide note he left behind was typed — or rather printed. The signature was his but the letter hadn’t come from either of the two printers in Markham House. Not much, but something to bear in mind, I suppose.’

‘Thanks, Charlie. I appreciate it.’

While Steven hadn’t made much progress in the recent weeks, John Macmillan had. He’d been home now for four days and was reportedly in good spirits, although still very tired after the trauma of major surgery. His wife had noticed no worrying loss of mental faculty as yet, but it was still early days, and the mere fact that he recognised her was considered encouraging.

The national vaccine production agreement had also progressed. A quick government decision had been made on the tenders submitted and a manufacturer chosen. Merryman Pharmaceuticals, a company sited in the Midlands, would be tasked with providing the nation’s vaccine supplies. Steven felt a small twinge when he read this as it meant that his old company, Ultramed, must have failed in their bid. His regret was to turn to irritation, however, when Lionel Montague phoned him personally to complain.

‘Merryman must have known what our bid was,’ Montague fumed. ‘We pared our tender to the very bone and they still undercut us. We were even prepared to make a loss in the first year in order to get the contract.’

‘Maybe they did the same. Why are you telling me this, Lionel?’ said Steven. ‘I don’t know what your bid was, and I don’t know anything about the contract.’

‘You work for the government, and this is some kind of government stitch-up. They must have favoured the Merryman bid.’

‘Frankly, Lionel, that’s ridiculous. I don’t know the first thing about government contracts, but why would they do that? I’m sure they don’t care who makes the vaccines as long as they do it well and come up with them as quickly and as cheaply as possible. They’ve obviously given the contract to Merryman because they came up with the best package.’

‘You’ll never convince me of that.’

‘Then I won’t even try.’

‘I’m not going to let it rest here.’

Montague hung up, leaving Steven looking at the phone. ‘Thank you and good night, Mr Angry,’ he murmured.

On Friday afternoon he called Jean Roberts to say that he was planning to be away for a long weekend. He was driving up to Leicester that evening and then going on up to Scotland to see his daughter, leaving on Saturday morning. He’d come back on Monday.

‘A long drive,’ said Jean. ‘Is there anything you’d like me to do?’

‘The journalist who died up north, Jim Kincaid. Do you think you could see if he has any relatives still alive?’

‘Will do. Anything else?’

‘The manager at College Hospital — Gordon Field. Can you check if he’s still in that line of work — or even alive, for that matter?’

‘I’ll give it a go.’

‘Thanks, Jean. Now I understand why John thought… thinks so much of you.’

Jean laughed. ‘I didn’t realise he did.’

‘It’ll be the Scottish genes in him,’ said Steven. ‘Saying anything nice is a sign of weakness.’

As he put down the phone, Steven reflected on what Jean had said about the long drive. She was right. Tally was working this weekend, so she couldn’t come up to Scotland with him. It was time to get the Porsche back on the road. He called Stan Silver at the mews garage who said to give him a couple of hours.

‘I take it this means you’re back in the service of the nation?’ said Silver, who was working on the front brakes of a Saab convertible, spanner in hand, when Steven parked the Honda and walked towards him.

‘For the time being. My ex-boss has just had brain surgery, and I’m back holding the fort.’

‘Noble causes follow you around like a puppy, Steven,’ said Silver, lifting a brake caliper clear of the disc.

Steven didn’t respond. They’d known each other a long time. He valued the fact that Silver always said what was on his mind without considering first. Sometimes it didn’t make for easy listening.

‘She’s all gassed up and ready to go,’ he said now, nodding to where the Boxster was sitting.

‘We have to settle up first.’

‘Nothing to settle, mate. Band of brothers and all that.’

Steven nodded and smiled. ‘Thanks, Stan. I owe you.’

‘Try to look after it. Any plans for taking your motor across fields and through rivers like you usually end up doing, and I’d stick with the Honda if I were you.’

‘No such plans, Stan. Church on Sundays and running Tally to her French class.’

Steven started the Porsche and revelled in the sound. He took a last look at the staid, comfortable and utterly dependable Honda before smiling and spinning the wheels of the Boxster as he took off. He looked back to see Silver laughing and waving in the rear-view mirror.

‘I got the Porsche back,’ said Steven, not long after he’d arrived at Tally’s place. It was weighing on his mind.

‘I thought you might,’ said Tally, who had her back to him at the time, preparing dinner.

‘And?’ he asked tentatively.

Tally turned her head and smiled. ‘And nothing. It suits you.’

‘Have I told you lately that I love you?’

‘Not nearly enough.’

Steven put his arms round her waist from behind and kissed her on the side of her neck. ‘I love you, Tally Simmons.’

‘Of course you do. You’re hungry, and then you’ll want sex.’

‘Why do I get the feeling I can’t win?’

‘Because you can’t. Open the wine, will you?’

He told her about the call from Lionel Montague.

‘Silly man. Why call you?’

‘I guess he needed someone working for the government to yell at. What d’you know about Merryman?’

‘A perfectly reputable company. I see their name on quite a lot of things — more than I do Ultramed’s, if I’m honest.’

Steven nodded. ‘I guess he was just pissed off over losing the contract. It was such a big deal for him.’

‘And presumably for Merryman too,’ said Tally. ‘As long as someone starts making vaccines soon; that’s all I care about.’

The conversation moved on to Steven’s investigation and how he felt it was grinding to a halt. ‘I mean, I think John was right. There was something very fishy about the Northern Health Scheme and the forces behind Carlisle, but I can’t see how to make a twenty-year leap into anything that could be happening now.’

‘Well, the way things are going, you’ll be able to talk it over with John himself soon,’ said Tally.

‘You’re right,’ agreed Steven, finding something to smile about. ‘Against all the odds… So what’s been happening in your life?’

‘Apart from the usual skirmishes with them upstairs over money, not a lot. Although my sisters and I have decided on a home for Mum. She seemed to like it well enough, and it checks out as being well staffed, clean and comfortable. I still feel guilty, though. It’s an act of betrayal…’

‘Don’t,’ Steven soothed. ‘You’re doing the right thing. If we win the lottery we’ll move to a place in the country and have her come and live with us. This is only temporary.’

‘Idiot.’