Lost causes

TWENTY

James Black was last to arrive for the meeting he’d called of the Redwood Park competitions committee — he’d been caught in a traffic jam for twenty minutes.

‘We were beginning to think you’d decided to up sticks and disappear,’ said Toby Langton.

‘Now why would I want to do that?’ replied Black with a forced smile that contrasted with the worried expressions of the others.

‘For God’s sake, Sci-Med have the files from College Hospital. They’re going through them as we speak,’ said Elliot Soames.

‘So much for taking Dunbar out of the game,’ said Rupert Coutts.

‘It wasn’t a serious attempt,’ said Constance Carradine. ‘More of a spur of the moment thing when we heard he was going to search the cellars. An opportunity too good to miss. Anyway, a junkie got the blame. No harm done.’

‘Aren’t we missing the point here? Sci-Med are going to find out exactly what was going on in the north in the early nineties.’

‘They may suspect something was going on but they won’t know what,’ said Black. ‘People died, but that’s what people do, especially sick ones.’

‘I still don’t like it,’ said Soames. ‘They’re not stupid. They just might figure it out.’

‘Even if they do, they’re not going to be able to prove anything after all this time, and even if they could, they’re hardly going to let the press in on it, are they? A coalition government hanging on by its fingertips would be swept away in the resulting storm of indignation, leaving us with the prospect of anarchy. It’s little more than an academic exercise for Sci-Med. They’ll pat each other on the back for working it out and then move on to more relevant matters like the threat that’s hanging over our nation.’

‘Aren’t you overlooking the Paris meeting?’ said Langton.

All eyes turned to him.

‘If Sci-Med are bright enough to work out what the Northern Health Scheme was all about, they might figure out what the purpose of the Paris meeting was too — all the people from the Northern Health Scheme getting together again? They’re bound to suspect that the whole business was about to be repeated.’

‘Let them,’ said Black. ‘If French and co. had had their way, they’d be quite right, but they all died and so did the Northern Health Scheme. Although…’

The others found the pregnant pause unbearable. ‘Although what?’ prompted Langton.

‘I’ve taken steps to provide some “proof” for Sci-Med if they’re clever enough to find it.’

‘Proof of what?’ asked Rupert Coutts.

‘Proof that Charles French and his colleagues were indeed planning a repeat of the Northern Health Scheme. They’ll be well pleased with that.’

‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Mark?’ said Constance with an air of disapproval. ‘It’s not a game. The future of our country depends on our success.’

‘And it’s in good hands,’ said Black. ‘But you’re right. I do enjoy an intellectual challenge.’

‘Frankly, I’d feel happier with Dunbar and his cronies out of the way,’ said Constance.

‘Me too,’ said Soames.

‘Dunbar and Sci-Med are no threat to us,’ insisted Black. ‘Sci-Med are on the verge of clearing up a twenty-year-old puzzle, with all those involved now dead. End of story. If we sanction any kind of action against them, it might signal that either we’re not all dead, or we have something to hide and we think Sci-Med are getting too close. We can do without that kind of attention. Our project is on track and everything is going to plan. All we need do is keep our nerve. All right?’

One by one the others nodded their agreement.

‘Good,’ said Black. ‘I’m told that Sci-Med were present at the COBRA meeting yesterday. I should think events of long ago are the last thing on their minds right now.’

Maxine French smiled as Steven was ushered into a stunning room with glass walls on three sides, all of them affording access to a magnificent roof terrace and breathtaking views beyond. Steven felt as if he had seen that smile before. It was the one that ladies of a certain class and political inclination used to put lesser mortals at their ease.

‘Good of you to see me, Mrs French, and at such short notice. Your tireless charity work is well documented.’

‘One does what one can,’ said Maxine with a self-deprecating smile. ‘But I am intrigued, doctor. What exactly does the Sci-Med Inspectorate do?’

Steven told her briefly.

‘Science and medicine progresses at such a rate these days; I’m sure you must be kept very busy,’ she said. ‘But how exactly can I help?’

Steven was aware of his pulse rate increasing as he prepared to take his gamble. ‘Your husband wasn’t just a brilliant scientist, Mrs French… he also served his country in another capacity…’

‘I knew it!’ exclaimed Maxine with an expression that would have served a lottery winner. ‘Charles was such a patriot. No one ever loved his country more than my husband. That’s why he was in Paris, wasn’t it? He was on secret business on behalf of the nation?’

Steven couldn’t believe his luck. His gambit had worked so well he feared that Maxine was about to break into the national anthem. ‘Yes indeed, Mrs French, Charles was working for the government.’

‘I knew it… I knew it. It all makes sense now.’

‘The thing is… Charles was holding some material that must not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. His untimely death means that we aren’t quite sure… where it is. I suppose I was hoping that you might be able to help.’

Maxine walked over to where a painting of an English landscape hung over a rectangular marble fireplace set into the wall and housing living flames over a bed of cobbles. She swung the painting back like a door to reveal a safe, causing Steven to reflect on people’s lack of originality, and to reckon that it would have taken a burglar all of thirty seconds to find and maybe another thirty seconds of threats before Maxine revealed the combination. Not very secure at all.

Maxine, however, was to prove him wrong. For a moment he thought the safe was empty when she opened it, but she removed something small and signalled that Steven should follow her outside to the terrace. He saw that she had a plastic card in her hand as she led the way to a small alcove among the plant pots. There she swung open a small trellis that was apparently on hinges and inserted the card in a hidden slot in the wall. It was swallowed like a bank card and a small screen appeared as a dummy brick facing slid back.

‘Don’t touch it!’ warned Maxine as Steven leaned forward to take a look. Steven recoiled at the panic in her voice. ‘It’s a biometric panel,’ she said, putting her own fingertips on it and holding them there for a few seconds. The panel slid back to reveal the contents of a small safe set into one of the apartment’s concrete support pillars. Maxine retrieved a number of disks in plastic cases and handed them over to Steven. ‘I think these are what you’re looking for.’

‘Thank you, Mrs French,’ said Steven, trying to appear calm. He couldn’t resist asking, ‘What would have happened if I’d touched the screen?’

‘It would have blown your face off, doctor.’

Steven silently reconsidered his earlier critical thoughts about the security arrangements. Even if someone had tortured Maxine to reveal the whereabouts of the disks she could simply have handed over the card, shown her attacker where the safe was and stood well clear.

He left the penthouse, thinking that he must have used up a year’s luck all in one morning. He’d got exactly what he wanted without the need for police raids on Deltasoft or French’s home. No damage would be done to public confidence through speculative press stories and Maxine could even return to her tireless charity work, secure in the knowledge that her husband’s secret work on behalf of the nation would go on. Not.

‘You look like the cat who got the cream,’ Jean Roberts told him when he appeared in her office.

‘A better than average morning, Jean. Could you get these over to the lab as quickly as possible?’

‘Will do. I think the DOH people upstairs are just about finished.’

‘I’ll go and see them.’

Steven found the people from the Department of Health packing up and ready to move out. Sophie Thornton came over to speak to him.

‘All done. We’ve arranged the suspect files alphabetically,’ she said, indicating a bench by the window. ‘Nothing new to report, just more of the same: people dying when perhaps they shouldn’t have but with no sinister causes according to the PM reports.’

Steven thanked her and the rest of her team, and stood with them as they waited for the lift on the landing outside to say last farewells — a trait he recognised he had inherited from his mother, who had always made sure that no one left the Dunbar household without at least three versions of goodbye and usually a final wave from the window. Then he returned to the room and rested his hands on top of one of the folder piles.

Sophie’s saying that they were in alphabetical order encouraged him to look for James Kincaid’s father’s notes. He found them without difficulty — a coal-miner who had retired with breathing difficulties due to his long years underground. A man who had finally contracted lung cancer and had died within three weeks of having an operation at College Hospital. Kincaid had been right to be suspicious. If death had been that imminent, surgeons at the hospital wouldn’t have considered operating. The fact that they had, suggested a belief that, with the right therapy, life expectancy should have been a great deal longer than three weeks. Instead, French and his pals… or should he be calling them the Schiller Group after what the Home Secretary had said?… had decided that he was nothing more than a drain on resources. Expendable. Those to the right live, those to the left die.