Pandora's Helix

Fourteen

Neef had a management meeting first thing on Monday morning. There was very little to discuss although an appeal for more night nurses was made by Carol Martin, director of nursing services. Carol had been lobbying individual consultants over this for some weeks. Too much responsibility was falling on too few nurses, she maintained. Neef had promised his support and gave it. Heaton and Phillip Danziger said they would see what could be done.

Mark Louradis was congratulated by Tim Heaton on his ‘Guide to Gene Therapy’ article. “Now that’s what I call positive journalism,” said Heaton. “It associates St George’s with state of the art research in the public perception. GPs will see that we’re a go-ahead hospital. They’ll be happy to refer their patients here.”

Neef noted that Louradis avoided eye contact with him throughout the meeting. It gave him some satisfaction to know that he felt some guilt about his behaviour in seeking publicity for himself. For Neef the time for anger was past. He philosophically accepted that some people were just made that way.

Heaton was particularly pleased that cancer-scare attention had been diverted from St George’s to the Public Health Service where it rightly belonged in his opinion. He brought up the subject and was in turn applauded for his firm stand over moving the Sunday Press briefing.

“What did you think of the Press coverage of the cancer scare by the way?” asked Heaton.

“Alarmist, for the most part,” said Carol Martin. “You’d think the carcinogen was a slimy, green, scaly monster, who hid up dark alleys to trap the unwary, to read some of these reports.”

“Might be easier if it was,” said Neef. “At least we’d know what we’re dealing with.”

“What did you think of the coverage, Michael?” asked Heaton.

“I suppose they portrayed the authorities as being less than brilliant but that’s almost a national pastime these days. I didn’t think anything was too unfair.”

“I thought they were very unfair to the Public Health people,” said John Marshall. “They haven’t got the easiest of jobs at the moment.”

“But the unpleasant fact of the matter is that they’re no nearer establishing the cause of the outbreak today than they were immediately after the first report,” said Neef.

“That’s not necessarily their fault.”

“I’m not saying it is,” countered Neef. “In fact, I agree with you but it doesn’t alter the fact. They are not making progress.”

Neef looked at his watch. It was nine thirty-five. He was due at University College at ten.

“Busy day, Michael?” asked Heaton who had seen the gesture.

“Aren’t they all,” Neef replied.

“Well, if no one has anything else to report?”

There was a general shaking of heads.

“Let’s start the week.”

Heaton came over to Neef and told him that he had put the emergency permission request in motion.

“I’m grateful,” said Neef.

“You genuinely believe this one could work?”

“I’m optimistic. I have to be.”

Heaton grinned. “I suppose in your position you can’t afford to be anything else or you’d go mad. It can’t be easy but I think you said you’d had one success on the trial when I spoke to you last.”

“Thomas Downy,” said Neef. “A cerebellar tumour that’s been regressing quite remarkably. He’s having another scan done this morning. I’ll let you know how he’s progressing.”

“Please do,” said Heaton enthusiastically. “This sort of story would be the perfect follow-up to Mr Louradis’ article. The successful application of Gene Therapy to cancer would put us at the forefront of medical science. St George’s would be regarded as a centre of medical excellence all over the world. We’d be up there with the best of them. Money would flow in. Patients would be clammering at our gates.”

“Perfect,” said Neef in neutral tones.

“Seriously, Michael. If this Gene Therapy business brings off a complete cure in this child’s case, I think we must consider show-boating it to the Press. The hospital needs good publicity. What do you say?”

Neef was amused that Heaton was collecting on his Sunday evening favour so soon. “I agree, Tim,” he said. “If it’s a complete cure and not just a remission I think we and Menogen deserve some attention.”

Heaton seemed taken aback that Neef had agreed so easily and without argument. “Excellent,” he enthused. “I’ll have John Marshall make out a preliminary draft and send it over.”

“Fine. Call you later,” said Neef. “And thanks again for doing the application so quickly.”

It was five minutes past ten when Neef entered David Farro-Jones’ lab.

“Just in time for coffee, Michael.

“Miller’s not in yet?” asked Neef.

“I’ve phoned down a couple of times. No answer. Mind you, considering the state of him last night, it’ll be a wonder if he wakes up at all!”

Neef smiled and said, “I think the long and happy retirement the Dean spoke of must be wishful thinking. He must be on a bottle a day.”

“More,” said Farro-Jones. “He’ll be lucky if he sees the year out.”

“How does his wife cope?”

“Trudy? I think she’s waiting for Eddie to die so she can get on with her life, or what’s left of it. They’ve got a son in New Zealand. She’ll probably go out there.”

Farro-Jones’ secretary came in with the coffee. “Black, no sugar isn’t it, Doctor.”

“What a memory,” said Neef. “Thank you.”

“Marge puts elephants to shame,” said Farro-Jones.

“I’m not at all sure how to take that, Doctor,” said Marge. “And me on a diet.”

Both men laughed and Marge left.

“Maybe we should go down to Pathology and wait for him?” suggested Farro-Jones when they’d finished their coffee and had said everything that could be said about the nightmarish dinner.

“Good idea,” said Neef.

The Pathology Department at University College Hospital was much larger than that at St George’s by virtue of the fact that it was used for teaching purposes. First year medical students came there to complete their anatomy and physiology courses so it had to have extensive lab space. Farro-Jones took a short cut to Eddie’s office through the main dissection lab, a long, low-ceilinged room with frosted glass windows which could accommodate forty students working in pairs. Neef wrinkled up his nose at the smell of formaldehyde.

“Anyone home?” asked Farro-Jones after knocking on Eddie’s door. He pushed open the door and entered. Neef followed him inside.

“Not here yet,” said Farro-Jones.

“His jacket’s here,” said Neef, finding it hanging on the back of the door.

“Maybe it’s one he leaves here,” said Farro-Jones.

“His brief case too,” said Neef, pointing towards a black document case lying in the corner of the room next to the filing cabinet.

“Strange. Maybe he’s saying his good-byes.”

“Let’s ask around, shall we?”

Neef knocked on a door along from Eddie’s.

“Come,” said a voice with an Indian accent.

“I’m looking for Eddie Miller. Have you seen him this morning?”

“I saw him half an hour ago. Who are you please?”

Farro-Jones popped his head round the door and said, “It’s all right, Vijay, he’s with me. We came to say good-bye to Eddie.”

“Ah, David. Eddie’s around somewhere.”

“Is he OK?” asked Farro-Jones.

“A bit of a sore head, I think.”

“Thanks, Vijay. We’ll keep looking.”

Neef and Farro-Jones worked their way round the entire department. Several people had seen Eddie but not in the last half hour. They returned to Eddie’s office and saw that his jacket and brief case were still there. They decided to wait until he came back. Ten minutes passed with still no sign of Eddie.

“Come on, Eddie,” said Farro-Jones, looking at his watch. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Let’s have another look for him,” suggested Neef. Maybe he’s wandering around having a last nostalgic look at the old place. We could split up and I’ll meet you back here.”

“Beats sitting around,” agreed Farro-Jones.

Neef followed a clockwise route that took him first through the Pathology teaching museum, a silent room full of polished mahogany and glass cases displaying the organs of man, ravaged by disease and malformation. He paused in front of a particularly damaged foetus and read the legend, Radiation Damage.

A small, bent man wearing the uniform of a university servant sat at a desk at the head of the room. Neef said, “I’m looking for Doctor Miller. Have you seen him?”

“I saw him earlier,” replied the man in a high pitched asthmatic wheeze. “About an hour ago.”

Neef continued on through the museum and out along the corridor leading to the PM suite used by the hospital pathologists and the area forensic service. This was off limits to students, being financed by the hospital trust rather than the educational budget. He looked in. One pathologist was at work. She looked up from the cadaver she was dissecting and asked, “Who are you?”

Neef looked apologetically at the large red-headed woman with the florid face and scalpel in her hand. The fact that she didn’t smile made him feel uncomfortable. “I’m sorry for intruding,” he said. “I’m Michael Neef from St George’s. I’m looking for Eddie Miller.”

“He’s not here,” said the woman, resuming work.

“No, indeed,” said Neef, quietly backing out the door. He let out his breath in a sigh. Once again he was reminded that he didn’t like Pathology or what it did to the people practising it. The stress the woman was under had been almost palpable. No wonder Eddie had finished up the way he had.

Neef passed through the body vault room with its rows of heavy fridge doors on either side. He paused for a moment, feeling a strange compulsion to open one of the doors and examine the contents but then he fought the notion as being ridiculous and walked on. It was this place; it had put him on edge. He had had enough of wandering around it. He remembered the route back to Eddie’s office through the dissection lab and took it.

Half way across the room, he came to a halt when he heard a metallic clunk. After a few seconds it came again. “Is anyone there?” he asked. There was no reply. The sound came again and Neef started to move towards where he thought it was coming from. He was a consultant physician but he felt nervous in this place, almost like a medical student about to encounter dead flesh for the first time. The feeling irked him; he saw it as a weakness but on the other hand, he felt convinced something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones although it was his skin that gave an outward sign with goose-flesh coming up on the back of his neck.

There was a partition screen at the head of the room. The sound was coming from behind it. He rounded it slowly and came upon a row of what looked like bath tubs. They were formalin tanks for the preservation of corpses being used by the class students. As Neef looked along the row a sudden metallic clunk above the end tank caused his heart to miss a beat. He looked up and saw that the vent window above it was not properly fastened. The wind was catching it and rattling it against its retaining rod. This had been the source of the sound.

Feeling slightly embarrassed at his nervousness, Neef walked to the end of the row and looked around for something to stand on in order to close the vent. There was nothing suitable. Maybe the corner of the tank, he thought but as he looked down at it a sudden flurry of bubbles broke the surface of the formalin and made Neef catch his breath. When they settled he found himself looking down into the pale, dead face of Eddie Miller. Another burp of bubbles erupted from Eddie’s mouth. Air that had been trapped in his lungs was escaping to the surface.

“Jesus Christ,” whispered Neef, unable to take his eyes off the awful sight. The Dean’s words, “a long and happy retirement”, sprang to mind like some hellish joke.

Neef went quickly in search of Farro-Jones and told him what he’d found. They returned to the scene together.

“Christ,” said Farro-Jones. “What a way to go. But how?”

Neef looked up at the flapping vent, as the wind caught it again. He said, “Eddie must have climbed up to fasten it and lost his footing. He probably fell backwards into the tank and hit his head off the end.”

Farro-Jones nodded. “What awful luck,” he said.

“Where does this leave us?” asked Neef.

“Still wondering if what Eddie said was true,” said Farro-Jones.

“Right,” said Neef. “It would have been nice to confront him when he was sober. I can’t think why he would have made up something like that, even if he was stoned out of his skull.”

“No,” agreed Farro-Jones.

“Well,” said Neef, looking down at the floating corpse. “We’ll never know now.”

“Why don’t I take a look through Eddie’s PM records?” suggested Farro-Jones. “I could see if there were any likely candidates for what he was claiming. He didn’t give a name I suppose?”

“No, I kept asking him,” said Neef. “But all I could get out of him was that it was a girl around, Melanie Simpson’s age.”

“That should be enough,” said Farro-Jones. “It’s worth a try.”

It was after lunch time before Neef could return to his Unit, having answered all the questions the police had put to him and completed the necessary paperwork in the form of a university hospital incident form. Farro-Jones asked him if he wanted to go to lunch but he declined, saying that too much of the day had been wasted already. Lawrence Fielding was waiting to see him when he finally got back.

“Take a look at these,” said Fielding excitedly. “They’re Thomas Downy’s latest scans.”

Neef saw immediately why Fielding was excited. Thomas’ tumour was down to the size of a pea. “Absolutely bloody marvellous,” said Neef.

“To be quite honest,” said Fielding. “I didn’t really think this would happen. I hoped it would work of course, but I didn’t really believe it. But now...”

Neef smiled and asked, “What about the others?”

“A disappointment, I’m afraid. “Not one of them has shown any signs of improvement at all. I have to say again that I think we should return all of them to either conventional therapy or Antivulon where appropriate.”

“All right,” said Neef. “Let’s not delay any more. Let’s do just that.”

“You don’t have to confer with Max Pereira or the management board?”

“No, the patients’ welfare is my province and I say, we count our blessings on this one. We have had one success and four failures... but what a success.”

Fielding smiled. “At this rate,” he said. “The tumour will be totally destroyed by next week. I understand Thomas’ parents will be here this afternoon. Would you like to speak to them?”

“You do it,” said Neef. “It’s not that often we get the chance to impart some good news round here.”

“Thanks,” said Fielding. “It’s just so bloody good.”

Neef grinned. This was the first time he had ever heard Lawrence Fielding swear. “Max Pereira has come up with a new vector. He thinks it might help Neil Benson. The hospital is applying for an emergency license so we can use it.”

“I see,” said Fielding. His eyes betrayed his doubts.

“I know,” said Neef. “It’s a bit late in the day for Neil but I’m still going to try.”

Fielding nodded. “Right you are.”

“I haven’t told Eve yet. I didn’t want to raise false hopes. She’s going through enough as it is over Neil.”

“I’ll remember,” said Fielding.

“Any word from Kate Morse?”

“I spoke to her this morning. She was very down. I don’t think Charlie’s got long to go.”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” said Neef.

“There’s a rumour going around that a staff member died up at Uni College this morning,” said Fielding.

“Word gets around,” said Neef. “It was Eddie Miller, the pathologist. He was closing a window in the dissection lab when he slipped and fell back into a vat of formaldehyde.”

“My God.”

“I was at his retirement dinner last night. He only came in to pick up a few personal belongings this morning,” said Neef.

“You never know what’s round the corner, do you,” said Fielding.

“I suppose not.”

Neef phoned Farro-Jones just after four to ask if he’d had any luck with the hunt for a virus.

“I’m afraid not,” said Farro-Jones.

“So Menogen are in the clear?”

“Not exactly,” said Farro-Jones. “Just because we haven’t found a new virus in the conventional sense doesn’t mean to say that there isn’t something there.”

“I don’t understand,” said Neef.

“It could be a different form of infectious particle.”

“Like what?”

“I was thinking of prions when I said it,” said Farro-Jones. “Bovine spongioform encephalopathy, or Mad Cow disease as the papers like to call it, is an infectious condition for which no bacterium or virus has ever been found. Current thinking says a new infectious particle, called a prion is responsible. You can’t see it under the microscope or culture it artificially but it’s there all right.”

“So you think it possible that Max Pereira has created one of these things in the lab and it got out?” asked Neef.

“That’s a bit science-fictionish,” said Farro-Jones. “But when we play around with DNA in test tubes, even with all the precautions we take, we’re really not a hundred percent sure what’s going on. That’s the nature of research by definition, I suppose. You’re constantly probing the unknown.”

“My God,” exclaimed Neef. ‘There would be no way of tracing something like that back to the guilty lab either I suppose?”

“No.”

“Do you really believe that could have happened?”

“The regulations are good but when you add in commercial pressures and ambition to the equation, you’ve got a dangerous cocktail.”

“I suppose,” said Neef. “Will you keep looking?”

“One more day,” said Farro-Jones. “Apart from anything else, we can’t take any more samples from Charles Morse. He’s on the final furlong, I’m afraid.”

“So I hear,” said Neef. “I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to look at Eddie Miller’s post-mortem records?”

“Not yet. We wasted so much time with the police and form filling this morning; I’m still trying to catch up on the day. I’ll get on to it as soon as I can.”

Neef put down the phone, rested his elbows on the desk and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again, Eve was standing there. “I did knock,” she said. “Am I welcome or are you still trying to avoid me?”

“I was not trying to avoid you,” insisted Neef, getting up and coming round to meet Eve. He kissed her lightly. “I had to go out to a retiral dinner last night. It was a sort of last minute thing. I went in place of Frank MacSween. It was a nightmare and to compound things, the guest of honour took a header into a vat of formaldehyde this morning and killed himself.”

“You’re serious?” exclaimed Eve.

“Fraid so. I spent most of the morning with the police.”

“Why you?”

“I found him,” said Neef. “I went up there this morning to ask him about something he said last night.”

“How awful for you.”

Neef nodded and said, “It wasn’t very pleasant. Been to see Neil?”

Eve nodded. “He’s not very well today,” she said. “The nurse told me he was sick a lot last night.”

“I heard.”

“But he still wanted a story. Maxwell Gunn was at the docks today, saving Captain Cod’s fishing boat after it caught fire. Captain Cod was so grateful he gave Maxwell a big fish to take back to the fire station for his tea...” Eve looked away to the side and removed a tissue from her handbag. She held it briefly to her face before turning back to face Neef with an almost defiantly brave look.

Neef felt a lump come to his throat. “Maybe we could go home?” he suggested softly.

“That would be nice,” said Eve.

“You didn’t say what you thought of my story,” said Eve later as they lay together. Rain had just started to patter against the cottage windows and Dolly had paused at the bedroom door to look in on her way from the hall to the kitchen. She glanced disapprovingly at them before continuing.

“I thought it was good,” said Neef. “Factual and not too fanciful.”

“Praise from Caesar,” said Eve. “The paper liked it.”

“The national?”

“Yes. I think they might offer me a job on the staff.”

“What would that mean if they did?”

“Leaving the Citizen. Probably moving away.”

“I see. How soon?”

“They haven’t offered me one yet,” protested Eve. “I’ve only filed the one story.”

“But if they did?”

“Almost immediately but don’t worry. I wouldn’t consider going anywhere while Neil still needs me.”

Neef grunted and said, “I wasn’t going to tell you this but now I’m going to on the grounds that I can’t carry everything on my shoulders alone. Someone told me that not so long ago.”

Eve smiled and said, “Obviously, a lesson learned.”

“Max Pereira has come up with a new virus vector that he thinks might help Neil. Menogen has no chance of clearing it through the usual channels so the hospital is making an emergency application for a license to use it. It was lodged today.”

“Michael, that’s wonderful!” exclaimed Eve, sitting bolt upright.

Neef put a finger on her lips. “Not so fast,” he said. “It really is very late in the day for Neil. The odds are still stacked heavily against him... and us. Apart from that, the vector itself may not work. Four out of five didn’t work in the official trial.”

“But it worked for Thomas Downy,” said Eve.

“Yes, it did.”

“Why weren’t you going to tell me?”

“I didn’t want to see you hurt by raising your hopes and then seeing them dashed again if the therapy failed.”

“I’m glad you told me,” said Eve, putting her head back down on the pillow. “We should share everything where Neil is concerned. He means so much to both of us. Do you think you’ll get permission?”

“I don’t see why not,” replied Neef. “It’s just a question of how long it takes to come through.”

“I’m willing to bet that you feel better already for having told me that,” said Eve.

“You’re right,” said Neef. “I do.”

“Anything else you’d like to share with me while I’m here?” She pointed to her shoulder. “It’s not broad but it’s very absorbent.”

“Lots,” smiled Neef. “David didn’t find any sign of a new virus in the samples they were examining.”

“Does that mean that Max is in the clear?”

“I thought so but David brought up the possibility of a new kind of infectious particle that doesn’t show up under the microscope.”

“So the suspicion remains?”

“I’m afraid so but I’m reluctant to believe Max would deliberately do anything dangerous or irresponsible.”

“It’s difficult situation if Menogen can neither be cleared or convicted,” said Eve. “People will think no smoke without fire.”

“That’s why we’ve kept this to ourselves,” said Neef. “It wouldn’t be fair to Menogen to point out the geographical connection. People would jump to just that conclusion.”

“Is David going to continue with the search?”

“For one more day. It looks like they’re not going to come up with anything.”

“Anything else bothering you?”

“What is this?” said Neef with mock protest. “The Spanish Inquisition?”

“This is for your benefit,” insisted Eve. “I’m teaching you to share your troubles. It’s good for you.”

“I didn’t tell you why I went up to Uni College Hospital this morning.”

“No, you didn’t. Why?”

Neef told Eve about Eddie Miller’s retirement dinner and Miller’s assertion that he had seen an earlier case than Melanie Simpson.

“What?” exclaimed Eve. “But that would put a totally different complexion on everything.”

“It would,” agreed Neef.

“But he died before you could quiz him about it?”

“Right, but there was probably nothing to his story. I couldn’t get a name out of him and he seemed more interested in convincing me there was some kind of conspiracy against him. It was probably just the paranoid ramblings of an old drunk. David is checking Eddie’s records just in case there should be anything there.”

“Anything else you’d like to confess to?” asked Eve.

“I think you have got absolutely everything out of me,” said Neef.

“And don’t you feel better for it?”

“Actually, I think I do,” said Neef. “Do you have to go home tonight?”

“Not if you don’t want me to,” said Eve.

“I don’t.”

Max Pereira came into the Unit on the following afternoon and was delighted to see the improvement in Thomas Downy’s CT scan.

“Lawrence took this yesterday,” said Neef.

“It’s doing the business,” said Pereira wearing an ear to ear grin.

“It’s damn nearly done the business,” said Neef. “It’s going to be all gone by next week.”

“They should all have been like this,” said Pereira shaking his head. “I’ve checked out the other four vectors till I’m blue in the face and they’re OK. So why didn’t they work? That’s what I want to know.”

Neef shook his head and said, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

“Can I take that as a, don’t know?” asked Pereira.

“You can,” smiled Neef.

“How’s your Public Health problem?” asked Pereira. “Have these bozos come up with the virus yet?”

“They didn’t take too kindly to your suggestion,” said Neef.

“That guy Lennon couldn’t find his dick in his pants,” said Pereira. “If we’d had an electron microscope I would have looked for you. Didn’t anyone bother?”

Neef felt uncomfortable. “Yes,” he replied. “David Farro-Jones had a good look at lung samples taken from Charlie Morse.”

“And?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid.”

“Shit. It’s got to be a virus. I’m tellin’ you, man.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re right,” said Neef carefully. He was watching Pereira for any sign of self-consciousness. “But it’s much harder to prove than to say.”

“Don’t see why,” said Pereira.

Neef wondered about the man facing him. He obviously didn’t know about Melanie Simpson’s house being so close to the Menogen labs and the fact that he kept pushing the virus idea suggested that he hadn’t considered for a moment that his own lab might have been responsible for the creation of a new and deadly virus. Or was Pereira just an incredibly good actor? Maybe his self confidence came from knowing that no one could actually trace the problem back to Menogen? Neef didn’t want to believe that but he couldn’t entirely dismiss the notion either.

“I brought these,” said Pereira. He brought out two glass vials from his battered briefcase.

“The new vector?”

“Yeah. You might as well keep them here in the fridge for when you get permission, then you’ll be able to get a quick start on your kid.”

“That was thoughtful,” said Neef.

“I suggest you keep one in the Unit and one down in Pharmacy as a back-up, same as last time.”

Neef smiled wryly as he recalled the broken vial in theatre.

“Will do.”

Pereira left and Neef was torn by mixed emotions about the man. It was so easy to get up tight about his general rudeness and lack of sensitivity but on the other hand, he was usually just saying what he felt was true without pausing to edit it for social nicety. It made him realise how seldom other people actually did this.

The phone rang and interrupted his train of thought. It was Tim Heaton.

“I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid.”

“Just what I don’t need,” said Neef, wearily. “Tell me.”

“Your application for an emergency Gene Therapy license has been blocked.”

“What?” exclaimed Neef, feeling as if his head was about to explode. “Why?”

“It had to go before a sub-committee of the Regional Health Board before I could submit it. I thought they would rubber stamp it but I was wrong. They turned it down, refused to endorse it.”

“Our own bloody health board?” exclaimed Neef.

“They said an emergency application was not something to be made lightly. Menogen had already been granted considerable latitude in St George’s. They wanted to see a full report on the first Gene Therapy trial before they’d consider applying for any widening of remit. I’m sorry, Michael.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Neef. “I’ve got the vector in the fridge. It could save Neil Benson’s life and a bunch of old farts bleat about full reports and not asking lightly.”

“I really am sorry,” said Heaton.

“Was there more to it?” asked Neef.

“What d’you mean?”

“Are you telling me everything or was there more to it?”

There was a long pause that almost answered Neef’s question before Heaton said, “It was blocked by one member. The others would have passed it but for this one man chose to make an issue of it.”

“Do you know his name?”

Another pause. “If I tell you, you won’t do anything silly will you?”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Peter Baroda.”

“Jesus Christ! It was personal!”

“What d’you mean?”

“Baroda and Max Pereira had a bit of a run in at the last Public Health meeting. They clearly didn’t like each other. Baroda must have seen Pereira’s name on the application. That’s why the bastard blocked it.”

“That would be hard to prove,” said Heaton. “But if that’s the reason Baroda blocked the application, I agree with you. He’s a bastard.”

“Oh Christ,” sighed Neef, as he saw Neil’s last chance evaporate. “What a world.”

“I’m sorry,” repeated Heaton. “I don’t have to remind you that there’s no question of using the new vector without a license.”

“No you don’t.” replied Neef.

Neef was sitting with his head in his hands when Ann Miles came in with some letters to sign. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” said Neef.

“Coffee?”

“Please. And Ann?”

“Yes?”

“Would you see if Miss Sayers is in the Unit and ask her to come along if she is?”

“Of course.”

Time seemed to stand still for Neef as he stared into space for the next thirty seconds or so. He heard Eve’s voice as she returned with Ann.

“Duly summoned,” said Eve with a smile. “He’s a bit better today. What’s the problem?”

The smile faded from Eve’s face and her eyes filled with questions. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Is it Neil?”

“The Health Board refused to endorse the application for an emergency license.”

Eve’s mouth fell open. She shook her head in disbelief. “But why?” she asked.

“Officially they didn’t think it a good idea that we use any more Menogen vectors until they’ve assessed how the first trial turned out.”

“I see,” said Eve. “And unofficially?”

“Max Pereira got up the nose of one of the board members at the last meeting with the Public Health people. This is him getting his own back.”

“He’s letting a little boy die over something like that?” asked Eve, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“He probably doesn’t see it that way,” said Neef. “Max does have a habit of rubbing people up the wrong way.”

“Who is this board member?” asked Eve.

Neef looked at her suspiciously. “You’re not planning to do anything, are you?” he asked.

“Frankly, I’d cut his balls off if I thought it would help Neil but it probably wouldn’t so no, I’m not planning anything. I’d just like to know.”

“His name’s, Baroda.”

“Peter Baroda?”

“You know him?”

“I know of him,” replied Eve. “Big noise in local business circles but he’s not a doctor?”

“You don’t have to be to sit on the Health Board,” said Neef.

“Just a big wheel around town?”

“Something like that.”

“I can’t believe this,” said Eve, shaking her head. “We can’t let something like this stop Neil getting a last chance. Do you have this new vector?”

“I do, but forget it. We can’t use it without a license.”

“Why not?” demanded Eve.

“Because it’s not just a case of getting a piece of paper. The application has to be screened by experts who might spot some flaw in it that we can’t see. That’s what Gene Therapy vetting is all about.”

“But Neil is going to die without treatment!” protested Eve.

“You don’t have to point that out,” retorted Neef. “Don’t make things worse.”

Eve got up and looked at Neef as if she had suddenly lost all respect for him. Without saying anything more, she turned on her heel and left.

Neef went home alone and sat looking out at the garden with a drink in his hand. He couldn’t be bothered making himself anything to eat. He had little heart for anything. Despite knowing that he was right in what he’d said, he was tortured by the look of disgust on Eve’s face before she left. In her eyes he was letting Neil die while he was in a position to save him. Maybe he should have played the hero so beloved by films, the man who said to hell with rules and regulations and did his own thing. Crap! If everyone did that, there would be anarchy. Medicine would be full of charlatans injecting their latest elixirs and cure-alls without fear of come-back. It might have been different if he had the assurance of someone other than Max Pereira that the vector was safe but with suspicion hanging over Pereira, that was a non-starter. After two drinks he fell asleep in the chair. When he woke up he found Dolly lying in his lap. He scratched her behind the ears and said, “At least you haven’t left me, little pal... or are you thinking of going too?”

Dolly was clearly in the mood for some attention. She rolled over in an invitation to Neef to scratch her tummy. The attention was cut short when the phone went.

“Neef.”

“It’s Eve. I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have stormed out like that. It was just... I was so.”

“I know,” said Neef. “Let’s forget it.”

“I’ve got some news.”

“What?”

“The application is going ahead after all.”

“What?” exclaimed Neef.

“I asked around my colleagues about Baroda and one of them came up with something useful. I’ve just used it.”

“What do you mean, you’ve used it?” asked Neef uneasily.

“I phoned Baroda and said I was doing a piece about saunas in the area being used as a front for brothels. I asked him if he’d like to tell me why his green Jaguar is regularly parked outside the Executive Sauna in Melton Place.”

“Good Lord.”

“In the end, we came to an arrangement. He withdraws his objection to the license application and I develop amnesia over his car.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“Yes.”

“Well done.”

“He said the application would be forwarded tomorrow. I said it would be nicer if it went off in the post tonight.”

“Frightening,” said Neef.

“What is?”

“You are, when you’re in pursuit of something you want.”

“It’s that kind of a world,” said Eve.

“You sound more like Max Pereira every day.”

“Anyway, I am sorry about my behaviour earlier. Will I see you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow,” agreed Neef.

Neef felt hungry all of a sudden.