The Secret

TEN

‘You know,’ began Tally as they had breakfast together, ‘if you’re right about this person creating a diversion… there must have been two of them, one to create the diversion and one to… push your friend over.’

‘That’s right,’ Steven agreed.

‘Scary, huh?’

‘Crazy. And all because she was going to bad-mouth another organisation? I don’t think.’

Tally gave a shrug of resignation and asked, ‘Are you going back to London this morning?’

‘No, I’ll phone around a bit, see if I can pick up anything more about what happened in the gallery.’

‘Then I might see you later?’

‘Indeed you might,’ said Steven. ‘There’s not much I can do in London until John talks to Med Sans.’

‘I’ll be off then.’ Tally bent down to kiss Steven on the cheek. ‘You can do the washing up.’

The outside door clicked shut and Steven sat for a few moments in the silence wondering where all this was leading. It was not a good feeling. All he could see ahead was the wall at the end of a blind alley. The silence became oppressive; he got up and turned on the radio before clearing the table. Justin Webb on the Today programme was interviewing a spokesman on behalf of ME sufferers in the wake of the third attack in recent weeks on the home of a scientist working on the problem.

‘Surely you can’t condone this behaviour?’

‘Of course not. We deplore violence in any form but people are angry at not being taken seriously. ME is a very debilitating condition and the public are being encouraged to believe that it isn’t. The government’s continual refusal to fund proper research…’

‘What exactly do you mean by proper research?’

‘A properly organised search for the organism responsible for the condition.’

Webb turned to a government spokesman. ‘Well, why don’t you?’

‘Simply because there is no evidence at all that a bacterium or virus is responsible. Many have looked…’

‘They’ve played at looking,’ interrupted the ME man. 'A few individual scientists coasting along on the grants gravy train, pretending to search and determined to find nothing that would stop the train rolling along…’

‘You can’t seriously suggest that scientists don’t want to find the cause,’ exclaimed Webb.

‘It’s ridiculous,’ agreed the government man. ‘I think it’s more a case of ME sufferers being unwilling to face facts…’

‘Which are?’

‘That there is a… psychological element to the condition, something that ME sufferers seem dead set against.’

‘Because it’s baloney,’ asserted the ME man. ‘The government want to brand us all as indolent layabouts because it’s a damned sight cheaper than funding proper research.’

‘Gentlemen, I’m afraid the clock has beaten us…’

Steven finished putting away the last breakfast plate and turned off the radio before going in search of his briefcase and the Prague meeting list. He brought back both and sat down at the kitchen table to enjoy the morning sunshine streaming in through the window. A glance at the his watch told him that it was too early to start phoning anyone in academia so he made himself an espresso and set about sorting the participants into new lists. The originals were in alphabetical order: he grouped them using different parameters, the first being nationality, the others based on whether they were scientists or medics and whether they were academics or aid workers, and finally sub grouped for the aid workers under the organisations they worked for. By the time he had entered the information into his laptop it was time to make the first phone call.

‘The what inspectorate?’ asked Clive Rollison at the University of Birmingham.

Steven repeated himself and explained briefly what Sci-Med did. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about the polio eradication meeting in Prague you attended.’

‘I’ve already explained the oversight to the travel grants committee…’

‘Nothing like that, doctor. A young woman fell to her death at the meeting.’

‘Yes, Simone Ricard. Shame; a nice woman.’

‘Were you anywhere near at the time?’

‘What is this? Are you suggesting I had something to do with her death?’

‘Good heavens no, I just wondered if you saw what happened.’

‘I was in the gallery at the time, as it happens, but I didn’t actually see it. There was some kind of kerfuffle about somebody losing a contact lens, then there was a scream and all hell broke loose; people were shouting and crying; several rushed downstairs to see if they could help but there was nothing anyone could do. Her neck was broken; I could see that from the angle she was lying at when I looked over the balustrade.’

‘How high was the balustrade?’

‘Not that high, to be honest. I don’t think they normally allow visitors up there and the floor was a bit uneven. I don’t think Health and Safety would have passed it here. Mind you…’

‘Quite. Were you anywhere near the kerfuffle you mentioned?’

‘Not really, about twenty metres away I guess. I was looking up at ceiling and then I heard the commotion and turned round. People were getting down on their hands and knees to look for a contact lens while others were saying, “Don’t move, you’ll stand on it.” There was nothing I could do so I went back to admiring the ceiling and then I heard the scream… and the thud.’

Steven decided not to call anyone else for the time being: he was convinced he was just going to hear variations on what he’d already been told. He changed from Mazarek’s list to the official meeting register. Simone and Guy Monfils were the only participants from Médecins Sans Frontières; there were five people from WHO, including Thomas Schultz the meeting organiser, three from Children First, the organisation Simone had been concerned about, several Americans concerned with funding — both government and charity sourced — and a range of aid workers from Pakistan and Afghanistan. In addition, there were government observers from Nigeria, Pakistan, Afghanistan and India as well as Tom North and Dan Hausman from the North lab in London.

Neither Celia Laing nor Clive Rollison knew who’d lost or claimed to have lost their contact lens but someone had to know. To have been a diversion, the incident would have had to happened close to where Simone was standing, so those nearest her at the time would be most likely to remember who had raised the alarm. Bill Andrews, the American charity administrator, had been nearby; he had been joking with her. He must know.

Steven was looking for contact details for Andrews when his phone rang: it was John Macmillan. ‘Where are you, Steven?’

‘Leicester. Have you heard back from Med Sans?’

‘That’s no longer relevant. I need you back here tomorrow morning. We’ve been summoned to a meeting.’

‘At their place?’

‘At the Foreign Office.’

Steven was taken completely by surprise. ‘Why… how…?’

‘I dare say we’ll find out tomorrow. What are you doing right now?’

Steven told him.

‘Better put your investigation on hold for the time being.’

Steven was sitting wondering what on Earth Macmillan had said to Médecins Sans Frontières to attract the attention of the Foreign Office when a text message came in from Tally. She apologised but said she’d have to work late. Steven returned the apology saying he’d been summoned back to London. He’d call when he knew more.

The next day Steven arrived at the Home Office just before nine o’clock and asked Jean Roberts, who was taking her coat off in the hall at the time, if she knew what was going on.

‘I’m afraid not,’ she replied. ‘To be honest, I think Sir John is mystified too. It was more of a directive than a request. The pair of you are required to attend at ten a.m. with no indication given of what the meeting’s about.’

‘Someone’s been watching too many episodes of Spooks,’ suggested Steven.

Jean appeared to smile and frown at the same time, an ability that always amused Steven. Jean was very much of the old school when it came to respect for people and protocol. He had never known her make a derogatory comment about anyone working in Whitehall in all the years he’d known her. Quite a feat, he thought, when she was so spoilt for choice. Macmillan arrived and they had coffee in his office before going over to the Foreign Office.

Steven felt more bemused than ever when they entered the meeting room and saw who was there. He could sense that Macmillan shared his surprise as he acknowledged the presence of the Foreign Secretary, the head of MI6, the CIA chief of the London station and Guy Monfils from MSF. There were a few other people there whom he didn’t recognise.

Macmillan and he were shown to their places at the table and it immediately became apparent that the meeting had been called for their ‘benefit’. Steven felt as if he were about to be interviewed for a job.

‘Thank you for joining us, gentlemen,’ said the Foreign Secretary with a smile that was intended to lighten the atmosphere. It was not returned by Macmillan or Steven who both remained impassive, thinking they hadn’t had much choice in the matter.

‘I’m led to believe that in recent weeks Sci-Med have been taking an interest in the tragic death of a Médecins Sans Frontières aid worker, Dr Simone Ricard. Is that right?’

‘Simone was a friend,' said Steven. ‘I’m not entirely convinced her death was accidental.’

The Foreign Secretary took a deep breath as if this were something he had no wish to hear. He continued, ‘You attended her funeral in France where you asked questions of several people and gave the impression that you might be continuing your inquiries… your admittedly unofficial inquiries.’

‘I wanted to know the truth. I still do.’

‘And to that end, Sir John has approached MSF here in the UK?’

‘I wanted to know what they thought before committing to anything officially,’ said Macmillan. ‘Is there a problem?’

The Foreign Secretary gave Macmillan a long hard look before replying, ‘Sort of.’