White death

TWELVE

Macmillan and Steven sat in silence for what seemed to be a very long time before Macmillan finally said, ‘You are seriously suggesting that someone in government presided over the injection of a noxious substance into over a hundred schoolchildren under the pretence of protecting them from TB with a vaccine?’

‘That’s what it’s beginning to look like,’ agreed Steven. ‘I don’t believe the kids were given BCG vaccine — there was no reason to give it to them. The kid who was supposed to have TB was a myth.’

‘So what did they give them and why, for God’s sake?’ mused Macmillan.

‘I think in the circumstances you may have to ask the DOH that after all,’ said Steven. ‘Jean has just told me that there is no pharmaceutical company with a name like Nichol or anything close to it. That being the case, my investigation has just hit the wall.’

Uneasy at the prospect of going to war with the upper echelons of government, Macmillan got up and walked over to the window. ‘God, will it ever stop raining,’ he complained as he looked out at the slow-moving snake of traffic outside.

‘Yes, if you believe the climate experts who predict imminent drought from climate change,’ said Steven. ‘No, if you believe the ones who predict widespread flooding and water-skiing in Whitehall.’

‘So cynical and you’re not even forty yet,’ sighed Macmillan.

‘All I ever ask for is proof,’ replied Steven, ‘and all I ever get is plausible-sounding bullshit.’

‘You do have a point,’ murmured Macmillan. ‘Plausibility is the new currency in science. I suppose it’s easier to come up with than fact.’

Steven had stopped listening. He was leaning forward in his chair, inclining his head to read the label stuck on a red folder lying in Macmillan’s ‘pending’ tray on his desk. ‘Nichol!’ he exclaimed.

‘What?’ asked Macmillan, turning away from the window.

Steven lifted the folder from the tray and said, ‘That was the name on the vaccine vials.’

‘It was the name of the young scientist who was killed in the hit and run accident I told you about a couple of weeks ago. Nichol, Alan Nichol. Could just be coincidence, I suppose…’

‘But there again, I remember you said he worked for a biotech company,’ said Steven. ‘D’you mind?’ He held up the folder and Macmillan nodded his assent.

Steven read through the report. ‘St Clair Genomics… I wonder.’

‘It was just sitting there waiting for the final police report,’ said Macmillan.

‘I’d like to check this out,’ said Steven.

‘If it gets me out of a head-to-head confrontation with DOH,’ said Macmillan, ‘by all means go ahead.’

‘Do we have anything more than this?’ asked Steven, holding up the slim report.

‘I did ask Jean to see if she could get more details just in case the police came up with anything that should concern us,’ said Macmillan, pressing the intercom button.

‘I have a file,’ came Jean Roberts’ reply.

Steven decided to read it before he left the building just in case there was anything else he needed to ask or request. As it turned out, there wasn’t. He had the names of the managing director of St Clair Genomics and a little about his background and also the name and address of the dead man, Nichol, along with some background information and his home address. There was also an accident report from the local police now some three weeks old.

Nichol had been walking his dog along an unclassified country road outside the village of Trenton where he lived in a rented cottage with his wife, Emma, when he had been hit by a car travelling at speed. The car had failed to stop and had not as yet been traced despite a villager claiming to have seen a red 4x4 moving at speed through the village around the time of Nichol’s death. No description of the driver had been forthcoming and Steven had the distinct impression that the police were treating the incident as a drunken hit and run.

Alan Nichol, he read, had been twenty-eight years old, a graduate of Glasgow University in Molecular Biology with first-class honours, who had gone on to do a PhD at Edinburgh University on genes affecting viral pathogenicity, followed by a three-year post-doctoral research position at the University of Cambridge. This was where he had been approached by Phillip St Clair, who ran his own small biotechnology company and who maintained good relations with the biological sciences departments at the university. He did this out of self-interest — he was always on the look-out for good ideas or promising researchers to recruit — although he liked to insist that the relationship was symbiotic and that he was always keen to share information.

St Clair’s charm and gift of the gab had helped enormously with this and, although everyone knew that his real interests were commercial rather than academic, he was generally accepted around the university. Although he had graduated in biological sciences himself, he had always planned to set up in business as soon as he could to exploit what he saw as the huge potential of molecular biology in medicine. His father had made a one-off investment in his son’s future some ten years ago by funding the set-up of St Clair Genomics, insisting that Phillip then stand or fall on his own merits.

It had been touch and go in the early years but the company had come up with a few minor diagnostic aids over the past three years and had attracted some venture capital investment. As yet, it had failed to bring anything major to the marketplace. Steven decided that he would call on St Clair Genomics unannounced.

Unlike Cambridge University, which nurtured and guarded its history in the ancient stone of its colleges and quadrangles, St Clair Genomics was a building of its time — functional and with a very temporary feel about it. An attempt to grow Virginia creeper along the front had not been entirely successful and could not disguise its construction from prefabricated concrete panels. It was, however, light and airy inside thanks to a number of glass roof panels which allowed natural light to fall on the plants in a small atrium. Steven read that they had been supplied on a rental basis from ‘Woodland Office’ as he sat down beside one while the receptionist investigated whether or not Phillip St Clair would be ‘available’.

‘You’ll have to forgive me, Dr Dunbar, I don’t think I’ve come across Sci-Med before,’ said Phillip St Clair with what Steven thought was a nervous smile as he returned his ID card.

‘No reason why you should,’ replied Steven, stating briefly what he and the organisation did.

‘Sounds like a good idea,’ said St Clair. ‘There’s obviously a need…’

‘Really? Why do you say that?’ said Steven. He knew perfectly well that St Clair had said it out of politeness but thought he’d see if he could rattle the man — maybe find out why he seemed so nervous.

St Clair shrugged and opened his palms. ‘Technology moves forward at such a rate these days. The police can’t possibly hope to keep up with every development…’

Steven smiled and nodded.

‘I have to confess however,’ continued St Clair, ‘that I don’t quite understand what you could possibly want with us?’

‘One of your people died recently,’ said Steven. ‘In unfortunate circumstances, I understand.’

‘Alan Nichol,’ said St Clair. ‘Hit and run.’ He rubbed the side of his forehead with the tips of his fingers. ‘I hope the bastard who did it rots in hell. Drunken yob! Alan was one of the nicest guys you could ever hope to meet and one of brightest of his generation. He had so much to offer and such a brilliant future ahead of him. What a waste. And poor Emma… they’d only been married a year. This has absolutely destroyed her. I suppose it’s a blessing they didn’t have any children.’

Steven nodded, thinking that St Clair had just about covered all the bases in his impromptu eulogy but wondering why his hands were shaking — something he attempted to hide by interlacing his fingers on his lap.

‘What was Alan Nichol working on?’ Steven asked.

‘He was one of our best researchers, a first-rate virologist and a wizard at the bench when it came to molecular biology. The two don’t always go together, you know. I’ve known brilliant people who didn’t have the practical ability to post a letter…’

‘I’m sure, but what was Alan Nichol working on?’

St Clair looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.’

‘I do have the right to ask,’ said Steven, nodding to his ID which he’d left lying on the desk. He could see perspiration break out on St Clair’s face.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you.’

Steven disliked playing the heavy but saw no other way forward. ‘I’m afraid I must insist,’ he said. ‘We can do this at the local police station but I was hoping that that wouldn’t be necessary? Believe me; I have no interest in compromising any commercial considerations you might be worried about.’

‘It’s not that,’ said St Clair.

‘Then what?’

‘Dr Dunbar, have you signed the Official Secrets Act?’

Steven said that he had.

‘So have I. Alan’s work was classified.’

Steven looked at St Clair, barely able to disguise his surprise. ‘Are you telling me that Alan Nichol was working for the government?’

‘No, he worked for St Clair Genomics but what he was doing was covered by the act. It still is.’

Steven took a moment to digest what he’d heard. It prompted St Clair to add, ‘You people don’t seem to talk to each other much, do you?’

‘Indeed we don’t,’ agreed Steven. ‘Thank you very much, Mr St Clair, you’ve been very helpful.’

‘I haven’t told you anything at all.’

‘More than you think,’ said Steven with a smile that was not designed to put St Clair at his ease. ‘By the way, does the name Scott Haldane mean anything to you?’

St Clair looked momentarily blank. ‘Haldane…? I don’t think so. Should it?’

‘You tell, me, Mr St Clair. Thank you again for your time.’

Steven sat in the car for a few minutes before driving off. For once, he couldn’t complain about his luck. The chance sighting of a document lying in Macmillan’s in-tray had led to this… and this was certainly no coincidence. There was no doubt at all in his mind that the name the nurse at Pinetops had seen on the vials of supposed BCG vaccine referred to Alan Nichol of St Clair Genomics. Something designed by Alan Nichol had been injected into over a hundred children with the collusion of Her Majesty’s Government.

‘Bloody hell,’ whispered Steven. St Clair’s nervousness now made sense but the man wasn’t just nervous; he was afraid.

Steven considered talking to Emma Nichol but decided against it. There was a good chance that St Clair had phoned ahead to remind her of her duty to say nothing. Apart from that, there was a good chance that she hadn’t known what her husband had been working on anyway if he’d signed the Official Secrets Act. For the moment, he would leave her to grieve in peace.

Steven turned to the file beside him on the passenger seat and checked out the name and address of the witness who claimed to have seen a red 4x4 in the vicinity at the time of the accident. Maurice Stepney, 1 Apple Cottage Row, Trenton. A brief reference to the road atlas he kept tucked into the pocket on the back of the passenger seat and he was on his way to Trenton.

At three in the afternoon, the village appeared to be asleep. There was no one about, no sounds, not even a dog barking as Steven crawled through, looking for Apple Cottage Row. The Porsche was unhappy at low revs, obliging him to blip the throttle intermittently to stop the spark plugs fouling and bringing on feelings of guilt at interrupting the rural calm. As he turned into Apple Cottage Row, he saw his first person, a man working in the garden of the end cottage. The man paused to lean on his hoe and look at Steven and, as he drew nearer, Steven saw that he was standing in the garden of number one.

‘Maurice Stepney?’ he asked as he got out the car.

‘Who wants to know?’ replied the man.

Ye gods, thought Steven. Why did everyone behave as if they were a hit man on the run these days? He showed the man his ID and said who he was. ‘It’s about the car accident a few weeks ago.’

‘Have you got him then?’

‘Afraid not. I wanted to ask you if there was anything else you’d remembered about the car?’

‘What’s all this then?’ asked a small, plump woman, emerging from the house, wiping her hands on her apron. She didn’t introduce herself but Steven assumed she was Mrs Stepney.

‘This fellow’s asking about the hit and run. Wants to know if I’ve remembered anything else.’

‘You remember anything?’ exclaimed the woman. ‘Most of the time you can’t remember what day of the week it is.’

‘Be that as it may,’ said Stepney, looking down at his shoes to hide his annoyance, ‘I can’t tell you any more than I already told the police. It was a red 4x4, travelling fast, not from around here. I’d never seen it before.’

‘And I keep telling you it was probably the same red car I’d seen sitting up by the post office the week before,’ said Stepney’s wife, a comment that got Steven’s full attention.

‘Nonsense,’ said Stepney.

‘It was sitting in the lane the last two Thursdays when I went round to Ellen’s.’ She looked at Steven. ‘Ellen’s my friend. She lives by the post office. I always go round on a Thursday for a cuppa and a chinwag. Her Bill goes out to his club, you see.’

‘Stupid woman,’ said Stepney. ‘You wouldn’t know a 4x4 if it ran over you.’

‘I just said it was a red car.’

‘That should narrow it down to twenty million,’ scoffed her husband.

‘Did you tell the police this, Mrs Stepney?’ asked Steven.

‘He said not to bother,’ said the woman, inclining her head towards Stepney.

‘Where exactly is the post office?’ asked Steven.

Both gave him directions at once but he managed to deduce where he should be heading. ‘Many thanks, you’ve been a great help.’ He got back into the car, leaving the Stepneys arguing in the garden.

Steven stopped the car just past the lane near the post office and reversed back into it. He saw that he now had a clear view of Elm Street without being too noticeable himself. Elm Street rang a bell. It was where… He checked the file beside him again. It was where the Nichols lived… Another check of the file for the date of Nichol’s death and a quick calculation in his head told him that Nichol had been killed on a Thursday.

Steven breathed an expletive as he put things together. The person or persons sitting in the red car when Mrs Stepney had come round to visit her friend on a Thursday evening could have been establishing Alan Nichol’s routine. They would have discovered what time he took the dog for a walk and what route he took and used that information to intercept him somewhere along the way. Alan Nichol might well have been murdered.