Resurrection

TWENTY FOUR

Dewar sat alone in his room until he was informed by the police that the vials had been put through the steriliser without incident. The feeling of relief that the news brought him and the knowledge that the actual source of the outbreak had now been destroyed increased his feelings of tiredness until he found it difficult to keep his eyes open. Despite that, he knew the affair was still a long way from over. He’d accounted for the stolen vials but the others were still out there, taken by an unknown man from an unknown location to an unknown location. Staring out of the window didn’t help. It had just started to rain.

He checked the message centre on his laptop. There was still no word from Sci-Med. about Kelly. What were they playing at? He punched in a memo reminding them of the urgency of his request and sent it off down the line with an impatient stab of his finger on the ‘send’ button. The message disappeared from the screen and left him feeling empty. There was nothing to do now but wait. He considered ringing Steven Malloy and trying to make things right between them but decided it was perhaps too soon. He checked his watch and called to the hospital to ask about Ian Grant’s condition. Grant was in Intensive Care but he was stable.

Dewar put down the phone and let out a long sigh. He gazed unseeingly at the wall for a moment, concentrating on the word, ‘stable’ and trying not to think of ‘Intensive Care’. ‘Stable’ had a nicer ring to it.

It was late. Dewar was exhausted. He knew he must rest but he felt guilty about sleeping when there was still so much to be done. He compromised by making one last call of the day. It was to Simon Barron. Nothing had changed. The Iraqis still seemed to be waiting. As usual, the only place they’d been out to was the Bookstop Cafe round the corner. They were now on friendly terms with both the staff there and other regular customers.

‘Frankly, we’re all bored out of our skulls,’ complained Barron. ‘Maybe we should just join them in the cafe. It’s hard to motivate people to be vigilant when they’re seeing less action than a museum attendant. Are you really sure these guys are after smallpox?’

‘Yes,’ replied Dewar, ‘I am.’

Still fully clothed, Dewar lay down on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

DAY EIGHT

The phone rang at seven and Dewar wished it hadn’t. He rubbed at the stiffness in his neck as he put the receiver to his ear.

‘How are you this morning?’ asked Karen.

‘I’m okay,’ Dewar assured her. ‘You’re up early,’ he added, glancing at the clock.

‘We’re just about to leave for the vaccination centre. I thought I’d call first and see how you were. I probably won’t get much of a chance later on.’

‘That’s a fair bet. You can’t have had much sleep. What time did you finish last night?’

‘It was just after one o’clock when we got the last of the vaccine unloaded. We’re opening the doors at seven thirty. They’re waiting for me outside. I’d better go. I hope you’re going to take it easy today?’

‘I might just do that. Take care. Talk to you later.’

Dewar was caught in two minds. One half of him was saying that he should get back into bed, the other was saying that as he’d already got up he might as well stay up. He probably wouldn’t sleep much if he went back to bed. The second option won. He turned on the shower and examined the bruising on his forehead in the bathroom mirror while the water temperature settled. The discolouration didn’t seem too bad although the spot where the brick had hit him was very tender to the touch. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered, although he was thinking more about Grant’s condition when he said it. He’d call the hospital as soon as he had showered and dressed.

He felt better after a long soak in the shower which got rid of a lot of the stiffness in him. He put on clean clothes and called the infirmary. Grant had had an uncomfortable night but his condition was still stable. He’d be undergoing a series of tests throughout the morning.

Dewar went downstairs in search of coffee. He found Hector Wright had beaten him to it. Wright was already examining the incoming case figures for the previous night, glasses on the end of his nose, calculator in hand. Dewar helped himself to a mug of strong black coffee from the flask and joined him. ‘How’s it looking?’

‘I didn’t expect to see you up and about this morning,’ said Wright. ‘You looked like death last night.’

‘I’m okay. What’s been happening?’

‘Mercifully, nothing that we wouldn’t have predicted. The numbers of admissions and the numbers of deaths are statistically about right. There’s no sign of any secondary source appearing. The police report a fairly quiet night by all accounts. A few fires in the no-go area but no big problems.’ Wright looked at his watch. ‘Vaccination’s due to start about now.’

Dewar nodded.. ‘Let’s just hope it all goes smoothly. Is there a meeting this morning?’

Wright shook his head. ‘The early start to the vaccination programme means that everyone’s going to be busy with that.

‘Jab jab is better than jaw jaw.’

‘If you like,’ smiled Wright.

Just after nine thirty Dewar’s laptop beeped to herald an incoming message. It was the one he had been waiting for. The building company, Holt, who had employed Michael Kelly, had traced a ganger who remembered having Kelly on his squad. It appeared that Kelly had worked on a development of executive housing at the top end of the market on the south west side of the city. The estate, named, The Pines, had been completed and was now fully occupied. It lay half a mile to the east of Redford Barracks between Firhill High School and the Morningside area of the city.

Dewar felt an adrenaline surge. He grabbed his jacket and ran down stairs, pausing only briefly to tell Hector Wright where he was going.

Dewar entered The Pines from the west and stopped the car to take a look from the slightly higher ground he was on. The estate looked pleasant enough in the way that many such estates did. Large, comfortable villas predominated but as yet, without the benefit of mature gardens to provide any semblance of privacy. They sat in bare earth, open to scrutiny from all angles, separated from their neighbours by stretches of minimal boundary fencing.

Dewar watched as one young mother come out from her back door and tip toed over a temporary path of flat stones to pin out her washing on a rotary drier. A toddler tried unsuccessfully to follow her on her tricycle but came to a halt at the start of the second stone. She tried an even more unsuccessful route across clods of earth before tumbling over on to her side. Her cries, more due to frustration than any injury, carried upwards in the morning air.

Dewar decided it was time to get out and look around. He opened his briefcase and took out the clip board he’d brought with him. It had no real function: he’d brought it as a prop. People carrying clip boards were usually presumed by the rest of society to be doing something legal and above board. They could mooch around in the strangest of places, making little notes, where people without clip boards might attract police attention. Dewar would readily admit that he wasn’t the first to realise the potential of the clipboard. He’d known people in universities and the civil service who’d made a career out of walking around with them, pencil at the ready, questions to be asked, lists to be made, results to be filed and forgotten.

Denise Banyon had not been able to give him any information about where on the building site Kelly had been asked to dig, only that it was quite near to the houses. But on which side? Dewar started walking. There were trees to the south, mainly pine trees which he presumed had suggested the name. To the north was a road with yet more new housing on the far side of it. He couldn’t see the east side properly as yet because The Pines stretched a good quarter of a mile east from where he was at the moment. He decided a good start would be to walk round the perimeter of the whole estate, starting with a sweep round the north side.

He left the pavement and crossed to an area of rough ground lying between The Pines and the road to the north, a strip about twenty-five metres wide but extending for most of the length of the estate with breaks for road entrances. There was just too much ground for one man to cover, was Dewar’s conclusion as he weaved his way to and fro across the strip making his way slowly eastwards. He kept referring to his clip board just in case anyone was watching but what he was really looking for was signs of a recently filled-in hole in the ground with scorch marks around it.

As time went on and he seemed to be making very little progress, he started to question why he was doing this anyway. Finding the hole would only confirm what Denise had told him and he didn’t think she’d had any reason to lie about it. It wasn’t going to bring him any nearer to finding the man who’d asked for Kelly’s assistance and who had the vials. He stopped and glanced at his clip board again as he admitted he was doing this because he didn’t know what else to do in the circumstances.

Dewar became aware that he had come under scrutiny. A man, wearing a Sherlock Holmes style hat and turning over the earth in the early stages of garden creation had stopped to watch him. Dewar carried on with his criss cross search hoping the man would lose interest but he didn’t. He put down his spade and crossed the road.

‘Trouble?’ he asked in a plummy voice.

‘Not really,’ smiled Dewar. ‘Cable television. I’m just looking for the best access routes.’

‘Wouldn’t it have been more sensible to put these things in when the estate was being built?’ demanded the man with a frown.

‘Not up to me I’m afraid,’ replied Dewar, making his role in the great scheme of things a very minor one.

‘Well my wife and I won’t be wanting the damned thing. We hardly watch the box as it is.’

‘Apart from David Attenborough and documentaries,’ whispered Dewar under his breath.

‘Save for David Attenborough and the occasional documentary.’

Dewar made a little note on his clip board. ‘And the name is sir?’

‘Pennel-Brown’

‘With a hyphen?’

‘Yes.’

Dewar put a hyphen between ‘pompous’ and ‘twerp’ on his clip board. ’Right you are Mr Pennel-Brown, I’ll see our people don’t bother you.’

Pennel-Brown returned to his digging and Dewar continued his survey of the ground. His back was aching by the time he reached the end of the northern stretch and it was time to turn south along the eastern perimeter. He paused to take a look at what lay to the east of the estate although it was still hard to see because of shrubbery which had been allowed to grow wild there. Here and there he caught a glimpse of chain link fencing beyond the shrubbery. It had a strand of barbed wire running along the top.

He was about to start out along the eastern edge of the estate when he saw a chimney through a gap in the greenery. It was a round, red brick chimney, the sort you’d find on an old industrial boiler house. Could this have something to do with what he was looking for? A building behind barbed wire and close to The Pines estate?

Dewar was about to enter the shrubbery when he caught sight of a postman coming round the corner. He saw that the postman had seen him.

‘Good Morning,’ he said with a friendly smile and a half-raised hand.

The postman stopped in his tracks but didn’t smile back.

Dewar crossed over to him. ‘I wonder if you can tell me what’s over there?’ he asked, nodding in the direction of shrubbery and the chimney.

The postman gave him a suspicious look.

Dewar held up his clip board. ‘I’m a surveyor. My client is interested in buying the house that’s for sale just over there.’ Dewar nodded vaguely in the direction of The Pines. ‘I’m just checking there are no awful secret neighbours before I make my report.’

‘A house for sale? In The Pines? Already? The buggers have just moved in,’ exclaimed the postman.

‘The busy ever changing life of an executive, I suppose,’ sighed Dewar.

‘Bunch of greedy gits more like. Probably sell it for ten grand more than they paid.’

Dewar wasn’t sure of the validity of the economic analysis but he nodded in agreement. ‘You’re probably right. About this place …?’

‘No idea pal, it’s been derelict since I started delivering here.’

‘No nasty smells then,’ said Dewar, making a little note. ‘Thanks a lot.’ He waited until the postman had gone before sidling into the shrubbery and making his way up to the fence. He could now see that the buildings were in a bad state, a cluster of small red brick out-houses surrounding a larger building with a tall central chimney. Weeds were growing up through concrete paving that was strewn with broken glass and rusty iron.

Dewar’s initial impression that the chimney belonged to a boiler house still seemed right, but for what? There were no signs or name boards to give a clue to what the compound had once had been. After looking at the site for a few minutes, Dewar knew he would have to get closer. He started looking for a gap in the fencing. There was no question of going over the top because the barbed wire, although rusty, still looked as if it could inflict damage on anyone foolish enough to try. The chain link fencing underneath however, was suspect in several places, particularly along the bottom where post fixings had rusted away. Dewar found a particularly bad one and pulled the mesh away from the post. Three strong tugs and it separated.

Once free of the post there was enough movement in the wire for him to bend it upwards. With a final look behind him to ensure he’d still be hidden from view, he got down on the ground and wriggled underneath the wire on his back. He let out a gasp of pain as a free strand of wire caught the bruise on his head. He had to pause for a moment until the red mist in front of his eyes abated.

Once through the wire he got to his feet and did what he could to stop the bleeding that had resumed from his head wound. He brushed the dirt from his clothes and approached the buildings.

He was right, the place had been a boiler house. Two large rusting pressure vessel hulks testified to that but there was still no clue as to what they had provided heating for. Dewar started to trace piping that emanated from the back wall. He stopped as he came across an empty beer can sitting on a brick buttress there; it was a Tennent’s Super lager can and it looked new. The fact that it was sitting upright on the low wall precluded the possibility that it had been thrown over the fence from the road. He guessed at teenagers. Such a place would be attractive to teenage boys but there was just the one can, no other signs of Saturday night revels.

Dewar followed the line of what he took to be the main pipe outlet from the boiler house. It ran above ground for twenty metres or so before disappearing vertically into the earth. in some more scrub land to the east of the buildings. This could only mean that the pipe network must run underground. He started looking around for some likely means of access and came across an iron man-hole cover almost totally obscured by spreading cottoneaster branches. Dewar grabbed the handle and pulled at the heavy cover. It came away surprisingly easily to his way of thinking. He’d been expecting it to be stuck fast.

Dewar looked down into a shaft that dropped vertically for about two metres then turned horizontally to the right through an arch leading into an underground tunnel. A series of iron rungs in the vertical section of the shaft tempted him down but he left the hatch cover open. It was his intention just to have a look into the mouth of the tunnel before returning to his car to fetch a torch but he found to his surprise that he could see inside the tunnel. There were no lights but a series of small armoured glass windows in the roof provided just enough daylight to navigate by.

He could see he’d been right about the pipe network. The roof and sides of the tunnel carried long sections of steel piping with occasional pressure gauges set in them. The pipes were now cold and damp with condensation; the gauges read zero. He took in breath sharply as a rat suddenly scurried out from the gloom and ran over his feet to find a way past. He would not be alone down here.

He continued along the tunnel, mentally calculating where he was in relation to the estate. He reckoned he was just about at it’s eastern boundary when he reached the end of the passage. The brick wall he faced looked to be made from newer bricks than the ones outside. He supposed the builders of The Pines had filled in the old tunnel when they were working on foundations for the houses and blocked it off. It was not however the end of the tunnel complex because a smaller tunnel led off to the left.

Again there was just enough light to see his way ahead. Twenty metres more and he stopped in his tracks. He could smell something. He sniffed the air again to be sure. there it was again; it was cigarette smoke. Someone else was down here.

Dewar continued with caution, his pulse rate higher than it had been. The smell got stronger; his steps got slower. The tunnel broadened out into a square recess where he guessed an auxiliary pumping station had been sited, judging by the shadowy outline of machinery he could see there. He was looking at it more closely when two hands closed round his throat from behind.

‘Got you, ya bastard!’ rasped a voice in his ear. ‘You’ll no’ be killin’ me like you did Tam.’

Dewar hammered both his elbows back into his attacker’s stomach and the man let go his throat with a gasp. He spun round but only to be met with a head butt to the face which sent him reeling backwards in pain. His attacker was on him again, a shadowy mess of tangled hair and bad breath but apparently inspired by hatred.

Dewar slammed both his fists into the sides of the man’s head and gained the upper hand again. Just to make sure he unleashed a fierce punch into his stomach and the man fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

‘Now, just what the hell are you talking about?’ demanded Dewar.

There was just enough light for him to see that his attacker was wearing a raincoat buttoned unevenly over several layers of clothing judging by his bulk. He had a wild mane of dirty grey hair and a beard that seemed to sprout at all angles from his face. Everything pointed to him being a down and out, living rough in the tunnel. The lager can outside now made sense.

‘You killed Tam, ya bastard and now … you’re gonna kill me,’ gasped the man. He was half weeping, half struggling for breath and clutching his stomach. Dewar regretted having hit him so hard.

‘I don’t know you from Adam,’ said Dewar. ‘And who’s Tam?’

‘Don’t give me that shit. What fuckin’ harm were we doin’? Eh? Answer me that?’

‘What is this place?’ asked Dewar.

‘Don’t give me that … ‘

The man stopped in mid sentence as Dewar, growing tired of the impasse, grabbed hold of his lapels and brought his face up close. He rasped, ‘Just answer the question.’

‘The tunnels.’

‘What tunnels?’

‘The City Hospital tunnels, ya numpty.’

Alarm bells started to ring in Dewar’s head. ‘The City Hospital?’ he repeated. You mean these houses out there are built on ground where the City Hospital used to be?’

‘Every bugger knows that.’

Dewar’s mind reeled with the implications of this news. He hadn’t found a secret government establishment but he had found the site of an old hospital and that hospital had been the city’s infectious diseases hospital. He knew that because George Ferguson in Steven Malloy’s lab had told him so! Dewar felt slightly light-headed as so much began to make sense. Ferguson had worked there for thirty years and this was the area where the smallpox vials had been unearthed. It all fitted. Ferguson was the missing link with the institute! Good old George Ferguson.

The virus hadn’t come from any hi-tech reconstruction in the institute or indeed from any secret wartime research centre, it had come from an old infectious diseases hospital, a place that had seen most of the diseases that afflicted mankind in its time.

‘Tell me about Tam,’ he said to the man on the floor.

‘We lived here for more than three years. It was warm and even when the heating stopped it was still better than kissin’ arse down the church places for a bowl o’ soup.

‘What happened?’

The man raised an arm slowly and pointed. ‘Through there,’ he said. ‘You’ll need these.’ He threw Dewar a box of matches.

Dewar frowned but followed the man’s directions, moving cautiously in case of any kind of trap. There was a dark alcove to his left and he had the sudden sensation that he was no longer alone. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck as he took out a match and struck it. There, sitting propped up against the wall, like a rag doll at rest was the blackened, charred corpse of a man, the flesh from his skull all but gone. The fingers of his right hand moved as a rat let go and dissolved into the darkness.

‘Jesus Christ,’ muttered Dewar putting his hand to his mouth. He felt himself shiver all over.

‘Why are you keeping him here?’ he demanded as he returned to the man on the floor.

‘I couldn’t decide on a coffin,’ came the sour answer. ‘I report it and I don’t have a home any more.’

‘What happened?’

‘One night the digger came and started working. ‘We thought the builders were gonna fill in this bit of the tunnel too so Tam and me moved back but they stopped and went away so we came back. Then next night some bastard poured petrol down the hole while we were sleepin’ here and torched the place. They burned Tam alive, poor bastard.’

‘Where exactly did they pour the petrol down?’

‘Along there.’

Once again, Dewar followed the line of the man’s pointing finger. He passed the alcove with its grisly inhabitant and came to an earth wall blocking any further progress. He could tell the earth had not been there very long. It was still damp. It smelled fresh like a garden after rain but there was also a smell of burning associated with it. He started to kick away at it but became dissatisfied at the progress he was making. He found a piece of metal that had once comprised part of a support bracket for the piping and pressed it into service as a digging tool. His first sign of success came when he felt a thin column of cool, fresh air on his cheek.

This inspired him to greater efforts and he succeeded in clearing a way up to the outside. He pulled himself up on to the grass and sat there for a moment looking down into the hole that Michael Kelly had made with his digger. He stood up and looked around to get his bearings. He could see that he was at the north east corner of The Pines estate, about twenty-five metres to the north of the nearest house. That should be enough to work out on a plan of the old hospital what had once stood where he was standing now but he thought he already knew the answer to that. He’d put money on this being the sight of the old microbiology lab where George Ferguson had worked for so long. The lab itself had been levelled to the ground but the underground access tunnels for heating and steam pipes had been left untouched because the builders weren’t actually erecting anything on this plot. Ferguson must have known of some old storage facility for virus cultures and decided to make himself some money.

Dewar decided he’d better go back the way he’d come. He had to do something about the down-and-out. He wanted to assure him that no one had meant to kill his friend; it had been an accident but it was also true that he couldn’t go on living there. There would have to be a full examination of the tunnel system just in case Ferguson’s fire had not wiped out everything he’d left behind and then the whole lot would probably be filled in for good. Dewar dropped back down into the tunnel and piled up loose earth behind him so that no one out walking his dog would see anything more than a dip in the ground above. When he got back to where he’d left the down-and-out there was no one there. He considered giving chase but decided not to. The guy lived outside society; that was the way he wanted it; he could stay that way. He personally had more pressing problems to take care of. He made his way back to the derelict boiler house and climbed out of the hatch. He took out his mobile phone and called Steven Malloy.

As expected, Malloy sounded dry but there was no time to apologise for the previous evening. Dewar said. ‘Are you alone?’

‘Yes,’ answered a puzzled Malloy. ‘Why?’

‘Because George Ferguson is the man we’re after. Is he there at the institute?’

‘What?’ exclaimed Malloy. ‘How on earth … ’

‘Is he in today?’

‘He’s on sick leave.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Dewar.

‘He’s not been himself recently. I told him to take some time off, sort out whatever was troubling him.’

‘Jesus,’ said Dewar. ‘I know what was troubling him all right. Do you have his home address?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ll pick you up at the institute and we’ll go over from there to confront him. I’ll fill you in on the details on the way.’

‘I just can’t believe that George had anything to do with … ‘

‘Trust me,’ said Dewar. ‘He’s as guilty as sin.’

Dewar was about to begin wriggling under the wire again when he considered that there must be an easier way out, the one the down-and-out and his pal had been using for some time. He walked round the inside of the fence, examining all the posts until he noticed one that seemed loose at the base. It also coincided with it being the end of one stretch of wire and the beginning of the next. Dewar pulled at the post and it came away. He could now swing the section back like a gate. ‘Cheers guys,’ he muttered, replacing the post and hurrying back to the car.