The Deceit

52

Graham Moffat almost dropped his rooibos tea as he stared at his laptop screen. There was no disputing it. The white detritus recovered from the air-conditioning units of the Rescorla laboratory was indeed TS.

Dead, but TS.

So far he and his superior had discussed this odd white detritus with no one, not even the Met police. There hadn’t been any reason: the entire forensic analysis of the murder site in Cornwall had produced no real surprises; indeed, as the months had gone by what had initially felt like an interesting parasitological assignment had turned into a bothersome chore, and Graham had openly questioned — in staff meetings — whether Imperial College should be wasting valuable laboratory time in this way, even if they were assisting the police, and even if they were pretty well remunerated.

But this discovery? This changed everything.

He leaned forward, and tapped a few keys. The image enlarged, until the stained, purple, dried-out larva of the cyclophilid cestoid Taenia solium was several inches wide, like a lurid bruise.

It was unmistakable: Graham Moffat knew his parasites, he knew his chagas from his giardiasis, his loa loa from his pinworm. And this was Taenia solium. In some strange, new, aerosolized or even weaponized form.

Of course, Graham mused, sipping his cooling tea, they’d have to get this startling result confirmed. Perhaps they could take blood samples from anyone who was in the laboratory on the day of the murder, look for antigens or antibodies that signified brief exposure to this parasite. But he reckoned these would simply confirm what he was seeing.

Someone had introduced this mind-altering parasite into the air-conditioning unit, probably just before the laboratory had exploded. Someone with access to these parasites in weaponized form. That probably meant Rothley. And the presence of these parasites meant that all eye-witness reports from inside the laboratory were unreliable. They could all have been hallucinating. A brief but intense mass delusion. Anything could have happened. Anyone could have escaped.

Graham picked up his mobile phone. He could get a better signal outside. It was time to call his boss, and then they would have to call the police.

The door slammed angrily shut as he exited the lab, making the table shake. And the purple larva on the laptop screen seemed to shiver, as if it were alive.