The Gulf Conspiracy

SEVEN

Steven drove back to London reflecting on his day. A lot had happened since the meeting that morning with Norris at Police Headquarters. He had parted company with the policeman, almost convinced that Sebring’s death had nothing to do with his work at Porton Down after the elimination of Maclean as a suspect, but now, after talking to Jane Sebring in the garden of her home, he had started to believe otherwise. In a practical sense there was only one lead to follow and that was Martin Hendry, the journalist Sebring had contacted at the Guardian. He sighed as he realised that getting anything out of a journalist about his source was going to be about as easy as getting information out of the Ministry of Defence about Sebring’s past work — or blood out of a stone. He’d have to push the murder inquiry button pretty hard to make Hendry budge.

When he phoned the paper Steven was told by the receptionist that Martin Hendry was not in the office and was asked if he’d like to leave a message. He said not and instead asked to speak to the editor. He persisted through the series of obstacles that people who answer phones seemed duty-bound to erect until he finally reached the ear of a deputy editor. ‘I really do have to speak to Martin Hendry,’ he said.

‘Me too,’ replied the man. ‘Believe me, it’s not a case of him avoiding you. He really isn’t here. He had a story to deliver yesterday morning with a noon deadline but no show and believe me; I’m as pissed off as you are.’

‘You’ve no idea where he is?’ asked Steven.

‘Well, yes. I know exactly where he’s supposed to be. He told us he was going up to Scotland to work on his story. He said he had to talk to a man in Glasgow to get some details straight and then he was going to his place in the Highlands to produce the final draft. But as I say, he was due to produce it yesterday and didn’t.’

‘Would you say this was unusual?’ asked Steven.

‘No,’ replied the deputy editor matter of factly. ‘Happens all the time. Sometimes I think that editing a paper is like juggling with one hand tied behind your back.’

‘Do you know where in the Highlands he was going to?’ asked Steven.

‘No, it’s his own place and somewhere he’s always regarded as his bolthole. It’s where he goes to escape the cares of the world or when he’s feeling put-upon. He’s never been keen on telling any of us where it is, presumably in case we arrive on his doorstep armed with fishing rods and cases of lager. It’s become a bit of a joke in the office. They talk about Martin going up to Balmoral. I think he inherited the place from his parents, nothing too grand, just a hut up in the hills I think.’

‘He must have a mobile phone?’

‘He’s not answering. I’ll give you the number if you like but he’s probably switched it off while he’s working. I don’t think the muse cares for ‘Fur Elise’ going off every ten minutes.’

‘How about the man he went to see in Glasgow. Do you know anything about him?’

‘No to that too, I’m afraid.’

‘If he gets in contact will you tell him I have to speak to him?’ said Steven. ‘It’s important.’

‘Of course, leave me your number.’

Steven left his mobile number and rang off. He immediately rang Sci-Med to ask if they’d managed to get anything out of the Ministry of Defence.’

‘Nothing yet,’ replied Rose Roberts. ‘I did mark it urgent but then…’

‘I know,’ said Steven. ‘Keep at them, Rose.’

Steven realised that he was hungry; he hadn’t eaten properly since breakfast time. There had just been no time for lunch although he’d managed to grab a couple of sandwiches at Jane Sebring’s place after the funeral. He found he had nothing in the flat in the way of the tinned or packet food he depended on — he’d never really got round to learning to cook — so he went out to The Jade Garden, his local Chinese take-away where he was a regular at least once a week and picked up some hot food. He came back and watched the news on television while he worked his way through lemon chicken and special fried rice.

He learned that George W Bush seemed determined to extend his supposed war on terrorism by going to war with Iraq and Tony Blair still seemed solid in his support of US policy — as indeed he had been since the destruction of the twin towers — but convincing other countries of the justification of a new initiative against Saddam was proving problematical. Nothing was ever going to be quick or easy once the United Nations became involved, thought Steven. He recalled the adage of a camel being a horse designed by a committee. He turned off the TV as the news ended and put the Stan Getz album, Jazz Samba, on the stereo while he considered what he should do next with the Sebring investigation.

If Sebring really had given Martin Hendry a story about the Gulf War and Hendry had gone to Glasgow with it, you didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out that there was a good chance the man was the activist, Angus Maclean. According to DCI Norris, Maclean worked in a Glasgow hospital as a lab technician.

After wondering for a moment if it would be worth his while going up there to speak to Maclean he concluded that he had nothing to lose by doing so and maybe everything to gain. He would fly up to Glasgow in the morning but before setting off, he would call Norris in Leicester to get some more details about Maclean and his place of work.

Steven’s flight into Glasgow touched down a little after ten and he took a taxi to the Princess Louise Hospital. As both the airport and the hospital lay out to the west of the city it only took fifteen minutes. He followed the signs to the microbiology laboratories through a maze of corridors and waited in line at the Reception counter while a nurse in front of him delivered a series of clinical specimens she’d brought up from one of the wards.

‘Jeeez-O!’ said the young male technician behind the counter. ‘Is this national-swab-your-nose-week or something?’ He was looking at the three dozen or so plastic swab tubes lying on the desk in front of him. ‘This is the fifth lot this morning.’

‘Blame the TV news,’ said the nurse. ‘They did a scare story on MRSA last night so the powers that be thought it would be a good idea to swab the whole hospital just in case the press come to call. Image is everything.’

‘Better cancel my summer holiday then,’ said the technician. ‘In fact, I’ll be lucky to make it home for Christmas at this rate.’

The nurse smiled and turned away leaving Steven to ask if he could have a word with Angus Maclean.

‘Can I ask who’s calling?’ said the technician.

‘Dr Dunbar.’

The technician pressed one of the numbered buttons on the intercom beside him and said, ‘A visitor for you, Gus. It’s a Dr Dunbar.’

‘Never heard of him,’ came the gruff voice from the speaker.

The technician looked embarrassed.

‘He doesn’t know me,’ said Steven and the technician relayed this information.

‘Send him through,’ said the voice.

The technician released the electronic lock on the doors leading to the main labs and said to Steven. ‘Room nine; it’s on your right.’

Steven entered and immediately noticed the smell he associated with medical labs the world over, a mixture of organic solvents and disinfectant with undercurrents of noxious substances he’d rather not think about. He knocked on the frosted glass door to Maclean’s lab and was invited to enter with a solitary, ‘Yup.’

Maclean, a short, slightly-built man with an unfashionable crew cut and round shoulders that suggested possible chest problems was seated with his back to the door, peering down the binocular eyepiece of a microscope. ‘Be with you in a moment,’ he said.

Steven reassured him there was no hurry and took in his surroundings while he waited. A Bunsen burner was alight on the small bench to the left of where Maclean was seated, a platinum inoculating loop propped up on its base. Beside it lay a plastic Petri dish filled with a medium that Steven remembered from times past as blood agar and next to that, a box of microscope slides and a pack of coverslips. It was clear that the bacterial colonies growing on the blood agar were the subject of Maclean’s scrutiny.

Maclean finished his examination and removed the glass slide from the microscope stage to drop it into a beaker of disinfectant before jotting down his findings on the report form beside him. He turned and said, ‘What can I do for you?’

Steven showed him his ID and said, ‘I’m making inquiries connected with the death of Dr George Sebring; I understand you knew him?’

‘’I thought the police did that sort of thing,’ said Maclean. ‘I’ve already told them all I know. I’ve no idea who killed the bugger.’

Steven nodded, deliberately making an effort to remain calm in the face of Maclean’s aggression. He said, ‘I’m not so much concerned with the criminal aspects of the case as the scientific ones, particularly where they might provide motive.’

‘What does that mean?’ said Maclean, affecting a scowl and dropping his head slightly to look over the top of his glasses.

‘I think we both know that Sebring once worked at the Porton Down Defence Establishment,’ said Steven. ‘I’m trying to establish if his time there might have had something to do with his death.’

‘Well, there’s irony for you,’ said Maclean with a smile that lacked any vestige of humour. ‘You’re wondering whether his work had anything to do with his death and I’m bloody sure it had everything to do with that of my wife and daughter.’

‘How so?’

‘I don’t know how so,’ replied Maclean. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to find out for Christ knows how many years. Bloody place. Defence establishment, my arse.’

‘How come you know so much about it?’

‘I was trained there when I was in the army,’ said Maclean. ‘1^st Field Laboratory Unit.’

‘That’s what you told the police,’ said Steven. ‘The MOD says they’ve never heard of it.’

‘Lying bastards,’ said Maclean.

‘Why should they lie?’ asked Steven.

‘Christ knows!’ said Maclean, spreading his hands. ‘God knows why they even went to the bother of setting us up in the first place,’ he said. ‘They recruited us from all over the country: they trained us to monitor and detect the use of chemical and biological weapons in all sorts of situations and then they threw away every report we ever made. Now they’ve taken to denying we ever existed.’

‘Bizarre,’ agreed Steven. ‘I take it you’re absolutely convinced that Saddam used these weapons?’

‘Christ man, I was there. I saw it with my own eyes. I ran the tests. I isolated the bacteria. I’m not JK Rowling. I didn’t make the whole thing up. None of us did.’

‘So why blame Porton?’ asked Steven. ‘Surely Gulf War Syndrome should be put down to the Iraqis and the CB weapons you say they used?’

‘Some of the problems are due to that,’ conceded Maclean. ‘But there was something else going on. Saddam’s CB weapons and the allied fuck-ups helped disguise it but there was definitely something else going on.’

‘And you think Porton were behind it?’ said Steven.

‘I know they were,’ said Maclean. ‘I saw it in Sebring’s eyes when I talked to him.’

‘His wife told me he was very upset after your visit,’ said Steven.

‘He was upset when I arrived,’ said Maclean. ‘Now he’s dead, like my family.’

‘I can understand your bitterness,’ said Steven.

‘Can you?’ snapped Maclean. ‘It’s absolutely amazing the number of people who can “understand my bitterness” when they know hee-haw about it.’

‘I lost my own wife,’ said Steven. ‘Cancer.’

The comment stopped Maclean in his tracks. There was a long pause before he said, ‘I’m sorry but I bet it wasn’t from anything you gave her.’

‘What makes you think your wife died from something you gave her?’

‘I just do,’ said Maclean.

Steven gave him a look that suggested this answer wasn’t good enough and Maclean said, ‘First it was me when I got back from the Gulf. I picked up every infection that was going; it was just one thing after another, colds flu, bronchitis, food poisoning, you name it. And then the same thing started to happening to my wife and daughter, only they weren’t so lucky. They died, God love them, one from a brain tumour, the other leukaemia and don’t tell me they’re not infectious conditions or try to tell me it was just bad luck. I’ve heard it all before. I know. Believe me; I just know it was down to me.’

‘Have you ever heard of a man named Martin Hendry?’ asked Steven.

‘He’s a journalist. He came to see me.’

Steven was pleased to hear he’d made the right call. ‘What about?’ he asked.

For a moment Maclean looked as if he might tell Steven to mind his own business but his hard expression changed and he said simply, ‘Gulf War Syndrome, he wanted to “know my thoughts”. He particularly wanted to know about infectious conditions reported by vets of the war.’

‘Did he say why?’

‘What reason did you have in mind?’

‘Did George Sebring’s name come up?’

‘No, why should it?’

‘According to his wife, Sebring contacted Hendry after you’d been to see him and told him he had a story for him. They arranged to meet.’

‘Well, well, well,’ murmured Maclean, smiling for the first time.

‘Apparently Hendry has a particular interest in the Gulf War. He’s done a number of stories about it over the years.’

‘I know,’ said Maclean. ‘I’ve read them all. Social conscience of the nation sort of stuff, high on morals, low on practicalities, typical Guardian stuff.’ Maclean looked thoughtful for a moment before appearing excited at the prospect. ‘Maybe Sebring decided to come clean after all these years?’ he said. ‘It would explain Hendry’s line of questioning. He wanted to know all about the symptoms I and my family had, every little detail. Do you know when the paper’s going to run it?’

‘When I find Hendry I’ll ask him,’ said Steven. ‘But I’m having trouble. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea where he went when he left here?’

‘He told me where he was going,’ said Maclean. ‘Like most of the scribblers I come across, he tried to gain my confidence through small talk so that I’d be lulled into telling him what he wanted to know. He went on about how much he liked Scotland and how he came up here as much as he could. He said he had a place in the Highlands and that’s where he’d be going to work on his article when he left me,’

‘Did he say where?’

‘A stone’s throw from Blair Atholl was how he put it.’

‘Nothing more specific?’

‘Nope.’

‘You’ve been a great help,’ said Steven, getting up to go.

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Maclean, moving from the microscope stool to the one at the bench to start preparing his next sample for examination.

‘You’re a medical microbiologist,’ said Steven as a thought struck him. ‘Did you ever try finding the infectious agent you believe you passed on to your family?’

Maclean gave Steven a look that questioned his basic intelligence. ‘Of course I bloody did,’ said Maclean. He pulled open the top drawer of an under-bench filing cabinet and brought out a blue A4 folder. He held it up in his right hand saying, ‘Analyses of sputum, blood, urine, faeces, gastric lavage, skin scrapings, the lot. I must be about the most well-characterised human being in microbiological terms on the face of the planet.’

‘Sorry,’ said Steven. ‘I suppose it’s obvious you would have screened yourself. I take it you didn’t find anything?’

‘Nothing pathogenic,’ said Maclean, replacing the folder. ‘And no, that does not change my mind. It just means that these bastards at Porton were clever bastards.’

Steven nodded and prepared to leave. ‘Thanks for talking to me,’ he said.

‘Will you let me know when Hendry’s story’s coming out?’ asked Maclean.

‘Will do.’

By the time he reached the front doors of the hospital Steven had made the decision to hire a car and drive up to Blair Atholl. He felt sure he could find Hendry’s place by asking at local businesses, especially if as the editor had said, his parents had owned the place before him. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was twelve thirty. If he got a move on he should be there before they started to close. He used the WAP facility on his mobile phone to find the nearest branch of Hertz and took a taxi there.

It started to rain as he finally escaped the gravitational pull of Glasgow’s traffic and headed north-east, first to Stirling and then on to Perth. It was coming down in torrents when he negotiated the last of a series of roundabouts and joined the A9 north to Pitlochry and Blair Atholl. For the most part here the road was no longer dual carriageway or motorway and he was not long in finding out that the rented Ford he was driving fell a long way short of his own car’s performance when it came to brisk overtaking. An angry blare of the horn from an oncoming truck driver when he took too long to pass a bus reminded him to assume that he was towing the QE2 the next time he considered such a move.

After drawing a blank at the first two places he asked about Martin Hendry — a petrol station and a small craft shop — he decided that the local hotel might be his best bet, based on the assumption that journalists and alcohol went together like love and marriage. He found the bar busier than he’d expected with tourists and day-trippers but this was because of the weather. It was still raining cats and dogs outside. He waited patiently while a man from Yorkshire, judging by the accent, placed his family’s order for food and drink. The man finished by asking, ‘Is it always like this up here, luv?’

‘Mostly,’ replied the girl behind the bar as she started pulling a pint. Steven reckoned she was a student working her vacation. ‘It keeps the grass green.’

‘It’s a wonder you Scotties don’t have webbed feet,’ said the Yorkshireman, breaking into laughter and turning to share it with Steven. ‘I brought a caravan; I should have brought a bloody boat!’

Steven smiled and said, ‘Maybe it’ll be better tomorrow.’

‘You sound like bloody wife!’ exclaimed the Yorkshireman. ‘The sun will come out tomorrow,’ he half sang as he picked up his tray of drinks, changing it to a tuneless whistle as he headed for his table.

‘What can I get you?’ the girl asked Steven.

He ordered a pint of Stella and then said, ‘I’m looking for a friend of mine. He has a place up here. His name’s Martin Hendry.’

‘Doesn’t mean anything I’m afraid,’ said the girl.

‘He’s a journalist.’

‘Maybe Peter will know him,’ said the girl. ‘I just work the holidays. I’ll ask him when I get a chance.’ She gave a meaningful look at the queue forming behind him.

Steven found a seat and sipped his beer while he took in his surroundings. It was just before four in the afternoon and they had the lights on because of the dark clouds outside, yet it still seemed gloomy. It was noisy too because of bored children being allowed to run around and people playing the electronic games machines. Two television sets, mounted high up on wall brackets, were switched on although their sound had been turned down and the air was heavy with the smell of wet clothing and fried food. At a table next to Steven, two Germans, wearing leather biker gear, had spread a road map and were planning the next leg of their journey. They were going to Inverness and then on to Loch Ness.

Steven saw that, for the moment, there was no queue at the bar. He managed to catch the girl’s eye and jog her memory. She smiled and disappeared through the back for a few moments. She returned with a short bald man wearing an apron and they both looked in Steven’s direction. He went over to the bar.

‘You’re looking for Martin Hendry, I hear,’ said the man.

‘Do you know him?’ asked Steven.

‘Comes in quite a lot,’ replied the man. ‘Comes up here to work on his novel. Going to be the next John Grisham, he tells me.’

Steven was unaware of this but inwardly conceded that it would not be an unusual ambition for a journalist or maybe it was just bar room bullshit. That wouldn’t be unusual either. ‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘Have you seen him lately?’

‘He was in two or three nights ago,’ said the man.

‘So he’s still up here?’

‘As far as I know. He usually says cheerio when he’s going back down south and he didn’t say anything the other night.’

‘Thanks,’ said Steven. ‘Can you tell me how to get to his place?’

‘He’s got a cabin over on Tulach Hill.’

Steven looked blank and the man beckoned. He moved along to the end of the bar and came out from behind to lead Steven to a framed map of the area hanging on the wall. ‘Over here to the west,’ he said. ‘You can’t miss his cabin. It’s called Garry Lodge. It’s the only one on that side of the hill.’

Steven thanked the man and left, running across the car park to get in out of the rain as quickly as possible. He followed the man’s directions, finally stopping at a rough track leading uphill. At first he was unsure as to whether this was the right one — there seemed to be so many farm tracks leading off the road — but he found reassurance when, through the semicircles of the screen being cleared by the wipers, he caught sight of the small board nailed to a tree saying Garry Lodge. He nursed the Ford up the steep slope, its wheels scratching unsurely at the wet stones, until the cabin came into view and he saw to his relief that the lights were on and there was a car parked at the side.

Steven brought the car to a halt right in front of the cabin — something he did deliberately so that Hendry should be aware that he had a visitor. With a bit of luck he wouldn’t have to stand too long outside in the rain. However, the cabin door remained firmly closed as Steven ran up the five steps to it and knocked. He tugged his collar up against the rain while he waited but it still found the back of his neck.

‘C’mon, c’mon,’ he murmured as the seconds ticked by with no response from inside. He knocked again, this time harder and longer but with still no answer.

Feeling loath to just turn round and drive away after coming so far, Steven tried the door and found it unlocked. ‘Hello, anybody there?’ he called out as he stepped inside.

The only sound to be heard inside the cabin was that of the rain on the roof. Steven moved through it slowly, looking into each of the rooms in turn. It didn’t take long; there were only two and a small shower cubicle. Hendry, dressed in cream chinos and a blue denim shirt, was lying on top of the bed, an empty glass resting lightly in his right hand, a two-thirds empty whisky bottle sitting on the bedside table

Thinking that Hendry was in a drink-induced sleep, Steven was about to rap his knuckles against the door when he noticed the dark brown pill bottle lying on its side beside the whisky and understood its significance.

‘Oh, shit,’ he murmured as he moved towards the bed. ‘What brought you down cemetery road, my friend?’

Steven touched Hendry’s cheek and found it icy cold. ‘And through the gates.’

He checked for a carotid pulse but it was little more than a gesture. The man was dead — and had been for some time.

Seeing that Hendry was about the same age as he himself, Steven felt a lump come to his throat. There had been a time in his life when he had looked down the same road and found it attractive. It had been one option in ending the tide of sorrow and pain that engulfed him after Lisa’s death. Only thoughts of his daughter, Jenny, had stopped him but it had been a close-run thing. He knew nothing about Hendry’s personal circumstances but it was obvious that he had not found anything as strong to cling to. ‘They call it the easy way,’ said Steven softly. ‘But we both know that ain’t so.’

Steven brought out his phone to call the police, all too aware that he would be starting off a train of events which would lead to hurt, sorrow, bemusement and even anger among Hendry’s nearest and dearest. This was always the way with suicide deaths. The ‘if only’ complex kicked in. If only he had said something… If only he had talked to me about it… If only he had asked for help…

Steven was assuming that Hendry had nearest and dearest but there was no reason not to. He had been a first rate journalist and who had earned the respect of his colleagues over many years. He would bet on a wide circle. His fingers hovered over the phone buttons but he hesitated when he thought about why he’d come here in the first place. Hendry’s death was a tragedy but it had to be kept it in perspective. A dead man could tell him nothing so he was left with a problem. He would have to find another way of discovering what George Sebring had been so anxious to confess. If, as Gus Maclean had suggested, Sebring had decided to “come clean” about some awful secret concerning Porton Down, he had to know about it.

Hendry had come to Scotland to work on the story so there was a good chance that it must be somewhere in the cabin — either in hard copy or… His gaze fell on a Sony Vaio laptop sitting on the table in the room that doubled as living room and kitchen. It looked like the best bet. He turned it on and waited for Windows to open with its familiar jingle before accessing the documents list. It was empty. Not so much as a letter. He clicked on Windows Explorer and scanned the contents of the hard disk for data files. There were none.

Steven cursed under his breath. The hard disk had been wiped clean of everything but the operating system. Why should a man about to take his own life go to the trouble of erasing all the data files on his computer? The lack of any logical explanation made him uneasy but on the other hand, he had to admit that he had no idea why Hendry had taken his own life either.

There was an external Zip drive attached to the laptop by cable. He pushed the eject button on the front but no disk appeared. Steven was puzzled. Such a back-up drive would be useless without one but he couldn’t see it lying around anywhere. Feeling that this was important, he searched the cabin thoroughly — right down to emptying out the rubbish bin — but there was still no sign of the disk. Steven went back to the laptop and checked the floppy drive. There was no disk in that either. ‘Well, well,’ he murmured. ‘Do I detect that old familiar smell of… rat?’

While it was conceivable that Hendry could have wiped all the data off his computer and could also have erased any back-up material on a Zip disk, had it been there for him to check, it wasn’t. Someone else had been in the cabin. They had removed the disk from the drive and taken it away. The same someone who had wiped the hard drive, perhaps? The same someone who had… Steven felt a strong sense of foreboding as he returned to the bedroom to take another look at Hendry’s body. He felt he had to review the suicide scenario in the light of what he’d just learned.

He found no suspicious marks on Hendry’s head or neck and found himself murmuring apologies to the corpse as he unbuttoned the dead man’s shirt to examine his torso. Again, he drew a blank. He was beginning to think — maybe hope — that he’d let his imagination run away with him, when he rolled back the cuffs of Hendry’s denim shirt and saw the very slight marks on both wrists. They were faint and very narrow — as if thin wire had been used — but consistent with the man having been tied up. The rain continued to beat relentlessly down on the roof as Steven called in the police.