The Secret

NINE

Steven was disappointed. He’d hoped for some new slant. ‘You mean that Children First weren’t doing a good job?’

‘Precisely that. Simone expected the best from everyone where children’s lives were concerned.’

‘But no one wanted her speaking about this at the Prague meeting?’

Monfils picked up a pen and appeared to scrutinise it closely as he pondered a reply. Eventually, he said, ‘Simone approached both Dr Schultz and myself about speaking but we decided there was no need for her to labour the point publicly. Children First is supported by a number of American charities. Americans tend to be very generous — they are by nature a very generous people.’

Steven thought he saw what was coming next and said, ‘And any criticism might have upset the cash flow?’

‘Worse than that,’ said Monfils. ‘We are on the brink of something special. All of us working on the eradication of polio have been disappointed by the persistence of the disease in the region where Simone was working, but now money has been found for a massive attack on the problem — American money.’

‘Government money?’

Monfils shook his head. ‘No, charity money. Money from film stars, pop stars, business magnates, people all coming together to wipe out this awful disease for once and for all. It hasn’t been publicly announced yet but it’s going to happen soon. There will be a rapid expansion of aid teams in the area and cash made available for the latest, most effective vaccine.’

‘Sounds wonderful.’

‘The money, of course, will be channelled through American aid teams.’

‘Like Children First,’ said Steven, suddenly seeing where Monfils was leading.

‘It is, of course, perfectly understandable that American benefactors would like to see the work being carried out by American teams and credit being given to their country of origin.’

‘Only human nature,’ Steven agreed. ‘It’s a pity Simone didn’t know about this. It sounds like too big a boat to rock.’

‘She did,’ said Monfils. ‘I told her in confidence in Prague.’

Steven was taken aback. ‘So what was her reaction?’

‘She went straight to Thomas Schultz and demanded an opportunity to speak to the meeting, saying that it was now more important than ever.’

‘Why?’

‘She wouldn’t say, just that she wanted to make a public statement.’

‘And now we’ll never know,’ said Steven with a sigh. It was becoming clear that there was nothing more to be gained from continuing the conversation. He thanked Monfils for agreeing to see him at such short notice and left for the airport.

John Macmillan rubbed his temples in a circular motion with his fingertips when Steven told him he was convinced that both Médecins Sans Frontières women had been murdered. ‘I can sense your desire to get involved, Steven,’ he said. ‘I can even understand it, but the French police are investigating Dr Lagarde’s death. Perhaps we should give them some time? They may uncover a link.’

‘All the signs are that it was a professional hit, John. Chances are they’ll get nowhere, and as for the Czech police, they’re satisfied that Simone’s death was accidental.’

‘We can’t be sure it wasn’t.’

‘My fear is that the police there will be only too happy to accept it was an accident. Murder at an international science meeting would be bad for the conference business. I suspect they didn’t question anyone too closely.’

Macmillan took a moment to digest this before saying, ‘I seem to remember the accident or otherwise occurred at a private showing of the monastery library to the meeting delegates?’

‘It did.’

‘Then you do realise you are suggesting that Dr Ricard was killed by one of her own colleagues?’

‘Or someone pretending to be one of her colleagues,’ argued Steven. ‘Not everyone knows everyone at these medical conference things.’

‘And motive?’ asked Macmillan.

‘Someone wanted to stop her speaking at the meeting.’

‘And Dr Lagarde?’

‘She must have known what Simone knew.’

‘But you don’t.’

‘Not… yet?’ said Steven, knowing that he was throwing himself on Macmillan’s mercy. ‘There has to be something more to all this than just a territorial spat.’

‘This really isn’t a Sci-Med affair, Steven. I don’t see how we could justify the cost of an investigation…’

Steven knew Macmillan was right but couldn’t bring himself to say so.

‘Unless of course… you can see a way?’

Steven snatched at the lifeline Macmillan had thrown him. ‘I was thinking,’ he began. ‘Médecins Sans Frontières is not solely a French organisation. It’s international. There’s a British branch here in London which recruits British doctors and nurses.’

‘Doctors Ricard and Lagarde were both French,’ Macmillan reminded him.

‘But the French police are unable to investigate Simone’s death officially.’

‘Your point being?’

‘Simone and Aline were not just French citizens, they were members of an international organisation — an organisation which includes the UK. Would it not be possible for us to help a sister organisation investigate the unlawful deaths of two of their people?’

Macmillan smiled. ‘You’re stretching things, Dunbar but if as you say there’s a branch of the organisation in London I’m willing to approach them, see what they think about your idea. If they don’t want to have anything to do with it, it’s a straight no from me. Agreed?’

Steven agreed.

‘And another thing. If we should get a green light and this should go any further, you do not step on the toes of the French police at any point.’

‘We’ve already reached an agreement.’

Macmillan raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment. ‘I’ll let you know what transpires.’

Steven went to his office and found among his mail the list of participants at the Prague meeting he’d asked Thomas Schultz for, and also the names of the people who went on the library visit from the Czech organiser, Mazarek. He scanned through Schultz's list first, looking for British delegates, and found five including Tom North and his post-doc Dan Hausman. Dr Celia Laing worked at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine; Dr Clive Rollison worked at Birmingham University. Dr Neville Henson worked at the Microbiological Research Establishment at Porton Down.

This last name and affiliation caused Steven to let out a snort. He supposed there was no reason why a scientist from the government’s germ warfare establishment should not be present but the very idea of microbiological warfare always made his blood run cold. Running his eye down the rest of the list, he noted that the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention at Atlanta Georgia were also represented at the meeting by a Dr Mel Reznik.

Steven checked his watch and decided there was time to put in a call to Celia Laing before setting off for Leicester. He watched raindrops start to patter against the window as he waited to be transferred from the switchboard: the sound made his heart sink. Driving a low-slung Porsche in rain on the motorway was always a less than joyful experience, a bit akin to swimming underwater in a dirty river.

Celia Laing answered and Steven identified himself. It took him a few moments to become accustomed to the sound of her voice. She spoke as if she had too many teeth in her mouth.

‘Dr Laing, I understand you attended the recent polio eradication meeting in Prague?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘The organisers arranged a trip for delegates to the Strahov monastery where a tragic accident occurred. Did you go on that trip by any chance?’

‘Yes, I did. It was a beautiful place but, as you say, a French aid worker fell to her death from the gallery in the library. It was absolutely horrific.’

‘I’m sorry if this sounds insensitive, but did you see it happen?’

‘No. That is, I was in the gallery at the time but I didn’t see her go over, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I suppose you’d be admiring the ceiling like the others?’

‘Actually no, I was looking down at my feet. Someone had lost a contact lens and we were all too scared to move.’

Steven felt the hairs stand on the back of his neck. ‘Was this anywhere near where Dr Ricard fell?’

‘Yes, quite near. Why do you ask?’

Steven ignored the question. ‘Do you happen to know who it was who lost their contact lens?’

‘No, sorry. Why are you asking these things?’

‘Just routine, doctor. Thank you for your help… Oh, shit,’ murmured Steven as he ended the call. ‘A diversion.’

‘So where do you go from here?’ Tally asked, soaping Steven’s back. It was ten o’clock; she had only been home for half an hour and Steven had just arrived after a hellish trip up the motorway in heavy rain. They had decided that a warm, relaxing shower was called for and Tally’s newly installed wet room was proving ideal.

‘Depends what Med Sans in London think about us getting involved when John puts it to them. In the meantime I’ll talk to some other folk who were on the library trip and see if I can find out who the contact wearer was.’

‘In the meantime… you’ll do no such thing,’ purred Tally, becoming more wide-ranging with her soapy hands. ‘Stop thinking about work.’

Steven sighed appreciatively. ‘Yes ma’am.’

‘Good heavens…’ said Tally. ‘I do believe I’m gaining your attention…'