White Death (17 page)

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.

THIRTEEN

Not for the first time in his career with Sci-Med, Steven found himself reluctant to accept the evidence he was uncovering. It was an uncomfortable feeling, one that seemed to undermine everything he stood for. He had long ago stopped believing that the UK government couldn’t possibly get involved in anything underhand or downright illegal. Common sense demanded that they be as ruthless as any potential enemy when it came to matters affecting state security. But it was important to him to believe that he still worked for the ‘good guys’. The distinction however seemed to have been becoming more and more blurred.

Some kind of experiment carried out on unwitting school children with government approval and involving the murder of a scientist connected with the affair was pushing things to the very limit. Had Nichol got cold feet about what he was doing and decided to blow the whistle? Had he been ‘silenced’ because of it? Had Scott Haldane in Edinburgh been murdered because he’d suspected that something unethical or even illegal was going on? Steven drew the line at believing in state-sanctioned murder but on the other hand, Dr David Kelly’s suicide had never struck him as being entirely convincing. He would check first thing in the morning on the state of health of all the green sticker children. If any more had developed conditions like Keith Taylor or Trish Lyons, the time for discreet inquiries would be over. Like it or not, Macmillan would have to tackle the Department of Health head-on and demand an explanation. As to what that explanation could possibly be … Steven shivered as he considered that someone might see it as being more expedient to do away with Sci-Med than come up with one. He called Tally’s number.

‘Hello, how are you? Where are you?’

Steven was pleased that Tally sounded happy to hear from him. ‘I’m just outside Cambridge; I wanted to hear your voice.’

‘That’s nice,’ said Tally. ‘I’m glad you phoned. Any particular reason?’ She couldn’t hide the mischief in the question.

‘The foundations of my life are being swept away and I thought you might be able to help …’

‘How?’

‘Strong drink and a shoulder to cry on would be a good start.’

‘But you’re in Cambridge.’

‘I’ve got a Porsche.’

Tally laughed and said. ‘All right, come up but if you’re not here by ten, forget it and don’t bother ringing the bell. I’ve got a very busy day tomorrow.’

‘On my way.’

Steven pushed the entry-phone button outside Tally’s apartment block at a little after nine thirty and was rewarded by an invitation to enter. He sprinted up the stairs and found her standing at her front door, leaning on the jamb with an amused smile on her face. She gave a slight shake of the head and said, ‘For a man who’s had the foundations of his life swept away, you’re moving rather well …’

‘The Dunbars have always been resilient,’ smiled Steven, taking her in his arms and giving her a big hug. ‘Nice to see you.’

‘You too.’

Tally poured Steven a large gin and tonic and topped up her own wine glass. ‘Well,’ she said, sitting down beside him on the couch. ‘Tell Aunt Tally all about it …’

Steven smiled wryly and said, ‘I’m trying to make light of it but it’s deadly serious and I wasn’t joking about the way I’m feeling. I think I’m losing the place here …’

Tally could see that Steven was genuinely undergoing some kind of a crisis. ‘Go on,’ she said.

He told her what he had uncovered and deduced, admitting, ‘I can’t see any other way of looking at it.’

‘But this is outrageous,’ exclaimed Tally. ‘Experimenting on children? It beggars belief.’

‘It won’t be as cold-hearted as that when the truth comes out, I’m sure,’ said Steven. ‘It’ll be a case of someone meaning well but screwing up big time – it usually is where HMG is concerned – but two murders to keep it quiet? That’s taking things to a whole new level.’

‘You can’t be sure these people were murdered,’ said Tally.

‘No, but it’s looking odds on.’

‘Any idea what they gave the children?’

Steven shook his head. ‘Something they thought would do them good,’ he intoned.

‘Like a vaccine?’

‘Like a vaccine,’ agreed Steven. ‘Only it’s hard to see how a vaccine could cause what I’ve been seeing. Have you ever seen necrotising fasciitis?’

‘No, thank God, I never have.’

‘You don’t want to. Believe me.’

‘But if it was the “vaccine” that caused it, doesn’t this mean that all the children are at risk?’

‘That’s my real fear,’ said Steven. ‘I’m going to run a check in the morning on all the kids involved, just to see what the current situation is.’

‘And if there are any more who’ve fallen ill?’

‘Then it’s a national disaster in the making and one which might well bring down the government … if they let it.’

Tally looked at him. ‘You mean if they’ve murdered two people to keep this quiet, they may murder more?’

‘That’s what I’m having trouble getting my head round. I thought I worked for the white hats …’

‘I can see the problem,’ said Tally thoughtfully, her eyes breaking contact.

‘No one knows I’m here,’ said Steven. ‘No one in my world knows you exist. You’re quite safe.’

Tally gave a slightly embarrassed smile. ‘You read my mind,’ she said.

‘Can you read mine?’ asked Steven softly, taking both her hands in his.

‘Steven … I thought we agreed this isn’t a good idea …’

‘I think it’s a very good idea.’

‘I see. I just see you in times of national crisis?’

‘If we both want it, we can make it work …’

‘Steven …’

Steven brought her closer and a first hesitant kiss led to passion that rose inside both of them. ‘Oh bugger …’ murmured Tally as she wrapped her arms around Steven. ‘I’m going to regret this in the morning …’

‘Good morning,’ said Steven as he delivered coffee to a sleepy Tally who was still in bed.

‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed in alarm. ‘What time is it?’

‘Just after six.’

Tally relaxed. ‘God, I thought for a moment you were going to say nine.’

Steven kissed her lightly on the forehead. ‘Full of regrets?’ he asked.