Wildcard (26 page)

‘You requested a trace on Gregory Allan.’

‘Yes, I did,’ said Steven, cupping his hand tightly over the earpiece in an effort to contain the sound.

‘I think you’d better get over here, to the woods at the east end of Gaylen Park,’ said the policeman. ‘The car’s here and I think we’ve found him.’

Steven felt uncomfortable. The implication was that Allan was dead, and Steven was sitting less than six feet from the man’s wife. He did his utmost to keep his face expressionless and said, ‘Understood. I’m on my way.’

‘News of Greg?’ asked Mrs Allan.

‘Not yet,’ lied Steven. ‘But I have to go.’ He managed to avoid eye contact with her while he said goodbye: he felt that the news should not come from him.

Fifteen minutes later, Steven found several police vehicles parked beside Allan’s silver BMW at the edge of the woods bordering a small park. There wasn’t much activity among the officers, who were standing in a group, talking. He made himself known, and the inspector in charge said, ‘We’ve been waiting for you to get here. We haven’t touched anything.’

Steven guessed that Sci-Med had used full Home Office clout in making the request to the local police. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘What have you got?’

The inspector led him through the trees and into a small clearing illuminated with police arc lights. ‘I take it that’s your man?’ he said, pointing upwards. Steven saw a man hanging from the bare branches of a beech tree. ‘Obviously decided to decorate a tree with himself this Christmas,’ said the policeman.

Steven did not respond. Allan’s face was purple and his distended tongue lolled out of his mouth, making him look like a hideous gargoyle on a medieval church. The fact that he’d hanged himself with a modern tow-rope, bright red with yellow bands at intervals, somehow detracted from the tragedy and lent substance to the policeman’s awful allusion.

‘Poor bastard,’ said Steven.

‘Can we bring him down now?’

Steven nodded. ‘Sure.’ He watched, grim-faced, as Allan was cut down and lowered to the ground, where the police forensic team were waiting to begin their work. They could have been about to begin a shift at a car-making plant: they were casual, at ease, relaxed; just another body, just another day. The police surgeon pronounced Allan officially dead and the inspector asked if Steven could confirm that the dead man was Gregory Allan.

‘’Fraid not,’ said Steven. ‘I’ve never met him.’

‘Are we allowed to ask what he’s done?’ asked the inspector, squatting down with Steven beside the body.

‘You can ask,’ said Steven, almost mesmerised by Allan’s face and wondering what had brought him to such a sad and sorry end, ‘but right now I’ve no bloody idea. I wish to God I had.’

The contents of Allan’s pockets were emptied out on to a ground sheet and one officer said, ‘There’s a note, sir.’ The paper was obviously wet and the man held it by a corner as he passed it over.

The inspector put on gloves, took it gingerly and opened it with care. ‘It’s to his wife,’ he said. ‘It says, “I’m sorry” – obviously a man of few words. It’s wet because he pissed over it when his sphincter went.’

‘Any sign of a computer disk in his pockets?’ asked Steven. Shaking heads said not. ‘How about in the car?’

The inspector said, ‘Take another look, will you, Edwards.’

Edwards, a tall red-haired constable wearing a white plastic ‘noddy’ suit two sizes too small for him, went over to the BMW and began searching it thoroughly. He returned as Allan’s body was being zipped into its transport bag for transfer to the city mortuary. ‘Down the side of the passenger seat,’ he said. He handed the disk to the inspector who passed it on to Steven.

‘Do you want me to sign for it?’ asked Steven.

‘Not with the friends you’ve got,’ replied the inspector. ‘Maybe you’d like it gift-wrapped?’

‘This’ll be just fine,’ said Steven, slipping the disk into his pocket. ‘Thanks for your help.’

SEVENTEEN

Capel Curig

Karen Doig and Ian Patterson left Capel Curig police station feeling thoroughly depressed. They had just been told by the inspector in charge that none of the local taxi firms had been called to the field station in recent weeks. How and why Amy and Peter had disappeared remained a mystery, and there was nothing more the police could do in the circumstances. They, like the Scottish police, had a policy of non-interference in domestic matters.

‘I don’t believe they walked down from the mountains,’ said Karen with a shake of her head.

Patterson murmured his agreement.

‘Apart from the fact that they weren’t equipped to go walkabout in the Welsh mountains in winter – at least Peter wasn’t.’

‘Nor was Amy.’

‘So why would they?’ continued Karen. ‘If they really wanted to run off into the sunset together, why not take the Land-Rover and leave it somewhere like the airport?’

‘I know, it just doesn’t make sense,’ agreed Patterson.

‘I still don’t believe they’ve done it,’ said Karen.

‘So where are they?’

Karen stopped walking and looked at Patterson, her anger dissolving and despair taking its place. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I don’t know,’ she sobbed. ‘I just don’t know.’

Patterson put a comforting arm round her and they paused for a moment. ‘Look, why don’t we get a drink and decide where we go from here?’ he suggested.

Karen dabbed her eyes with a tissue and nodded silently. They crossed the road and went into the hotel where they’d gone on their arrival. They’d chosen not to stay overnight there, opting instead for a bed-and-breakfast place along the road.

‘Did you find it then?’ asked the barman who’d given them directions to the field station.

Patterson said that they had and asked for two brandies.

The man, noticing that Karen was still wiping her eyes, backed off and delivered the brandy without further question. He went back to reading his paper behind the bar.

‘I don’t see that there’s any more we can do,’ said Patterson. ‘If no one saw them and the police can’t help …’

Karen took a deep breath to compose herself. ‘I will not believe that Peter has left me, not until I see some proof,’ she said. ‘There must be someone in this bloody God-forsaken place who knows something. Excuse me—’ and she leaped up and ran out of the room.

‘Is she okay?’ asked the barman, looking over his newspaper.

‘She’s upset,’ replied Patterson. ‘Her husband has disappeared without trace.’

‘Like that, is it? I’m sorry.’

‘No, I don’t think it is “like that”,’ said Patterson. ‘He and my wife were working at the field station we asked you about yesterday, but apparently none of the locals saw them and then suddenly they just disappeared completely. The Land-Rover they came down to Wales in was still at the field station when the fire broke out, and they didn’t use any of the local taxis, so we can’t work out how they even left the field station.’

‘Maybe I can help there,’ said the man.

‘But you didn’t see them, either,’ said Patterson.

‘No, but you aren’t the only people to ask for directions to the station.’

Karen came back and sat down; she’d washed her face and reapplied her make-up.

‘Go on,’ said Patterson.

‘Four people came in here about ten days ago asking for directions, two men and two women. I remember ’cos they were rude about the coffee, see.’

Karen, realising what the conversation was about, delved into her handbag and pulled out a photograph of her husband. She took it over to the barman. ‘Was he one of the men?’ she asked.

‘No,’ replied the barman, almost before he’d looked. ‘They were Americans.’

‘Americans,’ repeated Patterson flatly. ‘You mean tourists?’

‘Shouldn’t think so. The men were American, the women were Welsh, and local by the sound of them.’

‘But you didn’t know them?’

‘Never seen them before or since.’

‘But they asked about the field station?’ said Karen.

‘No doubt about it. I thought it a bit strange, like. None of them looked like boffins, if you know what I mean. They looked quite normal.’

‘I suppose they didn’t say why they were going to the field station?’ asked Patterson hopefully.

‘’Fraid not.’

Karen asked if he could remember the exact date and he gave two possibilities. ‘Either the Monday or the Tuesday, I’m not sure which.’

Karen turned to Patterson and said, ‘That would be about ten days after Peter and Amy came here.’

Patterson agreed and added, ‘And round about the time the two of them stopped phoning.’

Karen turned back to the barman and said, ‘This really is important: can you remember anything else at all about those people?’

‘Not really,’ replied the man. ‘They weren’t the friendliest folk I’ve come across. They stayed for a meal, complained about the coffee and then buggered off. No bloody tip, either, as I remember.’

‘How did they pay?’ asked Karen; the man’s comments had given her an idea.

He had to think for a moment. ‘Credit card, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Ninety per cent of people do these days.’

‘Then you should have a record of the transaction,’ said Karen, her eyes bright with hope.

The man shrugged and said, ‘I suppose. My wife deals with these things.’

‘Would you ask her, please?’ said Karen. ‘It really is important.’

The man shuffled out of the bar and was gone for three or four minutes. When he came back he was arguing with a small grey-haired woman he called Megan. She was carrying a rectangular metal box, which she clutched to her bosom.

‘Megan thinks you’re from the Inland Revenue,’ said the man. ‘You’re not, are you?’ He gave an uncertain smile, revealing bad teeth.

‘Definitely not,’ said Karen.

‘No way,’ added Patterson.

The woman opened the box and tipped out a bundle of credit-card receipts on to the bar counter. Her husband put on a pair of black-framed glasses and started sifting through them, licking his fingers to assist their separation.

Karen felt as if she were watching a slow-motion replay of grass growing. She itched to snatch the forms and go through them herself, but she kept the impulse in check and made do with a glance at Patterson and a roll of her eyes heavenwards.

‘This is the one,’ announced the man. ‘This is it.’ He held the paper up closer to his glasses and read out with difficulty, ‘American Express. J. Clyde Miller. Mean anything?’

Karen and Patterson shook their heads. ‘May I see?’ asked Karen. Her expression changed as she noticed something else. ‘Look!’ she said, handing the receipt over to Patterson. ‘He was using a company credit card. Look at the company name.’

Patterson took the receipt. His eyes widened as he read out loud, ‘Lehman International.’

‘You’ve been a big help,’ said Karen to the two people behind the bar.

‘We can’t thank you enough,’ added Patterson.

‘So you think you can trace these people?’

‘They worked for the same company as my husband – at least, the one who paid the bill did. They must know something. You say the women were local?’

‘Sounded like it.’

Karen looked at Patterson and said, ‘Looks like we won’t be going home just yet.’

‘Might you be wanting some dinner, then?’ asked Megan.

Karen smiled, thinking that the least she and Patterson could do was to eat at the hotel. ‘I think we might,’ she agreed.

Karen and Patterson made plans for the following day while they ate. ‘I think we should call Paul Grossart in the morning and ask for the women’s addresses,’ said Karen.

‘Grossart’s not exactly been helpful so far,’ said Patterson.

‘You think he might refuse?’

‘I think it’s a possibility. I got the impression he wanted to wash his hands of Peter and Amy.’

‘Jesus!’ exclaimed the barman, who was reading his paper again. He called out something in Welsh and Megan appeared, drying her hands on a cloth. He showed her a story in the paper and they seemed to agree about something.

Karen and Patterson suddenly realised that the pair were staring at them. ‘What is it?’ Karen asked.

‘It’s her!’ exclaimed the man, pointing to the paper as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘This is one of the women who came here with the Americans.’

Karen and Patterson went over, and the barman showed them a picture of a middle-aged woman.

‘She’s in Caernarfon General,’ said the man. ‘They say she might be the first case in Wales of the Manchester virus.’

Manchester

Back in his hotel room, Steven slipped the disk into his laptop and felt a welcome buzz of excitement. Please God he was at last holding the key to the outbreak. The disk must be vitally important if Greg Allan had chosen to end his life over it in a cold, dark wood a week before Christmas.

The disk contained a single Microsoft Word file with no title. Steven clicked it open and watched the first page come up under the header SNOWBALL 2000. Beneath it was a list of names in a vertical column, each aligned with the address of a hospital or clinic listed in a column to the right. His first impression was that the locations were pretty much spread over the entire UK. There was also a date assigned to each entry. Steven quickly scrolled to the bottom of the list to see what other information the document held, but there was nothing there. The list was all there was.

He recognised some of the names as those of wildcard patients so he felt confident that he had got hold of the right disk. In fact, when he examined the list in more detail, all eighteen wildcard patients were there but what he found puzzling was that there seemed to be no correlation between donors and recipients. If this was a record of the donors used in the supply of heart valves, as he supposed it to be, why weren’t the donors matched up with their respective recipients? There was nothing to indicate who was what.

In all there were fifty-six names, an even number, so at least in theory they could be twenty-eight donors and twenty-eight recipients, but there was no way of telling. Steven felt a tide of bitter, hollow disappointment sweep over him. There was nothing here to help him establish what had caused the outbreak, and nothing to suggest why Greg Allan should have committed suicide when someone had routinely asked for details of donors. Steven logged off. He’d had enough of puzzles for the moment. He decided to go and see how Caroline was.