Wildcard (30 page)

Steven nodded his agreement.

‘The word is they’ve reduced the charges against him,’ said Kate.

‘
What?
’ exclaimed Steven, unwilling to believe his ears.

‘There’s a rumour going round that they’re reducing it to manslaughter.’

‘It was murder,’ he insisted.

‘Maybe not when you’re an MP with a powerful daddy and friends in high places.’

Steven had a restless night but when he awoke to see the sun shining in through the windows he decided to follow his original plan and drive up to Cumbria to have his day out on the hills in crisp, clear conditions. The mountains, as he knew they would, made him feel very small, and thoughts of the timescale involved in their formation made his own lifetime seem like a mere breath in the cosmos. He was as unimportant as a single grain of sand on the face of the earth, and that was exactly the feeling he wanted. It always brought with it absolution.

In all, he walked for five hours, pausing only once, high above Windermere, to sit on a rock and eat the sandwiches that he’d bought earlier. He didn’t rest for long, though, because he felt his body cooling rapidly and his fingers becoming numb in the subzero temperatures. Darkness was already falling by the time he got back to the car, and his calf and thigh muscles were telling him that they’d had a hard day.

On impulse, he decided to make a detour on the way back and drive through Glenridding, the village where he had been brought up. He drove slowly through it but didn’t stop. His folks were long dead and there was no one there he wanted to see again. Ullswater, however, on whose shore the village sat, was unchanged, and he took comfort from that as he followed its north shore. The place triggered memories of a happy childhood and the friends he’d known when the summer days went on for ever.

Although his day out had helped him relax, Steven’s thoughts turned to what Kate had said about the charges against Spicer being reduced. Despite his best efforts, her words played on his mind all the way back to Manchester. The man had stabbed Pelota with a kitchen knife in his own restaurant, and had admitted doing it. How could the Crown Prosecution Service possibly consider a reduced charge?

Steven tried hard to cling to his anger, but it was all too easy to see how clever lawyers might present Spicer’s case. Pelota had been blackmailing him, and that would be the key to the defence. No one would contest that fact, so there would be no argument about it in court and certainly not much sympathy for Pelota by the time defence counsel had laboured the point. Spicer’s lawyer would maintain that his client had decided to do the right thing and go to the police. He would say that he had gone first to the Magnolia to tell Pelota just that, and Pelota, no longer able to wield the threat of exposure, had threatened him with a knife. A struggle had ensued, and during it Pelota had been accidentally stabbed. Ye gods, Spicer might even get off with a light sentence instead of the life term Steven had been counting on. He might even come out of it on a wave of public sympathy!

Recurring thoughts of Spicer and his role in Caroline’s death haunted Steven all evening, so much so that he came to a decision about what he would do with his second day off. It might not be the most sensible thing in the world, but he would try to see Spicer in prison. Spicer was the only man who could put right the wrong done to Caroline’s reputation. There was also a chance that the little shit might not know what he’d done to Trudi. He should know about that. He definitely should.

Tiredness was catching up as Steven logged on to his computer before bed and found that the first result had come in from Porton. The lab had carried out a tissue-compatibility test on the mitral valve taken from Mary Xavier and found it was a very good match – almost perfect, in fact.

‘Nice to know,’ murmured Steven.

‘Spicer might want his lawyer present,’ warned the prison governor when Steven made his request.

‘It’s completely unofficial,’ said Steven. ‘There’s no question of interviewing him under police caution, so there’s no chance of him incriminating himself any further. I just want a chat.’

‘A chat,’ repeated the governor with a knowing smile. ‘He may well refuse to see you, in that case,’ he said.

‘He may. But there’d be no harm in letting him think there might be some official basis for the request …?’

The governor’s smile broadened. He said, ‘All right, we’ll play it your way and give it a try, but if he asks for a lawyer he gets one. Understood?’

‘Understood.’

Leaning over the desk, the governor said, ‘There’s actually a very good chance he won’t. Our Mr Spicer has been experiencing a resurgence of self-confidence, shall we say, ever since the charges were reduced.’

‘Then it’s true?’

‘Oh yes,’ said the governor. ‘It’s what happens when your pals in high places retain the services of the best silk in the country and the local Crown prosecutor starts spending a lot of time in the lavatory.’

‘And they tell me we don’t have plea bargaining in this country,’ said Steven.

‘Like we don’t have a class system,’ said the governor, picking up his phone.

Before long a return phone call informed them that Spicer was waiting in the interview room. ‘I’ll take you down,’ said the governor.

Despite the prison clothes, Spicer looked both smart and smug, thought Steven as he was shown into the room. ‘Nice of you to see me,’ he said.

‘Just call me curious,’ replied Spicer, wearing the self-satisfied grin Steven had come to loathe.

‘I hear you got the charges reduced,’ said Steven.

‘I had every confidence in British justice, and it hasn’t let me down.’

‘You murdered Anthony Pelota to keep him quiet, and, what’s more, you’re responsible for the deaths of well over a hundred people in this city.’

Spicer’s grin faded. ‘Let’s get something straight,’ he hissed, leaning across the bare table that separated them. ‘There’s no way I could have known I had that damned virus, and you know it. My medical history’s confidential, and if any suggestion of this reaches the papers I’ll hold you personally responsible and sue your arse off.’

‘You also destroyed the reputation of Dr Caroline Anderson to score cheap political points,’ continued Steven.

Spicer relaxed back into his chair. ‘So that’s why you’re here,’ he said with a knowing grin. ‘She sent you here to try and salvage her career.’

‘She’s dead,’ said Steven. ‘She died nursing victims of the virus.’

Spicer looked questioningly at him, as if trying to see an angle that wasn’t immediately apparent. ‘And you had a soft spot for her, right?’

‘I think I loved her,’ said Steven matter-of-factly.

Spicer swallowed. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked, clearly unsettled.

‘I want you to put the record straight on Caroline.’

‘She meant that much, huh?’ said Spicer, his expression showing that he thought he might have the upper hand. ‘Well, no deal. She made a wrong decision. She should have sent out a call for all those kids at the disco.’

‘That wouldn’t have made the slightest difference. As it was, she used her common sense and prevented panic. She was a good and dedicated doctor. She deserves to be remembered as such.’

‘No deal, Dunbar. I have my own career to think of.’

Steven’s open incredulity brought a smile to Spicer’s face. He said, ‘All right, I had an affair, I admit it. I’m not the first and won’t be the last. Then some wop tried to blackmail me and accidentally got himself killed trying to stop me going to the police. No one’s going to lose much sleep over that. It’s not inconceivable that I might be forgiven in time. There’s even a rumour going around that my barrister’s sponsored by Kleenex because of the number of jurors he’s reduced to tears.’

Steven didn’t smile. He felt his loathing for Spicer become an actual taste in his mouth. ‘Trudi is in St Jude’s,’ he said. ‘She’s gone down with the virus.’

Spicer went silent and still. ‘So?’ he said eventually; but his bravado was diminished by the hoarseness of his voice.

‘We both know how she got it.’

‘Even if what you’re suggesting is true – and I don’t accept that for a moment – there’s nothing you can do. Like I said, my medical history is confidential, and there’s no way I could have known at the time.’

Steven looked at Spicer as if he were a stain on the floor but said nothing. Spicer was psyched into leaning across the table and saying, ‘Nothing you can do, Dunbar.’

‘It’s true I can’t reveal your medical record, or do anything to stop a smartarse lawyer minimising your crime, but I’m not entirely without influence.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It would be naïve of you to believe that no one else knows about your involvement in the outbreak, or that rumours won’t start.’

‘So what? They won’t be able to make it public any more than you can.’

‘It’s my guess that you’re still going to go to prison – not for as long as I’d hoped, I grant you, but you’re still going down.’

‘So? I’ll catch up on my reading.’

‘That’s where my influence comes in.’

‘Just what are you getting at?’ asked Spicer uneasily.

It was Steven’s turn to lean over the table. ‘Just this. Either you admit publicly that you falsely accused Caroline of incompetence and clear her name, or I’ll put the fix in over where and how you spend your sentence. And believe me, you little shit, I’ll see to it that your arse becomes a bigger attraction than Blackpool Pleasure Beach.’

Spicer turned pale. He tried to splutter a response but nothing came out.

‘Your call,’ said Steven. He got up and knocked on the door. The warder opened it at once, and Steven was gone before Spicer could say any more.

Steven needed a drink. He headed for the nearest pub and downed a large gin. He was annoyed with himself for letting Spicer get to him again; he’d come dangerously close to hitting the man, and he knew it. He was about to order another drink when his mobile phone rang, attracting derisory looks from the other customers.

He went outside, and Macmillan said, ‘There’s been another wildcard case.’

Warning bells went off in Steven’s head: why was Macmillan phoning him personally? ‘Where?’ he asked.

‘North Wales.’

‘And?’ Steven had a nasty feeling there was bad news to come.

‘She’s not on the list.’

Steven closed his eyes and mouthed the words ‘Oh fuck!’ Aloud, he said, ‘Oh dear.’

‘Oh dear indeed,’ said Macmillan. ‘You do realise what this means?’

‘We’re not out of the woods yet.’

‘That’s one way of putting it, although the PM used a different expression when I told him fifteen minutes ago. He’s reconvening the national emergency committee.’

‘Makes sense,’ said Steven, his voice heavy with resignation.

‘Any ideas at all?’

‘I suppose there could have been more than one list,’ suggested Steven weakly.

‘Then why wasn’t it on the disk? There was plenty of room.’

‘Don’t know, but it’s worth checking out.’

‘I’ll have Greg Allan’s colleagues go through his stuff with a fine-tooth comb,’ said Macmillan. ‘Just in case there is another disk.’

‘You’re absolutely sure this woman’s not on the list?’ said Steven. ‘I mean she might have changed her surname if she got married recently.’

‘She’s been married for twenty years. And, what’s even more important, she’s never had heart surgery in her life.’

Steven felt the weight of the world descend on his shoulders. ‘I see. Send me the details, will you?’

‘On their way,’ said Macmillan gruffly, and he hung up.

When Steven got back to his hotel, the information on the new case was waiting for him when he connected his laptop. The sick woman was Maureen Williams, aged forty-four, a retired nurse who lived with her lorry-driver husband in the village of Port Dinorwic on the Menai Strait. She was currently in isolation in Caernarfon General Hospital and local Public Health officials were keeping a close eye on her neighbours and relatives.

The file made depressing reading. Steven couldn’t find one solitary thing to connect Maureen Williams to any of the other cases. She had never been involved with anyone connected to any of the outbreaks, and she didn’t have a heart problem. ‘So how the hell did she get it?’ he exclaimed out loud. ‘Jesus Christ! Give me a break here.’

He sat down on the bed and stared at the floor, taking deep breaths and trying to get a grip on his emotions. For two pins he’d pen a letter of resignation and piss off into the sunset … but the thought didn’t last. If there was any resigning to be done he’d do it at the end of an assignment, not in the middle, and certainly not at square one, which was where he seemed to be back once again. He got up and started pacing round the room.

Despite the new evidence, he still could not and would not accept that any virus could appear out of thin air and infect at will. There had to be a connection. It was just that he couldn’t see it. ‘Yet!’ he spat out the word defiantly. Almost unconsciously, he started throwing things in a bag. He was going to North Wales.

TWENTY

It was late when Steven arrived in Caernarfon. He’d driven nonstop and felt the need to stretch his legs, so he parked down by the waterfront and walked from the harbour round the walls of Caernarfon Castle where they stood guard over the Menai Strait. He paused halfway round, leaned on the railings and looked down at the cold, dark water lapping on the shingle. The sound of a foghorn somewhere on Anglesey added to the gloom surrounding him. He shivered, rubbed his arms and returned to the car to drive up to Caernarfon General.

At that time of night only junior medical staff were on duty, so Steven spoke to the young houseman in charge of the special unit where Maureen Williams was in isolation.

‘There’s not really much I can tell you,’ said the doctor, ‘apart from the fact that she’s very ill.’

‘I take it no line of contact has been established in the past twenty-four hours?’ said Steven.

‘None at all. It’s a complete mystery how she got it. She hasn’t been out of Wales in the past year, and Y Felinheli isn’t exactly a crossroads for the international jet set.’