The Hunt and the Kill

by Holly Watt

  ‘Oh, god. I don’t need the competition. But you will be great, Flora. I know it.’

  And they laughed and said goodbye, and Casey wondered if she would ever see her again.

  25

  At the hospital, Professor Jalali was waiting for her, flanked by two nurses.

  ‘I thought we would start in the NICU,’ Jalali was brisk in her scrubs. ‘That’s the neonatal intensive care unit. Then we can move on to special care, which is where we transfer the babies when they need slightly less support.’

  They proceeded smartly down a corridor.

  ‘I gather you’re interested in antibiotic resistance,’ said Professor Jalali. ‘As you probably know, babies are usually born at around 40 weeks. However, some of these very premature babies will have been born at 22, 23 weeks, so they are severely undercooked. They are moved to the NICU as soon as they are born and put on antibiotics immediately – gentamicin and penicillin – because they basically do not have an immune system at this point.’

  ‘And they survive?’

  ‘Many of them do.’ A nod. ‘There are often long-term problems, of course, but they do survive.’

  The little group had paused outside a ward, peering in through a glass panel. The big room was claustrophobic with equipment, and there was a sink at each bed. A nurse was washing her hands at one of these basins, moving with rehearsed precision. Her movements were almost balletic: every gesture designed to reduce risk and increase the frail chance of life. The ward was quiet, the silence expectant.

  ‘Four to a ward in intensive care,’ said Professor Jalali rapidly. ‘We used to have six babies on each, but we reduced it because of the infection risk.’

  Casey stared through the glass panel, shocked. There were three babies in this room, each child just a few inches long. These were tiny scraps of humanity, clinging on to life. Little kernels of human beings.

  In the bed nearest the glass panel, a couple was sitting beside the incubator. They were both grey with exhaustion, bent like trees in a hurricane. Two gloves, bulky and awkward, extended into the incubator. The mother was stroking the baby very gently.

  ‘But they’re so small,’ Casey exclaimed.

  The baby in the incubator was fragile and wrinkled, translucent as a baby bird. Not quite formed, but perfect. An impossibly miniature human being.

  ‘Sometimes when the babies are born,’ the nurse said quietly, ‘the mothers are very ill too. The preemies are brought here, but the mother can’t be moved. We take photographs, so the mothers can see their brand new baby. But we had to start putting biro pens next to the babies, because the mothers would see a perfectly formed child, and think there wasn’t a problem. But with the biro in the picture, the mother can see that the baby is only a few inches longer than the pen.’

  ‘We need to keep the parents informed,’ said Professor Jalali. ‘And we need to be realistic.’

  Jalali walked on, passing the entrance to the special care unit. A baby was crying in special care, the sound a relief after the deadening silence of the NICU.

  On the intensive care reception desk, Casey could see a white candle in a small jar. Beside the candle, there was a small sign.

  If this candle is burning, parents are saying goodbye to their child. Please be quiet, so they can say goodbye in peace.

  ‘Right.’ Professor Jalali sat down at her desk. ‘Do you have any other questions?’

  She had dispensed with the nurse with a few crisp instructions, the nurse hurrying at her words. Now she sat forward, eyes on Casey.

  Jalali was short with long black hair tied in a tight bun. Her hair was thick, shiny, a few wiry white hairs sticking out disregarded. In her sixties, her skin was a polished dark brown, and her intelligence almost visible, like a quiver in the room. She moved with economic motions, every action purposeful.

  Jalali gave off an air of intense morality, thought Casey. Not puritanical, but profoundly principled.

  ‘I’m actually interested,’ Casey looked straight at the professor, ‘in the work of Zac Napier.’

  Jalali’s eyes focused sharply. ‘I haven’t heard that name for a few years. You know he trained here, of course. I taught him for several years.’

  ‘I’m interested in the work he was doing in America.’

  Professor Jalali leaned back in her chair. ‘I was also interested in the work he was doing in America. But then it all went quiet.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘No.’ Jalali put her chin on her hands. ‘Do you?’

  ‘I do not,’ said Casey. ‘I am trying to find out.’

  ‘I have not spoken to Zac for at least two years,’ said Jalali. ‘Have you spoken to him?’ For a second, Casey was caught off guard. ‘Interesting,’ Jalali nodded. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Why would they have shut down work on Corax?’

  ‘Is that what it’s called? It could be any number of reasons,’ said Jalali. ‘Often with antibiotics, everything starts off looking positive, but then things go awry.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well,’ said Jalali. ‘An antibiotic isn’t much use if it kills Enterobacter, but also stops your kidneys functioning. Or if it fixes your UTI, but sends you blind. Or you may find that there will be insuperable problems in producing mass quantities of your new antibiotic. Then, of course, if it turns out that the drug has to be given intravenously rather than swallowed in pill format, you’re looking at a hospital stay, and for billions of people around the world, that is simply not feasible.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Antibiotics are tricky things,’ said Jalali. ‘Another thing that Colindale has to check is whether a new drug will trigger resistance too quickly. Bacteria will inevitably find a way around a new drug, and if it will happen too fast, it’s not a good idea to use it widely.’

  ‘I see. Do you think that happened with Corax?’

  ‘It’s impossible to know.’

  ‘And Zac never told you about it?’

  ‘I know he was excited about his work,’ said Jalali. ‘But he had signed an NDA with Pergamex, and couldn’t tell us anything. He enjoyed teasing us, I think. Have you looked into that Pergamex company?’

  ‘Garrick McElroy, the chief executive, is based in the US.’

  ‘You haven’t got very far then.’

  ‘No.’ Resigned.

  ‘The problem with the pharmaceutical industry,’ said Jalali, ‘is that it could be almost anything. It could be that another company didn’t like what Pergamex was discovering, and incentivised them to stop.’

  ‘That happens?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Jalali’s eyes gleamed. ‘If, for example, a young scientist is carrying out research on the material used to make artificial hips, and another company who manufactures their own artificial hips doesn’t like the look of the new data emerging, the hip manufacturer might miraculously find the funding for the scientist to investigate something else. The original research is left unfinished, and that’s that. It gets buried, essentially.’

  ‘Could that have happened here? Someone said that Adsero might have raised a patent issue with Pergamex.’

  ‘There is a link to Adsero in all this?’

  ‘I think so. It’s not clear.’

  ‘They are known to be ruthless,’ said Jalali. ‘But brilliant.’

  ‘So it might be a patent issue?’

  ‘It is possible.’ Jalali stared at her fingers. They were roughened from years of antibacterial handwashing. ‘Patents are constantly being used to block research. It is a scandal.’

  ‘It seems bizarre.’

  ‘It is deeply frustrating for doctors. But then the pharmaceutical companies invest millions in research, so … ’ A shrug. ‘We do know that there are major issues with resistance to Adsero’s zentetra now. And possibly because of that, Adsero is trying to develop their new antibiotic. But I’ve heard there are problems with that drug too.’

  ‘Saepio?’

  ‘I think that’s what they�
�ve called it.’

  Casey thought about Bailey’s instantaneous, uncontrollable rage. Maybe it was stress, she thought, over a failing new drug. And they’d interpreted it as anger.

  ‘It could be almost anything then, Professor Jalali?’

  ‘Yes, it could,’ she said soberly. ‘I am sorry I cannot be more helpful.’

  ‘Did you try and get hold of Zac? After he left Pergamex.’

  ‘Once or twice. But we are very busy here, Casey.’ Jalali waved a hand around the sparse room. ‘And the problems are only getting worse.’

  As they had walked around earlier, a nurse had pointed out an empty ward, mothballed for lack of funding.

  ‘I can ask around about Corax, if it would help?’ Jalali offered. ‘And Adsero.’

  Casey looked straight at the doctor. ‘Did you know Professor Brennan, at Colindale?’

  ‘Yes, we worked together in Oxford for a while, years ago, and I always enjoyed his company. I attended his funeral, of course.’

  ‘I can’t be sure,’ Casey said slowly, ‘that Professor Brennan’s accident wasn’t connected to Corax. Or it might be connected to me in some strange way. I don’t know, but it’s important that you know that there may be a risk in asking questions about Adsero and Corax. That traffic crash may have been an accident – that is certainly what the police think – but they still haven’t found out who was driving the car. It is possible, Professor Jalali, that just asking about Corax could be dangerous.’

  Jalali gave her a long look. ‘Are there any links between Adsero and Ernest Brennan?’

  ‘Brennan and Bailey would have been at Cambridge at the same time,’ said Casey. ‘Brennan was a couple of years older, but they could have met there. And, of course, they’ve both been connected to the pharmaceutical industry for years.’

  Casey remembered Brennan’s face as he answered the phone. That avuncular smile disappearing.

  ‘You could draw similar connections between Brennan and me, I suppose,’ said Jalali. ‘And Bailey and me. There aren’t so many of us, working in this field.’

  ‘Yes. I won’t run any article about the neonatal unit until I am sure it won’t put you at any risk.’

  ‘I see.’ Jalali’s eyes never flickered. ‘Do you have a phone number for Zac Napier?’

  ‘I do. And he goes by the name of Daniel Richmond now.’

  ‘Please give it to me.’

  Casey read out the number. ‘Did you like Zac?’ she asked.

  ‘He had an exceptional mind, and there was a lot of good about him.’ Jalali allowed herself a small smile. ‘But it was better for morale among the nurses when he left.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘As a doctor,’ Jalali said slowly, ‘every time you prescribe an antibiotic, you have to debate: is your moral duty to this patient or to future generations? The runaway train, and you’re at the points.’

  A buzzer rang, and Jalali stood up. Casey stood too. ‘Thank you for your time, Professor.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ said Jalali. ‘I will call you if I can think of anything else.’

  ‘I’m very grateful.’

  ‘I hope you find out what happened to this Corax,’ said Jalali, abruptly serious. ‘In a few years’ time – not many at all – the world will be desperate for a new antibiotic. You need to understand that millions and millions of lives will depend on it.’

  26

  ‘How are you going to get to Garrick McElroy?’ asked Miranda.

  ‘It’s certainly a tricky one.’ Casey’s eyes were glued to her screen. ‘Hang on, just filing an interview with the Health Secretary for the Saturday paper.’

  Casey typed a few more words and sent the article through to the newsdesk with a sigh.

  ‘What are you going in on?’ asked Miranda.

  ‘I’m interested in the Right Hon. Colette Warwick’s links to the City,’ said Casey. ‘But features have decided that the topline is her Juniper loyalty card. She’s been photographed wearing a pair of red Juniper stilettos for the article. You can only imagine the excitement. Cressida is even doing a sidebar.’

  Cressida was the fashion editor, who rolled her eyes at Casey’s occasional requests for assistance.

  ‘But of course.’

  ‘It’s all a question,’ sighed Casey, ‘of perspective.’

  ‘Well, those stilettos are probably the only thing anyone will remember about Colette Warwick, anyway.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘So what are your options with McElroy?’ asked Miranda.

  ‘Garrick McElroy’s got to come to me,’ said Casey. ‘From what Noah’s told me, he prefers the chase.’

  ‘So you’re casting bread upon the waters.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Casey reached for her phone. ‘Which reminds me.’

  She sent a quick text message.

  ‘Was that to McElroy?’

  ‘It was. Garrick matched with Madison three weeks ago on Tinder,’ said Casey. ‘They’ve been chatting ever since.’

  ‘And who,’ Miranda sighed, ‘is Madison?’

  ‘Me in a blonde wig with blue contact lenses.’ Casey showed Miranda a couple of photographs. ‘And a lot of make-up. Photoshopped a bit by the picture desk.’

  ‘I would not recognise you,’ Miranda examined the screen in awe. ‘Why don’t you just go in as Madison?’

  ‘I don’t think Madison would get much out of McElroy,’ said Casey. ‘Madison just finds out where he’s going to be and when. And what he’s like. She’s very useful at building up intel is old Maddie.’

  ‘How did you get him to match with Madison in the first place? I thought Tinder operated off your location.’

  ‘When Evie was up in San Fran,’ Casey said airily, ‘she logged into Tinder as Madison and went and stood outside McElroy’s house in Pacific Heights till he logged in as well.’

  Evie was the Post’s West Coast correspondent. She was based in Los Angeles, but flew up to San Francisco on a regular basis to report on the tech scene.

  ‘How long did poor Evie have to stand outside his house?’

  ‘About five minutes,’ said Casey. ‘Noah was right. McElroy is definitely a player.’

  ‘But can’t he tell you’re logging in from London now?’ asked Miranda. ‘Doesn’t Tinder show how far you are from someone?’

  ‘Madison is in London for work now,’ Casey explained. ‘To be honest, that’s how she’s been able to keep chatting to McElroy for so long. It gives her an aura of inaccessibility that might otherwise be lacking, quite frankly.’

  Casey’s phone buzzed again.

  ‘Garrick’s going to be in Miami next week for another round of fundraising,’ Casey read aloud. ‘He’s trying to raise money for some oil deal. I think it might be time for a few more breadcrumbs.’

  A couple of hours later, Maurice Delacroix telephoned Casey, sounding almost angry.

  ‘Casey, your wretched business desk is asking questions about my Monet.’

  ‘Which Monet?’

  ‘Don’t play games with me, Casey. The one in the Freeport.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about the Monet in the Freeport.’

  ‘Tell them to bloody stop.’

  ‘I can’t, Maurice. I don’t have any control over what the business desk gets up to.’

  ‘Casey.’

  ‘It is odd that you should call, though, Maurice. I was just about to ring you. I wanted to ask a favour.’

  ‘What a very fortuitous coincidence, Casey.’

  ‘Just think how lucky it is that the business desk don’t know about the Picasso, Maurice. Or the Van Gogh.’

  ‘Casey.’

  ‘Or even the diamond mine.’

  Delacroix was a fixer. He had started trading in oil years ago, when the industry was based on a nod for a pipeline and a handshake for a cargo of crude. As he built his fortune, his business interests – and network – widened.

  Casey had met him in Monaco, when they were both on the hunt. They had been friends immed
iately, and traded secrets like toys.

  ‘What is this favour then, Casey?’ There was a laugh now behind the slight French accent.

  ‘It’s not so much a favour, Maurice, as a little investment advice.’

  ‘And you’ll have a word with your business desk.’

  ‘Well, they do sit directly opposite me.’

  ‘By the way, Casey, I have a little property development in a ski resort in Colorado. It’s about ready for a bit of publicity in the Post.’

  ‘Of course, Maurice. But first … ’

  27

  Now Delacroix prowled through the huge living room and out to the vast balcony.

  ‘This is an amazing house,’ said Casey.

  ‘It belongs to a friend of mine,’ Delacroix gestured. ‘Moldovan.’

  The waterfront mansion sat on one of the most exclusive islands in Miami, close to the golden sizzle of South Beach. Built in the art deco style, the sprawling villa mimicked Ocean Drive’s knowing sparkle but included every billionaire requirement from cinema room to recording studio. Staff in white polo shirts and camel-coloured chino shorts darted about discreetly.

  ‘They brought that sand in from the Bahamas.’ Delacroix nodded down at the pink beach in front of the house. ‘Christ, I hate Miami.’

  Delacroix’s deep-set black eyes glowered at the palm trees. He was tall, tanned, and always beautifully dressed. His voice was English public school with the occasional French syllable. Like Casey, he could draw the eye or fade into a crowd, depending on his mood.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ soothed Casey. ‘You’ll be back in Lyford Cay soon enough.’

  She had known that Delacroix retreated to his Bahamas home at this time of year. And also that he got bored easily. He would probably have flown the hour to Miami even without the mention of the Monet.

  ‘Remind me who this man is again?’ Delacroix sighed.

  It had been easy for Madison to work out who McElroy was meeting in Florida. McElroy enjoyed boasting to pretty blondes, it turned out.

  Delacroix had read through the list of McElroy’s investors dismissively. ‘I know him,’ he sighed. ‘And him. And he really owes me.’

  A couple of phone calls later, one of McElroy’s potential investors was putting a hefty sum into Delacroix’s property development in Colorado. The investor had also promised to give Delacroix a heads-up if he heard about opportunities in energy or pharma. ‘Give them my number,’ Delacroix added. ‘I’m stuck in bloody Miami for a few days anyway.’