Kill and Cure

by Andy Ashdown Design

  the doorway. ‘I think you may want to look at this.’

  In Stichell’s living-room was a set of French doors that led onto a patio. To the left was a small garage and a side door. ‘In here,’ said the constable. They went inside and he bent over an old cupboard that stood against the far wall. There on the bottom shelf was a pair of plastic gloves scrunched together in a ball. Varcy frowned and squatted to inspect it. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Gloves, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, but what’s the concern?’

  ‘They smell of … well, acid, sir.’

  Varcy leaned forwards and sniffed.

  ‘Can’t smell a thing.’

  ‘You want them taken away, sir?’

  Varcy nodded absently. ‘Yes, bag them up.’

  Making his way back to Stichell’s lounge, he could hear an excited voice. He followed the sound to where Kendrick was hunched over Stichell’s answer phone. Kendrick looked up as Varcy approached, and pressed the play button.

  ‘Susan. It’s me, Clive. You switched probes, didn’t you? I know about the viral DNA in these samples. I know you do too. God, Susan this is madness … it’s …

  huge … Call me as soon as you get this – you’ve got my number.’

  ‘What do you make of that?’ asked Kendrick.

  Varcy shrugged, reached forwards and played it again. A second hearing made it no clearer except for one thing. He rewound. ‘Susan. It’s me, Clive. You switched probes, didn’t you?’

  He rewound again. ‘Susan. It’s me, Clive …’

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  Back in the van, Ed Connor closed his eyes. There had been a change of plan. It happened soon after Stichell and the girl made for the stairwell. Up until then it was all going well and he had sent Trevor to bring the transit round the back while he went after them. Then he heard the commotion and realised someone was down. Excellent. It was the girl. This would be easier than he imagined. He rushed downwards. What was it about the girl? The hair –

  was that it? Then he heard Stichell cry out, ‘Vicky!’

  Vicky … Vicky …

  Then it came to him. Of course, blonde Vicky.

  His thoughts were distracted by something moving fast to his right; a flitting, light brown mass of colour. He tried to check his speed, but hit it head on. A cage smashed onto the stairs. Ed lost his footing and shot forwards. He landed, spine down, just as the door of the cage opened and a rat squirmed free, then another one – this time bigger and fatter; scurrying … A third … Ed hated rats.

  Pain gnawed across his back. The man he had collided with was now hurrying to pick the animals up. ‘These are vaccinated with a new drugging regime!’ he cried. ‘We can’t lose them!’

  Ed moved his legs and the muscles in his back 136

  went into spasm. He sat up cautiously. The man flustered about him grabbing rats’ tails. He caught another. It spun and wriggled. Ed’s skin crawled.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Animal house. There’s been a security breach –

  we must get these rats to a safe place.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘I had a call.’

  A rat scampered onto Ed’s shoe. Urgh. He flicked it away. The man in brown went to fetch it.

  ‘What sort of security breach?’

  ‘Animal rights groups, I imagine. They’re a constant threat. If I get a call, I take the experimentals like these to safety.’

  ‘Who called you?’

  ‘Security.’

  Ed looked over the rail. Stichell and the girl were gone. He looked back at the man as he lovingly rescued another rat.

  ‘Who’s on security?’

  ‘I didn’t ask – they just said a breach had taken place and that I should follow the normal protocol –

  that means moving these to a safe place.’

  Ed eyed the man. Was he taking the piss? In another life, he wouldn’t have bothered to find out.

  He got to his feet and dusted himself off. In this life, there were other ways to get what he wanted.

  Ed now knew who the girl was and that changed everything.

  * * *

  137

  They were in one of those hall-shaped coffee bars, just a couple of blocks from UCL. It was a prime student hangout. Stich felt like a sixth former at a year ten party. A waitress came to take the order, but Stich couldn’t even think about food. He ordered a coffee.

  Then the café door opened and a short man appeared: gelled, black, tin-tin hair, donkey jacket, paint flecks at the shoulder. The door was hinged to swing both ways, and it swooshed to and fro a few times before subsiding. The man had his hands thrust in his pockets as he scanned the bar. Stich jolted in his seat. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘What?’

  Stich craned his neck. The man found a booth.

  ‘What?’ Vicky asked again.

  ‘Nothing. I thought I saw someone I didn’t want to.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘No one you know.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Stich massaged his temples. ‘Look, Vicky, you’ve got to get out of this.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Leave and go home. It’s too dangerous to hang around.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Vick, we’ve been lucky so far. It might not last, in fact I’m sure it won’t. I’ve got no choice but to carry on. You don’t have to.’

  ‘So, I just walk away and leave you to deal with this on your own? After all we’ve been through?’

  138

  ‘I’m not saying that. But I don’t want you killed.’

  ‘I’m not intending to let that happen.’

  ‘This isn’t a game, Vicky. Susan is dead, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Let me worry about it.’

  They sat in silence. Then Stich said quietly, ‘You said you knew Mike Venton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he have a family?’

  ‘Wife, couple of kids, I think.’

  ‘Do you know where they live?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to talk to his wife. She might know something.’

  ‘Something like what?’

  ‘I don’t know … anything.’

  Students at the window seats erupted with laughter as the waitress returned with a pot of filter coffee and two mugs. Stich stared at the curling steam while Vicky rummaged in her bag and pulled out her diary.

  ‘You want some of this?’ he said, filling his mug.

  She flipped through then stuck her finger in a page. ‘Half a cup. Here. I have the number, but my battery’s dead.’

  ‘Use this one,’ said Stich, passing over Susan’s mobile.

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  ‘Number eight.’ Vicky leaned forwards squinting.

  ‘That one.’ She pointed to an end terrace.

  ‘It’s Mary, right?’ asked Stich as they approached.

  Before they reached the door, it opened and a woman stood at the entrance. Her hair hung limply at her shoulders, her face pale and drawn. She smiled but the effort looked as if it would break her.

  Stich didn’t know what to say so he offered his hand.

  ‘Come on in. Sorry about the mess, the kids have been off school.’

  They stepped into the hallway and she led them to the living-room. ‘Take a seat,’ she said. ‘Can I get you both a drink?’

  ‘A soft one would be great.’

  ‘Lemonade okay?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Give me a minute.’

  Stich’s gaze swept around the lounge. It was family-friendly; cheap laminated flooring littered with children’s toys, the walls covered with pictures of stick-man crayon drawings the kids had done.

  Over on the far wall, a framed family shot. Dad –

  presumably Mike – on the left holding the youngest, Mary on the right with two kids snuggled close. ‘We had that taken last summer,’ said Mary coming back 140

&n
bsp; in with the drinks.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ said Stich.

  ‘It’s a terrible shot of me,’ she replied. ‘Mike and the kids look good though.’ She handed Stich and Vicky two glasses before perching on the sofa opposite.

  ‘So,’ she said at last, ‘what can I help you with?’

  ‘We want to ask about your husband.’

  She sat back into the sofa and folded her arms.

  This would be tougher than he imagined. Stich wasn’t sure what he should tell her or how much. In the end he gave her an edited version. He explained about Susan and Clive; told her what Vicky and he had gone through and about the reference to her husband in Susan’s organiser.

  ‘You see, Mary,’ he concluded, ‘I feel sure that if your husband’s death was in any way related to the others, you would want to know.’

  She listened in silence and continued to stare past him, lost in her own world, long after he’d finished.

  Stich looked over at Vicky. She took over.

  ‘Mary, this is a horrible time. It must be difficult for you right now. But you have to trust us. All we’re saying is there might be a connection, that’s all.

  Nothing is certain but we need to know if these deaths are coincidence or not. If they are, then fine.

  If not …’ Vicky swallowed. ‘Well, we need to know if not.’

  Mary looked at them both in turn. She bent forwards to a handbag lying at her feet. Her hands shook slightly. ‘Do you mind?’ she said as she took out a cigarette. She lit it quickly and drew in the 141

  smoke. ‘Mike would go mad if he knew I’d started on these again.’

  Stich half smiled. She drew on it once more. ‘I gave up – it’s been four years. I’ll stop again but I need a crutch for now. How do you want me to help?’

  Stich took a sip of lemonade. ‘That’s the problem, I don’t know. I want information – any information.

  There has to be a thread that draws it all together.

  The Krenthol drug is one link, but I need more than that. Did Mike have any worries … did he seem different in any way recently?’

  Mary eyed them through the smoke. She flicked some ash into an ashtray. ‘Distant,’ she said.

  ‘Preoccupied I suppose you could say. It was unlike him. He was never moody or downcast. I could be moody, but never him. If I was down, he’d always get me out of it. But when it was his turn, I couldn’t do anything to help him.’ Her voice caught in her throat.

  ‘Did he tell you what was wrong?’

  ‘It was a gradual thing. It didn’t happen overnight. I did eventually try to talk to him about it, but he said pressure at work had got to him. So I left it hoping that when the Krenthol thing was done, he’d go back to being how he always was. Then I came in one day and …’ She trailed off struggling, and flicked more ash.

  ‘Just take your time, Mary.’ Vicky said.

  She nodded and sighed deeply. ‘That day the kids weren’t here, thank God. Mike said he was going into work late. He had a report to write which 142

  he could do upstairs in his office. I left him and took the kids to school. I came back, and shouted up to him. I was going to make him a drink. He didn’t answer. I went upstairs to his office and found him.’

  Vicky and Stich sat in silence.

  ‘I knew he was dead immediately,’ she went on.

  ‘He was turned away from me but I knew. I can’t remember too much after that. I called the police. I tried to phone my mother, I was going crazy. Then the police arrived and there was a lot of activity. A doctor came. I think he gave me a shot of something because I was out for a while.’

  ‘When you found him … he was … ’

  ‘Hanged.’ She said it matter of fact. ‘It’s all right

  – I can deal with it.’

  Stich nodded. ‘And there was nothing out of place. I mean, no break-ins, damage, anything like that?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No suicide note?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Did Mike say anything to you in the days leading up to his death? Anything that struck you as odd?’

  ‘Nothing specific. He was distant as I said, and I was … suspicious, I suppose. You know – I’m here all day with the kids, Mike’s working. I don’t know, it can get your mind mixed up. He was also receiving telephone calls – I suppose that didn’t help. I thought he was seeing someone.’

  ‘You suspected he was having an affair?’

  She nodded. ‘He was getting calls at home. Not 143

  here on our family line but upstairs in his office. In the two years since we had that line fitted it must have rung a dozen times. Then a few months ago, it was going two or three times a night. I knew things were hotting up with Krenthol, but it became regular. He was evasive about it, which made me more suspicious. Then one evening, I listened at the door. He was whispering, so I walked into the office.

  He finished the conversation straight away and then flew off at me, accusing me of spying on him. He said I wasn’t to listen in on his conversations in future. We never discussed it after that but I got hold of an itemised bill for the line upstairs – it listed all calls he was making. Almost all of them were to the same person. So, I called the number. I was put through to an answering service with a female voice.

  I thought about leaving a message, but decided against it. I wanted to speak to her properly, and tell her who I was and why I was ringing.’

  ‘And did you?’ Stich asked.

  She shook her head. ‘Mike died. I’ve been so busy coping with that, I haven’t had the will to call her. It doesn’t matter now anyway.’

  Stich set his glass on the floor by his feet. ‘Mary, would you mind if I took that number?’

  She looked hesitant. ‘I don’t want to drag anything up. Whatever happened happened. I’m not sure I want to know.’

  ‘Of course,’ Vicky said. ‘We’ll be as discreet as we can, but it may be important.’

  ‘Just don’t tell me if … you know, if you find something that will hurt. I want to remember a good 144

  man, for the sake of the kids as much as for anything else.’ She produced a black diary and turned to the back. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘you can take it.’ She ripped out a page.

  Stich looked at it. ‘This is it?’

  A cold rush hit his throat.

  He glanced at Vicky and mouthed, ‘It’s Susan’s . ’

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  The DVD came out of the recorder with a whirl and jolted Dr Aaron Grant awake. His head was resting on his arms that were folded on a lab bench littered with the debris of experiments. His mouth was dry.

  The clock on the wall had hardly moved. He had dozed during the time it had taken for the DVD to reset. Grant pushed away from the bench and went out into the corridor to the water fountain. He gulped down a couple of mouthfuls and wiped what had splattered his face with his sleeve. Fifteen hours straight. Dozens of experiments. Sliced biopsies. Homogenised tissue, spundown and run out. Monoclonals added and tagged. A notebook full of data. But nothing concrete. No clue why one-five-one was not responding. He needed some inspiration. That’s why he had tracked down a demo recording.

  Grant wandered back into the lab just as the automatic play kicked in. The monitor filled with his own image. The film had been made only about two years ago, but he looked much younger than he did right now. The background was stark white and glaring, with him in front of the camera talking to someone behind it.

  ‘… Yes, just do a wide shot, then follow me 146

  around when I move to the table.’

  Then he stepped back a few feet. ‘How do I look?’ he asked the camera.

  ‘Lovely,’ came the sarcastic reply.

  ‘Are you ready?’ said Grant. ‘Right, let’s do it.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Welcome to the demonstration. You’ll forgive the casual nature of this, but it’s for your eyes only, so to speak.’

  Watching it, Grant
shook his head at his on-camera discomfort. Public speaking had never been a strong point. ‘The demo this morning will be brief,’ the on-screen Grant was saying, ‘and to the point. Many of you will be familiar with the technology I’m about to explain, but some of you won’t. I’ll elucidate as simply as I can.’

  Laid out on a dissecting bench to Grant’s left was a white rat. It had been anesthetised and lay sideways with its back to the camera. The camera moved forwards so that an incision in the right flank was clearly visible. The skin was peeled back and clamped. Inserted into the incision was a slender, stainless steel tube perhaps three millimetres in diameter. The camera panned back to Grant.

  ‘That, believe it or not, is a scanning microscope.

  A prototype developed here at Immteck. Its size will allow us to see what is happening in real time when the demonstration starts. First, let me tell you about this animal. The rat was inoculated some four weeks ago with the viral vector 3f7, which delivers the proto-oncogene xm4 into the target tissue . In this case we injected into the liver. You 147

  will see from a scanning microscope slide taken a few hours ago,’ – the camera swung round to a monitor set up next to the dissection table – ‘the tumour caused by that injection is now fully established in this rat.’ The image showed a group of uneven, deranged cells next to rounded plump ones. ‘This is the healthy tissue,’ said Grant pointing to the slide, ‘and this is cancerous. As time passes, the healthy tissue will be infected with 3f7

  and the proto-oncogene will be introduced.

  Eventually, the rest of the healthy liver tissue will be ravaged.’ Grant reached behind him to an ice bucket and pulled out a syringe. ‘In here,’

  he said, ‘is an isotonic solution of engineered Immunoglobulin E, along with mast cells and basophils and a molecule that enhances IgE attack.

  We have called this mixture, Krenthol.’

  Grant smiled as he watched himself drone on.

  The idea was perfectly simple. He remembered when it first came to him. On a bench in Hyde Park eight summers ago, he saw a runny nosed child convulsed in a sneezing fit. The child’s mother got a handkerchief from her bag and stuffed it against his nose. ‘Pollen must be high today,’ she said as they passed. A small incident, but for Grant it changed everything.

  This had been an early demo for friends of Laurence Tench – most of them VCs. Moneymen always wanted to be impressed, even if they didn’t understand the technology. The lot that this DVD