aired to became the first real money pumped into the project and allowed Krenthol to get off the 148
ground.
‘The basophils and the mast cells are the rat’s own,’ Grant was saying. ‘I’m injecting them simultaneously so that cross linking with IgE is fast.’
The sneezing boy had made Grant really think.
The mechanism used by the immune system to cause allergy was the same as the one it used to destroy parasites. While allergy gripped the developed world more strongly than ever before, parasite infection remained rare. Some Westerners were allergic to almost everything. If it wasn’t pollen it was dust mites. If not dust mites then cat hair. In the underdeveloped world, the reverse was true: parasite infection was rampant while allergy was rare. This was when he made the connection; the two were opposite sides of the same coin.
Parasites had largely been eradicated in the developed world thus making a whole regiment of the immune army suddenly redundant. The result?
They were attacking allergens instead.
What if he gave this regiment a real target to attack? A target similar in size and structure to its natural prey? Tumours are organic lumps of flesh, so are parasites. Providing it was guided in the right way, why would the regiment have a problem destroying tumours?
Up on the screen, Grant had injected the rat with the solution and had put the syringe back in the ice bucket. ‘Ben?’ he said to someone off-camera. ‘Is the scanning microscope working? Okay, let’s show it.’
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The picture switched to a close up of a cell cluster. The same deranged cells as had been shown before. ‘You see the cancerous tissue?’ Grant asked. ‘Keep your eye on that. The IgE I’ve injected will soon find it.’ Around the deranged cells, small dots vibrated like tiny bees around a honeycomb.
Some collided with and stuck to the outside of the cells, while the rest of them continued to vibrate.
‘The antibody is starting to find its target,’ said Grant. ‘The basophils and mast cells will now be attracted.’ Soon greater numbers of dots had stuck and formed a thin carpet of material all over the cancerous cells. Then large masses began to hover at the edge of the shot. They dwarfed the dots.
‘Okay, here we go,’ said Grant.
Grant listened to the commentary and watched the action on screen. He’d seen the clips of this process dozens of times but it always amazed him.
Even when he first realised it might be possible, he never imagined how efficient it would be when it worked properly.
The masses on the monitor were moving towards the carpet of black. They appeared to lock on and were held. ‘Okay, the granulocytes are in place,’ said Grant. ‘Watch the destruction as they release their chemicals.’ More and more granulocytes arrived and covered the cancerous cells. Gradually, almost imperceptibly at first, chunks of deranged cells began to break away from the main body of tissue. Crumbling like drilled cement dust. ‘There!’ Grant exclaimed. ‘It begins.’
The bombardment continued as more and more 150
debris detached. ‘Phagocytes will clear up the mess,’ said Grant, ‘and the area will be a tumour free zone. Don’t forget, the immune system remembers past invaders. If this tumour dares to rear its head in future, IgE antibody will be onto it in a flash, and the bombardment will begin again.’
Grant stopped the disc. He had seen enough. He had had enough.
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29
In the car after leaving Mary Venton, they had been subdued. Vicky eventually broke the silence. ‘So what now?’ she asked.
‘The samples,’ said Stich. ‘I’m sure the samples referred to in both Clive’s phone message to Susan and her note scribbled to him were tumour samples.
It isn’t much of a stretch – both scientists worked in labs dealing with cancer, after all.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Mike Venton and Susan suspected these samples were dodgy and decided to send them to PB for analysis.’
‘And since Mike, Clive and Susan are now dead,’
said Vicky, ‘we want to know if PB got the samples and, if so, what was it about them that Susan and Mike wanted to find out.’
They decided to split the tasks. Stich checked Susan’s mobile contacts for the initials PB and found only one. Paul Berry turned out to be a Cambridge pathologist. Meanwhile, Vicky went back to the Mellbrook Hotel to go through the rest of the information.
Professor Paul Berry lived and worked in Cambridge. His website, which Stich had looked over before driving up, had a small biography. He 152
was academically renowned judging by the number of published papers to his name. The photo next to the text showed a man – ultra lean, with tight skin, protruding bones, and dark eyes.
Stich pulled off the M11 and drove into town.
Berry’s office was off Trumpington Street in a cobbled alcove set back from the road. Stone built and old, it nestled between a bakery and an academic bookshop. Stich parked the car and went in. The hallway had a door left and right, neither of which was Berry’s. Ahead of him was a wooden staircase that led to the floor above. Stich mounted the steps just as a door at the top of the stairs opened.
Out walked a man a lot taller than his photo suggested but the facial features were a giveaway.
Stich checked the small sign on his door. It was Berry, about to leave, a small clutch of keys jangling in his hand. His face set slightly when he saw Stich.
No doubt the last thing he wanted was a student demanding time late in the afternoon.
‘Professor Berry?’
‘Yes.’ His voice was clipped.
‘Er …’ Stich looked about him. ‘My name is David Stichell. I’m Susan Harrison’s fiancé.’
There was no reaction.
‘I wondered if I could take a few moments of your time?’
Berry studied him, then turned and opened the door fully. ‘Won’t you come in?’
A mahogany writing desk with leather-backed chairs on either side dominated the office. Beyond this, a small bay window overlooked the street. A 153
computer console sat on the desk and on the walls were old black and white prints of Trinity and Queens’. The space reeked of academic endeavour.
Berry offered Stich a seat and took the one opposite.
He folded his arms across his chest. ‘What can I do for you?’
Stich cleared his throat and decided to be direct.
‘Yesterday, my fiancée was murdered. I believe she was killed because of something she had discovered at work.’
Berry stared blankly.
‘I understand sometime during the last few months she sent you some samples to analyse.’
‘I deal with hundreds of samples a year,’ he said.
‘You would remember these,’ Stich said, ‘they were tumour samples.’
Berry shifted in his seat.
‘You did analyse them, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, some of them.’
‘And?’
‘I received a request to stop work and return them.’
‘Who from?’
‘The research company who owns them.’
‘Immteck?’
He nodded.
‘What did they say?’
‘Just that the samples had been sent to me in error, that they belonged to them and as such should be returned immediately.’
‘And you just sent them back?’
‘Of course.’
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‘What proof did you have that the samples were theirs?’
He shrugged. ‘Documentation.’
‘And what did Susan say about this?’
His gaze darted over the ceiling. ‘Why do you want to know all this?’
‘Like I say, my fiancée, Susan Harrison, has just been murdered. I’m trying to find out why.’
‘I understand that, and I sympathise with your tragic loss, but what has her murder to do with the tumour samples?’
‘You keep recor
ds of everything you analyse, right?’
‘My records are as thorough as I can make them.’
‘Did you make a report on the samples Susan gave you?’
‘Of course – it’s standard practice.’
‘So where is it?’ Stich looked at the PC sitting on Berry’s desk.
‘Not on there,’ Berry replied. ‘The data was sent over to Immteck. That’s as far as my involvement goes.’
‘You must have copies of the stuff you sent over,’
Stich said.
‘Copies exist, yes, but I don’t have them. The database is cleared every month and the reports are archived.’
‘Where?’
‘In a storage facility here in Cambridge.’
‘So I can read them?’
Berry pulled a small black diary from his desk drawer and made a note in it. ‘I’ll forward your 155
request.’
‘Professor?’
He glanced up.
‘What was your impression of Susan? I mean, did she act strangely, say anything out of place when you spoke to her?’
‘Not really … at least if she did I don’t remember.’
‘What do you remember?’
Berry looked out of the small bay window as if distracted, watching the street beyond while students – thick texts balanced on cycles – wheeled past. ‘That the samples were old and that she wanted them urgently.’
‘So who at Immteck requested that you stop work on the samples?’
Berry rubbed his neck. ‘Someone who knew her
… A relative, I think.’
‘A relative?’
‘Her uncle, wasn’t it?’
‘Her uncle?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Maxi?’
‘Maximillian, yes.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘I really don’t remember.’
‘You don’t?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘But you remembered Susan because of the urgency of her request?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that the tumour samples were old?’
‘Yes, well, I’m frequently asked to look at fresh 156
biopsies where diagnosis is a priority, but not often old ones.’
‘So how come you don’t remember how her uncle stopped you from continuing?’
‘Mr. Stichell, what is all this leading to?’
‘The truth, hopefully.’
‘Your attitude,’ Berry said, ‘I don’t like it.’
‘Exactly how far did you get in your analysis before the work was terminated?’
He went to say something then stopped. ‘I don’t know – a couple of days, maybe.’
‘Was there something odd about those samples, Professor? Something perhaps that concerned you?’
‘There were certain irregularities, yes,’ he said softly.
Stich recollected Clive’s message and took a punt.
‘You mean, they had all been infected by a virus?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘So you find the samples are infected, realise that something is wrong, then what? Did you call Susan?’
‘I didn’t get the chance. The request to return them arrived.’
‘On the day you made the discovery?’
He paused. ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘And that didn’t strike you as odd?’
‘Not really.’
‘Not really?’
‘Look, Immteck is a very big organisation. If those samples were important to them, they would find out where they were. Tearoom gossip is the best way to ascertain what’s going on in the labs here. We 157
talk about our work all the time – I may have mentioned it to one of my colleagues, I really don’t remember. The fact that Immteck got to hear about it doesn’t surprise me. The academic world is a small one.’
‘But Susan’s uncle doesn’t work for Immteck.’
From Stich’s pocket Susan’s telephone rang. He answered. It was Alan Frazier.
‘Stich?’
‘Alan, I’m tied up just now.’
‘I need to talk to you, Stich. It’s important.’
‘Okay, give me ten minutes.’
He turned the phone off as Berry began twirling his thumbs. ‘Look, Mr. Stichell,’ Berry said, ‘I’m appalled at what has happened to your fiancée. It’s always sad to hear tragic news about a colleague.’
He paused. ‘That said, I can’t help you any more than I already have. I really must get on. I have a meeting to attend.’
‘When will the report you made on those samples be ready?’ Stich asked.
‘What?’
‘I’d like to see it.’
He shook his head. ‘Technically that information does not belong to me. It belongs to whoever commissioned the report – in this case Immteck. It would be quite wrong – ’
‘I’ll have the police demand it from you.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’ll tell them the report is significant in the shooting of my fiancée.’ Stich was bluffing heavily.
‘Their investigation has just begun. Your dealings 158
with Susan will be thoroughly scrutinised.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
Stich leaned forwards, resting his hands on Berry’s desk. ‘Yesterday my fiancée was the victim of a terrible crime. Maybe your business with Susan has nothing to do with her murder. But if you stall on this, I’m going to make it my business to bung your name into the mix. There will be a lot of people suddenly interested in you.’
Berry got to his feet. ‘I’ve had enough of this.’
‘So have I, Professor.’
‘Please leave.’
‘I’ll give you until tomorrow to get that report.’
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30
Detective Inspector Varcy’s face hovered over a steaming bowl of water. On his head and shoulders was draped a checked towel. The pungent scent of menthol – from the Olbas Oil he had dropped in the water – filled his office. Next to him on the desk was a digital recorder playing back a recording Varcy had made earlier. Kendrick, who had gone to get the coffee, knocked at the door and came in.
Varcy held up his hand.
‘You knew Richard Hart?’
‘We all did – he was a work colleague.’
‘Did you know him well?’
‘Not very.’
Kendrick set a cup down in front of Varcy and sat in the seat opposite.
‘ … We’ve discussed the phone call made from the lobby a number of times. It was to a lady called Susan Harrison. ’
‘I didn’t make that call.’
‘So you keep saying, but help me out … I’ve found an interesting fact … ’
The other voice was female. Kendrick lifted the towel and said, ‘Who’s that?’
‘In a minute,’ Varcy replied.
‘ …The person who received that call was … is …
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living with a man called David Stichell. Do you recognise that name?’
‘No.’
‘Not at all?’
‘No.’
‘We-ell, your younger sister, Charlotte, was married to David Stichell for three years. Your older sister is a patient at Mr. Stichell’s chiropractic clinic and so is her young son, Ethan. Charlotte has a daughter – your niece
– that David Stichell is raising alone.’
‘Inspector, I haven’t spoken to Charlotte for years. The last time I heard from her she asked to borrow money. The only time she ever got in touch was to ask for money …
She had a drug habit. I expect she still does.’
‘Do you know where Charlotte is now?’
‘Not a clue.’
There was a pause on the recording while Varcy blew his nose.
‘What about David Stichell’s new fiancée?’
‘Oh, for heavens sake! I’ve told you, I don’t know.’
&n
bsp; ‘Let me recap so I can get this straight in my head. A murder happens on your shift at Moorcroft; you ‘misplace’
the vital disc that may well contain evidence of what happened; a telephone call is made from the lobby soon afterwards to a person who has since either gone missing or, worse, been murdered; and then I find that the person the call was placed to is living with your ex-brother-in-law.’
Silence.
Varcy groped for the recorder and stopped it.
‘Is that the security guard?’ asked Kendrick, loosening his tie.
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Varcy pushed the bowl away and patted his face with the towel. ‘Yes.’
Kendrick removed his jacket and stood up. ‘She’s related to David Stichell?’
Varcy handed over a sheet of paper confirming Stichell’s divorce. ‘Was.’
Kendrick took it, moved to a wall thermostat by the door and fiddled with the dial.
‘What are you doing?’ frowned Varcy.
‘Sweating my bollocks off.’
‘It’s up because of my flu.’
‘Just a few degrees,’ said Kendrick playing with the control. ‘Will you charge her?’
‘No … I’ve got nothing to charge her with.’
‘So, how long you got?’
‘I haven’t. I had to let her go.’
Kendrick sniffed loudly. ‘Well, I’ve got something that might just cheer you up. It’s about Richard Hart.
We’ve been going through his personal effects and this belonged to him.’ He pushed a mobile phone towards Varcy. ‘See here,’ he said, leaning across and fiddling with the buttons, ‘this is a record of the last ten calls he made from this phone.’ He showed Varcy a number. ‘Guess who that number belongs to?’
Varcy shrugged. ‘Surprise me.’
‘David Stichell.’
Varcy’s eyes widened. ‘You’re joking.’
‘No, I’ve checked with the phone company.’
Varcy scowled. ‘When did he make the call?’
Kendrick checked the options sub-menu. ‘4.30 on the eighteenth.’
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‘Eleven hours before the murder. What on earth did he want with Stichell?’
Kendrick shook his head. Varcy felt a sneeze build. He pinched his nose and headed it off.
‘Has Hart’s flat been checked?’
‘Not yet,’ said Kendrick.
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