Kill and Cure

by Andy Ashdown Design

  234

  43

  Varcy sat outside Don Elliott’s office for the second time in the last forty-eight hours, waiting for Don’s analysis of a CCTV film. This time, however, he had some reading material to keep him company – a report from the police path lab.

  Earlier, he had contacted Genekey using the information found at Hart’s flat. They had confirmed that the DNA samples used for a profiling procedure under the lab reference of A422486 were still available for study. Varcy had requisitioned them, given them to the police path lab and asked them to carry out a couple of specific comparisons.

  One involved the hair he had taken from the flat of Charlotte Rosti, David Stichell’s ex-wife, the other a blood sample collected from Stichell’s daughter at a hospital visit she made four months previously for suspected meningitis. And the last one: a small tissue biopsy taken from a dead man. It all confirmed his suspicions.

  Varcy looked up as Don opened the door. ‘Well?’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Don.

  ‘I’m glad you think so,’ said Varcy. ‘Why?’

  ‘Come in, I’ll show you.’

  Varcy slipped the report into his pocket and followed Don into his office. Don slumped into the 235

  leather upright in front of the monitor. Varcy pulled up a chair next to him.

  ‘First,’ said Don, ‘something’s wrong.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Varcy.

  ‘The film has been tampered with.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘In a very clever way,’ said Don, spinning the film back to the beginning. ‘The thing to remember with CCTV recorded onto disc is the number of pixels available. It’s different with tape. Disc makes the film clearer but when you try to blow it up, the pixels dissipate and the image is a pig to view.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘At very specific places, the pixel density in this film has increased to allow a very clear blow up.

  Look, I’ll show you.’ He ran the images frame by frame: Richard Hart walking staccato to his car, opening the door, sliding his briefcase in. ‘Here.’ said Don. ‘Notice as he turns to the camera.’ Richard’s head jerked and Don went to work. ‘Watch,’ he said, as a window appeared on-screen and the image loaded. Don touched another key and Richard Hart’s face was blown up large but completely smudged. ‘See? If you didn’t know who it was you wouldn’t recognise him from that picture. That’s because the pixels are too far apart. There aren’t enough of them to give a clear picture at this magnification. Now watch this.’ He forwarded the film and the second figure appeared. The object smashed into the back of Hart’s head, the figure rushed forwards, lunged at him again then turned slightly. ‘Here,’ said Don. ‘The face is now three 236

  quarters towards us.’ More key work and a slight delay while the image loaded. Suddenly Susan Harrison’s face, three quarter turned to the camera, was up in clear detail. ‘Spot the difference?’ said Don.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The pixels making the image of the second figure

  – the woman – are much denser. That’s why we see her in detail. I’ve checked all the frames in which she appears. They’re all the same.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’

  ‘That the image of the woman has been added to make identification of her easy.’

  ‘She didn’t appear in the original film?’

  ‘I’m saying that, if she did, her image has been intensified by the addition of many more pixels.’

  ‘Can that be done?’ asked Varcy.

  ‘You would need to work with a separate digital image, morph that over an existing frame. It’s difficult. But then, so is going to the trouble of killing someone.’

  237

  44

  A burst of excited chatter from the station next to his broke his concentration. Two girls, one talking fast and foreign, the other listening, her hand up to her mouth. Squeals of delight. Stich zoned them out.

  Back at his terminal, he surfed the online newspapers for any Immteck reports. He scanned the financial pages. The tabloids were useless. The broadsheets were a bit better but he couldn’t find anything to do with Immteck. Then the Financial Times came up trumps. A small headline read:

  ‘Immteck shares jump after Krenthol leak.’

  He scanned the article. It spoke in glowing terms of the exciting anti-cancer drug in development at Immteck.

  ‘Krenthol is in the final stages of completion.

  According to a leaked report, the efficacy of the drug in clinical trials is impressive. It is thought there is to be a demonstration later today in central London showcasing Krenthol’s prowess. This has led to an immediate rise in the value of Krenthol stock.’

  It went on to give a short profile of the company, from its inception to the present day, and spoke about the brilliance of the man behind it, Laurence Tench. Stich checked the share price. It had almost doubled overnight. And all this for a failed drug?

  238

  Some leak.

  Stich checked the list of three companies buying Immteck shares. An outfit called Reedale was the most prolific so he fed that into the search engine. It came up with a few obscure entries that Stich was sure didn’t have anything to do with the Reedale he was looking for, so he typed, ‘Companies House’ –

  and the response looked more promising. When Stich bought the Spitalfields practice five years ago, his accountant told him about Companies House.

  All limited companies had to be registered there.

  The site had an internal search facility. He looked for Reedale and it popped up with a few basic details.

  Stich wanted names.

  Back at Google, he typed ‘names of directors’ and came up with several alternatives. One of them offered the names and addresses of directors of any registered company for a small fee. He typed

  ‘Reedale Ltd’ in their search box and a small amount of information splashed up. To get what he wanted, he’d have to pay and the information would be downloaded right away. Problem was, he didn’t have a credit card.

  Stich drummed his fingers. He glanced around the other computer stations and contemplated asking the students for help. Then he had a better idea. He took out the mobile Kelvin had given him and punched in the number of his chiropractic clinic.

  Mertle picked it up on the second ring.

  ‘Mertle? It’s Stich.’

  ‘Stich! Thank God, where are you? I’ve had police here, asking questions, crawling all over the clinic 239

  looking for you.’

  ‘Mertle. Look …’

  ‘You okay? What’s happening?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, but I need you to do something for me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Some info on the net that I’d like you to access for me.’ He told her about the site and that he needed a credit card to pay for the information.

  ‘Give me the web address.’

  He called it over. ‘And, Mertle, can you ring me back on this number with the result?’

  ‘As soon as I’ve got it.’

  * * *

  Stich shut down Susan’s website and checked his watch. Mertle would be a while. The wait was already agony. He thought of Alice at home with Loni. He hoped they were enjoying a normal family routine. Loni hardly ever listened to the radio and the only TV likely to be on was the kid’s channel so he was sure they would be unaware of what had taken place. He had no intention of telling them, either. Not yet, anyway. He just wanted to talk. To check-in and make sure they were all right. He hoped the police hadn’t got there yet.

  Loni answered his call and, on hearing Stich’s voice, she began sobbing. Deep, gut wrenching moans, her words not making any sense. Then he heard a name that sent ice down his back. Alice.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Loni, what’s happened?’

  240

  ‘I couldn’t stop them …’

  An unfamiliar voice took over the phone. ‘Mr.

  Stichell, we have your dau
ghter.’

  Stich was out of the library and onto the street, still clutching the mobile to his ear. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘You touch a hair on her head and I’ll – ’

  ‘Shut up. Go to the Immteck number two building. You know it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The quadrant is at the highest level.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now. You have twenty minutes. If you’re late, we will assume you’re not coming and you will not see your daughter again. Do you understand?’

  ‘You scum.’

  ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes. Who are you?’

  The phone went dead. A block of cold granite formed in Stich’s chest. He spun around. Which direction? Think.

  Immteck two … behind Holborn tube …

  Suddenly he was running. There was no conscious act to get anywhere yet he covered the ground easily. There were jeers, jostling and shouting from battered pedestrians as he hurtled forwards. But there is a certain look a desperate man takes on that makes others back off – an instinct that tells them he has a lot less to lose than they have.

  The sprint to High Holborn passed in a blur of frantic thoughts and twitches. It might have taken ten minutes or an hour; Stich had no sense of time.

  241

  Thinking Alice was with strangers, that she might be frightened and that they might hurt her, sucked him forwards.

  Then he saw the station logo and hurled himself at the crowd near the main entrance. He bolted passed the Kingsway exit and into a street-seller’s assault course. The vendor’s stands littered the pavement – chewing gum, newspapers and hotdogs. He avoided a few but was caught by one he didn’t see. He smashed into it and hit the floor taking the vendor with him. Papers scattered; flying on the wind, soiled on the greasy pavement, crumpled under the feet of a hundred pedestrians.

  In the split second it took to fall, Stich realized the vendor was directly beneath him. Their combined weight smashed into the pavement. Stich heard both the pmph! as the vendor’s chest concertinaed, and the potato chip crush as his ribs shattered.

  Stich was up in a moment and back into his stride. The crowd scattered outwards. Stich had the odd moments of clear vision in which one or two faces in the crowd manifested in his eye line.

  Shouting; gesticulating.

  It made no difference. He knew Immteck Two was in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. There was a left turn another hundred yards further on.

  After that he would be within striking distance.

  242

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  45

  Forty-two minutes ago, Dr Aaron Grant had discovered why one-five-one was not responding to Krenthol. The shock was paralyzing. One-five-one was Promase negative and Promase negative subjects were barred from the trial. That was part of the protocol he had developed to ensure no patient was harmed. Grant slid open his desk drawer, filled his cup with vodka and downed it in one. The burn was intense. He was about to pour another when the office door opened a few inches.

  ‘Who is it?’ said Grant.

  ‘My name is Roy Burman,’ replied the figure now standing in the doorway.

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen you,’ said Grant, wiping his sleeve across his mouth.

  ‘You interviewed me when I first came to work here,’ said Roy. ‘At least you were on the panel that did. You were very nice to me.’

  ‘I’m pleased.’

  ‘May I speak with you?’

  The chair opposite Grant was crammed full of files and papers. Grant poured another cup full of liquor and gestured towards it. ‘Take a seat.’

  Roy’s eyes were bulging behind his thick lenses.

  ‘I don’t know where to begin,’ he said. ‘I need 243

  advice, I suppose. I’ve no one else to trust.’

  Grant leaned back in his chair and eyed Roy carefully. ‘Then you’ve come to the wrong man. I’m probably the least trustworthy person you’re ever likely to meet.’

  ‘I’m willing to take that chance.’

  Grant shrugged. ‘Then, go ahead.’

  ‘It’s about Krenthol,’ said Roy, checking Grant’s reaction. ‘I’ve been supplying information about it.’

  Grant took another vodka hit.

  ‘Trial results, details of patients on the trial, protocols used for acceptance … all sorts.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Roy removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘My contact was aware that some people were barred from taking part in the Krenthol trials and wanted to know why. I did a bit of investigation and realized that it was Promase deficient subjects who were barred.’

  There was a pause while Grant peered into his mug. ‘I see.’

  ‘That was some time ago. Afterwards I forgot about the whole thing. Until one particular Saturday last month when I found a colleague of mine in the tissue culture lab here on the third floor. She was sobbing uncontrollably. She said her boyfriend was on the Krenthol trial. The tissue sample she was studying belonged to him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There was a big problem. He is Promase deficient.’

  Grant quickly drained his mug.

  244

  ‘I went cold. I immediately thought of the information I’d been handing over.’

  ‘Who have you been supplying this information to?’

  Roy shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It’s all been undertaken over the phone.’

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  Roy licked his lips. ‘Money. A few thousand pounds was wired into my account with the promise of more to come. I was broke, the stuff I was passing on seemed innocuous enough. I mean, what were they going to do with it?’

  Grant closed his eyes. At the start, Immteck had been very persuasive; rational even. They pushed all his buttons – they had to. He would never have agreed to it otherwise. Stuff about Krenthol and the impact it could have on the world, it’s ability to clear induced tumours and how this would lead to unlimited research funding. Grant had longed to see his baby evolve, but the methods? They were unacceptable. He always knew it, but was too gutless to argue.

  ‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since then,’ said Roy, ‘wrestling with what I might have done. Then, a few weeks ago, a Krenthol scientist called Mike Venton hung himself. That made me scared. This morning, Clive Rand – another scientist on the Krenthol project – was found dead in his home.

  They’ve been announcing it on the radio. Now, I’ve received this email from Susan Harrison – my colleague with the boyfriend.’ He pulled from his pocket a couple of sheets of crinkled paper and 245

  handed them to Grant. ‘This is a long list of share transactions involving Immteck stock. God knows where she got it but I think I know what it means.’

  * * *

  The force knocked Stich sideways. When he recovered the man was behind him, his grip strong.

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Calm down,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘Stop struggling!’

  One moment Stich was running full tilt, the next he’d been stopped dead. How long had it been?

  Twenty minutes they had said or Alice would be taken away.

  ‘All right!’ Stich shouted. ‘Loosen your grip.’

  The man took no notice. ‘Are you going to calm down or am I going to break your arm?’

  ‘I am calm, for Christ’s sake.’

  The man started to move him. They were walking slowly. Stich was slou
ched over in response to being held. He was led to a wall and pushed against it, the man’s full weight now into Stich’s back. Cold metal slipped over his wrists.

  Then the crackle of static started. It was followed by the man’s voice. ‘I need assistance,’ he said, giving the location and a brief description of Stich.

  The policeman shifted his weight and told the gathered crowd to move back. One of them bolted forwards and a flash went off.

  ‘Get back!’

  246

  Stich caught sight of the photographer smiling at a group of his friends, a smart-arse opportunist capturing a wacky London moment. The policeman was getting stressed. He fiddled with the walkie-talkie and leaned harder. This was going to be as much a challenge for him as it was for Stich, at least until his backup arrived. Stich lifted his head to check out the crowd. They looked anxiously from Stich to the policeman and back again.

  More static.

  ‘Assistance, please. Corner of Kingsway.’

  ‘You okay, Officer?’ A member of the crowd was offering to help. The policeman played it by the book. ‘I’m okay, sir. Just stay back and it’ll be fine.’

  Stich felt a slight release of pressure as the policeman shifted his weight. It was a glimmer of a chance. Stich twisted hard as the policeman’s grip loosened further and then he did something he had only seen on television. He kicked. Not a half-arsed, football-style boot, but a Jackie Chan power move, hard and high. A shot in the dark literally. But he felt its impact.

  His foot must have hit the policeman squarely in the jaw. Stich turned and their eyes met. The policeman looked as though Stich had just insulted him.

  Stich felt an urge to explain about Alice, to apologise, but there was little point. The policeman was already drifting groundwards. Stich was running before he even hit the pavement. Hands clamped behind him, he drooped forwards and scattered the crowd. A madman was on the loose 247

  and no one was in the mood to reason with him.

  Except one.

  The same man who had offered his help a few moments before. He was medium height, probably muscular at one time but now running to fat, and assumed a pose like a goalkeeper waiting for a penalty kick to be taken. Stich was travelling fast now. He had no arms available to lash out with so he ran straight at him.