The scientists in the audience latched on to the significance of this immediately.
‘Did you say all tumours?’ said Knoeman.
‘Yes, we think so. Krenthol hits the Tum-8
receptor and up-regulates its expression.’
‘And Tum-8 is immunogenic?’
Grant smiled. ‘Ah, we’ll get to that.’
Jan Blenstein raised his hand. ‘You said the IgE
is the patient’s own. How long does it take to get the antibody excited enough to kill the tumour?’
‘Couple of days. We’ve tweaked the standard assay most labs use to produce monoclonals.’
‘And the granulocytes? I assume they produce the toxin that does the damage?’
Grant nodded. ‘Right. We have a stock of those.
In that sense, the accessory cells can be from any source – human, pig or mouse. The antibody is the important thing. As long as it’s working and triggers accessory cells, it doesn’t seem to matter.’
The electron microscope image continued to 278
show the mass of immunoglobulin covering the edge of the tumour in a thick carpet of black.
Grant allowed the pictures up on the screen to do most of his talking for him. The swarming antibody started to clear, slowly at first, then in greater clumps as blood carried it away from the tumour site. He glanced at the crowd to see who would be the first to notice the drug was having no effect.
It didn’t take long. A man called Kuby, a scientist from Renthet, raised his hand. Grant acknowledged him. ‘The papers you sent out to me report that Krenthol efficacy is immediate.’
‘Yes, it is.’
Kuby frowned, and looked up at the screen.
‘Forgive me if I’m misreading what’s going on up there – this is the first time I’ve seen the demo – but I can’t see any discernable effect on the cancerous tissue.’ He paused. ‘In fact, I’d say the patient’s blood is clearing the drug.’
Grant looked up at the screen to check. Sure enough, the Krenthol cocktail of antibody and accessory cells was lessening around Stichell’s tumour tissue. There was no mast cell or basophil attack, and it remained intact. He was destroying his most important work, his baby. He might as well enjoy this moment in the spotlight. ‘Yes, that’s correct,’ said Grant at last. ‘Krenthol is having no effect on this patient’s tumour.’
There was a bemused silence from the crowd.
Grant let it sink in for a short while. ‘There is a reason for this, of course. The genetic makeup of 279
this individual means that the molecule Tum-8 –
the molecule that Krenthol relies on to mount an attack on the cancerous tissue – is simply not made.
Hence, to this patient, Krenthol is quite useless.’
There was a flurry of chatter around the room, some uncomfortable seatshifting. David Jackson raised his hand. His own private company had invested some ten million pounds in Krenthol and he, on the bidding of Laurence Tench, had invested a further five million from his personal fortune. He had a nervous grin on his face. ‘Yes, but surely you have used this for demonstration only. We all know the efficacy of Krenthol. Its performance in preliminary trials has been outstanding.’
‘Yes, the results have indeed been good. But it is worth noting that, although most spontaneous tumours display the Tum-8 molecule, most do not express it strongly enough for Krenthol to have a chance. Most will eventually prove too weak in their display. Only a small minority will elicit any efficacy from Krenthol.’
Grant noticed a few people glance up at Tench to gauge his reaction. Tench, it seemed, hadn’t been paying the slightest attention. It was as if his mind was focused somewhere else. Next to him was Victor Wright, chairman of Lancaster-Bouchan, a powerful pharmaceutical outfit that was hoping for a merger with Immteck. They exchanged words.
The editor of the science journal, Nature, who was sitting at the end of the front row, cut through the chatter to ask Grant a question. ‘Given what you have just told us,’ he said, ‘are we to conclude 280
that Krenthol may be of little clinical use in most cases of cancer?’
‘At this stage of Krenthol’s development, and given what we know about both its specificity and its method of engaging with the tumour, that conclusion is accurate.’
This brought chaos. ‘What about the trials?’
shouted a representative of Bayer in Germany. ‘The trials you’ve conducted puts this drug at the forefront of cancer treatment.’ He referred to a Lancet paper in which the original trial result was published and held it above his head. ‘This claims a ninety-nine per cent success rate at clearing primary tumours.’
Grant nodded.
‘How can you equate that with what you have just said? A drug that has little clinical use does not equal a ninety-nine per cent success rate.’
‘Indeed it doesn’t,’ said Grant. ‘But if you can induce a genetically engineered tumour, one that manufactures and displays the Tum-8 molecule at a high level, then you will indeed get a ninety-nine per cent tumour kill.’
The crescendo of noise was now deafening. The health correspondent from The Mail was making furious notes as if he didn’t expect anything as good as this. Tench looked half crazed with anger.
‘Are you saying that these trials are a charade?
That the tumour killings reported in the preliminaries are induced tumours?’
‘Yes, I am.’
The implications of this were clear enough for 281
even the most naive member of the audience.
People were standing up. Tench was making frantic gestures at Grant.
Grant, however, felt only the warm relief of confession.
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Tench was out of his seat. Hands reached out to grab him but he fended them off. He had to get away. Ed was next to a side door and he made for that. What had gone wrong? He heard shouting from behind as he hurried forwards. Someone grabbed the back of his jacket but he shook them off. He needed air. Ed made room and Tench bolted through the opening and staggered out onto the street. The paving was wet with rain. Large, glassy drops quickly soaked his suit. He ran blindly, splattering pools of water up onto his legs, taking street after street. Traffic on the roadway passed him, throwing light into his eyes.
The odd pedestrian stepped aside to let him through.
Tench noticed none of it.
His eyes were fixed somewhere in front, staring into a world only he could enter. A world where Lauren would never be found. Eventually he slowed, then staggered. The cold air cut into his throat as he sucked it in. He coiled around a post and vomited.
The contents of his stomach hit the pavement and splashed onto his shoes. Tench sank lower. The after-taste was foul.
‘Laurence Tench?’
Tench was aware of a man standing before him.
Wiping his sleeve across his mouth, he lifted his head 283
slowly to look upwards. The man blew hard into a handkerchief before flashing his ID. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Terence Varcy.’
* * *
From somewhere left of unconscious, Stich could hear the tune. Familiar and rhythmic: la, la, la … la, la, la-la, la … I just can’t get you out of my head … Kylie in a white cat-suit, grinding, pouting, masses of tit-tape; Susan next to the TV, imitating the moves, miming the words. Both of them – Susan and Stich – laughing like school kids. The hypnotic hum bringing him to the surface. Then reality. Sweat against a crisp, white pillow; a half empty room, stark and silent … except the Kylie song coming from a chair next to his bed.
Stich reached for his jacket hanging on the back of it.
Susan’s phone was in full flow. He must have left it on after his call to Loni in the library. The ‘clinic’
was flashing in the display.
‘Stich, I got the stuff on Reedale.’ It was Mertle’s voice. ‘You got a pen?’
The room drifted out of focus.
‘Stich?’
>
‘Just a minute.’ There was a drawer in the bedside cabinet next to the chair. He pulled at it to find nothing but a Gideon Bible and a grey cardboard bedpan. Back to the pockets of his jacket and he fished out a cheap biro. ‘Okay.’
‘There are five directors, you want them all?’
‘Yeah, go ahead.’
‘The first name is Maximillian Hills.’
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‘What?’
‘Maximillian Hills.’
It took a couple of seconds to sink in. Maxi owned Reedale? ‘You sure, Mertle?’
‘That’s what it says. He’s a director of three other companies too – you want them?’
‘Yes.’
Mertle read out the list.
‘Hold it, Mertle. I need to do something.’
He had stuffed the printouts he had taken from susiesue.com into the jacket’s pockets but fished them out now, flattening out the creases on his chest, and scanned the share list. The other three companies buying Immteck shares – besides Reedale – matched the list Mertle had given him.
Maxi’s name appeared on all of them.
Stich did some sums. The shares bought by companies for which Maxi was a director, taking the jump in value into consideration, were … Christ.
And he was going to sell them today.
‘Stich?’ It was Mertle. ‘You want the other directors’ names?’
He could hardly concentrate. ‘No, Mertle, not at the moment.’
‘Okay.’
‘Mertle? Thanks for doing that.’
‘No problem. Please take care of yourself.’
* * *
Just a few selected members of the press were invited to the meeting Maxi was about to hold. This 285
information was mainly for his investors. He sat in a room along the corridor. How fitting, he thought, that he should be giving this talk in the Great Eastern Hotel where it all began. This is where Mike Venton had poured his heart out and where Maxi had the first inkling of how big an opportunity he had been presented with. This was where the first seed of an idea was sown.
He had his notes prepared. He would be brief and succinct. He would simply announce that the pharmaceutical giant, Immteck, had falsified trial results appertaining to the cancer-treating drug, Krenthol, and that the value of their stock had plunged. He would tell them that, on advice from his science team, and on behalf of those in this room, he had dumped all Immteck stock just before the crash.
Thus, the ground had been prepared for a take-over.
What he wouldn’t say was that Laurence Tench –
who had finished Maxi’s business career some fifteen years before when he acquired his struggling pregnancy kit-making company – would now have his own company ruined by Maxi in return. Nor would he tell them about how he had set it up to be so.
Maxi had Kelvin spin the story through his contacts in the media.
‘Everyone out there?’ asked Maxi.
Kelvin nodded. ‘Are you ready?’
Maxi checked his watch. ‘Let’s go.’
* * *
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Stich had been staring up at the ceiling from his hospital bed, the ripple of white artex dragging his eyes from one point to the next. The Great Eastern Hotel was just outside Liverpool Street station and Maxi had referred to it in the same breath as a press conference. Why had he done that? Stich sat up and a jab of pain pierced his side.
He hauled himself off the bed as a nurse appeared. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
‘I need my clothes,’ he said.
‘You’ve had a surgical procedure. Please get back into bed.’
Stich lurched forwards.
‘David, there’s a fresh wound in your side and you are just out of anesthetic.’
Stich covered the gauze with his hand, protecting it. ‘Please get my clothes.’
‘This is madness. Your blood sugar is low and you’re likely to pass out if you move around.’
‘It’s an emergency. I’ll take my chances.’
Stich managed to dress and took the lift down to street level. On the roadway outside the research facility, he hailed a cab. ‘You okay?’ the cabbie asked as he collapsed into the back.
‘Yeah, I’ve given blood, that’s all.’
The cabbie shivered. ‘You’re a braver man than me. Needles do my head in.’
‘Mine too,’ said Stich softly.
‘Where to?’
‘The Great Eastern Hotel on Bishopsgate.’
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In the lobby of the Great Eastern, Stich’s wound had changed from a seep to a gush, the cut in his side much deeper than he had realised. Every movement gave him a sickening rip of pain. A clock-face section of his shirt was now wet crimson.
An electronic display board by the hotel entrance had given a timetable of what was going on in the hotel. He noticed the word, Reedale, and followed the direction of the arrow up a flight of carpeted stairs to the conference suites. The short climb made his legs weak. Light headed and clammy, he focused on a long narrow corridor with a set of double doors at the end. On Stich’s right, two men emerged. One was Kelvin, the other – a neat wedge of papers tucked under his arm – was Susan’s uncle.
‘Maxi,’ he called.
Maxi turned as Stich stumbled forwards.
‘Stich, what are you doing here?’
‘I’ve come to ask you some questions.’
His face was a mix of surprise and irritation.
‘Don’t be silly. You’ve just had surgery. This is not the time.’
‘It is the time, Maxi. You’ve deceived me.’
Maxi glanced at Kelvin then checked his watch.
‘You’re delirious. Go back to the hospital.’
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‘Tell me about Reedale .’
He hesitated.
‘I know you’re a director of Reedale. I know Reedale bought masses of Immteck shares and has just dumped them.’
‘So what?’
‘You off-loaded just before the Krenthol demo.
You told me you were doing this for Susan, but that’s a lie. I’ve seen the figures Maxi – you’ve made a fortune. You set me up.’
Maxi’s mouth narrowed. ‘Stich. Go back to the hospital and get some medical attention.’
‘What about Richard Hart?’
‘What about him?’ he said.
‘I’ve worked it out, Maxi. You wanted someone on that trial who wouldn’t respond to Krenthol.
Hart chose me and you did nothing to stop him.’
Maxi took out his mobile and dialled. ‘We don’t have time for this.’
‘You’re responsible for me having cancer, aren’t you?’ Stich said.
He looked up quickly but didn’t reply.
‘How did it happen, Maxi? When did the idea to ruin someone’s life come to you?’
Maxi spoke into the phone. ‘Can you send someone to the Boston Suite? We have a disturbance.’
Stich flopped against the wall, his strength ebbing away. ‘Susan found out about what you had done, didn’t she?’
Maxi closed the phone and locked his eyes on to Stich’s.
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‘Didn’t she?’ Stich repeated. ‘That must have been quite a shock for you. What were you to do?
Call it all off and turn your back on everything you had schemed for? Hardly. You were in too deep and she knew all about it. There was no going back so you left her to her fate.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Susan should have left Immteck months ago. If she’d done that, she’d still be alive.’
‘You mean she wouldn’t have been around to realise what you were up to.’
He ignored that.
‘Did you kill Susan?’ Stich demanded.
‘You tell me,’ he said. ‘You were there.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
Somewhere behind were footsteps. Three porters appeared at the top of the stairs. Maxi’s eyes flicked over them for a
moment, then back to Stich.
‘I’m not to blame for Susan’s death, Stich. You are.’
Stich’s mouth sagged. He felt as though Maxi had punched a hole in his heart. The last thing he remembered was being hauled upwards.
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The Boston Suite had a small raised platform at one end facing two dozen rows of seminar-issue cushioned seats. The audience was made up of investors. Dotted among them were a few trustworthy members of the press.
Kelvin had done his job well. There was genuine tension over what was about to happen. Maxi took a breath and entered the suite. All heads turned towards him. He knew a few of them from the original discussions but most were unfamiliar. Maxi took his seat on the platform and Kelvin sat alongside him. He shuffled his papers, leaned towards the microphones and addressed the group.
‘Ladies and gentleman, select members of the press, welcome to the Great Eastern Hotel and the short announcement I am about to read. As some of you are no doubt aware, Reedale – the holding company in a family of fund management companies, of which most of you are stakeholders –
sold its interest in the pharmaceutical giant, Immteck, today.
‘It is well known that Immteck’s stock has grown steadily these past few years and rocketed in recent months due to the success of its new anti-cancer drug, Krenthol. However, we at Reedale became 291
aware of an inconsistency in the data being produced by Immteck and gradually, over time, grew mistrustful of its credibility.
‘We therefore had no choice but to protect our stakeholders and shed our interest in the company.
Today we have done just that. The Medical and Healthcare Products Regulatory Agency have asked us to make our reasons for suspicion known and, of course, we have agreed to do so. That ends the statement.’
A mumble of excitement echoed around the room. Kelvin leant forwards and said, ‘Ladies and gentleman, Mr. Hills will take a few questions pertaining to this matter if you have any?’
A hand went up. It was Dave Hudson from the Telegraph. He was one of Kelvin’s plants and could be relied upon to ask a patsy question. ‘When Reedale first acquired Immteck stock, the price was around six fifty a share. Today it stands at twenty-one thirty and is set to rise further still. Some might say that you are mad to sell at this stage. Do you have any comments on that?’
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