Dead but not Buried

by Iain North

  ‘Come here,’ he whispered, holding out his arms.

  Amber stepped forward into his chest and he hugged her tightly.

  ‘I’ll give you a call,’ he promised.

  *****

  Chapter 17

  There was a full hour before he needed to board the flight to Palma. Jim slipped the boarding card back into his passport and found an empty seat in the lounge. The vast room, wall-to-wall in green tartan carpet, was starting to fill up. In half an hour it would be packed with happy families looking forward to their fortnight in the sun. He was just going for the weekend. He envied them their holidays, and their happiness.

  For now, however, he took full advantage of the relative peace and quiet and set his laptop up on his knees. Brian’s email had arrived the previous evening, but he nodded off part way through reading it. The flight down from Inverness had been delayed by four hours due to mechanical problems and he was knackered when he eventually arrived at the airport hotel. He was fairing little better now, after a fitful night tossing and turning, Amber haunting his dreams.

  A batch of cuttings, in electronic form, arrived with Brian’s missive. There was a load of stuff about Caleypharma’s various successes, but little about Gallagher other than passing references, and nothing about Providon.

  Jim powered up the mobile broadband and logged on to the Internet. He needed something to occupy his mind. Otherwise he would just sit chewing his fingernails thinking about Amber.

  He logged on to Google and typed in ‘Providon’. Success. Several promising entries appeared on the screen, all snippets from medical journals.

  The first site he visited contained information posted by the AIDS Treatment Data Network. The bit about Providon was part way down the page, below a story about trials of AZT on pregnant women who were HIV positive.

  There were just a few paragraphs: ‘The drug is now being investigated for use in treating AIDS, tuberculosis and other illnesses. Researchers have found that Providon can inhibit the growth of HIV in test tubes.’

  Mike Macerlane had told him as much. He read on: ‘Providon works in lab experiments against HIV by suppressing a natural substance produced in the body. The substance is called tumor necrosis factor (TNF), also known as cachectin. TNF is released by white cells during infection and helps fight invading organisms. In some people with HIV infection, the production of TNF is high. High TNF levels are associated with more rapid progression to AIDS and with the development of HIV related central nervous system disease. Excessive production of TNF over a period of time may lead to weight loss and/or interference with the ability of the immune system to deal with infections.’

  Jim had to re-read the text a couple of times to get a handle on it, but it made sense even to the layman. The last thing he needed was to get bogged down in scientific jargon.

  ‘In a small trial, treatment with Providon was found to help with severe weight loss in people with AIDS. Researchers concluded that Providon had a beneficial effect on the symptoms of wasting syndrome but did not improve T4 cell counts or reduce HIV replication in these patients.

  ‘The drug company that makes Providon is Caleypharma plc. They are sponsoring an ongoing Phase 2 trial using a placebo and two dose levels of Providon. The trial will study how well Providon helps promote weight gain. In addition, a range of viral and immunological markers will be evaluated to see whether Providon affects HIV and immune system function. Participants will be divided into three groups. One group will take Providon at l00mg daily. The second group will take Providon at 200mg daily. The third group will take placebo.’

  He guessed that Katrina McBurney, Samantha O’Brien and Maurice Bennet were involved in the trial, referrals in the case of the two girls made by Siobhan Anderson who met them in prison.

  Suddenly a thought sprung to mind. Samantha O’Brien was HIV positive and pregnant. Gary O’Brien was the father. That fateful night in the caravan, had Samantha told her uncle she was carrying a deadly disease? A deadly disease that without doubt she would have passed to him. It was the ultimate payback for a life of abuse at his hands.

  He’d gone for her, but Samantha was quicker. She pulled a knife, plunged it in, twisted it, watched the life ebb out of him and then set light to the van. Jim’s imagination was working in overdrive. Would an eight-month pregnant woman be capable of fending off a hulk like Gary O’Brien. Jim had seen pictures of him – he was a big man. Maybe Gary passed the disease on to Samantha, she plotted revenge and took it when he was off-guard. It mattered little now. Both were dead and the case was closed.

  There was a telephone number at the bottom of the article for anyone who wanted to participate in the trial. It was a free phone number, but probably linked to Caleypharma’s offices in Inverness. There was nothing more of interest on the page, so Jim returned to the search engine and scanned the other listings. He visited the next five or six, but there was nothing new. He was wasting valuable time.

  Next he typed in ‘Gerry Gallagher’.

  The first listing to pop up was Caleypharma’s official website, but it contained no more information than the brochure. The next was a short piece listing some of his achievements in the pharmaceutical world, mainly in the field of sedatives, anti-depressants and drug delivery systems. There was mention of his current work with Providon, but all very vague. Caleypharma simply billed it as: ‘an exciting development in the treatment and control of HIV and AIDS.’

  Jim needed some older material. He remembered Siobhan Anderson mention that Providon had been ‘around for a while’. If this was the case, there must be some background data, somewhere.

  He shut down the computer and dialled George’s number. As he hoped, Amber answered.

  ‘How’s things?’ she asked.

  ‘Just waiting for my plane. How are you?’

  ‘Okay.’ She sounded despondent.

  ‘Is George keeping you busy?’

  ‘He’s asleep.’

  ‘You mean drunk.’

  There was a short pause. ‘Probably.’

  Jim could hear George snoring in the background. ‘Can you do me a favour?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I need you to find out all you can about Gerry Gallagher.’

  ‘About his work at Caleypharma?’

  ‘Focus on his background, what he has done over the years. There might be stuff in the library at Inverness and it might be worth asking at the Inverness Courier. They’re bound to have a file on him.’

  *****

  Ron was waiting in the arrivals lounge at Palma to greet him.

  ‘Deja vu,’ Jim said as they shook hands.

  ‘Very funny.’

  Jim hoisted his overnight bag into the back of the car.

  ‘Is this all the luggage you brought?’ Ron asked.

  ‘I left all my stuff here last time,’ he joked. ‘As you will no doubt recall, I didn’t have time to pack.’

  They climbed into the front seats.

  ‘Things are okay now?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘And you’re getting married tomorrow?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Just checking. I didn’t want to waste time writing another speech until I was sure.’

  Ron pulled out on to the airport roadway.

  ‘It was a misunderstanding. We were both a bit stressed, with the wedding and all.’

  ‘How’s Jenny?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And the kids?’

  ‘Having a ball. I think Kirsty has found herself a young man. ‘

  Jim’s eyes narrowed. ‘A young man?’

  ‘Aye. He’s all right, a local lad.’

  Jim sighed. ‘I thought this was going to be a relaxing holiday.’

  Ron smiled. ‘No such thing when you’ve got teenagers. You should know that by now.’

  They reached the villa in time for a late lunch. Jenny and Debbie were busy in the kitchen tossing salad and sawing up crusty bread.

  Jenny ran acr
oss the hallway and threw her arms around Jim’s broad shoulders. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Me too.’ He squeezed her tightly to his chest.

  ‘How was your flight?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  He nodded and they sat down to lunch by the pool.

  ‘What’s this about Kirsty?’ Jim asked his wife, part way through the meal.

  Jenny flicked a stray curl back over her forehead. ‘A wee holiday romance, I think.’

  ‘Have you met him?’

  She nodded. ‘He’s very polite.’

  ‘Is she with him just now?’

  ‘They’re down at the beach. She’s spent most of her holiday there. She’s got a good tan.’

  ‘And David?’

  ‘I think he’s found himself a lass,’ Ron interrupted.

  ‘Romance is everywhere,’ Jim observed, emptying the dregs of his glass with one gulp.

  After lunch Jim and Jenny walked hand in hand down through the old town to the harbour. They paused for a minute to admire Ron’s yacht before hopping down a flight of worn stone steps on to the beach. Jim kicked off his sandals and savoured the burning warmth of the sand against the souls of his feet. They meandered through the jumble of sun worshippers stretched out on colourful loungers.

  ‘We could move out here,’ he remarked.

  Jenny smiled. ‘Would you not miss home?’

  ‘What, the rain and the cold?’

  She giggled. ‘If you put it like that...’

  ‘I’m serious. Maybe not now, but when the kids have left home.’

  ‘What about work?’

  ‘We could buy a wee tavern by the harbour.’

  She squeezed his hand lovingly. ‘Is that your dream?’

  ‘Just an old cliché.’

  He felt her clasp weaken. ‘There’s Kirsty.’ Jenny pointed across the beach.

  Jim saw her lying face down on a towel, a man rubbing suntan lotion on to her bare shoulders.

  ‘What the...?’ he exclaimed.

  Jenny’s hold tightened, pulling him back. ‘Don’t go charging in, Jim.’

  ‘But he’s...’

  Jenny led the way. Kirsty saw them coming.

  ‘Hi mum. Dad.’ She was surprised to see him.

  The man pawing her body sat back, stood up, a guilty look on his brown face. He extended his right hand to Jim. ‘Mister Buchan.’

  Jenny nudged her husband sharply in the kidneys. Jim took the hand and shook it, briefly, firmly. The palm was greasy, coated in the coconut sheen of Ambre Solaire.

  ‘This is Sam,’ Jenny explained.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Mister Buchan.’

  He didn’t return the courtesy.

  Jenny smiled at the boy. ‘Jim. You can call him Jim.’

  Could he fuck, Jim thought. But he bit his tongue and managed the briefest of brief smiles.

  Sam was tall, muscular, handsome... and well into his twenties, maybe even pushing early thirties. His all over tan was well engrained – the perks of a career stalking impressionable British teenagers on the beach. He was wearing was a pair of trunks, so short on material there was probably more stitching than Lycra.

  ‘So what do you do, Sam?’ Jim asked, apart that is from fondling young girls.

  Rugged brown shoulders shrugged. English broken, but pretty good. ‘My parents have a bar.’ He pointed towards the harbour. ‘I work there.’

  Impressive CV.

  Jim turned his attention to Kirsty, flat out on the sand. He noticed she wasn’t wearing her bikini top. And there was no bikini line across her back. ‘Enjoying yourself?’

  The bridge of her sunglasses was resting part way down her nose. She squinted as she peered up at him.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Jenny grabbed Jim’s hand again, turned to Kirsty and Sam: ‘We’ll see you later.’

  She pulled him along after her.

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ she hissed.

  ‘How old he is?’

  ‘Twenty eight.’

  ‘And you think he is someone who should be rubbing sun tan cream into our daughter’s back?’

  ‘He’s a nice lad, once you get to know him.’

  ‘And you have?’

  ‘I’ve met him a few times.’

  Jim shook his head disapprovingly.

  ‘It’s just a holiday romance,’ Jenny stressed. ‘She’ll soon forget him.’

  Jim exhaled deeply: ‘As long as that’s all it is. I just don’t like the thought of her...’

  Jenny frowned as she finished his sentence: ‘The thought of her with an older man? Don’t you think you’re being just a bit hypocritical?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You remember fine.’

  She let go of his hand and stormed off along the beach.

  Amber, that was what she meant. He was hundreds of miles away from the girl, yet she could have been standing next to them there on that beach for all the hurt in Jenny’s voice.

  He jogged after her, cursing as something sharp stabbed his bare foot.

  ‘It was a mistake,’ he muttered apologetically.

  She kept her pace up as he hopped after her, grappling to wiggle the shard of shell out from beneath his big toe.

  ‘I don’t want to see Kirsty make the same mistake.’

  ‘So you said.’ Jenny stopped, turned to face him. ‘She’s still there, isn’t she?’

  ‘Amber?’

  ‘Wherever we go, she goes too.’

  Confused: ‘What do you mean?’

  Jenny stopped, turned to confront him. ‘You’re still seeing her, aren’t you?’

  ‘No,’ Jim spat.

  Jenny starred deep into his retina. ‘You’re lying.’

  She walked on across the beach. Jim paused, then followed. ‘Okay, I have seen her again.’

  ‘I knew it.’

  ‘But not like you think.’

  ‘Aye.’ She sounded sceptical.

  Jim hastened his step, grabbed Jenny by the shoulder and pulled her round. ‘Cards on the table?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘If we must.’

  ‘The day we picked out my suit for the wedding...’ Jenny nodded again.

  ‘I met her in a cafe. We had a coffee.’

  ‘And the rest!’ Jenny shouted.

  Jim needed to unburden himself. ‘She’s been working with me for a few days, that’s all.’

  Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes. ‘And you didn’t think to tell me?’

  ‘I’m telling you now.’

  ‘Only because I asked.’

  Jenny threw a punch. It caught him on the shoulder. It was powerless, but the surprise of it knocked him off balance.

  ‘How did you expect me to react?’ she shouted. ‘You spent the night with her!’

  ‘Nothing happened,’ he protested.

  ‘And you expect me to believe that?’ She lashed out with her other fist. Jim grabbed her wrist before it hit him and held it. He noticed people on the beach were watching them now. ‘Can we discuss this somewhere else?’

  ‘I’ve said all I’ve got to say,’ Jenny sobbed. ‘Now let go of my hand.’

  Jim loosened his grip and her arm flopped down by her side. She lowered her head, turned and walked away. Three or four steps, then she stopped, spun to face him.

  ‘Have you slept with her this time?’

  ‘No.’

  She held his eye for a moment before walking.

  *****

  Jim perched his laptop on the end of the bed and connected to the Internet. He opened his inbox and scanned the new messages. There were three in total. The first was from Brian Baxter seeking an update. He filed it away and opened the second. It was from Amber. Jim’s heart skipped a beat, like a teenager. It was a silly response, but completely involuntary.

  ‘Hi Jim. How’s the hol?’ she wrote. ‘Went up to Inverness Courier office today. They were very helpful. Found some stuff about Gerry Gallagher in the files
. Too much to write (or maybe I’m just too lazy!). Give me a phone when you’ve got a minute. Amber x.’