by Iain North
‘Andy? Aye, he was up doing a bit of painting for me.’
‘He’s made a nice job of it,’ Jim nodded.
The old lady sipped her tea. ‘Do you want to ask me some questions? On you go. I’m getting used to it now.’
With interest: ‘Oh?’
‘The police have been here a few times. They always ask the same question – did I see anything?’
‘And did you?’
‘I was tucked up in my bed.’
‘So you didn’t see the car?’
‘No. I was fast asleep.’
‘And you didn’t hear anything?’
‘Nothing. I take tablets to help me sleep, you see.’
She handed a mug to Jim, and one to Amber. ‘Will this be in the local paper? Only I don’t read those tabloids. Full of rubbish.’
It was an hour and a half before they escaped. Mrs Mackinnon regaled them with her life history, twice, if not three times. Born in Glasgow in 1928. Married at the age of 18. Husband Andrew and one son, Andrew (the painter). They moved to Kishorn in the 1980s when Mr Mackinnon, a welder, retired from the Clyde shipyards. He did some part time work at the yard before it closed in 1988 and died three years ago. A stroke. There was one grandson, Andrew again. Jim’s lifeblood had all but drained from his weary limbs as he slumped into the front seat of the Mazda.
‘She ought to write a bloody book,’ he gasped.
‘A trilogy, more like,’ Amber sighed.
He started the engine and edged the car back onto the road.
‘Look over there.’ He pointed over the dashboard to an oil rig berthed in Loch Kishorn.
‘The first arrival,’ Amber said.
‘They obviously managed to get the yard up and running despite all the problems.’
‘Looks like it. Are we going to take a closer look?’
Jim shook his head. ‘There’s something else I want to see first.’
*****
The Gallagher Estate was 15 minutes’ drive from Loch Kishorn. Amber found the address during her trawl of the Inverness Library archives.
They couldn’t see much from the road. The big house, sitting some distance away, was flanked by mature woodland, a gated track leading down from the road to a small lochan. Jim left the Mazda on the verge opposite.
‘I want to have a scout round without him knowing,’ he said.
‘It looks quiet enough.’
Jim donned a pair of walking boots and retrieved a rucksack from the boot.
‘What’s in there?’ Amber asked.
‘I’ve no idea.’
They set off along the track, wandering down to a wooden bridge over the river, then on round the head of Loch Damh to a cluster of buildings sheltered by an apron of tall Scots Pine trees.
‘No cars,’ Jim observed.
‘He must be in Inverness,’ Amber suggested.
‘I guess so.’
The house sat back from the track, a neatly trimmed lawn dotted with molehills, separating the two. A rabbit spotted them and darted into the undergrowth.
The building, perched on a wide promontory jutting into the loch, was substantial enough, although architecturally uninspired – solid granite blocks rising through three storeys to crows’ step gables, large windows starring blankly out across the rippling water.
‘Let’s have a look around. ‘
‘Should we be doing this?’ Amber asked.
‘If anyone asks, we’re hill walkers. We just got a bit lost,’ Jim said, tugging the strap of his rucksack.
She paused for a moment before trotting after him.
Jim pressed his face against one of the front window pains. Well furnished, but cold and dark inside.
‘He’s obviously got a bit of money tucked away,’ he observed.
They skirted round the side of the building, following a pot-holed tarmac track. It led to a clutter of single-storey outbuildings ringing a cobbled courtyard behind the house. A mud-splattered Land Rover Discovery sat in the centre of the square.
‘What are we looking for?’ Amber asked.
‘I’m just curious.’
‘About what?’
‘Professor Gallagher and his past.’
‘Would it not have been simpler to set up an interview with him.’
‘I doubt he would have agree. He knows we’re sniffing about. Remember the night we were pulled by the police, I think Gallagher was behind that.’
‘Why?’
‘Why did he do it?’
‘No, why are we sniffing about?’
‘We know three people who were taking a drug he developed. Two are dead and a third one tried to take her own life.’
‘But the causes of Bennet and Sam’s deaths were clear enough.’
‘And Katrina?’
Amber shrugged. ‘She was depressed?’
‘Aye. Then there’s the drug he was working on which just disappeared without trace.’
‘It probably didn’t work.’
‘The man invested his entire fortune in it. There must be a better reason than that. ‘
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know.’
Jim and Amber continued along the track, away from the outbuildings. It skirted through trees before emerging into a clearing occupied by four long pre-fabricated building, the type often found on old wartime airfields. All four were identical - grey concrete walls, asbestos sheet roofing covered in moss and rows of cobweb encrusted windows. A door, paint flaking, was set into the gable of each.
‘You said this place was commandeered during the war,’ Jim prompted.
Amber nodded.
‘It is an odd place for the army. There are no bases or anything nearby.’
‘It’s pretty remote,’ Amber agreed.
‘Which would suggest something else.’
‘Go on?’ Amber was interested.
‘It’s just a thought...’ Jim said. ‘But this is not unlike a military hospital.’
‘It’s a long way to bring injured people.’
‘Exactly. ‘
‘What are you thinking?’
‘A secret test centre, maybe?’
‘Medical testing?’
Jim nodded. ‘Perhaps Professor Gallagher was involved. After the war, he took it on. Pretty convenient, isn’t it?’
‘There was no mention in any of the cuttings of Gallagher’ s war service.’
‘So after the war maybe he continued to do his own scientific work here, well out of the public gaze.’
Jim twisted the knob of one of the buildings. ‘It’s locked.’
Amber peered through an adjacent window. ‘There’s nothing inside.’
Jim shoved his face up against the cracked glass next to her. There were no fixtures, bar some old radiators placed at intervals along the internal walls, and no fittings, just a huge expanse of bare concrete floor. They checked the other three blocks. All were the same.
‘It’s the perfect place if you don’t want to be disturbed,’ Jim remarked.
Back at the road end, they scouted the landscape for any other buildings – a neighbouring cottage where, perhaps, an old lady might remember what happened here 50 years ago. But there was nothing close by.
Jim’s Blackberry rang as they wended their way back down the single-track road to Kishorn. Amber lifted it off the dashboard and answered.
‘It’s a lad I met at the Inverness Courier,’ she whispered, shielding the mouthpiece with her hand. She returned her attention to the call, chatted for a minute or two and then hung up.
‘Well?’ Jim asked.
‘Do we have time to go back up to Inverness?’
*****
‘So what’s this all about?’ Jim asked as they stood on the doorstep of a lonely farm cottage on the Black Isle.
‘When you were away I popped into the Inverness Courier office to see if they had any cuttings, like you suggested.’
‘Aye.’
‘I didn’t find much. But Jonathan – he
’s one of the reporters – told me about a lady who is always badgering them to do something about him. He said every time they run a story about Caleypharma she’s on the phone complaining.’
‘Go on,’ he prompted.
‘Well, she claims she was involved in some sort of medical trials, years ago. She’s made all sorts of allegations but they’ve never managed to stand them up. She’s a bit of a running joke in their office.’
‘Keep you voice down,’ Jim urged. He could hear movement within the cottage. He pushed the bell again.
The door opened. A young woman stood before them, cloaked in a white cotton dressing gown.
‘Yes?’ Her face was as pale as the garment.
‘My name’s Jim Buchan. I’m a reporter. Can I speak with you?’
‘What about?’
‘Caleypharma.’
Her tired eyes flickered. It was as if she’d been waiting all her life for someone to call, to say the name.
‘Come in.’
The living room was being redecorated, so she led them through to a tiny kitchen in a at the back of the house. The room was bright, fresh decor and new units.
‘You’ll have to excuse the state of the place. We’ve just moved in.’
Jim and Amber sat down at the kitchen table.
‘Give me a couple of minutes. I’ll get dressed.’ She left them alone. They heard her footsteps padding about upstairs.
‘What’s her name?’ Jim whispered.
‘Angie Drummond,’ Amber replied. She took a notebook out of her handbag and flicked through the pages.
‘What does she have to say about Caleypharma?’
‘Jonathan was a bit vague. He told me it was something to do with her baby and medical trials.’
‘No sign of any children,’ Jim observed, scanning the room.
Angie Drummond returned, wearing a pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Her long black hair was now pulled into a ponytail.
‘I’m working night shift this week,’ she explained.
‘What do you do?’ Jim asked, opening with some polite chitchat.
‘Computer factory, on the assembly line.’
‘Sorry to get you up,’ he apologised.
‘What can I tell you?’
‘We understand you know something about Professor Gerry Gallagher.’
‘Where do you want me to start?’ She stood by the sink, filling a plastic jug kettle from the cold tap.
‘You were involved in some medical trials. Is that what all this is about?’
‘Aye,’ she nodded. ‘It all happened a long time ago.’
‘What were they for?’
She plugged the kettle in and switched it on. ‘I was just a teenager, a kid really. I fell pregnant when I was 16. It wasn’t easy.’
Angie Drummond was standing by the window, staring out over the Cromarty Firth. ‘I saw an advert in the local paper. He was looking for women who had just got pregnant to test a new drug. ‘
‘What kind of new drug?’ Jim asked.
She shrugged her narrow shoulders. ‘I don’t know.’
‘But you signed up?’
‘I wish to God I hadn’t.’ The kettle was boiling. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ she sniffed.
Jim was awash with the stuff, but it was rude to decline. Besides, he was peckish and biscuits usually accompanied the offer of coffee. He and Amber nodded in unison.
Angie lifted three mugs off the draining rack, rubbed a dishtowel over them and dumped a spoonful of Nescafe into each one.
They saw tears in her eyes. ‘I lost my baby.’
A long, painful pause followed.
‘Tell us what happened,’ Jim said softly.
‘We had to go to this private hospital,’ she sniffed. ‘It didn’t bother me as I didn’t have anyone.’
‘What about your baby’s father?’
‘He wasn’t around. He worked on the rigs. When I told him I was pregnant he didn’t want to know. We’d only been going out for a few weeks. I thought he loved me. But he said he didn’t want to be tied down by a child. When my oId man found I was pregnant he kicked me out. So I phoned the number in the ad.’
‘What happened at the hospital?
‘There were a few of us. We were all in same boat, young, pregnant and on our own.
Most of the girls were just teenagers. They looked after us pretty well. It wasn’t too bad: three meals a day, TV, that sort of thing. We were given regular doses of the drug and I felt okay.’
‘How many of you were there?’
‘I think there were about 20 of us, although I never really spoke to more than a couple of the other girls. ‘
‘What about Professor Gallagher?’
‘He came out and saw us once a week. Usually he did some tests. But it was the nurses who looked after us. We didn’t see much of him.’
‘Where was the hospital?’ Jim asked.
Angie shook her head. ‘It was out in the country, but I don’t know where. We were taken there, and brought back after...’ She broke off, stirred the mugs and plonked them down on the table. ‘After the birth.’
She returned to the window, her back to them. ‘My baby was...’ She stopped again, a tremor in her voice. ‘Stillborn was the word they used. I didn’t see him. They took him away from me and I didn’t even see him.’
Tears streamed over her cheeks.
Jim stood up, handed her a paper hanky. She blew her nose, dried her eyes. ‘It’s okay,’ she snuffled. ‘I’ll be okay.’
‘Sit down,’ he guided her into a chair. ‘We can come back later, if you want.’
Angie shook her head. ‘That’s about all I can tell you, really.’
‘You didn’t get to see your baby?’
She shook her head. ‘I never saw him. I asked to see him, hold him just once. But they wouldn’t let me. We had a wee funeral service. They took care of all the arrangements and that was it.’
‘And you went home after that?’
‘They gave me some money, a bit extra because of what happened. It was quite a lot really. I got a flat in town. But all I wanted was to see my wee boy,’ she sobbed.
‘What about the other women?’
‘I never saw them. ‘
‘And the money? Were there any conditions attached to that?’ Jim asked.
‘I had to sign something to say I’d never speak to anyone about the trials, if that’s what you mean. They said it was routine, medical confidentiality, or something like that. I’m just angry they wouldn’t let me see my child.’
‘Did you speak to Professor Gallagher about it?’
‘I tried. He said there was nothing he could do.’ She wiped her eyes again. ‘He was in charge, he could have organised it. But he just didn’t care. Every time I see his name in the papers it all comes flooding back.’
*****
Outside in the car Amber flicked furiously through her notepad.
‘Did you take a note of the dates?’ Jim asked.
‘Angie gave birth in June 1988. She was 17.’
‘Have you got the clipping from the medical journal you showed me?’
She turned back a few pages. Several folded pieces of paper slipped out. Amber unfolded the first one.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘His research ceased around August of the same year. ‘
‘Angie said all the girls were at about the same stage of pregnancy when she started on the trial.’
Amber nodded. ‘They were all in the early stages, which means they would have all given birth at around the same time. Give or take a few weeks. ‘
‘Then the research was suspended.’
‘Yes,’ she confirmed.
‘Which,’ Jim concluded, ‘Suggests the results were not good.’
‘Gallagher claimed he ran out of money,’ Amber pointed out.
‘If the results were good, he would have found more money.’
‘Do you think Angie’s baby died because of the drugs?’