by Ken McClure
‘Thanks, Kenneth, but it’s actually something else I’m calling about. One of your medics was on site the morning the tomb at Dryburgh was opened. He took some health details from the guys involved and gave them anti-tetanus injections.’
‘Really? That’s news to me. Do you have a name?’
Steven felt his blood run cold at Glass’s response. ‘Afraid not. I’ll try and get one if you like.’
‘No, it’s okay. I’ll ask around and get back to you.’
Steven realised that he didn’t have names for the Health and Safety representatives either but maybe Motram had mentioned them to his wife. He’d ask Cassie later when he called.
His phone rang and he just knew it was going to be bad news.
‘Hi, Steven. I’m afraid no one here knows anything about giving anti-tetanus shots to the guys at Dryburgh. In fact, at that time, we didn’t even know it was happening.’
‘Thanks,’ said Steven. ‘I was afraid of that.’
He ended the call and shivered as he thought about his latest discovery. It now seemed likely — even probable — that someone had turned up at Dryburgh Abbey, purporting to be from Public Health, and injected John Motram with the mycotoxin that had scrambled his brain. That explained perfectly the absence of spores in the air samples and the ‘large dose’ hypothesis. But only John Motram had been targeted. Three others had received injections without any ill effects. It had been a specific attack on Motram… because… he knew something about a marine who had been killed in Afghanistan?
This changed everything. He decided that a phone call to Cassie Motram would not be good enough; he’d go back up north and talk to her personally. He also needed to see Tony Fielding again to find out what he could tell him about the people from Health and Safety and Public Health or, more correctly, the people who weren’t from Health and Safety and Public Health. He’d phone Cassie to let her know he was coming and then drive on up to Borders General to talk to Fielding.
Steven was still thinking about it all when he got back to his flat. He didn’t know much about mycotoxins but Porton Down certainly would. Someone somewhere had taken the decision not to kill Motram but to scramble his brain instead. ‘All heart, you bastards,’ he murmured as he filled the coffee holder and switched on the espresso machine.
TWENTY-TWO
Steven collected the file on the dead marine from the Home Office before setting out for the north. Jean Roberts apologised for the lack of detail but she had only had time to get her hands on the official press release from the MOD and add in what she could garner from the newspapers. John Macmillan wasn’t in the office so Steven didn’t get the chance to tell him about the bogus Public Health official and what he’d deduced. He told Jean he’d call him later.
After an uneventful drive with only one stop for coffee at a service station, which had given him the chance to read through the slim file on Michael Kelly, he drew up outside Cassie Motram’s cottage: it was shortly after one o’clock. Cassie told him that she’d made sandwiches in case he hadn’t stopped for lunch. Steven smiled, thinking that this was exactly the kind of thing Cassie Motram would do. He accepted gratefully.
He was invited to take a seat in the small conservatory stuck on the back of the house where he sat and looked out on a picture-book country garden while Cassie went to fetch them, calling through from the kitchen that she had hoped to have been able to talk outside in the garden.
‘I thought when I saw the sunshine this morning…’ she said as she put the heaped plate down. ‘But it was false optimism; I’m wishing the winter away. I always do; but it’s still far too early and far too cold. So, put me out of my misery, Dr Dunbar. What did you make of the TV news item?’
‘That’s really why I’m here,’ Steven admitted. ‘Seeing that report after what you’d told me about John thinking the donor and the dead marine were one and the same started alarm bells ringing. It’s just too much of a coincidence. I need to know everything you can remember about John’s London trip and the transplant operation he was involved in: how it came about, the names of those involved, absolutely everything, no detail too small.’
Cassie looked serious. ‘Do you think this could have had something to do with what happened to John?’ she asked.
‘Yes. I do.’
‘So it had nothing to do with the excavation at all?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Then what?’
‘That’s what I’m determined to find out. Let’s start from the beginning.’
Cassie took a sip of her tea. ‘When Balliol College told John about the letters raising the possibility of preserved bodies of Black Death victims lying in a secret tomb at Dryburgh, John was over the moon. But he didn’t have the funding to take on such a project: he’d more or less been told his grant for the historical work wasn’t being renewed. However, the Master of Balliol said that funding might be available from a new source called the Hotspur Foundation. All John had to do was agree to act as a consultant in his specialty when called upon and without being given too much notice. Well, of course, John agreed, seeing it as a lifeline for his research and his chance to settle the argument over the cause of Black Death. He signed on the dotted line, as they say, and a few weeks later he was called to London, to a private hospital in South Kensington. It was called St Raphael’s.’
Steven wrote the name down. ‘Who called him?’
‘A firm of London solicitors representing the Hotspur Foundation.’
‘Do you still have the letter?’
Cassie left the room for a few moments and returned with it. ‘Apparently the person or persons behind the Hotspur Foundation are very reclusive so they use the solicitors as a front to protect their privacy. The Master of Balliol College told John he thought it was probably a billionaire atoning for past sins.’
Steven smiled. ‘Quite a few of those around,’ he said. ‘They usually pop up in the honours list.’
‘When John turned up at the hospital there were some other people there, all specialists in their own fields… I think he said six but I’m not sure.’
‘Names?’
‘Sorry, John didn’t mention any, but the man in charge of proceedings who told them why they were there was a Sir Laurence Samson. Of Harley Street, no less.’
‘And they were there because they were to be involved in the treatment of a patient who was to have a bone marrow transplant?’
‘Yes. The patient had advanced leukaemia. As a last resort they were going to try replacing his bone marrow. It was John’s job to screen the donor for compatibility. He told me there was a tremendous air of secrecy surrounding everything. The patient was only ever referred to as Patient X, although there was a strong hint that he was fabulously wealthy. The donor was simply called the donor. The consultants weren’t allowed to talk to each other about the case unless it was professionally necessary and no names were to be mentioned. There were to be severe financial implications for anyone stepping out of line, although I don’t think John ever understood why such threats were necessary. He saw his role in screening the donor as being very simple and straightforward — any hospital lab could have done the essentials, according to him. He couldn’t understand why he — or rather the university — was being paid all that money for a piece of routine work. I think we concluded that the patient was buying the best of everything simply because he could.’
‘Am I right in thinking that John never saw the patient, only the donor?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And he didn’t know the donor’s name?’
‘No. He was a young man with a Scots accent. That’s it.’
‘Who looked a lot like the young marine on the television,’ said Steven.
‘John was sure he was the young man he’d seen in London, but Sir Laurence convinced him otherwise and the dates made it impossible. But then when I saw the story on the news last night…’
‘So John actually voiced his suspicion to Lauren
ce Samson?’ asked Steven, seeing this as a crucial point.
Cassie nodded. ‘He was so sure. He called him up almost immediately after seeing the report of the death on TV. Sir Laurence assured him he was mistaken.’ She refilled Steven’s cup. ‘So who’s lying?’ she asked.
‘And why?’ Steven wondered.
Steven decided against telling Cassie anything yet about his suspicions surrounding the false Public Health doctor and the possibility that John had been deliberately poisoned, but he did tell her something about the dead marine. ‘If the soldier really was the donor John saw in London, his name was Michael Kelly and he came from Glasgow. The official report says he was wounded by shrapnel in an incident in Helmand Province in southern Afghanistan. It wasn’t thought to be a serious wound but it turned septic and didn’t respond to treatment. He died from blood poisoning in a military hospital at Camp Bastion where he was taken after being transferred from a smaller field hospital. His body was returned to the UK for burial with full military honours.’
Cassie looked perplexed. ‘So what exactly are his family going on about?’ she asked.
‘Michael Kelly’s parents have complained to their local member of the Scottish parliament that they haven’t been told the full story about their son’s death. They claim he was flown home secretly to the UK shortly before his death but haven’t been told why. They also complain of a lack of information about the incident he was supposedly wounded in. Their MSP has decided to run with it and has passed on their concerns to the Ministry of Defence — defence is not a devolved power in Scotland. He’s also briefing the news media, by the look of it.’
Cassie shook her head in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘So it is possible this young man was the donor. God, I wish I knew what the hell was going on.’
‘Well, it’s going to be my job to try and find out,’ said Steven, getting up to go. ‘If you remember anything else you think could be useful, let me know.’
As he headed north-west to Borders General Hospital, Steven reflected on what he’d learned from Cassie Motram and tried to match it to what he already knew or suspected. If John Motram really had been the subject of an attack, it was difficult to see the motive, particularly if MI5 were party to it. It was possible that Motram had been targeted to shut him up about something to do with the secret transplant, but what? He didn’t know anything. He had said, however, that he thought the donor and a dead Royal Marine were one and the same. Had voicing that suspicion been enough to seal his fate?
TWENTY-THREE
‘I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again,’ said Tony Fielding, when Steven put his head round the door of his room.
‘I was back in the area; I thought I’d pop in and see how you were,’ said Steven. ‘How’s the leg?’
‘They say it’s mending well; it’s amazing what they can do with nuts and bolts these days. I’ll be going home the day after tomorrow. And now tell me the real reason for your visit, doctor.’
Steven smiled. ‘I need to ask you about the people from Health and Safety and Public Health who came to see you on site at Dryburgh.’
‘What about them?’
‘Names… descriptions.’
Fielding looked shocked. ‘Are you saying those people weren’t who they said they were?’
‘Let’s just say I’m having trouble tracing them,’ said Steven.
‘Jesus,’ murmured Fielding, subconsciously rubbing his upper arm as he thought about the injection he’d been given. ‘Why?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to establish.’
‘Bunce,’ said Fielding. ‘Norman Bunce was the Health and Safety guy. White, five-seven, brown hair, balding, suit, briefcase, clipboard, had a permanent air of disapproval about him, mouth like a cat’s arse, seemed pretty genuine to me.’
Steven wrote down the details. ‘How often did you see this Bunce?’
‘Twice, the first time on his own when he appeared on site and told us we’d need permission. The second time was on the morning of the excavation when he turned up with two of his mates to check over our equipment.’
‘Descriptions?’
‘Big guys. I remember thinking they looked more like bouncers than safety inspectors. White, six feet plus, didn’t say a lot but had English accents like Bunce.’
‘Anything else?’
Fielding shrugged. ‘Not really, I didn’t pay them too much attention.’
Steven nodded. ‘How about the Public Health doctor?’
‘Dr Morris,’ said Fielding, ‘Dr Simon Morris. White, well spoken, six-one or two, well built, short dark hair, balding at the front, wart on his… left cheek.’
Steven looked at him questioningly, finding this a surprising observation.
‘I was wondering how he shaved round it while he was asking me questions about my health,’ explained Fielding.
Steven smiled. ‘What sort of questions?’
‘Routine stuff: had I had any serious illnesses, did I have high blood pressure, did I smoke, did I drink… you know.’
Steven nodded. ‘And then he gave you an injection…’
‘Anti-tetanus.’
‘Any after effects?’
‘None… Good God, is that what happened to John? The injection?’
Steven held his hands up. ‘It’s too soon to say anything like that, but I’d be really obliged if you’d keep this to yourself for the time being.’
Fielding nodded and said wryly, ‘No problem. Frankly I wish I could just blot out the whole bloody episode from my memory.’
Steven nodded his understanding. ‘I hope you’re up and about again soon.’
Steven had already decided to visit the family of the dead marine in Glasgow, but it was too late to go up there that day. His first thought was to stay overnight in nearby St Boswells or Melrose, but then he reminded himself it was only a short drive to Dryburgh. If he stayed at the Abbey Hotel again, he might be able to glean some more information about the fake Public Health official from the staff. His gamble on there being a vacancy at the hotel — it still was a couple of weeks shy of Easter — paid off and he was even given the room he’d had before. ‘Nice to see you back, doctor,’ said the receptionist. He recognised her from his last visit and asked her if she remembered anything about Simon Morris. The question brought about an uneasy pause before she said — as if reading from a cue card — ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss other guests, doctor.’
Steven smiled and showed her his ID. ‘It’s OK,’ he assured her. ‘You won’t be breaking any rules.’
The girl seemed relieved at being released from the obvious embarrassment she felt in toeing the company line. ‘What about him?’
‘You do remember him?’
‘He was the doctor from Public Health. He was the only guest we’ve had this year who paid in cash. He’d lost his credit cards.’
‘Bad luck,’ said Steven, thinking, Smart move. You can’t trace cash.
‘He was here to examine the people working at the abbey. We gave him a little room on the ground floor.’
Steven nodded. ‘Did he leave an address when he left?’
The girl shook her head. ‘He just wrote Public Health Service in the book.’
‘Don’t suppose he left anything behind, did he?’
Another shake of the head.
‘Do you think I could see the room he used to see his patients?’
The girl smiled as she came out from behind the desk. ‘It’s not exactly a consulting room,’ she said. ‘It’s the ground floor linen store. We just made space for him on the day.’
Steven could see that the room had been restocked with linen. ‘I hope he cleared up after him,’ he said, ‘and didn’t leave any syringes and needles lying around…’
‘He was very good,’ said the girl. ‘Cleaned up everything when he was finished. Just as well. I hate needles and all that stuff.’
‘A true professional,’ said Steven, although he was thinking about a different p
rofession entirely. He went upstairs and called John Macmillan at his home number, beginning with the usual apology for doing so.
‘Better that than silence,’ said Macmillan. ‘I hate being kept in the dark. Jean told me you’d uncovered something about the excavation at Dryburgh?’
Steven told him about the impostor who had given injections to the four men at the site.
‘You’re certain he was a phoney?’
‘Absolutely. Public Health had never heard of him: I checked.’ Steven told Macmillan that the man had paid in cash at the hotel.
‘So you think he engineered what happened to John Motram,’ said Macmillan slowly, as if he were thinking at the same time as speaking.
‘I think so,’ said Steven. ‘The other three were unaffected by their injections, but I think Motram was given something different.’
‘Which makes him a specific target.’
‘I think they wanted to keep him quiet about something.’
‘Odd way of going about it.’
‘But clever,’ said Steven. ‘If it hadn’t been for the lab not finding spores in the air…’
‘You did well,’ said Macmillan.
‘The point is, it’s not exactly something private enterprise would come up with. It’s more an intelligence services sort of thing, wouldn’t you say?’
He heard Macmillan let his breath out in a long sigh before muttering, ‘Damnation. This we don’t need.’
‘Did you find out anything more about the dead marine?’ Steven asked.
‘The MOD are sticking to their official line: anything else is pure fantasy, according to them. They have every sympathy with the dead boy’s parents but what they’re suggesting is, in the MOD’s view, stuff and nonsense. They’re keen to let it be known that the Kellys’ MSP belongs to the Scottish Nationalist Party: they maintain he’s seizing the chance to make trouble for the Westminster Labour Party.’