by Ken McClure
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘Are you all right, doctor?’ asked McCready. Steven seemed to have been preoccupied for a long time.
He nodded and gave a resigned smile. ‘What a tangled web we weave, colonel.’
McCready gave a slight, bemused smile. ‘The ambulance crew that brought Marine Kelly in,’ Steven went on. ‘Can you tell me anything about them?’
McCready frowned and shook his head. ‘We tend to be more concerned with the casualties than the soldiers bringing them in.’
‘But they were soldiers?’
This time McCready appeared irritated. ‘I didn’t see them personally but I assume they were. If they’d been chartered accountants, I’m sure someone would have said.’
‘Sorry,’ said Steven. ‘So no one did mention anything unusual about them?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have lab cultures of the organism that Marine Kelly died from?’
‘Of course,’ said McCready. ‘As I said, we have excellent facilities here. Why d’you ask?’
‘I’d like to take one back to the UK with me.’
McCready suddenly seemed suspicious. ‘Is there some problem here?’ he asked, all at once sounding more Scottish. ‘Are we under some kind of scrutiny for our handling of Marine Kelly?’
‘No, you’re not. Is there some problem about giving me a culture of the organism that killed Michael Kelly?’
McCready shrugged. ‘I suppose not. I’ll have the lab grow one up for you: it’ll be ready in the morning. Anything else?’
‘Accommodation for the night would be good,’ said Steven. ‘I didn’t have time to arrange anything.’
McCready looked appraisingly at Steven, as if he were seeing an enigma. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Tell me… where exactly does the Sci-Med Inspectorate fit in with the military?’
‘It doesn’t,’ Steven replied, matter-of-factly.
McCready remained impassive until a slight smile broke out on his lips and he said, ‘Something tells me if I ask any more questions, I won’t like the answers and this could all end up in a mass of paperwork.’
‘Seems to me cold beer would be a better option,’ Steven suggested.
A moment’s hesitation, then a slight nod was the prelude to a very pleasant evening in the officers’ mess, a good night’s sleep and success the following morning in hitching a lift back to the UK on an RAF flight returning to Brize Norton. In Steven’s pack, surrounded by absorbent packing material, was a small glass vial containing a culture of the micro-organism that had killed Michael Kelly.
‘How was the graveyard of empires?’ asked Sir John Macmillan when Steven turned up in his office.
‘As inhospitable as ever,’ Steven replied. ‘But worth going: I made progress.’
Macmillan looked at the sun streaming in the window and said, ‘I think the least I can do is offer you lunch. Let’s walk over to my club; we can go through the park.’
On the way, Steven told Macmillan what he’d discovered.
‘So the military weren’t involved in any shenanigans?’
‘No,’ said Steven. ‘They all did what they could when Kelly turned up on their doorstep, but none of them thought to question how he’d come to be there.’
‘But the military must have been involved in selecting Kelly as the donor for this damned transplant in the first place,’ mused Macmillan.
‘Or if not them officially… someone who had access to military medical records,’ said Steven.
‘What was wrong with civilian ones, I wonder?’
Steven mulled this over for a moment before suggesting, ‘Maybe they weren’t comprehensive enough… maybe the patient had a very rare blood or tissue type and Michael Kelly was the only one who fitted the bill?’
‘Plausible. Did Motram’s wife mention anything about that?’
‘No, she didn’t,’ Steven conceded. ‘In fact she mentioned at one point that her husband thought it was a really routine job — money for old rope, to use his expression. He didn’t understand why they wanted such a comprehensive report.’
Macmillan nodded and said, ‘You know what worries me most? This someone who had access to military medical records would also have needed the clout to put the knowledge to practical use. He or she wasn’t some filing clerk.’
‘Good point,’ said Steven. ‘And a worry. Maybe one of your people in high places who doesn’t like me rooting around?’
‘Well, like it or not, it’s what we’ll be continuing to do.’
Steven smiled at Macmillan’s resolution. ‘Have you had any more thoughts about who the opposition might be?’ he asked.
‘I still can’t get a handle on it,’ Macmillan replied. ‘I’m convinced it’s not the usual suspects. It’s not MOD despite the military factor we’ve just been talking about, and I’m sure I’d recognise the hand of our colleagues in the Home Office if it were them. The Department of Health I’m not so sure about, but that would still leave lots of things that didn’t fit.’
‘MI5?’ suggested Steven, thinking of Ricksen’s appearance on site at Dryburgh.
‘All wrong for them,’ said Macmillan. ‘Doesn’t have their mark on it at all, although I suspect they know more than they’re letting on. Still, the more opposition we encounter, the more they’ll give themselves away.’
‘A comfort,’ said Steven, tongue in cheek. Macmillan smiled his acknowledgement that it would be Steven who bore the brunt of any future ‘opposition’.
They didn’t discuss the investigation over lunch, preferring instead to talk about other things ranging from climate change to rumours of a scandal brewing over MPs’ allowances, but when they got to the coffee and brandy stage it was time to get back to business.
‘The way I see it,’ said Steven, ‘returning Michael Kelly to Afghanistan with a full-blown MRSA infection was tantamount to murder. He might well have survived had he been treated here.’
Macmillan nodded his agreement. ‘It was a ridiculous thing to do.’
‘But maybe he wasn’t the only one to contract MRSA at St Raphael’s,’ said Steven, suddenly seeing a new line of inquiry opening up. ‘If there were other cases, we could get the lab to do a comparison of the local MRSA and the strain I brought back from Afghanistan. If a DNA comparison showed them to be identical, it would prove Michael Kelly contracted the infection at St Raphael’s and possibly turn his death into a murder inquiry. The hospital would then have to release details of the operation.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Macmillan. ‘The only problem I can see on the horizon is that St Raphael’s aren’t going to admit to any MRSA problem.’
‘Mmm.’
A club server appeared with a silver coffee pot and caused a hiatus while he refilled their cups.
When the man withdrew, Macmillan said thoughtfully but with a glint in his eye, ‘Tell me, what d’you think a private hospital does when it encounters an MRSA problem in their patients?’
A smile broke out on Steven’s lips. ‘Transfer the patients,’ he said. ‘Transfer the patients to the nearest NHS hospital.’
‘I’ll put out discreet feelers to surrounding hospitals,’ said Macmillan.
‘I still think we need to find out what made Michael Kelly so special,’ said Steven. ‘But we’re not going to get that from St Raphael’s or Sir Laurence Samson.’
‘We could request more details from the military,’ suggested Macmillan. ‘But if we do that…’
‘We’d be alerting the opposition to what we’re up to.’
‘An alternative would be better.’
‘John Motram’s wife told me that her husband carried out some tests on the donor samples in his own lab up north… If we could get our hands on them, we could see what our labs could come up with.’
‘Well worth a try.’
TWENTY-NINE
Steven returned to his flat and found an envelope lying behind the door. There was no stamp on it and his name had been written in violet ink in beautiful copperpla
te handwriting. It was from one of his neighbours, Cynthia Clements, a solicitor in a city law firm. She was informing fellow members that Ms Greenaway, the chair of the Marlborough Court Residents’ Association, had been taken into hospital. She thought it would be a nice gesture if they clubbed together and sent her some flowers. Steven put ten pounds in an envelope and left it on the phone table to put through Miss Clements’ letter box on his way out. He couldn’t help but take on board the fact that there were no new messages on his answering machine. The green zero gave him a hollow feeling in his stomach. Each day that passed seemed to make it more unlikely he would hear from Tally again.
He called Cassie Motram. There was no reply from her home number so he tried the practice. He learned that she had in fact returned to work but was currently with a patient: the receptionist would pass on the message when she became free. Cassie called him back within ten minutes.
‘You’re back in harness,’ said Steven.
‘My patients have decided they’re not going to get Black Death from me after all,’ said Cassie. ‘Their attention span has moved on to worries new — swine flu to be precise.’
‘Good to hear,’ said Steven. ‘Can’t have the public not panicking about something.’ He asked about the donor samples her husband had analysed in his own lab at Newcastle University. ‘D’you think there’s a chance they might still be there?’
‘Quite possibly. I can’t think why anyone would throw them out unless John did when he was finished with them, but tidiness is not his strong point. They’ll probably still be lying in some fridge in his lab.’
‘Good,’ said Steven. ‘I was just checking it would be worth flying up there in the morning to take a look.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘I’m trying to find out what was special about the donor John saw at the London hospital. I think he’s the key to everything. Mind you, samples from the patient himself would be just as good, but I don’t suppose John had access to any samples from him?’
Cassie said not. ‘He was supplied with a lab report listing details for him to compare.’
‘Was it as comprehensive as the one he was asked to provide on the donor?’ asked Steven, almost as an afterthought.
‘Actually, no,’ Cassie replied. ‘I remember John remarking that it had the relevant details but nothing more, while he’d been asked to do all sorts of tests on the donor he couldn’t see the point of.’
‘Interesting,’ said Steven. ‘I don’t suppose you have this report?’
‘I haven’t, but maybe it’ll be in John’s lab. Whoops, I can see old Mrs Jackson getting anxious in the waiting room,’ said Cassie. ‘She’s started complaining to the reception staff about how long she’s been kept waiting. I’d best get on.’
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Steven.
‘Good luck tomorrow.’
Steven took a British Airways flight up to Newcastle in the morning and a taxi for the six-mile journey into the city itself. Jean Roberts had arranged a time for him to meet the head of the Department of Cell Science but the journey had gone so smoothly that he had an hour and a half to spare. He used the time to have a walk round on what was a fine morning, finishing up with a leisurely coffee in a cafe with a view of the Tyne Bridge.
Steven had always liked being near great iconic structures, be they buildings or bridges or natural features like mountains. There was something about proximity to them that promoted him from being a member of the ‘audience’ of life to having at least a walk-on part in the ‘performance’. No fog on the Tyne this morning, he noted before leaving the river to head off for the university.
‘Any word of Dr Motram coming back?’ asked the smiling woman who shook hands with him and introduced herself as Professor Mary Lyons. She was a short woman in her late fifties with white hair that had once been blonde and wrinkles on her cheeks that suggested she smiled a lot. She wore a dark green two-piece suit over a silk blouse with a yellow floral motif on it.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘What an absolute tragedy. Such a nice man, and one of our best researchers too. Everyone misses him — although some of us for more selfish reasons, it has to be said.’
Steven gave her a questioning look.
‘John’s work on viral cell receptors is one of the main reasons we have such a high research rating — we were rated 4 in the last Research Assessment Exercise,’ explained Lyons. ‘These things are important when it comes to attracting grants and students.’
‘I see.’
‘So, how can I help you, doctor?’
Steven explained about the samples he was trying to trace and Lyons nodded. ‘I don’t see a problem there. Perhaps Louise Avery can help. She’s John’s research assistant: she’s been working with one of the other groups while John is… indisposed.’ Lyons picked up the phone and made a three-digit call.
A few minutes later, a tall, slim girl with brown hair tied back in a ponytail and wearing a white lab coat knocked and entered. Lyons explained what was required and she replied, ‘No problem,’ in a north-east accent. As they walked along the corridor, the girl asked the question Mary Lyons had and Steven had to disappoint her too.
‘It’s a right shame,’ she said, unlocking a lab door. ‘I miss him. John could be a right laugh.’
Steven had difficulty imagining the man he’d seen in the isolation unit at Borders General Hospital being ‘a right laugh’ but the girl persisted. ‘He told me he was going to give up science and become a celebrity nail technician if his grant wasn‘t renewed.’
Steven grinned broadly — not least because ‘celebrity nail technician’ gained much from being said with a Geordie accent — and found himself warming to the man who’d said it. Some scientists took themselves awfully seriously. Motram clearly wasn’t in that school. ‘Was the grant renewed?’ he asked.
‘No, not for the historical stuff — John’s passion — but he managed to get some money from something called the Hotspur Foundation. As one door closes another one opens, you might say.’
Steven nodded his agreement with Geordie-tinged philosophy.
‘If John didn’t chuck out the samples, they’ll be in here,’ said Louise, opening the top half of a large fridge freezer.
‘Did you work on them at all?’ asked Steven, suddenly realising that the girl might have the very information he was seeking, but the hope was short-lived.
‘No. John said it was something he had to do himself. Delegation wasn’t permitted.’
‘I don’t suppose you saw his results?’
Another shake of the head. ‘I had no reason to. It was nothing to do with our work here. He was checking out a potential bone marrow donor… but I suppose you know that.’
Steven nodded.
‘You’re in luck,’ announced Louise, removing a wire rack from the fridge. It contained a number of plastic tubes of various shapes and sizes. She gave a little laugh. ‘Can’t get much clearer than that,’ she said, holding up the rack.
Steven read the label. Bone Marrow Donor.
Louise produced a small polystyrene box and some dry ice. Steven watched as she packed the samples. ‘Have you been with John long?’ he asked.
‘Ever since I graduated,’ she replied. ‘About eight years now.’
‘Quite a while. Any plans for the future?’
‘I’m thinking of registering for a master’s degree if John agrees. I could do it part time and still continue working here. After that, who knows?’
‘PhD?’
‘Maybe.’
What had started as small talk had given birth to a plan in Steven’s head. ‘You must know almost as much as John about research in receptor biology,’ he said.
Louise smiled. ‘It’s one thing learning what’s there, quite another coming up with what’s not there.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Steven, intrigued by her response.
‘People think research is all about getting answers. It’s not; it’s more about a
sking questions, the right questions. Out of the hundreds of questions you can ask, only one or two will be the right ones. The others… well, they just keep researchers in employment.’
Steven was impressed. ‘Hang on a moment,’ he said as he saw she was about to seal the box. It had been his intention to take the samples back to London and hand them over to the contract labs Sci-Med used for analytical work. There had never been any trouble with this arrangement in the past and there was no reason to think there would be this time, but the paranoia that came with knowing there was some kind of establishment opposition to the current investigation was making Steven ultra-cautious. ‘What would you say to the idea of Sci-Med commissioning you to carry out an analysis on these samples?’
‘I don’t know what Professor Lyons would say about that.’
‘Assuming she was agreeable?’
‘Then sure, no problem. What is it you’d want me to do exactly?’
‘I need to know everything you can possibly tell me about the donor from the samples in these tubes.’
‘Look, John actually mentioned in passing he was a perfect match for the patient,’ said Louise, ‘if that’s what you’re worried about. In fact…’ She opened a drawer under the lab bench and rummaged around for a few seconds before coming up with a sheet of paper which she handed to Steven. ‘These are the patient’s details. I remember John saying they were too ordinary to be secret.’
‘Thank you,’ said Steven. ‘May I keep this?’ When she nodded, he went on, ‘Look, this is going to be a belt and braces exercise. I want you to divide the samples in two: I’m going to get the lab we use in London to do a second analysis. How do you feel about that?’