Lost causes sd-9

by Ken McClure

  He left the penthouse, thinking that he must have used up a year’s luck all in one morning. He’d got exactly what he wanted without the need for police raids on Deltasoft or French’s home. No damage would be done to public confidence through speculative press stories and Maxine could even return to her tireless charity work, secure in the knowledge that her husband’s secret work on behalf of the nation would go on. Not.

  ‘You look like the cat who got the cream,’ Jean Roberts told him when he appeared in her office.

  ‘A better than average morning, Jean. Could you get these over to the lab as quickly as possible?’

  ‘Will do. I think the DOH people upstairs are just about finished.’

  ‘I’ll go and see them.’

  Steven found the people from the Department of Health packing up and ready to move out. Sophie Thornton came over to speak to him.

  ‘All done. We’ve arranged the suspect files alphabetically,’ she said, indicating a bench by the window. ‘Nothing new to report, just more of the same: people dying when perhaps they shouldn’t have but with no sinister causes according to the PM reports.’

  Steven thanked her and the rest of her team, and stood with them as they waited for the lift on the landing outside to say last farewells — a trait he recognised he had inherited from his mother, who had always made sure that no one left the Dunbar household without at least three versions of goodbye and usually a final wave from the window. Then he returned to the room and rested his hands on top of one of the folder piles.

  Sophie’s saying that they were in alphabetical order encouraged him to look for James Kincaid’s father’s notes. He found them without difficulty — a coal-miner who had retired with breathing difficulties due to his long years underground. A man who had finally contracted lung cancer and had died within three weeks of having an operation at College Hospital. Kincaid had been right to be suspicious. If death had been that imminent, surgeons at the hospital wouldn’t have considered operating. The fact that they had, suggested a belief that, with the right therapy, life expectancy should have been a great deal longer than three weeks. Instead, French and his pals… or should he be calling them the Schiller Group after what the Home Secretary had said?… had decided that he was nothing more than a drain on resources. Expendable. Those to the right live, those to the left die.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Steven got his answer to the Schiller question in the morning when Jean Roberts announced, ‘I’ve remembered why the name Schiller seemed familiar: it’s what Charles French called his breakaway group at university when he left the Conservative club. The Schiller Group.’

  ‘You’re a star,’ said Steven.

  ‘I’m beginning to like working for you. Sir John never called me things like that.’

  ‘He’ll be back soon enough.’

  With nothing back from the lab, Steven went for a walk while he thought about French and his student pals. Why had French chosen the name Schiller Group? Had it been coincidence or had it been devilment? Had he known about the real Schiller Group and been trying for some kind of recognition or inclusion, or had it just been chance? Either way it had been something that had attracted the attention of Lady Antonia Freeman’s father, the judge who had uncharacteristically treated French with such leniency when he came before him on serious assault charges. That certainly suggested that French had gained membership of the big boys’ club over it.

  Later that evening, when Steven phoned Tally, he discovered that she had managed to get the following day off. ‘We should do something,’ he repeated.

  ‘Any suggestions?’

  ‘How well do you know North Wales?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Good, then I’ll show you.’

  ‘Isn’t that an awfully long way?’

  ‘I’ve got a…’

  ‘Porsche,’ supplied Tally. ‘Oh, God… what am I letting myself in for?’

  ‘I’ll make an early start and pick you up at ten.’

  The sun shone next day, making the drive along the North Wales coast a joy. Even Tally — no lover of cars or speed — seemed seduced by the wind in her hair and the throaty sound of the Boxster’s engine. ‘How come you know North Wales?’ she asked above the noise as they slowed at the turn-off to Conwy.

  ‘I trained here,’ said Steven. ‘Up and down these… mountains.’ He deleted the expletive. ‘I fell in love with it. It’s a beautiful place

  … when it’s not January, when you’re not carrying a full pack and a weapon and the wind isn’t driving horizontal rain into your face.’

  ‘Like today,’ said Tally.

  ‘Like today,’ agreed Steven, glancing up at blue skies. ‘We’ll have coffee and take a walk round the castle ramparts. You get great views.’

  With Tally suitably impressed as they completed their circle of the castle walls, something she indicated with a smile and a squeeze of the hand, they returned to the car. ‘Where to now?’

  ‘Bodnant Garden, one of the most beautiful places in the world.’

  ‘Not much to live up to then…’

  There came a point in their slow amble through the trails of the beautiful gardens when Tally turned to Steven while they were crossing a little bridge over a tumbling stream. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘This is one of the most beautiful places in the world. Thank you for bringing me.’

  ‘Where else would I bring such a beautiful woman?’

  ‘You old smoothie,’ Tally chuckled.

  Steven grew serious. ‘We’re all right, aren’t we, Tally? I mean, you and me?’

  Tally paused as if a thousand thoughts were running through her head, before saying quietly, ‘Yes, Steven, we’re fine.’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I know.’

  They drove on, ending up in Caernarfon, where they sat watching the yachts bobbing beneath the walls of another castle.

  ‘You’ve gone very quiet,’ said Steven.

  ‘I was wondering when you were going to tell me why you could suddenly take another day off… not that I’m complaining. You’ve not hit the wall again?’

  ‘Far from it,’ he said with a smile. ‘The investigation’s all over bar the shouting.’ He told her about the conclusion he and John Macmillan had reached regarding the withholding of treatment from people who were seen as a burden on the state. ‘They pretended to treat them by giving them pills that looked like the real thing but contained nothing of any medical value at all. I’m just waiting for the confirmation to come back from the lab and then I think that will be that… just in time for all hell to break loose.’

  ‘Can you tell me?’

  Steven only paused for a moment. ‘Intelligence believes the UK is in imminent danger of a biological attack from Islamic terrorists.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ murmured Tally. ‘You’ve always said it was on the cards. How sure are they?’

  ‘Very, but the key thing is they don’t know what they’re going to use.’

  ‘So we can’t prepare?’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘Doesn’t that make it even more odd that you’re taking the day off? Or are we here to kiss each other’s arse goodbye?’

  Steven smiled. ‘There’s nothing I can do until it happens. MI5 and Special Branch are working their socks off trying to come up with more information from their sources, but until they do…’

  ‘Life goes on as normal,’ said Tally, thinking it was the stupidest thing she could come out with in the circumstances.

  ‘Assuming we’re given the time, there’s one more thing I’d like to do to round off the investigation — assuming the lab comes up with the proof.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’d like to go up to Newcastle to visit the graves of the people who worked out what the Northern Health Scheme was all about all those years ago but didn’t live long enough to get the credit. They deserve some kind of recognition. If it hadn’t been for them, thousands more might have met an early death
.’

  ‘We should do that,’ agreed Tally.

  Steven drove back to London on Monday morning. He found the computer analyst from the Sci-Med contract lab waiting for him at the Home Office.

  ‘Wanted to see you personally,’ whispered Jean Roberts.

  ‘Thought you’d better hear this from the horse’s mouth,’ said the man as Steven showed him through to John Macmillan’s office and invited him to sit. ‘It’s quite straightforward really; it’s software for controlling and directing the day to day workings of a large hospital pharmacy. Patients’ details go in at one end along with a doctor’s prescription. This is checked and assessed by the software, and the pharmacy is instructed to supply the relevant drugs at the other — either the prescribed medicine or an alternative if it’s cheaper and just as good.’

  ‘That’s what we thought,’ said Steven.

  ‘There’s a little more to it, however. I didn’t see it at first but the software uses two pharmacies acting in tandem — let’s call them A and B. A number of factors determine whether you will get your drugs from A or B.’

  ‘Do you know what the factors are?’

  The man nodded. ‘There’s a long list of medical conditions and other factors which will put you on the B list. I’ve printed them out for you. Not sure what it all means, but age is a factor. Maybe they need higher doses?’

  Or none at all, thought Steven. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘There’s also a disk containing a list of the hospitals and practices where the software is going to be introduced in the autumn.’

  Steven couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Did you say going to be introduced?’

  ‘Yes, September 2010 onwards, fifteen areas across England and Wales.’

  So they were going to reintroduce the scheme, thought Steven. Macmillan’s gut instinct had been right from the beginning. The thought gave him a hollow feeling. So what had the explosion in Paris been all about? He had to rethink his theory that the killings had been some kind of Schiller Group coup. It didn’t look so feasible now. If the assassin had been one of the Schiller Group and lost his nerve over the reintroduction of the scheme, he would hardly have been likely to summon up the courage to murder six of his colleagues to stop it happening. There had to be more to it.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ he said to the computer man, who was getting up to leave. His mind was still elsewhere.

  Steven left the office and went over to see John Macmillan. Macmillan’s wife showed him in and told him John was on the telephone. ‘He just won’t do as he’s told,’ she complained. ‘The doctors say he must rest, but… well, you know him.’

  Steven nodded sympathetically as the sound of Macmillan’s raised voice reached them. ‘Ye gods, you must have some idea by now,’ he was saying.

  Steven deduced that Macmillan was complaining about the lack of progress being made by the security services. His last words before putting down the phone were, ‘But every life in the country depends on it, man. Someone must know something. Get it out of them. We’ll worry about their human rights later.’

  ‘Well, you sound back on form,’ said Steven, entering the room. ‘I take it there’s been no progress?’

  Macmillan accompanied a shake of the head with an exasperated sigh. ‘An attack like this needs infrastructure and planning; that means people — lots of them. It’s not like a hit with explosives where a small cell can keep everything in-house. So why have our people drawn a complete blank? Not a whisper.’

  ‘I agree; it is odd, particularly as they know they’re home-grown.’

  ‘Exactly. They must have people planted in all the relevant communities and yet they come up with nothing. Why?’

  Steven took a deep breath. ‘Best-case scenario, it’s a false alarm. Worst-case scenario, they’re wrong about them being home-grown. The hit’s going to come from abroad.’

  Macmillan took a moment to digest this before saying, ‘I sometimes wonder where mankind would be if we’d never felt the need for religion. It’s my guess we would have colonised the planets by now.’

  ‘Pie in the sky has a lot to answer for.’

  ‘I think it’s the different fillings in the pie that are the problem,’ said Macmillan. ‘How are things?’

  ‘Done and dusted,’ said Steven. ‘The disks confirm it was an attempt to cull the population back in the early nineties. A rough estimate says they ended the lives of about four hundred people between those being treated at College Hospital and in the surrounding practices.’

  ‘I think I prefer “murdered”,’ said Macmillan.

  ‘James Kincaid and his friends almost succeeded in exposing them but died in the attempt. The Schiller mob had to lie low for a while, and then, of course, the Tories lost the election and Labour came to power and stayed there for thirteen years. Now with another change of government they obviously felt it safe to have another go. They were planning to set the whole thing up again in a number of hospitals across the country, beginning in September.’

  ‘But fate took a hand and blew them all to kingdom come,’ mused Macmillan. ‘Any more thoughts on that?’

  ‘I just wish it had been fate,’ said Steven. ‘It’s a loose end…’

  ‘And I know how much you hate those,’ said Macmillan. ‘But maybe, in our current circumstances, we shouldn’t look a gift horse too closely in the mouth.’

  ‘You’re right,’ agreed Steven. ‘In fact, I think they should make your gut instinct a national treasure. You were right in just about everything.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Edinburgh, Friday 21 May 2010

  The man came into the room at the back of the Edinburgh bungalow, carrying a box designed to transport bottles which he’d just removed from a large American-style fridge in the kitchen. He laid it down gently on the table in the middle of the room and removed a series of metal flasks. The two younger Asian men in the room couldn’t take their eyes off them as they were lined up.

  ‘The time has come,’ said the older man. ‘You both know exactly what to do. We have been over it many times in the past few weeks. You know where your targets are, and you know what to say to the caretakers or anyone else who asks what you’re doing. You know what to do with these.’ He indicated the flasks. ‘You put on masks and gloves before opening them, and nothing must be spilled. Take great care not to contaminate yourselves with even the slightest drop. When you’ve finished your task, you drive south to the house in Northumberland to meet up with the others, and you’ll be given details of your flights. You will not be returning to your families but they will know you are with the army of the righteous and you will live on in their hearts. Are you ready, my brothers?’

  ‘I am,’ answered Anwar Khan.

  Muhammad Patel nodded, his throat too dry to say anything.

  ‘You are both blessed. Your names will live for ever and your families will stand tall. The American imperialists and their British lapdogs will learn that their greed for oil will not stop us reclaiming what is rightfully ours. The tide of filth that covers this country will be swept away by the pure waters of Islam. Do your duty. Allah is great. Praise be to Allah.’

  The two men echoed the sentiment and opened their tool bags to pack the flasks inside, taking care to wedge them upright and cushion them with plastic bubble wrap.

  The older man embraced each youth in turn and saw them to the door. He watched as they got into the white van with the Scottish Water logo on the side and drove off. Then, as he turned to go back inside, a woman’s voice said, ‘Oh, dear. Not having problems with your water supply, are you, Mr Malik?’

  He turned to see his next-door neighbour, Gillian McKay, looking anxiously over the small hedge. ‘No, no, Mrs McKay. My nephew works with the water company. He was in the area, just dropped in to say hello.’

  ‘Oh, good. Maybe you could ask him next time you see him about the amount of chlorine they put in the water. Sometimes I’d swear my tea tastes like the swimming baths.’

  ‘I’ll
certainly do that, Mrs McKay. But you can’t be too careful with water, you know.’

  Khan and Patel didn’t speak during the journey to the north of the city where they stopped outside a fifteen-storey block of flats, one of four towers standing in close proximity to each other like giant skittles in a concrete alley. Khan parked close to the entrance and reached behind him to grasp a clipboard. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  The two men entered the graffiti-adorned ground floor of Inchmarin Court and paused for a moment as the lift doors opened to let a young woman with two small children get out and cross their path. Khan pretended to check his clipboard. Patel swallowed and smiled at the woman, who ignored him as she turned to berate the smallest of her children, lagging behind.

  Khan pushed the call bell for the caretaker and waited with his ear close to the grille.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Scottish Water, here to check your pressure.’

  ‘Naebody telt me anything aboot that.’

  ‘We’ve had complaints of low water pressure from tenants on the top three floors.’

  ‘They said bugger all tae me.’

  ‘Do you want it checked or not?’

  ‘Shit. Gimme a minute. I’ll be doon.’

  An elderly man appeared a few minutes later, grossly overweight, wearing green corduroy trousers and carpet slippers, and carrying a large bunch of keys. He scratched at the grey stubble on his chin. ‘This way.’

  Khan and Patel followed him into the pump room, where the main water tank for the building was situated. From here water was pumped electrically up to three further storage tanks located on the upper floors.

  ‘Great. No need for you to hang around, mate,’ said Khan. ‘It’s a Yale. We’ll see it’s closed before we go.’

  ‘Fair enough. Want me tae sign anythin’?’

  ‘No, it’s just a routine test. If there’s a problem they’ll send another team out.’

  The caretaker shuffled off and Patel closed the door gently behind him. He stood for a moment with his back against it. ‘He’s seen us,’ he said.