by Ken McClure
‘ Scientific fraud has always been with us,’ said Susan. ‘And we’re not just talking about ambitious students taking shortcuts. Scientists of world renown have fallen from grace over it. Common or garden arrogance is usually the cause. Some scientists believe so strongly in their theories that they dismiss their continued failure to come up with supporting evidence as some kind of technical difficulty. Frustration leads to manipulation of the data to show that what they believe must be true — or worse still, they’ve occasionally been known to browbeat their research students into coming up with data to support their pet theories. This is why we have rigorous peer review of work before it gets published in the journals.’
‘ Foolproof?’ asked Steven.
‘ No,’ replied Susan. ‘But it stops the more overt rubbish getting through the net. Apart from that, science has its own inherent safeguard.’
‘ How so?’
‘ Science is conservative with a capital “C”. If you try to publish work that sounds entirely new and radical, the scientific establishment won’t like it. Every aspect of your paper will be examined in minute detail by career scientists who will go through it with a fine-tooth comb, looking for reasons not to publish it. The work really has to be well done and that’s as it should be. Unfortunately, the other side of the coin is that if you submit work that supports the scientific establishment’s view of things, you will have a much easier time of it. Your paper will sail through the refereeing process. People see what they want to see.’
Steven nodded.
‘ So now you can guess what ninety percent of the research journals contain,’ said Susan with a wry smile.
‘ Nothing of any great import at all?’ ventured Steven.
‘ Right,’ laughed Susan. ‘They are full of work that amounts to little more than the crossing of t s and the dotting of i s, people telling each other what they want to hear, work confirming what has already been shown to be so. Some scientists have turned saying the same thing over and over again into a minor art form. But in a world where scientific achievement is equated with the number of papers you’ve had published, what else can you expect?’
‘ You make it all sound rather depressing,’ said Steven. ‘But I suppose it’s the best system we’ve got.’
‘ It is,’ smiled Susan. ‘But that doesn’t make it good.’
‘ How easy would it be to fake a DNA fingerprint match?’ asked Steven.
‘ If we’re talking about altering the actual gel data to make it appear that one person’s DNA fingerprint matched another’s, impossible I’d say. They are just so highly individual.’
‘ So you couldn’t see anyone attempting it?’
‘ Frankly, no.’
‘ How about simply photographing the same gel twice and pretending that they came from two different sources?’
‘ It would be quite obvious that the photographs had come from the same gel. There are always lots of little distinguishing marks in the polyacrylamide — that’s the jelly that the gel is made from. A first year student would spot it right away.’
‘ Could these marks not be removed by using the software you spoke about earlier?’
‘ There are just so many of them when you look through a magnifier that you would be left with something that had so obviously been doctored that no one would believe it anyway.’
‘ Good,’ said Steven. ‘So if you come up with a DNA match from the sample I’ve just given you it means that this man is guilty beyond doubt.’
‘ If the DNA from the buccal swab you took matches the DNA from the semen then it’s perfectly safe to say that they came from one and the same man — unless of course, he has an identical twin somewhere,’ said Susan.
‘ He hasn’t,’ said Steven.
‘ In that case, leave me your number and I’ll be in touch.’
ELEVEN
Steven felt positive about his meeting with Susan Givens. She seemed impressively competent and her assertion of how difficult it would be to fake a DNA fingerprint had reassured him. He was on the way back to his hotel when Sci-Med called with details of John Merton’s whereabouts.
‘ He set up a business called Genecheck some seven years ago,’ said the duty officer. ‘It seems to have been very successful.’
‘ What do they do?’ asked Steven.
‘ Commercial DNA sequencing, paternity checks, inheritance lines, that sort of thing.’
‘ Sign of the times,’ said Steven. ‘Where about are they?’
‘ Nearest to you would be Glasgow — 471 Shamrock Street.’
‘ They have more than one place?’
‘ They’re listed in seven UK cities, only one in Scotland though.’
Steven checked his watch and did a mental calculation before concluding that he could comfortable cover the forty odd miles to Glasgow and find Shamrock Street before the end of the business day. He had however, failed to take account of the road works in Glasgow and it was nearly ten minutes to five when he drew up outside the building which housed Genecheck on its second floor.
‘ I wonder if I could have a word with Mr Merton,’ Steven asked the attractive girl who was in the process of tidying her desk before leaving.
‘ Who?’
‘ John Merton… I think he owns the company?’
‘ Oh, I see,’ said the girl, ‘that Mr Merton.’
‘ Uh huh,’ said Steven.
‘ Sorry, I’ve only been here a few months. I’ve not actually met Mr Merton yet. Mr Kelly is the manager here. Can I ask what it’s about?’
‘ It’s a private matter,’ said Steven.
‘ Usually is with our customers,’ smiled the girl.
Steven showed her his ID. ‘Perhaps I could talk to Mr Kelly?’
‘ Of course, Doctor. Just give me a moment.’ She relayed Steven’s request over the intercom on her desk and Steven heard the affirmative response. He was shown into another office, light, bright and furnished in modern style. A small, thin man, well-dressed in a pin stripe suit, stood up and asked in a gentle Irish accent what he could do for him.
‘ It was actually John Merton I wanted to see,’ said Steven, ‘but I understand he’s not around here very much?’
‘ The business has really taken off,’ said Kelly.
‘ Have you been with him long?’
‘ Almost from the outset. This was the first branch. I think he’s up to seven now and thinking about a move abroad.’
‘ I didn’t realise there was that much call for DNA sequencing among the public,’ said Steven.
‘ Neither did we,’ laughed Kelly. ‘How wrong we were. You wouldn’t believe just how much doubt there is out there over whose child is whose. It’s quite frightening. Skeletons are falling over each other to get out of cupboards! Apart from that we get quite a lot of veterinary work; race horses mainly.’
‘ Well, it’s an ill wind…’ said Steven.
‘ Quite so,’ agreed Kelly. ‘No complaints.’
‘ I need to talk to John about his previous life in the forensics lab in Edinburgh. Perhaps you can tell me how to get in touch with him?’
‘ Easier said than done most of the time,’ said Kelly. ‘He moves around so much that we had to start communicating by e-mail when we have something to say to each other — not that there’s that much call to. The place runs itself. Would you like me to have him get in touch with you? That might be easier.’
‘ I’d be obliged,’ said Steven, giving Kelly his phone number and e-mail address.’
‘ Would you like to see around?’ asked Kelly.
Steven declined. ‘I think I’ve seen enough labs recently.’
When he got back to his hotel he found a large Manila envelope waiting for him at reception. It was addressed to Dr S. Dunbar and marked, PERSONAL. It had, according to the woman behind the desk, been delivered by hand.
Steven took the envelope upstairs to his room and, despite a dislike of melodrama, held it up to the light and felt all around i
ts edges before deciding that it contained just paper. Inside he found six photocopied sheets of A4 and a small, otherwise blank card bearing the inscription, ‘From someone who should know better and must remain anonymous.’ The word ‘anonymous’ was underlined twice. Steven smiled when he saw that the papers contained details of three prosecution cases that had been abandoned due to problems arising with the forensic evidence when Ronald Lee was in charge. McClintock had come up with the goods.
He decided that he would spend the evening going through it but first he would phone his daughter. He was due to visit her next Saturday on his fortnightly visit to Glenvane but he wanted to know in advance if there was anything special that she might like to do. It turned out to be swimming.
Steven had worked his way through three large gin and tonics by the time he stopped reading through the reports that McClintock had given him and leaned back in his chair to rub his eyes. Just as McClintock had said, these cases had collapsed because of challenges from the defence over forensic evidence offered by the prosecution. The three cases in question were spread over a period of eleven months and in each instance the accused had been a well-known criminal with previous convictions for the sort of offence they had been charged with. He now understood the reluctance of the Fiscal’s office to rely on evidence coming from Ronald Lee’s lab. Losing these cases must have been hugely embarrassing for them.
It must have been humiliating for Lee and the lab too, thought Steven. In fact, the only people who could possibly have been happy about the outcome were the three criminals and their respective lawyers. Steven’s jaw dropped when he read that the defence lawyer involved in all three cases was Paul Verdi of Seymour, Nicholson and Verdi, the man who had handled the David Little’s defence.
The immediate feeling that he had stumbled across something sinister was replaced after a few moments thought by the possibility he might be seeing conspiracy everywhere. It wasn’t as if Verdi had managed to get Little off too. Quite the reverse, he hadn’t mounted much of a defence at all. Suggesting to his client that an insanity plea might be his only course of action wasn’t exactly Perry Mason stuff.
The three men cited in the other cases had clearly been guilty but they had been acquitted through lab mistakes, which had been cleverly exposed by Verdi until the judicial system had had no alternative but to acquit them. The thing that troubled Steven was the fact that these three acquittals had been achieved by the same man who hadn’t even bothered to ask about the lack of corroborating evidence at David Little’s trial or indeed request an independent examination of what evidence there was.
Steven called McClintock’s mobile number.
‘ Didn’t I tell you never to call me at home?’ joked McClintock conspiratorially.
‘ I need you to tell me about Paul Verdi.’
‘ Shit, you really have a nose for sniffing out trouble,’ said McClintock. ‘Basically he’s a crooked little shit with the morals of an alley-cat, a lawyer’s lawyer, shall we say.’
‘ Not your favourite sort of people then?’ said Steven.
‘ Money-grubbing bastards the lot of them,’ growled McClintock. ‘Sometimes I think I prefer the villains. At least they’re not bloody hypocrites.’
‘ So what about Verdi?’
‘ The only good thing about Verdi is that he stopped practising a while back. Nothing but rumour and innuendo, you understand, but the word on the street was that he was asked to resign his partnership. He now pursues “business interests” in the city.’
‘ Which are?’
‘ I think they call it, “the leisure industry”. He’s behind a chain of knocking shops called, “Cuddles Executive Saunas”.’
‘ Jesus,’ said Steven.
‘ You might well need him on your side if you’re thinking of tangling with Verdi and his pals. They’re none too cuddly,’ said McClintock.
‘ Thanks for the warning,’ said Steven. ‘Do you know why he was asked to resign his partnership?’
‘ No, it was all kept very hush hush at the time, probably because these legal bastards didn’t want to shit on their own doorstep. Seymour and Nicholson is a long established firm in the city. They took on Verdi when he was young and ambitious with the idea that he should build up the criminal work for the firm. The principals are a couple of silver-haired patricians of the old school, part of the Mafia that didn’t originate in Sicily, pillars of the Edinburgh establishment who could teach Bill Gates a thing or two about networking. Verdi was a shit-kicker from the schemes who got through law school because his old lady scrubbed floors and wanted something better for her little boy.
Verdi succeeded beyond their greediest dreams because he knew where his clients were coming from. He understood them, knew how their minds worked and what motivated them. The nearest Seymour and Nicholson had ever been to violence was clapping along to the Redetsky march at a New Year’s Day concert. Verdi became the name the villains of this fair city called out whenever we came to call and he became a bit of a thorn in our side — if not a pain in our arse. He kept getting the bastards off.
‘ He was good then?’
‘ Depends on your point of view,’ replied McClintock. ‘Verdi knew damned well that his clients were as guilty as sin. Can you call defending these bastards “professionalism”? Doing your job when you know bloody well that they will go straight back on the street and do the same damned things all over again?’
‘ Know what you mean,’ agreed Steven.
Well, one thing’s for sure, Seymour and Nicholson, managed to accommodate any qualms they might have had when faced with the tide of money that Verdi was bringing in. They made him a full partner.’
‘ But something went wrong?’ Steven persisted.
‘ We did have our suspicions about Verdi when prosecution witnesses changed their mind about giving evidence on occasions but nothing was ever proved.’
‘ You thought he might be intimidating them?’
‘ Not personally and, like I say, we never managed to pin anything on him.’
‘ Maybe the mere hint of anything like that would have been enough to have Seymour and Nicholson drop him? Reputations and all that.’
‘ Maybe,’ agreed McClintock. ‘But it must have been something pretty bad to have a couple of lawyers say goodbye to a golden goose.’
‘ You do know that Verdi defended David Little?’ asked Steven.
‘ I do. Are you going to tell me this means something?’
‘ No, at the moment I’m just wondering how a man like that took the Little case,’ said Steven.
‘ What do you mean?’
‘ From what you’ve told me, Verdi was into defending big name criminals, presumably for big fees to match. Little had a mortgage and a car loan. There wasn’t even any PR in it for him. Little was public enemy number one at the time. Defending him wasn’t exactly going to be a shop window for his talents.’
‘ Good point,’ said McClintock. ‘It’s something I hadn’t thought about. I’ve no idea.’
‘ Maybe I’ll ask him,’ said Steven, noting McClintock’s reminder of how sure the case had been against Little.
‘ Remember what I said about tangling with the fun people of the “leisure industry”,’ said McClintock.
‘ I will and thanks for all your help.’
‘ Don’t know what you mean,’ said McClintock.
Steven poured himself another gin and sank back down into his chair. ‘Shit,’ he murmured as he reflected on another twist in the case. A question mark hung over Ronald Lee; a question mark hung over his lab and now a question mark hung over Little’s lawyer. He closed his eyes and wondered what to do next. It would be Friday before he got the DNA result from Susan Givens so maybe he would pay a visit to the offices of Seymour and Nicholson.
He looked up the phone book for their address and found it was in Edinburgh’s ‘new town’. This was an area of Georgian squares, streets and crescents built to the north of the castle and much favoured by
the city’s professional classes. ‘Where else?’ he murmured. He wrote down the number in Abercromby Place and was about to close the book when he had second thoughts.
He looked up Cuddles Executive Saunas and found three listings. One was in Rose Street, a narrow lane running parallel to Princes Street on its north side, another was in Salamander Street, down by Leith Docks and the remaining one was situated in a side street close to the city’s Haymarket railway station. Steven noted down these addresses too. This was just in case he got round to asking Paul Verdi why such a hotshot lawyer had made such a lousy job of defending David Little.
Steven was just about to get ready for bed when the phone rang and an unfamiliar voice asked, ‘Dr Dunbar?’
‘ Yes, who is this?’
‘ My name is John Merton; I understand from Tom Kelly that you were looking for me earlier today? How can I help you?’
‘ Good of you to get back to me so quickly, Mr Merton. I wonder if we could meet up. I’d like to ask you some questions about your time in the forensics lab in Edinburgh.’
‘ Good Lord, that was a long time ago,’ said Merton. ‘Another life, you might say. That’s going to be a bit difficult, I’m afraid. I’m in France at the moment and then I plan on going on to Germany. I’m not due back until the end of next month. Is there anything I can help you with over the phone?’
‘ No reason why not,’ said Steven. ‘Perhaps you’d like me to call you back?’
‘ No problem,’ said Merton, sounding amused. ‘I think the business can stand it.’
‘ I hear it’s going well,’ said Steven.
‘ Certainly beats working for the university,’ said Merton. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘ I’m looking into events surrounding the Julie Summers murder back in 1993 and the part the lab played in the trial of David Little. Do you remember the case?’
‘ I’m not liable to forget it,’ replied Merton. ‘It was a very high profile affair at the time; in all the papers. Come to think of it, I might still be in the lab if it hadn’t been for that case. I left in the aftermath. What do you want to know?’