Wildcard sd-3

by Ken McClure

  On impulse, he decided to make a detour on the way back and drive through Glenridding, the village where he had been brought up. He drove slowly through it but didn’t stop. His folks were long dead and there was no one there he wanted to see again. Ullswater, however, on whose shore the village sat, was unchanged, and he took comfort from that as he followed its north shore. The place triggered memories of a happy childhood and the friends he’d known when the summer days went on for ever.

  Although his day out had helped him relax, Steven’s thoughts turned to what Kate had said about the charges against Spicer being reduced. Despite his best efforts, her words played on his mind all the way back to Manchester. The man had stabbed Pelota with a kitchen knife in his own restaurant, and had admitted doing it. How could the Crown Prosecution Service possibly consider a reduced charge?

  Steven tried hard to cling to his anger, but it was all too easy to see how clever lawyers might present Spicer’s case. Pelota had been blackmailing him, and that would be the key to the defence. No one would contest that fact, so there would be no argument about it in court and certainly not much sympathy for Pelota by the time defence counsel had laboured the point. Spicer’s lawyer would maintain that his client had decided to do the right thing and go to the police. He would say that he had gone first to the Magnolia to tell Pelota just that, and Pelota, no longer able to wield the threat of exposure, had threatened him with a knife. A struggle had ensued, and during it Pelota had been accidentally stabbed. Ye gods, Spicer might even get off with a light sentence instead of the life term Steven had been counting on. He might even come out of it on a wave of public sympathy!

  Recurring thoughts of Spicer and his role in Caroline’s death haunted Steven all evening, so much so that he came to a decision about what he would do with his second day off. It might not be the most sensible thing in the world, but he would try to see Spicer in prison. Spicer was the only man who could put right the wrong done to Caroline’s reputation. There was also a chance that the little shit might not know what he’d done to Trudi. He should know about that. He definitely should.

  Tiredness was catching up as Steven logged on to his computer before bed and found that the first result had come in from Porton. The lab had carried out a tissue-compatibility test on the mitral valve taken from Mary Xavier and found it was a very good match — almost perfect, in fact.

  ‘Nice to know,’ murmured Steven.

  ‘Spicer might want his lawyer present,’ warned the prison governor when Steven made his request.

  ‘It’s completely unofficial,’ said Steven. ‘There’s no question of interviewing him under police caution, so there’s no chance of him incriminating himself any further. I just want a chat.’

  ‘A chat,’ repeated the governor with a knowing smile. ‘He may well refuse to see you, in that case,’ he said.

  ‘He may. But there’d be no harm in letting him think there might be some official basis for the request…?’

  The governor’s smile broadened. He said, ‘All right, we’ll play it your way and give it a try, but if he asks for a lawyer he gets one. Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’

  Leaning over the desk, the governor said, ‘There’s actually a very good chance he won’t. Our Mr Spicer has been experiencing a resurgence of self-confidence, shall we say, ever since the charges were reduced.’

  ‘Then it’s true?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the governor. ‘It’s what happens when your pals in high places retain the services of the best silk in the country and the local Crown prosecutor starts spending a lot of time in the lavatory.’

  ‘And they tell me we don’t have plea bargaining in this country,’ said Steven.

  ‘Like we don’t have a class system,’ said the governor, picking up his phone.

  Before long a return phone call informed them that Spicer was waiting in the interview room. ‘I’ll take you down,’ said the governor.

  Despite the prison clothes, Spicer looked both smart and smug, thought Steven as he was shown into the room. ‘Nice of you to see me,’ he said.

  ‘Just call me curious,’ replied Spicer, wearing the self-satisfied grin Steven had come to loathe.

  ‘I hear you got the charges reduced,’ said Steven.

  ‘I had every confidence in British justice, and it hasn’t let me down.’

  ‘You murdered Anthony Pelota to keep him quiet, and, what’s more, you’re responsible for the deaths of well over a hundred people in this city.’

  Spicer’s grin faded. ‘Let’s get something straight,’ he hissed, leaning across the bare table that separated them. ‘There’s no way I could have known I had that damned virus, and you know it. My medical history’s confidential, and if any suggestion of this reaches the papers I’ll hold you personally responsible and sue your arse off.’

  ‘You also destroyed the reputation of Dr Caroline Anderson to score cheap political points,’ continued Steven.

  Spicer relaxed back into his chair. ‘So that’s why you’re here,’ he said with a knowing grin. ‘She sent you here to try and salvage her career.’

  ‘She’s dead,’ said Steven. ‘She died nursing victims of the virus.’

  Spicer looked questioningly at him, as if trying to see an angle that wasn’t immediately apparent. ‘And you had a soft spot for her, right?’

  ‘I think I loved her,’ said Steven matter-of-factly.

  Spicer swallowed. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked, clearly unsettled.

  ‘I want you to put the record straight on Caroline.’

  ‘She meant that much, huh?’ said Spicer, his expression showing that he thought he might have the upper hand. ‘Well, no deal. She made a wrong decision. She should have sent out a call for all those kids at the disco.’

  ‘That wouldn’t have made the slightest difference. As it was, she used her common sense and prevented panic. She was a good and dedicated doctor. She deserves to be remembered as such.’

  ‘No deal, Dunbar. I have my own career to think of.’

  Steven’s open incredulity brought a smile to Spicer’s face. He said, ‘All right, I had an affair, I admit it. I’m not the first and won’t be the last. Then some wop tried to blackmail me and accidentally got himself killed trying to stop me going to the police. No one’s going to lose much sleep over that. It’s not inconceivable that I might be forgiven in time. There’s even a rumour going around that my barrister’s sponsored by Kleenex because of the number of jurors he’s reduced to tears.’

  Steven didn’t smile. He felt his loathing for Spicer become an actual taste in his mouth. ‘Trudi is in St Jude’s,’ he said. ‘She’s gone down with the virus.’

  Spicer went silent and still. ‘So?’ he said eventually; but his bravado was diminished by the hoarseness of his voice.

  ‘We both know how she got it.’

  ‘Even if what you’re suggesting is true — and I don’t accept that for a moment — there’s nothing you can do. Like I said, my medical history is confidential, and there’s no way I could have known at the time.’

  Steven looked at Spicer as if he were a stain on the floor but said nothing. Spicer was psyched into leaning across the table and saying, ‘Nothing you can do, Dunbar.’

  ‘It’s true I can’t reveal your medical record, or do anything to stop a smartarse lawyer minimising your crime, but I’m not entirely without influence.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It would be naive of you to believe that no one else knows about your involvement in the outbreak, or that rumours won’t start.’

  ‘So what? They won’t be able to make it public any more than you can.’

  ‘It’s my guess that you’re still going to go to prison — not for as long as I’d hoped, I grant you, but you’re still going down.’

  ‘So? I’ll catch up on my reading.’

  ‘That’s where my influence comes in.’

  ‘Just what are you getting at?’ asked Spicer u
neasily.

  It was Steven’s turn to lean over the table. ‘Just this. Either you admit publicly that you falsely accused Caroline of incompetence and clear her name, or I’ll put the fix in over where and how you spend your sentence. And believe me, you little shit, I’ll see to it that your arse becomes a bigger attraction than Blackpool Pleasure Beach.’

  Spicer turned pale. He tried to splutter a response but nothing came out.

  ‘Your call,’ said Steven. He got up and knocked on the door. The warder opened it at once, and Steven was gone before Spicer could say any more.

  Steven needed a drink. He headed for the nearest pub and downed a large gin. He was annoyed with himself for letting Spicer get to him again; he’d come dangerously close to hitting the man, and he knew it. He was about to order another drink when his mobile phone rang, attracting derisory looks from the other customers.

  He went outside, and Macmillan said, ‘There’s been another wildcard case.’

  Warning bells went off in Steven’s head: why was Macmillan phoning him personally? ‘Where?’ he asked.

  ‘North Wales.’

  ‘And?’ Steven had a nasty feeling there was bad news to come.

  ‘She’s not on the list.’

  Steven closed his eyes and mouthed the words ‘Oh fuck!’ Aloud, he said, ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Oh dear indeed,’ said Macmillan. ‘You do realise what this means?’

  ‘We’re not out of the woods yet.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it, although the PM used a different expression when I told him fifteen minutes ago. He’s reconvening the national emergency committee.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ said Steven, his voice heavy with resignation.

  ‘Any ideas at all?’

  ‘I suppose there could have been more than one list,’ suggested Steven weakly.

  ‘Then why wasn’t it on the disk? There was plenty of room.’

  ‘Don’t know, but it’s worth checking out.’

  ‘I’ll have Greg Allan’s colleagues go through his stuff with a fine-tooth comb,’ said Macmillan. ‘Just in case there is another disk.’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure this woman’s not on the list?’ said Steven. ‘I mean she might have changed her surname if she got married recently.’

  ‘She’s been married for twenty years. And, what’s even more important, she’s never had heart surgery in her life.’

  Steven felt the weight of the world descend on his shoulders. ‘I see. Send me the details, will you?’

  ‘On their way,’ said Macmillan gruffly, and he hung up.

  When Steven got back to his hotel, the information on the new case was waiting for him when he connected his laptop. The sick woman was Maureen Williams, aged forty-four, a retired nurse who lived with her lorry-driver husband in the village of Port Dinorwic on the Menai Strait. She was currently in isolation in Caernarfon General Hospital and local Public Health officials were keeping a close eye on her neighbours and relatives.

  The file made depressing reading. Steven couldn’t find one solitary thing to connect Maureen Williams to any of the other cases. She had never been involved with anyone connected to any of the outbreaks, and she didn’t have a heart problem. ‘So how the hell did she get it?’ he exclaimed out loud. ‘Jesus Christ! Give me a break here.’

  He sat down on the bed and stared at the floor, taking deep breaths and trying to get a grip on his emotions. For two pins he’d pen a letter of resignation and piss off into the sunset… but the thought didn’t last. If there was any resigning to be done he’d do it at the end of an assignment, not in the middle, and certainly not at square one, which was where he seemed to be back once again. He got up and started pacing round the room.

  Despite the new evidence, he still could not and would not accept that any virus could appear out of thin air and infect at will. There had to be a connection. It was just that he couldn’t see it. ‘Yet!’ he spat out the word defiantly. Almost unconsciously, he started throwing things in a bag. He was going to North Wales.

  TWENTY

  It was late when Steven arrived in Caernarfon. He’d driven nonstop and felt the need to stretch his legs, so he parked down by the waterfront and walked from the harbour round the walls of Caernarfon Castle where they stood guard over the Menai Strait. He paused halfway round, leaned on the railings and looked down at the cold, dark water lapping on the shingle. The sound of a foghorn somewhere on Anglesey added to the gloom surrounding him. He shivered, rubbed his arms and returned to the car to drive up to Caernarfon General.

  At that time of night only junior medical staff were on duty, so Steven spoke to the young houseman in charge of the special unit where Maureen Williams was in isolation.

  ‘There’s not really much I can tell you,’ said the doctor, ‘apart from the fact that she’s very ill.’

  ‘I take it no line of contact has been established in the past twenty-four hours?’ said Steven.

  ‘None at all. It’s a complete mystery how she got it. She hasn’t been out of Wales in the past year, and Y Felinheli isn’t exactly a crossroads for the international jet set.’

  ‘Ee Felin what?’

  ‘Sorry, it’s the Welsh name for Port Dinorwic. That’s where she lives.’

  ‘Is she conscious at all?’

  ‘Some of the time.’

  ‘Does she know what’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Not from us, but we told her husband, of course, and the papers have somehow got hold of it, so it’s no big secret.’

  ‘How did her husband take it?’

  ‘Oddly,’ said the houseman, tapping his pen thoughtfully against his front teeth. ‘I was there when my boss told him, and he said something very strange. He said, “The bastards. They knew all along.”’

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘We asked him, of course, but we couldn’t get any more out of him. He just clammed up.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Steven, encouraged by the likelihood that Williams knew something about his wife’s illness. ‘Got an address for him?’

  The doctor checked the files and wrote it down for Steven.

  ‘Any other relatives on the scene?’ asked Steven.

  ‘There was a woman who called up three times a day when Mrs Williams was first admitted. She was a friend, not a relative; Mair Jones, her name was. She seemed very concerned, but then she rang to say that she just wanted to leave a message. She said to tell Mrs Williams she was going away for a holiday, just in case.’

  ‘In case of what?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. She said Mrs Williams would understand.’

  Steven nodded. He was glad he’d come to Wales. He’d learned a couple of things he could pick away at. He got up to go, saying he would probably be back in the morning. ‘Where will I find a hotel at this time of night?’ he asked.

  ‘In North Wales?’ exclaimed the houseman, feigning shock. ‘Where all doors are bolted against the devil before midnight? You could try the Station, but I wouldn’t bet my buns on it.’

  Once outside, Steven stood for a few moments, thinking about what he’d been told and wondering whether or not to wait until morning before pressing on with his enquiry. If Mr Williams knew something — anything at all — he must talk to him, and the sooner the better. That unguarded comment about the bastards knowing all along demanded explanation.

  Steven glanced at his watch; it was a quarter past one in the morning; but if he was still up and working on a bitterly cold night, he could see no reason why Mr Williams should be allowed to slumber on undisturbed. He would go to see him.

  Steven checked his road map and was pleased to see that Port Dinorwic was no more than a fifteen-minute drive from Caernarfon. He hoped it wouldn’t turn out to be a large place, because there would be no one about at that time of night to ask for directions.

  The more he thought about it, the better he felt about going to see Williams at this ungodly hour. Police forces all over the world knew the effectiveness of the middl
e-of-the-night knock on the door. It was usually a sight more productive than a call at any other time. People were disorientated when their sleep was disturbed, and so were much less likely to lie successfully.

  To his relief, Port Dinorwic was manageably small. It clung to a steep hillside, and tumbled down through a series of steps and winding lanes to a harbour and marina. Steven parked on the main street and started his search by walking down a steep, cobbled lane, careful of his footing on the frosty stones and thinking of Under Milk Wood. A small town, starless and bible-black…

  At the bottom of the lane, Steven walked towards the harbour, looking at the names of the other streets leading down to it. The third one along was the one he was looking for and number 12, Williams’s house, was four doors up. There was no bell so he gave three loud raps with the heavy knocker and waited. A fourth knock was necessary to get a response.

  ‘All right, all right, I’m coming. Who are you and what the hell d’you want at this hour?’

  ‘The Sci-Med Inspectorate,’ said Steven, sounding as official as possible.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Just open the door, please.’

  The door opened and a thin, wiry, ginger-haired man, with a plaid dressing gown wrapped unevenly round him, stood there, rubbing his eyes. ‘Who did you say you were?’

  Steven showed his ID and said, ‘I have to ask you some questions.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About how your wife contracted the filovirus infection,’ said Steven, stepping inside before Williams could block the way.

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ asked Williams, getting his wits back and closing the door. ‘I’m a lorry driver not a bloody doctor.’ He led the way into a small, cluttered living room and cleared piles of newspapers and magazines off the armchairs.

  ‘Because of what you said when you were told about your wife’s condition. You said, “The bastards. They knew all along.” What did you mean by that? What did the bastards know, Mr Williams?’

  Williams was flustered. He knelt down to light the gas fire, and took his time over it. ‘Did I?’ he answered eventually. ‘I was upset. I’m not sure what I said.’