Carrington turned and Finian watched him walk away. Soon he was lost in the rush-hour crowd.
The report was closely typed and difficult to read in the fading evening light. Despite that, the phrase leapt out at him. Demanding to be read.
... and within the subject’s common gut there were indications of the enzyme, B-Galactosidase. While not normal in conditions such as this, no particular significance is attached to its presence.
“You may not think it significant, Dr MacCallum, but I do.”
*
Any later and Finian would have missed Walter Ruff. As it was, he found him striding forcefully down the fifth floor corridor of King’s and Queen’s College Hospital. It was the result of a merger of two distinguished North London teaching hospitals in the 1950s and since then had become known irreverently as the “Royal Family”.
“Dr Ruff. Finian Kelloway. We met at Giles Denny’s funeral.”
Ruff was a squat little man with a battered brown leather satchel under his arm. According to everybody at Denny’s funeral, he knew more about biotechnology than any man in the country.
He peered at Finian. “Of course.” Finian couldn’t be sure if he was recognised or not.
“Have you a moment?”
He looked at his watch. “I’m lecturing in...” He shook his watch. It had obviously stopped. “In whenever. Soon. But go ahead.”
“Do you know what B-Galactosidase is – are?”
“Yes thank you,” he said and stalked off. He was about ten paces away before Finian regained his wits.
Was this man playing games or was he really some sort of eccentric? Finian caught him at the lift. “Let me rephrase the question, Dr Ruff. Can you tell me what B-Galactosidase are?”
“Yes, I can tell you,” he said. Finian waited but the funny little man said nothing.
Catching on Finian said, “Will you tell me, please.”
Ruff beamed. “That’s better. If you are going to ask a scientist a question, be precise.” If Ruff wanted to play bizarre word games, Finian was happy to humour the man.
The lift came and Ruff nipped inside. Finian was almost caught again and only just managed to slip in before the doors closed.
“In what connection have you see these references?”
“They were mentioned in the autopsies of at least three people.”
Ruff nodded. “Interesting,” he said.
The lift stopped and the doors opened. Finian was ready this time to follow the zippy little doctor, but he didn’t move. Instead, two pretty nurses got in. Ruff looked them up and down.
“It’s an enzyme used in gene therapy.”
Finian took out a notepad and pen. All Finian knew was that an enzyme was some sort of protein. Anything more than that and he was going to be confused.
“Giles, like others in his field, often used it.”
Finian couldn’t help furrowing his brow. Ruff chuckled. “Don’t worry. Everybody calls it B-Gal for short,” he explained. “It’s normally found in the common gut bacterium, E. coli.” The technical stuff was now way over Finian’s head but he wrote everything down anyway.
The lift stopped again. This time Ruff was off. Finian was convinced that this little gnome-like man was enjoying himself enormously.
“What’s it used for?” Finian asked, catching him up yet again. Although it was still early, the hospital was busy. Unlike offices and factories, which kept regular hours, people got sick any time of the day or night.
“It’s a label, a way of showing that a gene has been successfully transferred into a new cell.”
Finian scribbled some more.
“If I remember rightly, Giles liked to call them something else,” Ruff said. He thought for a moment. “Markers. That’s right, he liked to call them markers.”
Finian stopped abruptly, as if he’d run into a wall. Ruff didn’t stop. He waved a hand vaguely in the air and kept walking. But this time there was no reason for Finian to pursue him. This time he had all he needed.
Finian wanted to share his early morning discovery. He called Cook from outside the hospital and told him to meet at Linda Potter’s house.
“Have you got something?” Cook asked.
“Maybe,” Finian said, tantalisingly, and rang off.
Linda Potter had recovered well after Laslo’s death. From the first time Finian met her he was aware of a quiet inner strength and he knew she wouldn’t collapse under her grief. When she answered the door, Linda looked as if she had taken hours to prepare for Finian’s arrival, rather than the thirty minutes since he phoned. The small South London house was clean and tidy, even at that time in the morning.
Finian waited for Cook to appear. He arrived five minutes later with Two-Pies.
Linda made tea and set out a plate of biscuits. Immediately, Two-Pies moved closer.
“I’m almost certain I know what killed Laslo and Ivan.” Finian sipped his tea. He didn’t intend to milk the event for suspense. It just seemed that way. “All the evidence points to some sort of gene therapy. But I don’t know why or how.”
Linda shook her head. “What’s that?”
“A new medical technique for correcting hereditary shortcomings.”
Finian explained the discovery of the enzyme marker in both men and why it was there.
“That can’t be right.”
“Were either Laslo or Ivan on any sort of medication?”
“There was nothing wrong with them,” Linda said. “Laslo’s last medical said he was in perfect shape.”
“That’s the bit that confuses me.” Finian looked across to a small table. Linda followed his gaze. She picked up the photograph of a superbly fit looking Laslo Potter in running shorts.
“He was entered for the Boston Marathon last year.” Linda turned and put the photograph back and stood facing the wall for a moment.
“I’m also certain that two English girls – and maybe in excess of twenty more people across Europe – died after having a slimming gene therapy. My guess is that Laslo and Ivan had the same treatment.”
“Both were as thin as rakes to start with.” Linda shook her head again. “It’s got to be something else.”
“True or not, we’re still no closer to nailing Norsteadt.” Cook said.
Finian had hoped that no one was going to mention this fundamental truth. Even Two-Pies momentarily stopped eating. The best he could manage was, “We’re getting there.”
Linda opened the drawer of a small sideboard and took out an envelope. “This came last week.”
Finian opened it and took out a cheque.
“It’s a mystery.” It was made out to Laslo Potter from the Research Centre of Bridgeworth Hospital. “Paula had one for Ivan. We would have cashed them already; neither of us are rolling in money. But the bank wouldn’t accept them as our husbands are dead.” Linda shrugged her shoulders. “We need to have new cheques made out in our names – when we get round to it.” Linda said.
“Before you do, can I borrow this?” Finian asked.
*
Finian went back to his office and wrote a short letter. The great thing about word processors was that anyone could use them to create new and impressive headed notepaper within minutes. Then he faxed it to the administration department of Bridgeworth Hospital.
In his suit, Finian looked the part. Kit even loaned him his new slim line, super-elegant briefcase. Bridgeworth was getting the full works. It was, like many British hospitals, an architectural mishmash. Once-elegant but now crumbling Edwardian buildings sat alongside flat-roofed prefabricated accommodation thrown up soon after the Second World War.
Finian rapped on the glass partition at reception. A tired-looking girl slid it to one side.
“Finian Kelloway. From Gillstone and Feather.” The girl stared at him, bemused, as if she hadn’t understood a word he said. “The solicitors.”
The girl wandered off. A minute later her place was taken by a middle-aged woman. She too had the careworn e
xpression that came with the tedium of shifting paperwork for too many years.
“Can I help?” she asked.
“We faxed you earlier today, saying I would be calling.” The woman glanced at a piece of paper in her hand. It looked like Finian’s letter.
“We’re executors of the estates of both the late Laslo Potter and the late Ivan Getz.” The woman continued to stare dumbly at Finian. “Last week you sent both men cheques.”
“Nothing wrong?” she said, in the way that administrators do when they are protecting their backs.
“No. Although we will be asking for new cheques made out to the widows – probate has been granted.” Finian didn’t know whether this was true, but it sounded good. “In the meantime, we need to know why the payment was made.” He looked past her to the wall of files. “You know how important it is to keep the records straight.”
This struck a sympathetic chord and the woman shuffled off and appeared again carrying a box file. She thumbed through the paper. “Payment should have been made months ago. For some reason we only picked it up the other week. Was that the problem?”
“No. Both widows are glad that you did,” Finian said. “What was the money for?”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult.” She thumbed through some more.
Whatever happened to the paperless office? Finian asked himself.
“Here it is.” She pushed a sheet towards Finian.
He read it and nodded. “A photocopy would be useful. For the file.” Finian hoped he appeared sufficiently indifferent to the fact that he had just learnt that both Laslo Potter and Ivan Getz were paid for their participation in the trials of a new gene therapy called Mitsanomol, made by Lycad.
Thirty Seven
Hollis Dorkley always did what he was told. In eighteen months he would be retiring and there was no way he was going to give Bonnie any reason to kick him out early. When he was ordered to stay out of people’s way, that is exactly what he did.
And when he needed to venture out, he would phone Raymond to make sure that Bonnie was out of the building. That day he scuttled out clutching a bundle of papers. Dorkley found Nathan in one of the conference rooms. He still refused to use the new office Bonnie had allocated him.
In the past few weeks, Nathan had returned to his long-postponed ambition; to write the definitive book on public relations. He hardly looked as Dorkley slid a stack of papers across the table.
“Can you put your cross on these, chief?” Dorkley said.
“Still avoiding, Bonnie?” Nathan asked, as he automatically initialled each of the papers.
“Makes life easier.”
Most were invoices for services that Kelloway and Bains ordered on behalf of various clients. These would be charged to them, with a suitable twenty per cent handling fee stuck on top.
Nathan was about to sign the last sheet when he stopped. It was an invoice, but not from one of their usual suppliers.
“Since when did we start paying clients? Isn’t it supposed to be the other way round?”
In front of Nathan was a bill from Norton-Hunter. “This is a great deal of money.”
Dorkley looked at the amount and shrugged.
“What’s it all about?”
“No idea.”
“This a new thing?”
“Been going on for months. Bonnie normally handles those – but as she’s not around...”
Against the amount was typed the explanation: “Refund on overpaid account.”
“But this is more than they pay us. Something is very wrong.” Nathan said.
Dorkley picked up the bundle of papers that Nathan had already signed. “Just doing as I’m told,” he said.
“Where did the money come from?”
“Don’t know.”
“Hollis, this isn’t like you. Not like the man who once criticised me for using first-class stamps when second-class would have done. You used to protect every penny in this firm as if it were your own.”
“Ever since Miss Bonnie took over, I’ve been kept in the dark.”
“That’s no answer.”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” Dorkley said. Nathan looked back at the mysterious bill from Norton-Hunter. “Funny thing is, the invoice always comes a few weeks after the other payment. And for exactly the same amount.”
“Other payment?” Nathan asked. “Where from?”
“Glynworth Clinics.”
“But we don’t do any work for them.”
“Surely we do?” Dorkley was confused. “All I know is money comes in once a month as payment against invoices.”
“Tell me more.” In the old days Dorkley would have come to him at the earliest sign of anything suspicious. Nathan now realised how demoralising Bonnie’s style of management had been for everyone.
“They used to be signed by a Dr Denny but that changed a short while ago.”
“Who pays it now?” Why shouldn’t Nathan know? It was still his company, no matter what Bonnie believed.
“A law firm in Liechtenstein,” Dorkley said. “As soon as the cash arrives, I notify Bonnie of the exact amount.”
“And?”
“Then a few weeks later we get an invoice from Norton-Hunter for an identical sum.”
“So that’s it.”
“Maybe it’s a coincidence.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“All the payments tie up with invoices.” Dorkley began to look worried.
Nathan pushed the Norton-Hunter invoice back to Dorkley. “Pretend I haven’t seen this. Pass it to Bonnie in the usual way.”
“If you insist.” The accountant shrugged his shoulders. It was all beyond him. In a way he was happy to have been banished to the back of the shop, away from all this mystery.
“Can you let me have copies of all this paperwork, from when it started?”
“Should be in the account files held by Andrew St Norris. Send them to him once a month.”
“Not any more. The filing system seems to have gone a little haywire.”
“Okay, chief. Give me a few minutes.”
Nathan chuckled. “Comes in one end, and goes out the other.”
Dorkley stopped by the door. “Pardon?”
“Nothing, Hollis. Absolutely nothing,” Dorkley left the room. “I knew she’d overreach herself eventually,” Nathan said out loud.
*
Nathan was so excited at his discovery, he hardly noticed the climb to Finian’s office. Within minutes Nathan had spread the photocopies across both Finian’s and Kit’s desk.
“I think that’s it,” Finian said. “We now know all there is.”
“But we can’t challenge them.” Nathan explained. “As soon as they realise we know what’s been happening, they’ll cover their tracks and we’ll be back at the beginning.”
Finian thought for a moment. “There is another way. Kit, are you willing to go public about the fact that the bills to the clinic were phoney? Show how you were working elsewhere?”
“The bitch tried to...” Kit stopped and turned to Nathan. He was talking about the man’s daughter.
“Don’t mind me. I’ve called her worse than that.”
Finian searched his contacts list and tapped a number into his phone. “Burrell, can you put together a freelance crew? Cameras, sound, lighting... Excellent. And I’ll need a good interviewer. Is Aviva free?... Don’t worry, I’ll brief her myself. This story must be handled just right.” Finian replaced the phone.
“Why can’t you interview me?” Kit asked.
“I’ll be elsewhere, doing my own filming.”
“Where?” Nathan asked.
“If I can put a team together – a little farm on the Kentucky-Virginia border.” Finian started stuffing papers into a briefcase.
“You’re not upsetting Bonnie again?”
“Dad, would we do a thing like that?” They all laughed.
*
Finian spent less than twenty-four hours with Jeff Denny. This time he kn
ew exactly what he wanted. He returned with more documents and two broadcast quality DVDs.
Within minutes of clearing customs on Monday morning he called Maurice Dunne at the production office of Channel Twenty-Five Live.
When he got through, Finian said, “Maurice. I now know where the money went.”
“You’d better come round. We’re on the air in little more than twenty-four hours.”
Thirty Eight
“Remember you’re due for television training today,” Bonnie said.
Norsteadt looked up from a Department of Commerce and Business document. He was side-barring paragraphs he wanted to refer to later. “Told you before, can’t afford to lose another morning.”
“You should practice before tonight.”
“There’s a meeting at the Business Department – to discuss the hand-over from Lofty Wilde,” he said. “Anyway, the Press Office there doesn’t think I need it.”
“How the hell did they get involved? I look after your public relations. Not that bunch of no-talent morons.”
“They’ve had input for weeks now – ever since it looked like I was joining the government.”
“Bram, this is your first media appearance where something could go wrong,” Bonnie said. “Every other occasion we’ve had control; this time you’ll be on your own.”
“Your job is to make sure nothing does go wrong.”
“Andy is on top of it. He’s been at the studio every day.” Bonnie said. “I’ll check with him as soon as you’re gone.”
“The department was questioning whether I should go through with the programme at all.”
“Tell them to keep their pointy noses out of my business. Who the hell do they think they are?”
Norsteadt collected his papers and pecked Bonnie on the cheek. “See you at the studio then. About six?”
“That’ll give us time to go over any last-minute developments. I’ll come straight from the doctor.”
Norsteadt looked at her nervously. “Nothing wrong?” he asked.
Bonnie thought that her stomach had started to swell. She rubbed it gently with long slow strokes. “A check-up. Nothing more.”
She waited for Norsteadt to leave before trying Andrew. That little shit had better be doing as he was told, she said to herself. Bonnie hadn’t heard from him in two days. But she wasn’t going to mention it to Norsteadt. No point in worrying him unnecessarily – not on his big night.
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