The Devil's Landscape

by Ken McClure

  ‘The principal is expecting you,’ said the woman behind the desk when Steven presented his credentials. ‘This way please.’

  Steven was shown into a spacious room, requiring a long walk from the door across a deep pile carpet sporting the university’s crest to where three people sat watching his progress – one behind a large antique desk whom he took to be the principal, Dorothy Lindstrom and another man on chairs in front. The man behind the desk rose and held out his hand. ‘Charles Byford,’ he said with a perfunctory smile and a look that suggested he had detected a vaguely unpleasant smell in the air. ‘I’m principal here. I believe you’ve met Professor Lindstrom?’

  ‘On the occasion when we were both declined government funding on the same day,’ said Steven with a smile that was not returned.

  ‘And this is Dr Neil Tyler, the scientific consultant who has been liaising with us and Professor Lindstrom’s group on behalf of her financiers.’

  Steven nodded to the second man who nodded back.

  ‘Your Miss Roberts was kind enough to explain to me who and what Sci-Med did,’ said Byford, ‘but I’m afraid neither I nor Professor Lindstrom are clear what it is that you’re investigating.’

  It occurred to Steven that, if pomposity were an Olympic sport, Byford would be fed up hearing the national anthem. ‘Let’s see,’ he said. ‘One of Professor Lindstrom’s post docs is carrying out research into criminal psychotic behaviour at a secret government establishment which no one is supposed to know about. His personality changes and he becomes secretive about what he’s discovered to the point of paranoia. He descends into further psychosis and attacks his wife, coming close to murdering her and her unborn child. He is arrested by the police but is kidnapped by person or persons unknown when on the way to undergo psychiatric assessment. Call me picky, but I think there are quite a few things here needing investigation.’

  Byford moved uncomfortably in his chair. ‘I think Professor Lindstrom and I have been assuming that the police had everything in hand.’

  ‘In matters scientific and medical where specific expertise is required the Sci-Med Inspectorate take precedent and will spearhead inquiries, to be assisted by the police where necessary.’

  Byford acquiesced with a slight nod while Dorothy Lindstrom looked down at the floor.

  Steven looked to Tyler and said, ‘I’m afraid you have the better of me. We haven’t met. You report to the people funding Dr Barrowman’s research I understand?’

  Dorothy Lindstrom interrupted angrily, saying, ‘It’s my research, Barrowman is one of my post-docs. The funding has been awarded to me.’

  ‘Ah yes, sorry,’ said Steven. ‘Forgive me.’ He smiled inwardly at being reminded how important it was that academic ego should be approached on tip-toe. He turned again to Tyler. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Everyone seemed shocked.

  Steven maintained eye contact with Tyler, hoping his directness was about to pay off, but Tyler didn’t flinch. He gave the impression of searching through empty memory banks before saying, ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know,’ Steven repeated.

  ‘I’ve been retained by a firm of solicitors – Scarman, Medici and Weiss, if it helps. I report to them and they report to the donors who would prefer to remain anonymous.’

  ‘I take it you have particular expertise in the area Owen Barrowman was working in?’ Steven asked.

  ‘I’m a forensic psychologist,’ said Tyler.

  ‘Ah,’ said Byford, making a clumsy attempt to involve himself. ‘Modern thumbscrews and the rack.’

  Tyler acknowledged the comment with a slight smile and responded. ‘I’m interested in the workings of the mind, Dr Byford, but I spend very little time torturing people. In fact, my particular interest lies in what makes people strap explosives to their bodies and blow themselves to kingdom come taking large numbers of our citizenry with them. I’m also interested in what makes young men leave the country of their birth to go to one completely foreign to them and of which they know nothing in order to be trained to slaughter the folks back home. I’d like to find a way of stopping them. From what I was told of Dr Barrowman’s work when approached by Scarman et al, I didn’t think our interests were a hundred miles apart. I’m sure we’d both like to put an end to psychotic behaviour, the difference being his subjects of study were securely locked up, mine aren’t.’

  Steven took a liking to Tyler and was willing to believe that he really didn’t know who was behind Lindstrom’s funding. He said, ‘I think it’s in all our interests to work together on what has happened. Police interest lies in finding Barrowman and his kidnappers so that they can be charged with criminal offences. Sci-Med’s interest lies in finding out why it all happened. We’d like to know who’s financing the research and why.’

  Tyler nodded his understanding.

  Steven continued. ‘As I see it, Dr Tyler would like to be able to give his employers a detailed report on Barrowman’s work so that they might make an informed decision about continued funding for the Lindstrom group. Professor Lindstrom and, of course, the university are hoping for a favourable decision and will be keen to find positives arising from Barrowman’s work.’ Steven turned to Dorothy. ‘Perhaps you’ve already started examining Owen Barrowman’s files, Professor?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘I think we were all afraid that Owen in his paranoid state might have wiped the lot?

  ‘That’s not the case,’ said Dorothy. ‘There’s actually a great deal of data on his computer and all of it is derived from his work in high security prisons up and down the country. We also found copious notes and some interesting conclusions.’

  ‘That is good news,’ said Tyler.

  ‘Some of the DNA sequencing is incomplete as is some of the biochemical analysis, but it seems that Owen was well on the way to describing significant differences between criminal psychopaths and the rest of us and even some of the biochemical consequences of these differences.’

  ‘Forgive my ignorance,’ said Byford, ‘I’m not a biologist, but that sounds as if he has discovered genes connected with the condition and what consequences they actually lead to?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dorothy, letting the affirmative hang in the air. ‘And if we know what a gene does in terms of what it produces . . . it’s possible we can do something about it.’

  ‘That sounds exciting.’

  ‘At first glance, I don’t think it’s going to be too difficult to fill in the blanks in the data.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Byford. ‘So, can I take it that, with a bit of work from your group, this will all be publishable?’

  ‘I think you can,’ said Dorothy with a glance towards Tyler.

  ‘I look forward to seeing it,’ he responded.

  Steven was not so easily impressed and wondered if Dorothy was launching a PR offensive for Tyler’s benefit, seeing what she’d found through rose-tinted spectacles when it was a view that might not be shared by a cold, dispassionate reviewer assessing a paper’s suitability for inclusion in a good quality journal. Medical science had identified lots of genes connected with specific conditions but had been unable to do anything about it. Barrowman had really been looking for the switches that turned these genes on and off, not what they produced although, he conceded, identification was of primary importance.

  ‘Did you find any data based on the Moorlock Hall prisoner?’ he asked.

  ‘Not specifically,’ Dorothy replied, ‘but it’s early days. I’ve just been trying to get a broad overall picture.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Steven. I’ll take that as a no. He felt depressed at what he thought he could see what was happening. Barrowman had left all the data surrounding his research on psychopathic prisoners on his work computer and probably the one he used at home too. This was exactly what you’d expect to find on the computer of a conscientious post-doctoral fellow who was hiding nothing from his boss or her colleagues. It sounded as if his findings were interestin
g and publishable so his group leader would and should be pleased – as would the university whose address would be on the published paper. Everything in the garden was lovely, wasn’t it? What did it matter if studies on one prisoner were missing from the list. No one could be upset about that, could they? ‘Oh yes, they could,’ Steven murmured inside his head, ‘Me.’

  Despite Steven’s suspicion that the one prisoner missing from the list, Malcolm Lawler, must be the sole source of Barrowman’s exciting discovery and that they were not going to find anything about that in his notes or on his computers, he decided not to share his thoughts. He told the others that the Sci-Med labs would be examining the material taken from Barrowman’s flat by the police and suggested they meet up again when everything had been scrutinised thoroughly.

  Steven left with Neil Tyler who said, ‘For what it’s worth I understand why you want to know who’s funding Barrowman’s work, but I honestly don’t know.’

  ‘I believe you,’ said Steven.

  ‘Good. You people have probably been checking me out?’

  ‘Probably,’ agreed Steven with a smile.

  ‘And getting nowhere?’

  Steven gave a non-committal shrug but his smile was still there.

  ‘In there, I told you what my interests were. What I didn’t say was that my wife was a victim of terrorist bombing some five years ago.’

  ‘My god, I’m sorry.’

  When I . . . got over it I gave up my academic position and became an independent investigator working to my own agenda. I tend to move around a lot and keep a low profile. I’ve managed to amass a great deal of data on the problem.’

  Steven digested this and said, ‘But someone knew how to find you and reckoned you were the right man to monitor what Barrowman was up to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sounds like they made a good decision,’ said Steven. ‘Mind you, what interests me is how they knew all about you when my people came up with a blank.’

  ‘I agree . . . that is interesting. By the way, the Moorlock Hall prisoner you asked about in there, was he Malcolm Lawler?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Interesting, I read about the place in the papers this morning.’

  The two men exchanged contact details, something that gave Steven a stab of conscience when he was reminded of the awful aftermath of giving someone his card. ‘I’ll call you if we find anything new in the stuff taken from Barrowman’s flat.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Tyler. ‘Dorothy seems to have had very bad luck with her post-docs . . . Barrowman is the third who has come to a sticky end.’

  They came to the parting of the ways but Steven felt he had been given food for thought. Had that been intentional?

  FOURTEEN

  Steven called Lukas Neubauer at the Lundborg labs and exchanged pleasantries before coming to the point. ‘What are the chances of you dropping everything and going through the entire contents of a computer?

  ‘About the same as Arsenal winning the Premier League.’

  ‘That good,’ exclaimed Steven, knowing how big an Arsenal fan Lukas was.

  ‘I wish. What are you looking for?

  Steven told him.

  ‘So, let me see, you have DNA sequences from these people and you’re looking for some clear differences from the norm that they all have in common?’ asked Lukas.

  ‘And anything else interesting you happen to notice along the way.’

  ‘It might help if you tell me what’s going on here.’

  ‘How about I bring the computer round and then I’ll take you for a pint and we can talk?’

  ‘Do you think I’m that easy?’’

  ‘All right, two pints.’

  It had been some time since the two men had last seen each other, but their history of having worked closely and successfully together and even faced danger in the past ensured that they quickly slipped into being comfortable in each other’s company. Exchanges of family news – Lukas had twin boys – gave way to Steven giving Lukas a detailed rundown on what Owen Barrowman had been working on.

  ‘Ah, epigenetics,’ said Lukas without following up.

  Steven gave him a full minute to stare at the surface of the table before asking, ‘Is that a problem?’

  Lukas came out of his trance and said, ‘When Crick and Watson described the structure of DNA and how it replicated it was such a wonderful moment in science. The world smiled. Nothing but good could come from it.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Steven.

  ‘I have a very different feel about epigenetics,’ said Lukas. ‘I know it’s early days but it holds so many secrets.’

  ‘Is that bad?’

  ‘There may be some we’ll have difficulty coping with . . .’

  Steven frowned and said, ‘I never thought I’d hear that from a scientist.’

  Lukas shrugged and said, When I was a young student in Prague one of my lecturers was very fond of quoting from an English poet. He who pries into every cloud may be hit by a thunderbolt.

  ‘Hardly a comfort for researchers,’ said Steven.

  ‘I understand that protection can be achieved through the intake of Pilsner beer,’ said Lukas eyeing his empty glass.’

  ‘Coming up.’

  Despite it being after seven Steven decided that he would go in to the Home Office to leave Jean Roberts a note. He was surprised to find her still there.

  ‘No home to go to?’

  ‘Choir practice night,’ she replied. ‘It’s easier to go directly from here. I could ask the same of you.’

  ‘I thought I’d come by and leave you a note. Tally’s away at the moment.’ Steven told Jean of her mother’s accident.

  ‘Nasty, I hope she pulls through. What can I do for you?’’

  Steven asked her if she could dig out information about the fire in Dorothy Lindstrom’s lab at Yale University which had claimed the lives of two of her post docs.

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘I don’t suppose John’s still here?’

  ‘You’ve just missed him. He’s had a hugely frustrating day trying to get information out of the intelligence services about why they blocked funding for Professor Lindstrom.’

  Steven nodded. It was no surprise. Sci-Med and MI5 had an uneasy relationship. Five thought Sci-Med lacked discipline, Sci-Med thought Five lacked imagination, but when push came to shove they tended to cover each other’s backs.

  ‘Any word from the police about Barrowman?’

  ‘Not a peep.

  ‘Really?’ said Steven. ‘That part of London must have more cameras than a Paparazzi party.’

  ‘They picked up the private ambulance used in the kidnapping on CCTV, but it disappeared from view and was later found abandoned down a lane. They reckon a switch to another vehicle was made within a few minutes of the snatch and in a place where the kidnappers knew they’d be out of sight of cameras.’

  ‘So, the bottom line is the police have no idea where he is?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Steven mulled over what he’d learned from the day as he walked home. Lukas had agreed to take a look at what was on Barrowman’s computer, but the reservations he’d expressed about epigenetics had been a revelation. He’d asked him what he’d meant by there being too many secrets to cope with, but to no avail. Did he really think there were some things better not to know? Steven shook his head, subconsciously dismissing the notion. He’d always seen Lukas as the perfect model of a scientist, intelligent, endlessly curious and totally without bias. Facts were facts and were there to be discovered, but if someone like him thought that there might be a downside to discovery . . . maybe he should bear that in mind?

  Steven turned his attention to John’s problem with MI5. Five not answering questions was par for the course – secrets were their business and it was a way of life – but when the man asking the questions was Sir John Macmillan, a man with the highest security clearance and the ear of the Home Secretary, what did they think they were playing at? Surely
, they must know that the next step would be John asking the Home Secretary personally. He felt sure that was exactly what would happen in the morning. In the meantime, he he invoked the maxim about clouds having silver linings and decided that Five’s continued awkwardness surrounding Dorothy Lindstrom’s research made it easier for him to target them as prime suspect for having snatched Barrowman and not those who were funding the research. It would also explain the insider knowledge and expertise shown in the operation. All he had to do now was figure out what Five were up to.

  Easy peasy, he thought as he remembered his daughter Jenny’s favourite saying when she was younger; everything was easy peasy until proven otherwise. It had been a couple of months since he last made the trip up to Scotland to see her. It used to be every other weekend until her involvement in out of school activities had multiplied to such an extent that she seemed to have less free time than he did.

  He had always known that this was bound to happen. Jenny had lived almost her entire life as a much-loved member of another family and the next stage would be a growing independence. The main thing was that she was happy and by all accounts she was. He could hardly get a word in when he phoned, she was so full of news and enthusiasm about everything she was doing. He’d given up counting the clubs and societies she belonged to, but thinking about her made him decide to phone her when he got in.

  Susan, his sister-in-law, answered and gave him a run down on what was happening in Glenvane and how Jenny was doing at school. ‘And now the bad news, Steven . . . she’s not in at the moment.’