The Devil's Landscape

by Ken McClure

  ‘All we have to do is find out where he’s hidden it. Any ideas?’ Steven asked, tongue in cheek.

  ‘The digital world is his oyster.’

  ‘About sums it up.’ Steven agreed. He decided that things between he and Tyler had been going well. He took a gamble and asked, ‘You once pointed out that Dorothy had been having bad luck with her post-docs; was that just a casual observation or was there more to it?’

  Tyler drew breath and paused before saying, ‘I attended an international scientific meeting at Yale around the time of the fire. It was a meeting about the determinants of human behaviour – the reason I was there. The usual topics were covered, nature versus nurture, the influence of religion, scientific progress in gene studies, what makes one man a saint and another a terrorist. Dorothy Lindstrom was one of the speakers: being a Christian she acted as a sort of bridge between science and religion and was there to provide support for a Roman Catholic bishop who did his best to give credit for all the good in the world to God while all the blame for the bad things was laid at the door of the human race.’

  Steven made a face and Tyler responded with a wry smile. ‘That’s what most of the delegates thought,’ he said. The bishop was given a hard time, particularly when he tried to blame Islamic terrorist behaviour on false promises made to the faithful regarding the ready availability of virgins upon their demise. Some delegates pointed out that afterlife promises made by Christian leaders aren’t that different.’

  ‘Sounds like a bad day to have worn your collar back to front,’ said Steven.

  ‘Dorothy did her best to make the case for religion being perfectly compatible with science – it was all a matter of open-minded interpretation, she claimed and, to be frank, she did well, but there were questions about what she might do if she actually came up against scientific facts that utterly disproved all religion.’

  ‘A toughie.’

  ‘You’d think so, but she simply replied that she thought that would never happen. But, if it did – and this was a bit of a show stopper – she maintained that she, as a scientist, would have to accept proven scientific facts.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Steven, ‘good for her.’

  ‘Mm, but things went a bit downhill after that. An angry young man asked her if that were the case, why had she blocked the submission of his work to the scientific journals.’

  ‘One of her post-docs?’

  ‘Paul Leighton.’

  ‘What a moment, how did she handle it?’

  ‘Really well, she came over as an indulgent mother dealing with the impetuosity of the young. All it needed was a bit more work, she lectured, and everyone laughed. I think the guy wanted to say more but the moment had gone.’

  ‘So, you and Dorothy knew each other before you turned up as advisor to a bunch of lawyers?’

  Tyler shook his head. ‘No, there were hundreds of delegates at the meeting. I was just a face in the crowd near the back. I did seek out the post-doc who asked the question afterwards however. He told me that Dorothy had pulled the plug on his work, but our conversation was interrupted by the bishop joining us: he seemed intent on urging the lad to open up his mind to the holy spirit. A few days later he was dead along with Dorothy’s other post-doc.

  ‘Carrie,’ said Steven. ‘Carrie Simpson.’

  ‘It sounds like you’ve been making a few investigations of your own.’

  ‘I’ve requested copies of the police and fire department reports from the US,’ Steven admitted. ‘Maybe you’ve already seen them?’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ laughed Tyler. ‘I’m a loner, a freelancer, I have no official position and no access to official documents. I depend on friends.’

  ‘I’ll let you know if I find out anything.’

  Steven found John Macmillan looking despondent and asked why.

  ‘Sometimes I feel like I’m running in mud. I ask the police and MI5 if they’ve caught Barrowman yet and I’m told not, but I don’t know whether I believe them. They haven’t exactly been open and honest about anything in recent times and that breeds suspicion. Even the Home Secretary is playing silly buggers. I’m beginning to think we’re turning into East Germany before the wall came down.’

  ‘We’re not,’ Steven assured his boss. ‘Sci-Med wouldn’t have lasted five minutes with the Stasi around.’

  Macmillan gave a small embarrassed smile at Steven reminding him of the much-feared East German police and conceded, ‘Perhaps I was exaggerating a little.’

  ‘But I share your frustration,’ Steven added. ‘For what it’s worth, I don’t think they have caught Barrowman yet and they’re finding it humiliating. They don’t understand why with the combined resources of the Met and MI5 hunting him down he’s managed to evade capture. He may have been transformed into a psychotic killer, but he has no background as any kind of criminal. He’s never been on the run before so it’s hard to see how he could have gone to earth so easily. Where would he go? Who would he turn to for help? Who would give it to him?’

  ‘All good points,’ said Macmillan. ‘All he has going for him is that . . . he’s bright . . . armed . . . psychotic . . . Have I missed out anything?’ said Macmillan.

  ‘Purpose,’ said Steven as if it had just occurred to him. ‘We don’t know what’s driving him. His research was the most important thing in his life; nothing was allowed to get in the way of it and suddenly it’s gone. He has lost what he cared about most and this has left him feeling . . . what?’

  ‘Angry, confused, filled with hate, fear, loathing, a desire for revenge against those who conspired against him, of which . . . you are one, the man who met with his wife behind his back on the night it all went wrong.’

  ‘A happy thought.’

  ‘I suggest you pay a visit to the armourer,’ said Macmillan in a tone that made it more than a suggestion.

  ‘Will do,’ said Steven reluctantly. He hated this moment. He knew it was a sensible precaution, but he always saw the moment he felt the presence of a pistol under his left arm as being symbolic of distancing himself from everyone else in society, a feeling he didn’t like, not least because Tally loathed the idea of it too. He had always gone to great lengths to assure her his job was nowhere near as dangerous as she feared – he was simply an investigator engaged in finding out the truth – but a gun hanging over a chair in the bedroom always suggested, mutely but very loudly, that there might be more to it.

  Steven told Macmillan about his conversation with Tyler and what he’d learned about the Yale meeting before the fire.

  ‘It would appear that Professor Lindstrom’s open-mindedness might be subject to question,’ said Macmillan thoughtfully.

  ‘She did assure Jane Lincoln that the truth, whatever it turned out to be, would be submitted for publication.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘God, I could do with some good news,’ said Steven. ‘You’re not the only one who feels he’s running in mud.’

  ‘I think I can help there,’ said Macmillan. ‘It would appear that the public aren’t the slightest bit interested in Moorlock Hall and its inmates and the press have had to give in to public opinion for fear of damaging their circulation figures. Their attempts to whip up outrage have been dismissed as “liberal leftie crap” to quote one of my sources and there’s been a bit of a rush by MPs to distance themselves from the whole thing too with an election coming up next year. They don’t want to be found disagreeing with a public who think the bastards have got exactly what they deserve if a noose wasn’t available.’

  ‘Does that mean they’re going to leave things as they are?’ asked Steven incredulously.

  ‘In a word, yes, but they can’t all be seen to be walking away. My source tells me that the redoubtable Mrs Leadbetter has been left holding the baby. She has been tasked with fact finding, compiling a comprehensive report and making recommendations which will be considered in due course by committees yet to be set up.’

  Steven broke into a smile. ‘Serves her
right,’ he said. ‘Does that mean that Groves, the superintendent, won’t be retired after all?’

  ‘My source didn’t say.’

  ‘Actually, I think he was looking forward to it.’

  ‘I can’t see anyone else wanting the job, can you?’

  Steven shook his head.

  Steven checked with Jean that no information had come in from the USA before going off to the armourer to be issued with a 9mm Glock pistol and Burns Martin shoulder holster.

  ‘It’s been a while,’ said the armourer, checking the record book.

  ‘Not long enough,’ Steven replied.

  ‘Better safe than sorry.’

  Steven gave him a look that suggested clichés were neither required nor welcome.

  ‘I see it’s also been a while since you visited the range.’

  ‘I just don’t feel at home there . . .’ said Steven but the joke fell flat and the armourer continued, ‘I recommend a session.’

  Steven was about to decline when the armourer added, ‘We don’t want the public being at risk from stray bullets, do we?’

  Steven felt he had no option but to go downstairs to the range to be issued with ammunition, sign for it and don ear protectors after hearing what was required of him.

  ‘In your own time.’

  Steven pumped rapid fire shells into the bad guy dummy and waited while it was reeled back for examination.

  ‘Good grouping,’ murmured the range commander. ‘Pop-ups next.’

  Steven reloaded the pistol and took a firm stance, holding the weapon up in front of him in both hands. ‘Ready.’

  A series of figures popped up at the far end of the range at one second intervals and in random positions along a twenty-metre horizontal stretch before disappearing again. A woman carrying a shopping bag . . . a man with a briefcase . . . a woman pushing a pram . . . a child with a toy gun . . .a masked man pointing a gun at him. bang, bang, bang. A boy with a football . . . an old woman leaning on a stick . . . a man putting up an umbrella . . . A man reaching for a bang, mobile phone . . . ‘Bugger.’

  ‘You put two in the baddie, pity about the guy with the phone,’ said the range commander. ‘But you’ll do.’

  Steven left the building knowing that men reaching for mobile phones were going to be uncommonly safe from him for some time to come. He was still dwelling on his mistake when his own phone rang, it was Lucy Barrowman.

  ‘Steven, do you think you could come and see me?’

  ‘Of course, how about now?’

  Lucy laughed and said, ‘It’s nothing urgent but there’s just something I’d like to run past you when you have some free time.’

  ‘That’s now, see you in thirty minutes?’

  ‘Great.’

  Steven wasn’t sure if Lucy had been told about her husband killing the MI5 officer so he phoned Jean and asked if she would check with the police. She called back to report that Lucy knew Owen was still at large but had not been told about the murder. Five wanted to keep it under wraps.

  Steven found Lucy alert and feeling better although her eyes betrayed a sadness he suspected might not leave any time soon. ‘How are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m well,’ she replied. ‘I’m pain free and looking less like a panda each day. I’ve decided to stay with mum and dad for a time when I get out.’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea.’

  ‘I understand they haven’t caught Owen yet?’

  ‘That’s my understanding too.’

  ‘How can that be?’

  The question was direct and Steven could see that Lucy had been thinking along the same lines he had. ‘I honestly don’t know,’ he replied. ‘It’s not as if he has any great experience of lying low and avoiding capture. Where would he go?’

  Lucy took time to ask, ‘You don’t think he’s . . . he’s done anything . . . silly.’

  Steven suddenly realised Lucy was thinking about suicide, something that hadn’t even occurred to him and, feeling foolish, he admitted as much.

  ‘He’s got himself into such a mess he might not be able to see any way out,’ said Lucy.

  ‘I suppose it’s a possibility,’ Steven admitted – even more of one when the murder Lucy didn’t know about was added to the equation. It might also explain why he hadn’t been caught if his body was lying at the bottom of the Thames.

  ‘Is that what’s been on your mind?’ he asked.

  ‘No, that’s not why I wanted to see you,’ said Lucy. ‘It may be nothing but I’ve remembered something.’

  Steven felt a small adrenalin surge. Could Lucy be about to give him the break he so desperately needed to make progress?

  An old friend of Owen’s from his time at Edinburgh University, Dan Glass, came to give a seminar at Capital a few weeks ago, Owen must have sent him something a few days later.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I took a phone call from Dan at home a week or so after his London seminar. Owen was working late at the lab as usual, Dan asked me to tell him the package had arrived safely.’

  Steven felt genuine excitement. ‘But you don’t know what was in it?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, but I thought I’d tell you.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Steven. ‘Do you know which department Dan works in at Edinburgh?’

  ‘Human Genetics at the Western General Hospital.’

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘Will you be staying up in Scotland to see your daughter?’ asked Jean when Steven told her he wanted to fly up to Edinburgh in the morning.

  Steven said not. ‘I’m hoping it’s just going to be a flying visit. The plan is to get my hands on the package and get back to London in time to deliver it to Lukas at the lab. This could be the break we’ve been hoping for.’

  ‘Does this Dan Glass know you’re coming?’

  Steven said not. ‘I’d like it to be a surprise.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  Tally loaded her fork with the smoked fish risotto ready-meal that Steven had prepared for dinner, but paused to ask, ‘Don’t you like using the telephone, or do you just fancy a jolly to Edinburgh?’

  ‘I just fancy a jolly to Edinburgh,’ Steven replied, filling both their glasses and pretending to concentrate on his plate.

  Tally looked at him suspiciously. ‘You’re lying, aren’t you?’

  Steven smiled and said, ‘I don’t know what the arrangement was between Barrowman and his friend, Glass. Assuming the package contains what we hope it does and holds data on Lawler, there may be some arrangement in place as to what to do if some stranger starts asking questions. I want to be a surprise visitor.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Eat up.’

  ‘My compliments to Monsieur Tesco.’

  ‘Are you taking that thing with you? asked Tally, inclining her head to where Steven left the gun in its holster.

  ‘No, I’ll put it in the safe. I should manage a trip to Edinburgh without a gunfight.’

  Tally gave him an unsmiling stare, reminding Steven he should never make jokes about guns.

  Next morning, Steven took a British Airways shuttle flight to Edinburgh which landed just after ten. The morning rush hour was largely over, allowing him a clear taxi ride from the airport, which lay to the west of the city, to the Western General Hospital which was to the north west. As they drew near, the driver asked which ward or department he was going to. Steven told him and the man replied, ‘That’s on the east side, I’ll drop you at the Crew Road entrance. It’s a modern building, a concrete and glass box like all the rest.’

  ‘You’re not a fan,’ said Steven.

  This was the trigger the driver needed to unload his misgivings about modern architecture. ‘It’s the only field of human endeavour I know that’s gone backwards,’ he maintained. ‘You’d think these people had never seen a cathedral, never learned anything from guys who lived hundreds of years ago. All you get these days is concrete boxes and weird looking crap they get prizes for. See that boiler ho
use over there . . .’

  Steven looked over to a tall chimney.

  ‘Bugger got a prize for that.’

  Steven tipped him well and took comfort from having provided the man with a release valve for his anger. Apart from that . . . he had a point.

  Steven took a seat while the receptionist made a phone call. He heard one side of the conversation. Dr Dunbar . . . Steven Dunbar . . . Didn’t say, do you want me to ask him? . . . Right, I’ll tell him.

  ‘Dr Glass is coming down.’

  A man wearing jeans and a black tee shirt bearing the name of a pop band he didn’t recognise duly appeared. He looked to be around the same age as Owen Barrowman.

  ‘I’m Dan Glass, how can I help?’

  ‘Steven presented his ID and expected the usual questions about Sci-Med. He was pleasantly surprised when Glass said, ‘I’ve heard of you, you’re a sort of scientific police force?’

  ‘Sort of,’ Steven agreed. ‘I’d like to talk to you about Owen Barrowman, I believe he’s a friend of yours?’

  ‘We were students together,’ Glass replied with a smile. ‘What’s he been up to? Not in any trouble, is he?’’

  ‘Maybe we could speak somewhere more private?’

  ‘Let’s go upstairs.’

  ‘Steven took Glass’s relaxed demeanour and slight air of puzzlement as a sign he had no idea what had been going on. This was a bonus. ‘I’m afraid your friend’s in a great deal of trouble,’ he said. ‘He’s had a serious mental breakdown.’

  ‘Owen? You’re kidding.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, he completely snapped, attacked his wife and injured her badly. She’s in hospital: he’s on the run from the police.’

  Glass was dumbstruck until he eventually managed, ‘Christ almighty, that’s beyond belief.’

  Steven accepted that Glass’s shock was genuine. After a suitable pause he said, ‘Barrowman sent you a packet sometime after your recent visit to Capital in London?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘I must ask you to hand it over please.’