by Ken McClure
‘That just leaves Barrowman’s secret to uncover.’
‘And we’re getting closer.
Steven got Jean’s text as he left Green Park. He acknowledged it and saw that he had plenty time to grab something to eat at The Moorings before heading back to the Home Office. It had just gone noon and that meant that there would still be room at the outside tables to sit and watch the river for a while. He felt good, Neil and Jean between them had come up with the evidence that the Vatican was involved and the fact that it was through the actions of an unsanctioned group rather than the real deal was the icing on the cake. It was going to make it so much easier (for others!) to deal with and probably put an end to without undue repercussion. It would be in everyone’s interest to cover it all up.
There would of course be problems for Dorothy Lindstrom when her funding suddenly stopped, but letting it be known to Dorothy that it had been the British intelligence services who had stopped her being financed through conventional government sources should provide her with enough ammunition to turn such funding right back on again. Life was looking much better.
Steven had just asked John Macmillan what the meeting was going to be about when Macmillan’s phone rang. When he’d finished taking the call he turned to Steven and said, ‘They’ve found Mr Simon Stratford.’
‘Good . . . who’s he?’
‘Sorry, he’s the missing link in the PO box number saga. They found him in a cottage on the Moray Firth coast in the north east of Scotland . . . or at least that’s where he was. He’s now on his way to Lossiemouth where the RAF are going to bring him back to London. I hope he had a light lunch.’
‘Couldn’t he just have given us the information we need?’
‘Seemingly not, there’s procedure, he insists he should be there.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Steven, wondering how long it might take the UK to launch a Cruise missile and then thinking that might be a good thing anyway.
Steven suspected that the Home Secretary had called the meeting in response to what Macmillan had already told her about the possible murder of Dorothy’s two post-docs in the US and what possible dangers lay here. He was not wrong. She had invited along two senior intelligence officers, a shadow cabinet minister and a number of church leaders to discuss the ‘current situation with particular regard to epigenetic research’.
‘The current situation is highly volatile,’ she announced, but I am determined that government funded science will not be permitted to openly attack religion – any religion, and religion – any religion, will not be permitted to deliberately interfere in scientific research.
Steven interrupted. ‘With respect, Home Secretary, the situation is perhaps not as volatile as you feared. We have today established that attempts made in the USA to interfere with Professor Lindstrom’s research were the work of a small but powerful dissenting faction within the Roman Catholic Church – a group called Fidei Defensores. The same group are behind what was until now the anonymous funding of Professor Lindstrom’s group in the UK. Their plan was to monitor it and put a stop to things should it come up with anything not to their liking. While it’s true that Vatican money is being used, it seems certain that this has been siphoned off illegally by senior figures within the group – a number of cardinals with extreme traditional views. The Vatican are currently investigating this. I can provide you with details at some other time if you’d like.’
‘Well, thank you, Dr Dunbar. It’s not the first time Her Majesty’s Government has had to cause to thank you for your efforts. We are most grateful.’
Steven nodded and sat down. He noticed Macmillan looking pleased; he loved it when Sci-Med looked good.
The Home Secretary seemed relieved that resolution had been brought to a complicated situation and, probably more importantly, it could be left to the church to sort out its own mess. No mention was made of the UK intelligence services’ earlier interference in research funding, but Steven decided to leave that to Dorothy to bring up. The Home Secretary limited what more she had to say to warning science and religion to keep out of each other’s way and the meeting was over.
‘Mr Stratford has arrived in London,’ said Jean when Steven and Macmillan got back to the office. An RAF Typhoon delivered him . . . I understand his stomach will be forwarded later, poor man.
‘I take it the police are taking him directly to his sorting office?’ asked Macmillan.
‘Where they will wait until all concerned from Sci-Med and MI5 have turned up.’
‘I’ll call Lukas,’ said Steven.
Despite having been allowed to tidy himself up, Simon Stratford managed to look as if he had been put through a wash cycle and tumble-dried. His repeated attempts to flatten his hair failed miserably and tugging at his tie did little to straighten it. He made a valiant attempt to display gravitas when he said, ‘I understand you are trying to trace material sent to a confidential box number, one which I am sworn to secrecy about.’
‘We are.’
Your ready access to an RAF Typhoon FGR4 Euro-fighter suggests to me that you possibly have the right to do so.’
Steven and Lukas exchanged glances. Stratford did actually look like a plane spotter.
‘We have. How does the system work, Mr Stratton?’ asked Steven.
‘We are a main sorting office; if something comes in addressed to a secure box number care of our sorting office I will check the number to find out whether it is to be redirected to another main sorting office via a new box number or kept here in storage until claimed. I will have no idea of where it came from other than it would be another UK main sorting office. If it’s to be stored, it will remain here until collected by someone giving the appropriate password.
‘How do you decide the password?’
‘It’s given to me when I check the box number.’
‘How do you do that?’
‘Online.’
‘I thought this was a Second World War system,’ exclaimed Macmillan.
‘I suppose we’ve moved with the times.’
‘Are you saying that this system is still used regularly?’ Steven asked.
‘Not infrequently.’
‘Is anything being stored here at the moment, Mr Stratford?’ This was the big question that stopped everyone breathing.
‘There was when I left for my holiday.’
‘Are you saying that someone could have collected it while you were away?’
‘Oh yes, at this stage it’s just a case of someone picking up a parcel by giving a password. I would give the password to my deputy before I left.’
‘But he knows nothing about the box numbers?’
‘You’ve got it.
Steven felt like he’d just completed the Times crossword. ‘Could you check please?’
‘This way.’
Macmillan, Steven and the MI5 agent followed Stratford into his office where he used his keys to open a cupboard door, behind which stood a large floor-standing safe. He entered the combination and swung back the door.
‘Still here,’ said Stratford. He brought out two packages, one large, one small. ‘I will need receipts.’
‘Of course,’ muttered Macmillan.
‘Official Government receipts,’ Stratford reminded him.
Steven picked up the smaller package and looked to the MI5 man who nodded. Steven opened it to reveal a number of computer disks and four memory sticks. ‘I think we’re in business,’ he said. Turning to the others, he said, ‘You folks can set up your gear.’
Lukas and the woman accompanying the MI5 agent readied their copying and scanning gear while Steven finished emptying the package of several sheets of folded A4 paper. ‘Barrowman’s notes on Malcolm Lawler,’ he announced to the others. ‘Oh, happy day.’
Macmillan took Stratford aside to explain to him that there would be an official presence at his sorting office until such times as someone came to pick up the packages that were currently being opened. ‘Either Special Branch or
intelligence officers,’ he said. ‘They will be in plain clothes and armed but it’s important that everyone behave as normal and go about their business.’’
Steven meanwhile had finished opening the larger package. It contained a number of chemicals contained in large bottles, small ones, phials, packets, tubes and all with long sounding names that meant little to Steven or apparently to the others when they took a look and shook their heads.
‘What do we do with these?’
‘Make a note of the names,’ said Steven thinking ahead. ‘We can investigate later.’ He turned to the MI5 man and said, ‘I suggest we re-pack the box and leave it here. If someone comes to pick anything up, Mr Stratford can stall by giving him this rather than saying that there’s nothing. It should start a discussion about a missing second package and will give the plain clothes guys more time to react.’
Steven drove back to the Crompton Lane labs with Lukas; he was anxious to get a first look at what they had recovered.
‘What did you think about the chemicals?’ he asked, knowing full well that they would have meant something to Lukas even though he had shaken his head along with the others.
‘Someone has a molecular biology lab,’ Lukas replied. ‘It looks like Barrowman must be in a position to carry on his research.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Steven muttered.
‘Norma Kellerman would have known that too.’
‘Who?’
‘Norma Kellerman, the woman Five brought along, I’ve come across her before; she works at Porton Down.’
‘Did she recognise you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Lukas replied.
‘Oh, well,’ said Steven, ‘good to be transparent.’
Both men smiled. They shared a sense of humour.
‘First impressions?’ Steven asked as Lukas went through Barrowman’s notes, pausing every now and then to make reference to his computer screen and occasionally changing the input source to find what he wanted.
‘This looks big, but it’s going to take a while . . . maybe a long while. Barrowman has been able to assign function to large areas of what we’ve been calling junk DNA for years . . . Look at this section here . . . it doesn’t code for proteins, but if you fold it this way and then that . . .and then do this . . . you get this configuration . . .’ Lukas’ fingers danced over the keyboard. ‘which he claims can act as either a trigger or suppressor of these genes. It’s a controller.’
‘A switch?’ Steven murmured.
‘Let’s not run before we can walk. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I figure out more.’
Tally was in bed reading when Steven got home. She put down her book and smiled as Steven lay down beside her fully clothed. ‘You smell like a lab,’ she complained.
‘That’s just where I’ve been.’
‘Can I take it from your cheesy grin that you’ve had a good day?’
‘You certainly can. Want to hear about it?’
‘Sure do.’
TWENTY-FIVE
In the morning, Steven controlled his urge to drive directly over to Crompton Lane to find out how things were going, knowing that Lukas needed time to go through Barrowman’s results and wouldn’t welcome someone standing over him while he worked. He knew that they weren’t in a race with MI5, but there was that feeling about it when, in fact, it was more complicated. It didn’t matter who managed to interpret Barrowman’s findings first as long as both of them succeeded in doing it. Things might start to get awkward if Five succeeded and Lukas didn’t because Five’s findings would almost certainly be smothered under a security blanket for as long as it took Five and probably Porton Down to assess any discovery in ‘defence’ terms. Success for Lukas would mean any important findings being added to scientific knowledge and made accessible to all.
Steven was beginning to relish the idea of a day off when his mind begged to differ – it pointed out he had things to do. Nothing needed urgent attention, but they still had to be done. Dorothy Lindstrom and Jane Lincoln had to be told about the extent of Fidei Defensores’ activities both in the USA and here at home in the UK and how it would almost certainly lead to an immediate stop to funding when the leak to Vatican resources was plugged. He was still intent on advising Dorothy how they might be restored through revealing in the right circles that she knew who had blocked her Research Council funding at the outset. The Home Secretary could hardly lecture the churches about interfering in scientific research when she had done exactly that herself.
After mulling this over, Steven changed his mind. He wouldn’t tell Dorothy about Five’s involvement after all. Dorothy might be a fine scientist but she was no diplomat. John Macmillan was, and he knew the value of letting people work things out for themselves. He would ask John to right the wrong and look forward to hearing from him that the Home Secretary had expressed her gratitude for his suggestion and that Government funding would indeed be found to enable Professor Lindstrom to continue her exciting work. This would be preferable to Dorothy phoning the newspapers.
Although Steven had decided not to visit Lucy Barrowman, he still had an interest in finding out how much progress the police had made in catching her attacker. He was on the point of calling them when John Macmillan phoned him.
‘Bloody Keystone Cops,’ stormed Macmillan.
‘What’s happened, John?’
‘He got away, that’s what’s happened. He turned up at the sorting office and he got away. Can you believe it?’
Steven had little choice. ‘Was it Barrowman himself who turned up?’
‘No, it was a postman.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘A cheerful postman came into the office and gave the password. Special Branch’s finest thought it was Barrowman dressed as a postman and pinned him to the floor. Turns out it was a real postman. A man in a car down the road had stopped him and offered him ten pounds to collect his parcels for him – said he was recovering from a knee operation and it was playing up.’
‘And by the time they ran to the car it was gone?’
‘Correct.’
‘And it’s not even the pantomime season,’ said Steven.
‘At least we have his data,’ said Macmillan.
‘Yep, all of us can have a bad day.’
For Steven, the feel-good factor of the day had completely disappeared, but he pressed on with his plans and phoned the police, asking to speak to the officer in charge of the Lucy Barrowman case. As soon as he heard Detective Inspector Morris speak he knew something was the matter. There was an apologetic tone to his voice.
‘I’m sorry . . . I’ve been meaning to phone you,’ said the DI.
‘You’ve not made an arrest,’ Steven suggested.
‘I’m afraid not. To be quite frank we were hoping for some forensic help but somewhere along the line it went wrong.’
This was a new one on Steven. You either had forensic evidence or you didn’t; it didn’t “go wrong”. ‘In what way?’
‘We got a DNA match but it was wrong.’
‘You mean it was contaminated?
‘Yes, I suppose that’s the word.’
Steven knew how sensitive modern methods for DNA fingerprinting were. Part of the process involved amplifying the tiniest trace found at the scenes of crime. Great care had to be taken that none of the investigators contaminated the scene with their own DNA.
‘One of the officers?’
‘No, actually . . . we matched it to er . . .Malcolm Lawler, which of course is impossible. He’s been inside for years.’
Steven shuddered at the name.
‘To be quite frank,’ continued the DI, ‘there must have been a cock-up at the lab. Samples from the first assault on Mrs Barrowman must have got mixed up with those taken from the second . . .’
‘Where does Lawler’s DNA come into it?’ snapped Steven.
‘Mrs Barrowman’s husband had been to see Lawler on the day he attacked her. He probably had traces of Lawler’s DNA on him which transferred during the
assault . . . on to Mrs Barrowman and her clothes.’
‘I see,’ said Steven. It was the best he could do. A few skin cells would have been enough . . . that and, of course, the most appalling bad luck that they were picked up by the police forensic people.
‘I’ll keep you informed,’ said the DI.
‘Thanks.’
Steven fidgeted away the rest of the day, feeling that the whole world was against Sci-Med if not him personally. His earlier resolve not to interrupt Lukas weakened and finally gave way to a need to hear something positive. He drove over to Crompton Lane. His fear that Lukas might not have been too pleased to see him disappeared when he was met with a big smile and the words, ‘This is amazing.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I know a lot of people think that junk DNA is there to stop too many mutations accumulating in the coding stuff – it takes the hits that life throws at it rather than the vital regions – and I’m sure they have a point, but when you think that over seventy percent of the human genome is what they’re calling junk and has no function, well, you have to think . . .’
‘And you think he’s shown it’s involved in switching mechanisms?’
‘Yes.’
Steven smiled, but had the impression that Lukas was sitting on something else. ‘Anything more you’d like to share?’ he asked.
‘Somewhere along the line Barrowman came across something he refers to as “a great danger”. If I’m reading it right, he thinks there is one particular switch sequence which, if triggered the wrong way, can lead to absolute disaster. A number of genes are involved; some are turned on and others off.
‘What sort of disaster?’
‘His lab notes suggest that, if switched one way, you get evil incarnate, a personality devoid of all empathy and sympathy, no trace of decency, no vestige of what we like to call humanity. Barrowman actually refers to it as the Satan Switch in his notes.’
‘Can I take it this is where Lawler comes into the picture?’