Grave Island: a compelling mystery thriller

by Andrew Smyth

  I took the evidence bag out of my pocket and passed it to him. ‘I’ve put it in the bag to protect it, but you can see the label clearly. You can see it’s been stuck over the top of another one – an older one.’

  James took it. ‘Jesus! Where did this come from? Is this why you’re asking about the MHRA?’

  ‘It’s a long story. Sally told me that these were prescribed to someone at an IHG hospital, so I made some enquiries and managed to trace them back to the original manufacturer, but I need help to take it further. I thought about going to the MHRA direct but they’d take it away and I’d never hear another word. If you can arrange a meeting then I might be able to stay involved. I’ve still got my security clearance, haven’t I?’

  ‘As far as I know, but this isn’t exactly your field, so why the interest?’

  ‘As I said, I want to see this through.’ I wasn’t going to tell him about Greta Satchwell yet.

  James sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to see what I can do – do you want to let me have the medicines to show them? It might whet their appetite.’

  ‘No, they’ll hold onto them and I won’t see them again. Just tell them about it, that should be enough, and afterwards you could come and see me back at Wapping. You could even lend a hand with a paintbrush.’

  It felt strange going back to Wapping without our usual discussion of the office affairs, although I didn’t miss the internal office politics which always struck me as a diversion from our real job.

  When I got back on board, I phoned Greta. I’d had an idea that we might take some time out from the investigation, as I supposed I must now call it, and get to know one another better. I was nervous about asking her, but I chanced it and asked if she wanted to come around for dinner. Salacia’s galley was far from ready, but I thought that after the electric hob in the Whitehall flat, I could probably manage something half-way edible. I was a bit old fashioned about my cooking; I didn’t believe in lots of equipment, just good quality ingredients, competently assembled.

  I was relieved when Greta didn’t hesitate and told me she’d be around later. Meanwhile, I discovered that a phone line had finally been installed so I had Internet connection on board and I thought I’d do some research into the pharmaceutical business and counterfeits in particular. It didn’t prove to be very easy, partly because the distribution chain was so complex but partly also because it turned out that what one rich country called a counterfeit drug, another, poorer, country called an affordable one.

  While I was struggling with understanding this, James phoned. He’d set up a meeting at the MHRA’s offices in the morning. ‘I had to stretch the truth,’ he said, ‘and give the impression that you were still connected with us, so don’t let on otherwise.’

  ‘I’ll wear my Whitehall suit and tie – that should impress them. Did they give any indication that they already knew about this – that perhaps they were already investigating IHG?’

  ‘I didn’t tell them much, that you’d found out something which we thought would be of interest to them and that we’d appreciate their seeing us and letting us know what they think. I should warn you, that you’re not going to be alone. Our friends at Six have declared an interest and want to get involved.’

  ‘MI6 – how did they find out about it?’

  ‘Apparently, MHRA aren’t the only ones interested in counterfeit drugs. For some reason, Six is as well, so they had no choice but to ask them along, although I bet they did it through gritted teeth – people don’t like calling in SIS – they tend to lose control when they’re involved. Bloke by the name of Ken Maxwell. Do you know him?’

  ‘I haven’t had much to do with them. Have you met him before?’

  ‘He was out in Afghanistan when I was there. Looking into opium distribution. Apparently, he’s a narcotics specialist.’

  ‘Narcotics? What’s the connection?’

  ‘No idea, but we’ll likely find out tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re going to be there? Haven’t you got better things to do?’

  ‘Not if Six is interested. It’ll be a great opportunity to look over their shoulder.’

  I rang off, feeling the return of a familiar excitement. The situation seemed to be escalating and I realised that I was in danger of getting elbowed to one side. But at least, for the moment, I still had a foot in the door.

  Greta was due shortly and Wapping isn’t well stocked with shops, just the local offshoots of the big supermarkets selling, apart from the range of frozen and ready-cooked meals, an extraordinary range of sweets, crisps and other snacks. What I called “food” occupied only a small area at the back. There wasn’t time to go anywhere else so I did my best and managed to find some pre-packed fillet steak and picked up some onions and mushrooms. I could drum up a beef stroganoff, which didn’t take long to make but was interesting and different.

  Back on the boat, I started to clear up the saloon, stuffing the tools and paint into a cupboard. I ran the vacuum cleaner over the floor and what passed for furniture, before going down to the galley and getting everything ready and laying it out so it would be quick to cook when Greta arrived.

  I was finishing my preparation when the ship’s bell rang, loud enough for my neighbours to go topside to see if they had visitors. I wiped my hands and adjusted the cutlery on the makeshift dining table before going up the companionway to let Greta in. She was looking stunning; a bright red dress with a black leather belt hung loosely around her waist. Little aquamarine earrings just the right size not to be too flashy. She walked around inspecting the saloon. ‘How are you getting on with it?’ she asked.

  ‘The boat? I haven’t had much time the past few days, you’ve been keeping me pretty busy. Drink?’

  ‘Gin and tonic, if you have it.’

  ‘No boat is complete if it can’t serve gin and tonic,’ I said with some relief. The only spirits I had were that or whisky. I mixed the drinks and we sat down. ‘Here’s to your father.’ I raised my glass. ‘I’m sorry I never knew him.’

  Greta sipped her drink and pulled a face. ‘You certainly make them strong, don’t you? Yes, here’s to my father. I think you would have liked him. He was a bit like you, got straight to the point, didn’t like faffing around.’

  ‘Impatient, you mean? I’m not sure that’s an advantage, it can get you into trouble.’

  ‘Tell me about what forced you out of the army. Sally didn’t say much about it.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell. They said I’d been taking home classified files, which was only partly true. I only took home ones which weren’t high security, but somehow they managed to find some marked “Top Secret”.’

  ‘You must have been in the army quite a time?’

  ‘It seemed like forever – over ten years. I joined up when I was a teenager. After the orphanage, it was pretty much the same thing, swapping one kind of institution for another.’

  ‘But you did well?’

  ‘I suppose so. I joined up in the ranks, but they obviously saw something in me that I didn’t see. Eventually they sent me to staff college and gave me a commission at the end of it.’

  ‘Sally told me that you graduated top of the class?’

  I laughed. ‘It was a very bad year and I was lucky. I wish she wouldn’t go around talking about me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have met you if she hadn’t. It’s good that you’re still friends – it doesn’t often happen like that.’

  ‘We’ve worked hard at it – harder than we ever worked on our brief marriage. It’s easier when there’s a distance between you. There’s more respect and you don’t take each other so much for granted. I think we knew the marriage was a mistake almost from the start. We were both looking for some kind of security and saw something in each other that wasn’t actually there. That impatience of mine didn’t help, it rubbed her up the wrong way. You can’t be impatient if you want to qualify as a doctor, let alone if you want to practise as one.’ I finished my drink. ‘Come on, let’s eat.’
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  Greta followed me downstairs and I took the bottle of wine that I’d opened to allow it to breathe and poured her a glass. She sat watching me cook. ‘You seem to know your way around a recipe. What is it?’

  ‘Beef stroganoff.’ I turned up the gas on the frying pan. The saffron rice was bubbling happily. ‘It’s really a cheating recipe; it’s easy to make but looks difficult.’ I spooned the rice into a dish and took it to the table, and served up the strips of beef onto plates with the mushroom and cream sauce and handed one to her. I topped up her glass and poured one for myself.

  ‘Looks good. You obviously enjoy cooking.’

  ‘You’ve got to if you live on your own. Actually, I cooked even when I was married – Sally was a terrible cook.’

  ‘A new man?’

  ‘Recycled, I’m afraid. But that’s enough. Tell me about yourself.’

  ‘I told you almost all there was to know at my father’s flat. Brought up in some privilege, I suppose. St John’s Wood, private school, comfortable red-brick university. Graduate traineeship with an international accountant. Everything went my way apart from the accident. I suppose Sally told you about that.’

  Sally had mentioned Greta a few times but she’d told me nothing about an accident. ‘No,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘A car crash when I was fourteen. A kid driving a stolen car. I was in hospital for nearly six months, and you can see it’s left me with one leg slightly shorter than the other.’

  ‘Greta. That’s terrible.’ I didn’t know quite what else to say.

  ‘I was very sporty up until then, but all that ended. It took me ages after I’d got back to school before I could adjust. I’d lost all my confidence and Sally sort of took me under her wing and helped me build it up. Not that I’m that confident now – I still find it hard to open up to people.’

  ‘Many people aren’t worth opening up to. It’s better that way around rather than wear your heart on your sleeve and get it damaged. What about your mother?’

  ‘She died a couple of years ago. My father took it very badly and I don’t think I gave him the support he needed, but it was a difficult time for me, just as I was branching out on my own. Now he’s gone, I reproach myself every day that I wasn’t more helpful. I thought he’d buried himself in his work, but I don’t think he ever got over it.’

  ‘We go through life accumulating “might-have-beens”, although you seem to have more than most. The longer you live, the more there are. It’s that butterfly again, flapping its wings and causing all sorts of problems. I wonder if it knows all the trouble it’s caused.’ I got up and went over to the stove and picked up the frying pan. ‘More?’

  ‘Please, it’s delicious. No, really, you should give me the recipe and I’ll try it myself sometime.’

  ‘I got it from a recipe book I found in a second-hand bookshop. Où Est Le Garlic? – the title sort of grabbed me – by Len Deighton. I didn’t realise he wrote cookery books.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you were the sort of person who trawled through bookshops looking for cookbooks. I would never have guessed.’

  ‘I don’t “trawl” through them. I happened to be in one.’ I gave her some more rice and beef and then helped myself to what was left and sat down. ‘I’ve found out where the medicines came from.’ I poured us out some more wine. ‘Kenya.’ I didn’t tell her how I’d found this out. ‘I’m seeing the Medicines and Healthcare Regulatory Agency tomorrow. They investigate counterfeit drugs. I’m hoping they’ll take over – they’ve obviously got more resources to look into it.’

  ‘I don’t want you to give up. We have to follow this through.’

  ‘Let’s see what the MHRA say first, shall we? We can decide what to do later.’

  We talked on into the evening, both relaxed in each other’s company. Chastely, I called a taxi to take her back to her flat in Marylebone.

  10

  I was at the MHRA offices early the next morning and was shown up to a large conference room overlooking Victoria Station. I’d always found it a good idea to arrive early; that way you could hear what people were saying about the others before they arrived. It also stopped them talking about you.

  I was met by a tall, rather languorous man who introduced himself: ‘Ed Carpenter, MHRA investigator. Take a seat.’ He gestured towards the table and I sat down facing him. We chatted inconsequentially about mutual acquaintances until the others arrived in a group. Ed introduced them.

  ‘James of course you know and this is Ken Maxwell, from SIS across the river.’ The MI6 officer, in contrast to the others, was casually dressed in chinos and an open-neck shirt. He simply nodded at me impassively and sat down at the end of the table next to James. I wondered again who’d brought them in and what interest they had in counterfeit drugs.

  Ed Carpenter sat down at the head of the table and I took out the evidence bag containing the drugs and handed it to him. ‘There’s the relabelled Oxaban and the out-of-date insulin.’

  He looked at them carefully and then handed it across to the SIS agent. ‘And these both came from an IHG hospital?’ Ed asked.

  I nodded. ‘They were supplied to the hospital by a company called Holden Healthcare which is an IHG subsidiary.’

  Ed Carpenter looked puzzled. ‘How did you manage to find all this out?’

  ‘I’ve been making my own enquiries. A patient at the hospital died unexpectedly and we found these amongst his things.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes, his daughter and me. She thought her father’s death was suspicious and asked me to help her.’ I explained the background, leading up to discovering the drugs that the hospital had given him. I glossed over our visit to the Holden operation, but took some pleasure in playing my trump card. ‘It’s manufactured by Tau Pharmaceuticals in Kenya.’

  Ed looked up quickly. ‘Tau? How do you know that?’

  I took a deep breath; this was the hook I wanted to catch them with. ‘The IHG security manager, Bob Tyler, took me up to Northampton to visit the Holden unit up there.’

  ‘And they told you who their supplier was?’ The MHRA man clearly wasn’t going to believe that.

  ‘Not exactly I made… er… shall we say discreet enquiries.’

  ‘You mean you blagged your way in,’ offered James – typical of him.

  ‘I took photographs.’ I ignored him and handed across the prints I’d had made earlier.

  ‘Can I see those?’ It was the first time the SIS man had said anything. He examined the enlargements I’d made and simply nodded and handed them back to Ed.

  Ed took back the pictures. ‘So, what do you think, Ken?’

  ‘It’s a good lead,’ Maxwell said. ‘But if it’s really from Kenya, I’m not sure that it would be of much interest to us, unless, of course, Al-Shabaab is involved, although they don’t usually operate that far south. It’s certainly worth following up.’

  ‘Okay.’ Carpenter placed the prints into a folder with an air of finality. ‘I think we can take it from here. Thanks for bringing this along. We’ll start our own enquiries.’

  I was starting to lose the initiative. ‘But you don’t know where to look,’ I said quickly, having expected this brush-off. ‘I can take you there and show you exactly the place where they’re stored.’ I could see him hesitate. ‘I’m handing you this on a plate.’

  Ed Carpenter thought about this. ‘Let me check it out first, see if we’ve got any reference to these drugs. They should be on our database somewhere, along with a licence. I’ll look it up and come back to you.’ He stood up, and held out his hand again. ‘Thanks for coming in. We’ll talk shortly.’

  So I was being dismissed, but I’d done what I could.

  I left with James and took a taxi back to his office.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked.

  ‘He must be tempted. It can’t be every day that someone offers to take them directly to a counterfeit drug supplier – especially one owned by IHG. This could cause them major prob
lems – even bigger than the Volkswagen scandal.’

  ‘You think there might be an innocent explanation? That Holden and IHG know nothing about this?’

  ‘If Ed Carpenter finds the evidence sitting on their shelves then they’re not going to be able to explain it away very easily.’

  ‘That’s why I think they’re likely to agree to an inspection. It could be quite a coup for him.’

  I left James outside his offices and went back to Wapping on the Underground. I couldn’t tell Greta much until I’d heard from Ed Carpenter, but I didn’t have long to wait.

  He called as I was opening up the barge. ‘We’ll go with your suggestion,’ he said brusquely. ‘I’ll pick you up outside our offices at six-thirty tomorrow morning.’ And then he hung up. It was clear he wasn’t very happy about it, but then no one likes an outsider muscling in on their job. It’s called “NIH” – Not Invented Here. I would be there on sufferance – but at least I’d be there.

  Ed was much more friendly the next day when he picked me up. He sounded almost cheerful. His home was in south London and he’d managed a clear drive thanks to the early start. We headed out north once again.

  ‘What do you know about counterfeit medicines?’ he asked as we settled down on the motorway.

  I said I’d spent some time on the Internet but nothing more.

  ‘It’s very complicated,’ he said. ‘Most people have only heard of the big companies, GlaxoSmithKline or AstraZeneca, but there are thousands of them out there and many thousands more wholesalers and distributors. In addition, some groups like IHG have their own distributors and even generic manufacturing companies, while different countries use different purchasing patterns. The NHS in the UK tries to negotiate centrally for their drugs. It all makes it very difficult to follow the supply route and see if the drugs are certified.