Resurrection

by Ken McClure

  He was now in Ferry Road, the main thoroughfare that ran along Edinburgh’s northern edge. He flagged down the first taxi with its sign lit up and returned to the Scottish Office.

  Dewar found Hector Wright poring over a map of the Muirhouse area in one of the basement rooms. He looked like a general planning a campaign. He was drawing a circle on the map using as its centre a flag marker that sat on the flats where Kelly and Denise Banyon lived.

  ‘Any luck?’ asked Wright.

  ‘I blew it,’ said Dewar. ‘She told me to fuck off.’

  Wright smiled and said, ‘Women have been telling me that all my life.’

  Dewar smiled at the sympathetic comment and asked what Wright was up to.

  ‘Working out vaccination schedules, primary, secondary, tertiary. It’s a bit like digging ditches round a forest fire. You hope the first ditch will hold it but you never rely on one alone. If we can vaccinate everyone in this inner circle within three days we might just manage to contain it in the area with only limited spread outside the line. Vaccinating everyone in the secondary area should slow it further and doing people in the tertiary area should confine the spread to travellers.’

  ‘I suppose that’s the one plus to having the outbreak in this area,’ said Dewar. ‘People tend not to travel much. They stay put.’

  Wright nodded but added, ‘That’s only true right now. Once the cat’s out of the bag and the shit really hits the fan we could be looking at several thousand people who’ve just discovered they’ve got the gypsy in their soul.’

  ‘What a thought,’ said Dewar, imagining scenes of mass panic.

  ‘It’s all going to hang on how many people we can get vaccinated before the truth gets out. We need that damned vaccine soon.’

  Dewar nodded.

  ‘And we have to get more contacts off the streets!’

  ‘It’s finding them that seems to be the problem,’ said Dewar. ‘You heard what Mary Martin said. ‘Vague information involving first names and pubs. ‘It’s like trying to trace the origin of things that fell off the back of a lorry.’

  ‘That reminds me; Mary Martin left this for you. One of her people says that Kelly was a regular in this pub. They didn’t have much luck. She thought you might like to try yours.’

  Dewar took the piece of paper. It said, The Bell Tavern, Salamander Street. ‘I’ll give it a try. ‘

  ‘Want some company?’

  Dewar considered for a moment. ‘A kind thought,’ he said. ‘But two men asking questions smacks of officialdom. I’ll go alone.’

  ‘Please yourself. Are we going to eat first?’

  ‘Sure. I just have a couple of calls to make first.’

  Dewar went up to his room and called Simon Barron on his mobile number. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.

  ‘Zilch,’ replied Barron. ‘All the action seems to be at your end. All our boys ever do is nip round the corner to have coffee at the Bookstop Cafe and then it’s back to the student centre.’

  ‘So they’re still there?’

  ‘Still waiting by the look of it.’

  ‘You have seen both of them? Not just Abbas?’

  ‘Siddiqui and Abbas and two students were at the cafe this afternoon. They stayed for about forty minutes. The girl who runs the place treats them like regulars now.’

  ‘I know this must be bloody boring for you and your men but it’s absolutely vital that they keep tabs on Siddiqui and his pal over the coming week. All hell could break loose.’

  ‘So I understand. If it’s any comfort, there’s a contingency plan for dealing with the Iraqis should they threaten the containment of the incident.’

  Dewar chose not to ask what this meant in practice but he could guess. When he’d finished speaking to Barron he called Karen.

  ‘How are things?’ she asked.

  ‘Not good. Still only one confirmed case but they’ve only managed to isolate one contact — Kelly’s partner, Denise Banyon. Worst of all, no vaccine has turned up yet. The words “knife” and “edge” spring to mind.’

  ‘Let’s hope Kelly and Denise were a couple of stay-at-homes,’ said Karen.

  Dewar and Wright ate in one of the many waterfront bistros that had sprung up in the last five years in Leith. The area was undergoing a transformation; the run-down tenements and warehouses of yesteryear — the typical environs of any docks area of a major city, were giving way to trendy new apartment blocks and chic cafes and shops. The transformation however, was not as yet complete. Old Leith and its inhabitants were still there, eyeing the designer-clad newcomers with unease and suspicion and disguising it as wry amusement. This in itself gave the area a certain exciting ambience. Pleasure was always heightened when a dash of uncertainty was added.

  The Bell Tavern was located in a street which had so far escaped the attentions of the developers. It was as it had been since the early part of the century and before. One side of the street comprised bonded warehouses, their blackened stonework and iron-barred windows preventing views of the docks themselves, the other side, lines of dark stone tenement buildings. The Bell Tavern was on the corner of one of these buildings.

  Dewar’s first impression was that it was lit by a candle, his second that the air inside had been replaced by tobacco smoke. He asked for a large whisky.

  ‘Kind?’ asked the barman. His minimum wording matched his expression. It wasn’t hostile, it wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t anything.

  Dewar glanced at the gantry. ‘Laphroaig.’

  The glass was placed down in front of him, the money taken and change returned, all without expression or comment from the barman who went back to his conversation with two customers at the other end of the bar.

  Dewar added a little water to his whisky from the jug on the bar top and looked around him. He supposed that this might once have been called ‘a working man’s pub’ but his guess now was that it was more of an unemployed or old man’s pub.

  He was very much aware of the lack of colour in the place, an impression heightened by the bad lighting. The walls were beige and brown and the ceiling a dirty yellow from years of nicotine attack. The clientele almost universally wore dark clothes The overall effect was of a an old photograph, a sepia-tint picture of the past.

  ‘You’ve got good taste in whisky,’ said a voice at his elbow.

  Dewar turned to find a smiling man in his sixties, about a foot shorter than he, dressed in a coarse black suit and wearing a cap at an angle to the side. His complexion suggested a heart problem but he seemed cheerful enough as he put his empty half-pint glass on the bar.

  ‘You drink it yourself, then?’ asked Dewar.

  ‘The days when I could afford malt whisky have long gone, Jimmy,’ laughed the man.

  ‘Then you must have one with me,’ said Dewar.

  The man seemed slightly offended. ‘Now dinnae get me wrong. I wisnae suggesting for one minute that …’

  ‘And I didn’t think for one minute that you were.’ interrupted Dewar. ‘I’m a stranger; I’d be glad of the company.’

  ‘In that case then …’ the man conceded. ‘Thanks very much. Name’s Bruce, Jackie Bruce.’

  Dewar bought Bruce a drink and asked, ‘You’re local then?’

  ‘And you’re not,’ said Bruce. ‘English?’

  ‘Yes, I’m looking for someone.’

  ‘A relative?’

  ‘Not exactly, his name’s Michael Kelly.’

  ‘What’s someone like you wantin’ with a waster like Kelly?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘He comes in here aften enough, him and his mate, Hannan but the word is, Kelly’s in hospital Drug overdose, somethin’ like that. As if these nurse lassies didnae have enough to do without numpties like Kelly adding to it. Junkies! Christ, when I was young, drugs were something you saw the Chinese taking at the pictures, now you’re trippin’ over the buggers on every street corner.

  ‘It’s a big problem,’ Dewar agreed, taking a sip of his drink. He d
idn’t want to push things along too obviously. ‘You mentioned someone called Hannan?’

  ‘Tommy Hannan. Come to think of it, I’ve no’ seen him for a few days either.’

  ‘Is he local?’

  ‘Aye, that’s why Kelly comes along here. Tommy stays just round the corner in Jutland Street.’

  ‘Maybe he could tell me how Mike is,’ said Dewar.

  ‘If anyone can, Tommy can. These two are thicker than thieves … come to think of it, they are thieves!’ He let out a cackle of chesty laughter that Dewar joined in. ‘You’ll have another one?’ he asked, seeing that the whisky had disappeared.

  ‘That’s very nice of you. It’s no’ often I can have an intelligent conversation in this place.’

  Dewar ordered the drinks and went for the final hurdle. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know which number in Jutland Street, would you?’

  ‘Sure, he stays in the stair next to my brother. Number thirty-seven.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Dewar, feeling well pleased with himself. He lingered on for a bit, talking about this and that so that Bruce wouldn’t be too conscious of the fact he’d been pumped for information. He left shortly after nine thirty.

  The air was cool and damp on his face when he emerged from The Bell. but after all the tobacco inside it seemed sweeter than a mountain breeze. The street lights were reflected in puddles on the ground. He hadn’t realised it had been raining while he was inside. Now he had to find out what ‘round the corner’ meant in real geographical terms.

  He walked along Salamander Street looking at the street names off to his left but stopped after four hundred yards, feeling he was out of ‘round the corner’ range. He retraced his steps and started out in the other direction. Jutland Street was the first opening he came to.

  There were no names or entryphone tags outside the common entrance to number 37 but on the other hand, there was no lock on the front door either. It was propped open with a wooden wedge. Dewar entered and found that there was no lighting. He figured this was why the door had been jammed open — to let some light from the lamppost outside filter into the passageway. There was enough light to see that neither of the names on the two ground floor doors was the one he was looking for so he climbed the stairs to the first landing. ‘Hannan’ was on the second door. It was written in biro pen on a piece of white card and sellotaped to the wood. Dewar pushed the buzzer.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked a female voice from inside.

  ‘My name’s Dr Dewar. I’m from the hospital. It’s about Michael Kelly,’ he lied although it was only a white lie.

  The rattle of a chain guard gave way to a creak as the door opened against hinges that needed some attention. ‘Mike? What about him. What’s the problem?’ asked a short woman with spiky hair, wearing jeans and a tight white top.

  ‘Can I speak to Tommy?’ said Dewar.

  ‘He’s ill. Tell me instead.’

  ‘Ill? What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘None o’ your bloody business. Now, what the hell do you want?’ retorted the woman angrily.

  ‘If Tommy has the same problem as Mike, he’s in serious trouble. He could die. Is he here?’

  ‘Who wants to know? Here, are you polis?’

  ‘No, I’m a doctor. All I’m interested in is saving his life,’ insisted Dewar.

  ‘It’s just a bad trip, that’s all,’ said the woman. ‘He’ll get over it. It’s no’ the first.’

  ‘Can I see him?’

  The woman considered for a moment then stood back slightly to allow Dewar inside. The flat smelt of onions.

  ‘He’s in here.’

  Dewar entered a small bedroom where the bed, an old fashioned double bed with polished wood headboard and bottom panel, took up 90 percent of the floor space. The woman clicked on the light. It got a groan of protest from the man lying there. His well-muscled upper body was naked, white and had a film of sweat on it even though the room was cold. He put up his hand to shield his eyes from the light but Dewar could see enough of the eruption on his face to recognise the rash.

  ‘He’s very ill,’ he said. ‘He’s got to go to hospital right now. You may be in danger too.’

  ‘Danger?’ exclaimed the woman. ‘I don’t even take the bloody stuff. As for this silly bugger, he promised me he was coming off too and then what does he go and do to himself? Stupid bastard!’

  Dewar called the hospital; on his mobile phone and arranged for one of the special ambulances assigned to the Wellcome Trust Suite to come for Hannan.

  ‘Is he going to die?’ asked the woman, suddenly regretting her outburst of temper.

  ‘Are you his wife?’ Dewar asked.

  ‘Aye, God help me. Three years.’

  ‘Mrs Hannan …’

  ‘Don’t remind me. My name’s Sharon.’

  ‘Sharon, this isn’t a drug reaction. Tommy’s very ill. You might be affected too. The people at the Western will do their best for him but we need your co-operation Will you come with us?’

  The woman fetched a jacket and put it on without saying anything.

  ‘Maybe you could pack a few things for yourself? Night-dress, toothbrush, that sort of thing.’

  Sharon looked at Dewar directly and suddenly he saw the fear and vulnerability in her eyes. All earlier feistiness and bravado had gone.

  ‘Right.’

  As they waited for the ambulance to come, Dewar noticed that Sharon’s hands were shaking. ‘It shouldn’t be much longer. Are you okay?’ he asked kindly.

  Tears welled up in her eyes as she put both hands between clenched knees and hung her head. ‘God, I’m scared,’ she murmured. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do if Tommy dies.’

  Dewar put his hand on her shoulder as somewhere outside, the wail of a siren started to get louder.

  ‘Well done,’ said George Finlay to Dewar as they met up in Finlay’s office after admitting Tommy Hannan and seeing Sharon settled for the night.

  ‘A bit of luck,’ said Dewar. ‘And a few whiskies. Apparently Kelly and Hannan were great friends.’

  ‘Why did you want to keep Sharon and Denise apart?’ asked Finlay. Dewar had made this request when he arrived in the ambulance with Tommy and Sharon.

  ‘I think Sharon trusts me. I hope she might tell us more about the movements of Kelly and her husband. She might not if Denise Banyon gets to work on her.’

  ‘Good point,’ said Finlay.

  ‘You know, it’s interesting, said Dewar thoughtfully. ‘Sharon Hannan though her husband’s condition was some kind of drug reaction too.’

  ‘Bizarre,’ said Finlay.

  ‘But interesting.’

  SEVENTEEN

  DAY THREE

  Dewar was wakened at four in the morning. It took him a few moments to register the phone ringing and adjust to his surroundings. He’d forgotten where he was. Finlay’s voice brought him quickly back to reality.

  ‘Bad news. It looks like the lull is over. We’ve had seven admissions to the unit during the night. I’m pretty certain they’ve all got it.’

  ‘Shit,’ murmured Dewar. ‘All from Muirhouse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s something I suppose.’

  ‘Not unless we get the vaccine very soon. Mary says there’s still no sign of it. She thinks she’s being fobbed off every time she inquires. What are these people playing at?’

  ‘I’ll try again to find out,’ Dewar assured him.

  Dewar went next door to wake Hector Wright and tell him the news. Wright sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He cursed, ‘God damn it, I was hoping we might have got through one more day before this happened. We’re now too far behind on vaccination schedules. Chances are we could completely lose any possibility of control unless the vaccine comes today.’

  ‘I’ve told Finlay I’ll try and find out what the problem is. Mary Martin feelss she’s being given the run-around.’

  Wright got out of bed to get dressed while Dewar returned to his room and c
alled Sci-Med in London. He spoke to the duty officer on the night desk. ‘Any idea why the WHO vaccine hasn’t reached Edinburgh yet?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t have details but I know Mr Macmillan spoke to Geneva earlier this evening. He was worried about that himself.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Mr Macmillan didn’t say exactly but he was in a foul mood after he’d finished the call, something about being fobbed off with an office boy.’

  Dewar looked at his watch and said, ‘I’ll call him when he comes in at nine.’

  ‘I’ll leave a note for him,’ said the man.

  Dewar found Hector Wright downstairs. He was sitting at a table with his city street map spread out in front of him, tapping his pen nervously on the table while apparently deep in thought.

  ‘Seven more means things have changed,’ he said. ‘I think we may be forced to admit that it’s smallpox we’re dealing with. If one gets you seven, seven will get you forty-nine.’

  ‘Actually, one got us eight,’ said Dewar. ‘You’re forgetting about Tommy Hannan.

  ‘We’re going to have to open up a second centre before the end of the week and come clean with the relatives. I don’t see how we can avoid it.’

  ‘I’ve got an awful feeling the vaccine isn’t going to be here today,’ Dewar confided. ‘I haven’t spoken to Macmillan yet but something’s wrong, I know it is.’ We can’t tell people anything if we haven’t anything to offer them. They’ll panic. Contacts could spread faster than bad news.’

  ‘If you’re really serious about the vaccine not coming then we’ll have to go for physical containment,’ said Wright. ‘There’s no other way.’

  ‘You mean seal the whole area off?’ asked Dewar almost agog at the notion of isolating an entire housing estate with thousands of residents.

  Wright nodded slowly. ‘I can’t see any other way of stopping it spreading if we don’t have the vaccine and stop it, we must. If we just admit that it’s smallpox that people have been going down with there will be a pause of about two days while people talk about it and come to terms with the news then they’ll start moving out of the affected area. Trains, planes and automobiles will do the rest. Smallpox will be back to roam the planet just like the old times when it regularly killed two million a year.’