by Ken McClure
He continued along the tunnel, mentally calculating where he was in relation to the estate. He reckoned he was just about at it’s eastern boundary when he reached the end of the passage. The brick wall he faced looked to be made from newer bricks than the ones outside. He supposed the builders of The Pines had filled in the old tunnel when they were working on foundations for the houses and blocked it off. It was not however the end of the tunnel complex because a smaller tunnel led off to the left.
Again there was just enough light to see his way ahead. Twenty metres more and he stopped in his tracks. He could smell something. He sniffed the air again to be sure. there it was again; it was cigarette smoke. Someone else was down here.
Dewar continued with caution, his pulse rate higher than it had been. The smell got stronger; his steps got slower. The tunnel broadened out into a square recess where he guessed an auxiliary pumping station had been sited, judging by the shadowy outline of machinery he could see there. He was looking at it more closely when two hands closed round his throat from behind.
‘Got you, ya bastard!’ rasped a voice in his ear. ‘You’ll no’ be killin’ me like you did Tam.’
Dewar hammered both his elbows back into his attacker’s stomach and the man let go his throat with a gasp. He spun round but only to be met with a head butt to the face which sent him reeling backwards in pain. His attacker was on him again, a shadowy mess of tangled hair and bad breath but apparently inspired by hatred.
Dewar slammed both his fists into the sides of the man’s head and gained the upper hand again. Just to make sure he unleashed a fierce punch into his stomach and the man fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
‘Now, just what the hell are you talking about?’ demanded Dewar.
There was just enough light for him to see that his attacker was wearing a raincoat buttoned unevenly over several layers of clothing judging by his bulk. He had a wild mane of dirty grey hair and a beard that seemed to sprout at all angles from his face. Everything pointed to him being a down and out, living rough in the tunnel. The lager can outside now made sense.
‘You killed Tam, ya bastard and now … you’re gonna kill me,’ gasped the man. He was half weeping, half struggling for breath and clutching his stomach. Dewar regretted having hit him so hard.
‘I don’t know you from Adam,’ said Dewar. ‘And who’s Tam?’
‘Don’t give me that shit. What fuckin’ harm were we doin’? Eh? Answer me that?’
‘What is this place?’ asked Dewar.
‘Don’t give me that … ‘
The man stopped in mid sentence as Dewar, growing tired of the impasse, grabbed hold of his lapels and brought his face up close. He rasped, ‘Just answer the question.’
‘The tunnels.’
‘What tunnels?’
‘The City Hospital tunnels, ya numpty.’
Alarm bells started to ring in Dewar’s head. ‘The City Hospital?’ he repeated. You mean these houses out there are built on ground where the City Hospital used to be?’
‘Every bugger knows that.’
Dewar’s mind reeled with the implications of this news. He hadn’t found a secret government establishment but he had found the site of an old hospital and that hospital had been the city’s infectious diseases hospital. He knew that because George Ferguson in Steven Malloy’s lab had told him so! Dewar felt slightly light-headed as so much began to make sense. Ferguson had worked there for thirty years and this was the area where the smallpox vials had been unearthed. It all fitted. Ferguson was the missing link with the institute! Good old George Ferguson.
The virus hadn’t come from any hi-tech reconstruction in the institute or indeed from any secret wartime research centre, it had come from an old infectious diseases hospital, a place that had seen most of the diseases that afflicted mankind in its time.
‘Tell me about Tam,’ he said to the man on the floor.
‘We lived here for more than three years. It was warm and even when the heating stopped it was still better than kissin’ arse down the church places for a bowl o’ soup.
‘What happened?’
The man raised an arm slowly and pointed. ‘Through there,’ he said. ‘You’ll need these.’ He threw Dewar a box of matches.
Dewar frowned but followed the man’s directions, moving cautiously in case of any kind of trap. There was a dark alcove to his left and he had the sudden sensation that he was no longer alone. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck as he took out a match and struck it. There, sitting propped up against the wall, like a rag doll at rest was the blackened, charred corpse of a man, the flesh from his skull all but gone. The fingers of his right hand moved as a rat let go and dissolved into the darkness.
‘Jesus Christ,’ muttered Dewar putting his hand to his mouth. He felt himself shiver all over.
‘Why are you keeping him here?’ he demanded as he returned to the man on the floor.
‘I couldn’t decide on a coffin,’ came the sour answer. ‘I report it and I don’t have a home any more.’
‘What happened?’
‘One night the digger came and started working. ‘We thought the builders were gonna fill in this bit of the tunnel too so Tam and me moved back but they stopped and went away so we came back. Then next night some bastard poured petrol down the hole while we were sleepin’ here and torched the place. They burned Tam alive, poor bastard.’
‘Where exactly did they pour the petrol down?’
‘Along there.’
Once again, Dewar followed the line of the man’s pointing finger. He passed the alcove with its grisly inhabitant and came to an earth wall blocking any further progress. He could tell the earth had not been there very long. It was still damp. It smelled fresh like a garden after rain but there was also a smell of burning associated with it. He started to kick away at it but became dissatisfied at the progress he was making. He found a piece of metal that had once comprised part of a support bracket for the piping and pressed it into service as a digging tool. His first sign of success came when he felt a thin column of cool, fresh air on his cheek.
This inspired him to greater efforts and he succeeded in clearing a way up to the outside. He pulled himself up on to the grass and sat there for a moment looking down into the hole that Michael Kelly had made with his digger. He stood up and looked around to get his bearings. He could see that he was at the north east corner of The Pines estate, about twenty-five metres to the north of the nearest house. That should be enough to work out on a plan of the old hospital what had once stood where he was standing now but he thought he already knew the answer to that. He’d put money on this being the sight of the old microbiology lab where George Ferguson had worked for so long. The lab itself had been levelled to the ground but the underground access tunnels for heating and steam pipes had been left untouched because the builders weren’t actually erecting anything on this plot. Ferguson must have known of some old storage facility for virus cultures and decided to make himself some money.
Dewar decided he’d better go back the way he’d come. He had to do something about the down-and-out. He wanted to assure him that no one had meant to kill his friend; it had been an accident but it was also true that he couldn’t go on living there. There would have to be a full examination of the tunnel system just in case Ferguson’s fire had not wiped out everything he’d left behind and then the whole lot would probably be filled in for good. Dewar dropped back down into the tunnel and piled up loose earth behind him so that no one out walking his dog would see anything more than a dip in the ground above. When he got back to where he’d left the down-and-out there was no one there. He considered giving chase but decided not to. The guy lived outside society; that was the way he wanted it; he could stay that way. He personally had more pressing problems to take care of. He made his way back to the derelict boiler house and climbed out of the hatch. He took out his mobile phone and called Steven Malloy.
As expected, Malloy sounded dry but
there was no time to apologise for the previous evening. Dewar said. ‘Are you alone?’
‘Yes,’ answered a puzzled Malloy. ‘Why?’
‘Because George Ferguson is the man we’re after. Is he there at the institute?’
‘What?’ exclaimed Malloy. ‘How on earth … ’
‘Is he in today?’
‘He’s on sick leave.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Dewar.
‘He’s not been himself recently. I told him to take some time off, sort out whatever was troubling him.’
‘Jesus,’ said Dewar. ‘I know what was troubling him all right. Do you have his home address?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll pick you up at the institute and we’ll go over from there to confront him. I’ll fill you in on the details on the way.’
‘I just can’t believe that George had anything to do with … ‘
‘Trust me,’ said Dewar. ‘He’s as guilty as sin.’
Dewar was about to begin wriggling under the wire again when he considered that there must be an easier way out, the one the down-and-out and his pal had been using for some time. He walked round the inside of the fence, examining all the posts until he noticed one that seemed loose at the base. It also coincided with it being the end of one stretch of wire and the beginning of the next. Dewar pulled at the post and it came away. He could now swing the section back like a gate. ‘Cheers guys,’ he muttered, replacing the post and hurrying back to the car.
TWENTY FIVE
Malloy was waiting on the steps of the institute when Dewar screeched to a halt.
‘You look like you’ve been in the wars,’ he said as he got in and slammed the door.
‘It’s been that kind of a day,’ said Dewar. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Baberton Hill Rise, number seventeen.’
‘Means nothing.’
‘Start heading west. It’s a housing estate on the far side of Colinton. Are you really sure about this? George has enough to worry about right now without any more shit blowing in the wind.’
Dewar told him what he’d learned at The Pines.
‘Christ, whatever possessed him,’ sighed Malloy.
‘Try money,’ said Dewar flatly.
‘But why would the Iraqis approach George in the first place? They wouldn’t know anything about forgotten virus stores or an old hospital?’
‘They wouldn’t. Ferguson must have approached them. It’s my guess that Ali Hammadi confided in him when he was approached about making the virus the hi-tec way.- These two were friends, weren’t they?’
Malloy nodded. ‘They had the occasional beer together.’
‘When Ali took his own life Ferguson must have seen his chance and offered to provide the Iraqis with what they wanted — albeit from another source.’
‘And all that stuff was just lying around in the ground. Jesus! Makes you think.’
‘Thirty years ago there wasn’t any legislation about what medical labs should and shouldn’t keep. Every hospital laboratory had its own rules and made its own arrangements. Safety aspects were the concern of individual consultants, not a matter for committees and government legislation. I suppose as time went by and the old staff retired or died off, old culture stores might be forgotten about or ignored if they were in out of the way places like cellars or attics. Many old hospitals were built like medieval castles. Ferguson must have remembered about the old cellar store at the City’s lab.
‘Turn left here,’ said Malloy as they reached a cross-roads.
Dewar slowed the car and turned into a suburban street lined on both sides with small semi-detached villas.
‘It’s about half way along on the right,’ said Malloy. ‘Green door.’
‘You’ve been here before?’
‘I’ve driven George home a couple of times after lab parties. He never does anything by halves does George.’
Dewar stopped a little way before the house and asked, ‘Are you okay about this or would you rather I called for police back-up?’
‘George and I have always got on,’ said Malloy quietly. ‘I’d like to hear his side of things before you do anything else.
As they walked up the garden path of number seventeen, Dewar could not help but reflect on the bizarre nature of the circumstances. They were walking up to the door of a suburban semi-detached house to accuse a man of bringing the scourge of smallpox back to the world and of being part of a conspiracy to plunge the middle east into war.
The door was opened by a small, grey-haired woman who recognised Malloy.
and smiled. ‘Steven! What brings you here? You’ve just missed George. Was it something important?
‘Missed him?’
The smile faded on the woman’s face as she caught Malloy’s air of tension. ‘Maybe you’d better come in,’ she said.
The two men were led into a small sitting room that seemed overcrowded with furniture. It was an impression mainly given by the presence of a large, old style Chesterfield suite and the fact that a youth with spiky hair sticking up was lounging in one of the arm chairs with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. He was well over six feet and broad with it but clearly mentally sub normal.
‘Don’t mind Malcolm,’ said Joyce Ferguson with a wan smile. ‘He’s happy watching television.’
‘This is Dr Dewar,’ said Malloy. ‘He’s here from London, investigating the smallpox outbreak.’
‘How d’you do,’ said Joyce pleasantly.
‘Where has George gone, Joyce?’ asked Malloy.
‘I’m not sure myself, but he seemed very pleased about something. He said …’ Joyce’s voice faded. ‘He’s in some kind of trouble, isn’t he? Oh my God, what’s wrong? What’s he done?’
‘What did he say, Mrs Ferguson?’ asked Dewar, willing her to complete her earlier sentence.
A distant look had come into Joyce Ferguson’s eyes. ‘He said … It was done. All our troubles would now be over. No more worrying about anything … ‘
Dewar and Malloy exchanged glances. ‘You’ve no idea where he was going? None at all?’
Joyce shook her head. Malcolm made a loud guffawing sound as something caught his fancy on television. Joyce didn’t take her eyes off the two men.
‘Did he take anything with him when he left?’ asked Dewar.
Joyce’s eyes seemed to ask how Dewar could have known that. ‘He was carrying something, a box he took from the garage but I’ve no idea what was in it.’
Malloy looked at her. She responded, ‘Something he’d been working on.’
‘But you’ve no idea what?’
Another shake of the head.
‘Where did he work on this whatever it was?’ asked Dewar.
‘In the garage.’
Can we take a look?’
‘It’s locked. Quite a few houses round here have been broken in to and …’ The words died on her lips.
‘Do you have the key?’
‘George keeps it. Oh my God, what’s he done?’
Malloy put his arm round Joyce Ferguson. ‘Joyce, do you have any tools in the house?’
‘In the hall cupboard.’
Dewar went to look and came back with a Mole wrench and a long-handled tyre lever. He indicated to Malloy with a nod of the head that he should stay with Joyce while he went outside to deal with the lock. One good bend of the lever and one of the lugs holding the padlock snapped off the side door. He swung it open and stepped inside to feel for the light switch. He was now standing in a small, well-equipped laboratory.
Malloy came out to join him and stopped in his tracks, dumbstruck. ‘No wonder our grant funds were a bit over-spent,’ he murmured.
‘Tell me it isn’t true,’ said Dewar. ‘Tell me he couldn’t have grown up smallpox virus here.’ Both men moved further in to examine the main work bench set up against the back wall.
Malloy looked at the equipment and grimaced. ‘That’s exactly what he’s been doing, I’m afraid. These are all the things
you’d need for virus sub-culture. He must have used the old vials to seed new cultures. It would have been relatively simple to grow up large amounts of virus if you knew how and George knew how. Once you have the virus, you don’t need much. Smallpox isn’t a demanding thing to grow.’
‘But the danger?’
‘George is a first class technician. He’s handled viruses for years. Simple sub-culture wouldn’t be nearly as hazardous as trying to create the virus from DNA fragments.’
Dewar looked at the assorted pieces of lab glassware and tubing. There were several bottles of clear fluid along the back of the work bench and a few smaller ones containing straw coloured liquid. It scarcely looked as if it would satisfy the inventory of a kid’s chemistry set. ‘Where’s the virus?’
‘Not here,’ replied Malloy. ‘These bottles contain sterile buffer and culture medium. None of them have been infected with virus but look here.’
Dewar bend down to peer into a beaker full of red fluid. He could see several broken glass vials in it.’
‘It’s disinfectant,’ said Malloy. ‘He put the old vials in here when he was finished with them but where are the new cultures?’
‘Oh Christ, that’s what was in the box,’ exclaimed Dewar. ‘That’s what he must have meant when he told his wife their troubles were over. He’s taken the virus with him. He’s gone to hand it over to the Iraqis!
‘But where?’
Dewar pulled out his phone and called Barron. ‘This is important! Is anything happening at your end right now?’
‘No one’s come out today as yet, if that’s what you mean, but it’s a bit early for them. They don’t usually go round to the coffee shop until the back of three.’
‘You’re absolutely certain none of the Iraqis has left the building?’
‘Absolutely. Why? What do you know that I don’t?’
‘The virus is on it’s way. The hand-over’s happening today.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. It’s going to be up to you and your men to follow any Iraqi who leaves and for God’s sake, don’t lose them!’