by Ken McClure
Steven let out his breath in a long sigh before Sue picked up the phone again. ‘I take it that didn’t go down too well,’ she said sotto voce.
‘Like a lead balloon,’ said Steven. ‘I’m sorry if you’re going to get the fall-out from this…’
‘Like I said, don’t worry about it. She’s been quite happy being one of our family for long enough. She’s just experimenting with the people around her, seeing if they’ll dance to her tune. It’s all part of growing up.’
‘Thanks, Sue. You really are a special person, Richard too. I don’t know what I would have done without you guys…’
‘Let’s not go into all that again,’ said Sue. ‘You know we love Jenny as our own and that’s an end to it. Get on with your job and don’t let this worry you. It’ll sort itself out.’
Steven poured himself a drink and gave himself a few minutes before calling Tally. The feel-good factor he’d got earlier from concluding that the attempt on his life had been down to mistaken identity had all but evaporated in the space of Jenny’s long silence on the phone.
He was just about to hang up when Tally answered. ‘Sorry, I was in the bath. I usually take a phone in with me but I’m so tired I forgot. I was going to let it ring but then I thought it might be you.’
Steven smiled at the wealth of information. ‘And now you’re dripping all over the floor?’
‘I’ll just take you back into the bathroom… and put you down while I climb back into the bath… There, that’s better. God, I’m bushed. What a day.’
‘As bad as you feared, huh?’
‘And then some. Sometimes I hate my job.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, maybe it’s not my job I hate; it’s the NHS. I’m sick to the back teeth of being manipulated by bureaucrats so that they can meet targets and tick boxes for a bunch of stupid politicians who don’t know up from down when it comes to health care.’
‘Let it all hang out, girl.’
‘Setting targets hasn’t improved patient care at all; it’s just created thousands of jobs for people who can manipulate figures to make it appear as if targets are being met. It’s a nonsense.’
‘It’s not the first time I’ve heard that,’ said Steven.
‘I’m sorry… it’s been a long day and here I am, taking it out on you. Sorry, how was your day?’
‘Well, I came off the motorway at 80mph, did a couple of somersaults, landed in a field and then the Porsche blew up… apart from that, nothing special.’
‘You are joking. Right?’
‘Afraid not but I’m absolutely fine apart from a couple of scratches here and there.’
‘Oh, Steven, how awful. What happened?’
‘Front tyre blow-out. Nothing much you can do when that happens.’
‘It must have been absolutely terrifying.’
‘I’ve had better experiences. Still, no real harm done and I live to fight another day.’
‘I take it Sci-Med knows what happened?’
‘Yes, I’ve been in touch. There’s a top level meeting scheduled for Friday about the Pinetops affair.’
‘My God, I’d certainly like to be a fly on the wall at that,’ said Tally.
‘I’ll let you know what happens.’
‘If you can.’
‘The Official Secrets Act is not there for the convenience of politicians although you might be forgiven for thinking so sometimes. They’re not going to get away with using it this time without coming up with an explanation which I can’t begin to imagine.’
‘I’ve got a weekend off,’ said Tally.
Steven hesitated as guilt welled up inside him over his earlier exchange with Jenny. ‘I can’t see me getting one,’ he said. ‘The chances of everyone shaking hands after this meeting and agreeing it was all a mistake must be less than zero. People are going to be fighting for their political lives and others are going to be baying for blood and then there’s the question of the children and what happens to them…’
‘And I’m complaining about targets…’ said Tally.
‘I don’t suppose you can get off tomorrow?’ asked Steven. ‘I’ve got a free day tomorrow.’
‘No way, I’m afraid. If anything it’s going to be worse than today.’
‘Call you tomorrow night?’
‘Please do.’
Steven rested his head on the back of the chair and thought through what he’d told Tally. Nothing had been a lie; everything he’d said had been true and yet he didn’t feel as comfortable doing this as he’d hoped. How the front tyres on the Porsche had burst had been quite a big thing to leave out. Maybe another gin would help him feel better.
Steven used his free day to drive down to the south coast: he felt the need to go beach walking. He wanted to taste salt on the breeze and generally escape from the pressures of life by watching the sky fall into the sea on a horizon that would seem suitably far away. The outward trip was a bit of a struggle against a stiff breeze that whipped sand up into his face, causing him to shrug down into the collar of his jacket, but the return leg enabled him to enjoy the sight of the beach becoming almost liquid as its surface moved in deference to the will of the wind. He felt so much better when he got back and sought out beer and a sandwich in a harbour pub before driving home, his skin still tingling and his calf muscles reminding him of the exercise.
Lunch with Macmillan at his club on Friday proved a sombre affair. Macmillan was very much aware that in a few hours’ time he would have to make Sci-Med’s position clear to the government and the consequences of doing this could be catastrophic for many if, as was his intention, he refused to be any part of a cover-up. With this in mind, he told Steven that he had lodged a report of his findings along with all relevant files with a well-respected firm of solicitors in the City together with instructions as to whom the information should be sent to in the event of any concerted efforts to discredit Sci-Med or its people.
‘Or any accident befalling us,’ added Steven.
The two men paused in order to let a waiter refill their coffee cups.
‘I don’t think anyone can afford to be that silly,’ said Macmillan.
‘Good,’ said Steven, not sounding entirely convinced.
Macmillan noticed this and said, ‘After your little off-road experience — and before we knew of any Russian involvement — I made a point of telling all our investigators what’s been going on. I let this fact be known to the powers that be. But of course, this was before your assailants were identified and there was still a possibility that our security services were involved. Maybe we’ve both been guilty of paranoia.’
‘I’d like to think so,’ agreed Steven, feeling uncomfortable with the general tenor of the conversation. The lights went on in the club as the sky darkened outside and rain started to fall.
‘Are we all done?’ asked Macmillan.
‘I think so. Thanks for lunch.’
Macmillan smiled and said, ‘Let’s hope that eating a hearty meal doesn’t imply anything about the afternoon.’
Although they went into the meeting on time, Steven saw that he and Macmillan were the last to arrive. He wondered if this was some psychological ploy on the part of the twenty or so sombre people seated there — many of them instantly recognisable as senior government figures, others not so well known.
The Home Secretary formally acknowledged them but made as little eye contact as possible with either of them. Sci-Med did fall within the auspices of the Home Office although Macmillan was not personally answerable to the Home Secretary — a grey area perhaps but this was not the time to explore it.
The Home Secretary, appearing gaunt and serious, said, ‘I see no point in beating about the bush, ladies and gentlemen. Sci-Med has uncovered a situation relating to a number of school children attending a school camp in Cumbria which they are extremely concerned about. They have requested an explanation, as is their right. We for our part have been somewhat reticent in complying with their requests for inf
ormation and I can only apologise. If ever there was a case of the road to hell being paved with good intentions, this is it. Gerald, would you be so good as to put our Sci-Med colleagues in the picture?’
Sir Gerald Coates, looking equally grave, got to his feet and said, ‘Gentlemen, it’s important that you understand the background situation that Her Majesty’s Government finds itself in.’ He gave Macmillan and Steven a rundown on the impasse that had surfaced between themselves and the pharmaceutical industry. ‘It’s something we simply have to find ways around.’
Steven and Macmillan remained impassive.
‘All the intelligence that we have been getting recently has suggested that a terrorist biological weapon attack is imminent,’ continued Coates.
‘Forty-five minutes to an anthrax attack,’ said Steven, attracting hostile stares.
Coates ignored him. ‘If we are to have any chance at all of countering such an act, we desperately need new vaccines so we’ve been encouraging the best biological brains to design them.’
‘I don’t think I understand,’ said Macmillan. ‘You’ve just told us that the pharmaceutical companies wouldn’t cooperate.’
‘We went to the smaller ones, the biotech companies that were set up at the height of the new technology boom. We offered them incentives in terms of prizes, accelerated-tracking through the licensing process, long-term contracts with the NHS for success.’
‘What exactly does “accelerated-tracking through the licensing process” mean?’ asked Macmillan, dissecting the real information from what Coates was saying.
‘The decision-making process would be speeded up, delays cut to a minimum, fewer referral bodies, that sort of thing. There just isn’t time to put new vaccines through what has become the normal schedule of trials and safety evaluation,’ said Coates. ‘There’s a chance we could all be dead before anyone was vaccinated.’
‘So you tried out a vaccine on a hundred and eight children without their knowledge or consent or that of their parents?’ said Macmillan.
Many in the room thought it an opportune moment to look down at the table surface and say nothing.
‘I hope I can assure you that wasn’t the case,’ said Coates solemnly. He paused for a moment to make eye contact with both Steven and Macmillan. ‘Knowing that HMG were keen on cutting bureaucracy to a minimum where new vaccines were concerned, a number of junior people in the Department of Health hatched a plan they imagined might, in the long run, endear them to their superiors. They colluded with the biotechnology company St Clair Genomics in setting up field trials for the company’s new vaccine against tuberculosis, the Nichol vaccine. The people at St Clair convinced them that obtaining the necessary paperwork for the trial would be little more than a time-consuming formality: all preliminary tests had been carried out and passed with flying colours so many months could be saved by simply going ahead. The children at Pinetops comprised a perfect cohort. After vaccination, the plan was to monitor them so that their antibody levels could be checked.’
‘The green sticker children,’ said Macmillan.
‘Yes. The anticipated good levels would be used as the basis for bringing the vaccine into regular use.’
‘And protesting after the event would be useless,’ murmured Macmillan with a shake of the head.
‘I can’t stress how much we need a new vaccine against TB. BCG is well past its sell-by date and the disease is making a big comeback. If we don’t do something soon about protecting our young people, we could be facing a return to the dark days of the early twentieth century where death through “consumption” was a regular visitor to homes across the land.’
‘But instead, the company came up with something that’s put the lives of over a hundred children at risk?’ said Steven.
‘I think that’s going too far,’ said Coates. ‘Although we are, of course, aware that there is a problem…’
‘You’re aware there is a problem?’ exclaimed Macmillan as if he couldn’t believe his ears.
‘Let me explain,’ said Coates, appealing for calm with the palms of his hands. ‘There is actually nothing wrong with the vaccine per se.’
Macmillan looked as if he was preparing for another outburst but Coates used his hands again to calm him. ‘The Nichol vaccine passed all its lab tests and was tried out very successfully on animals. I assure you, no short cuts were taken at any stage. By any criterion, it is an extremely good vaccine and much superior to BCG in giving protection against the tubercle bacillus.’
‘But?’ asked Steven.
Coates nodded. ‘And I admit it is a very big but, something went dreadfully wrong when the vaccine was handed over to the company who were contracted to prepare the injection vials.’
‘What kind of something?’
‘Somewhere along the line in the production process the vials were contaminated with a toxic agent, a poison that attacks human tissue cells. It’s that that’s been causing the trouble in a few cases. We believe that there were only traces of it present but obviously enough to cause illness in some of the children.’
‘So the children were poisoned, not infected?’ said Steven.
‘Yes.’
‘Where did this toxin come from?’ asked Macmillan.
‘We understand that Redmond Medical, the company tasked with preparing the vials, had been contracted to bottle several new compounds for another company who were looking for new anti-cancer agents. It seems likely that traces of one of these compounds found its way into the vials used for the Nichol vaccine which was the next job on their production schedule. The company still aren’t sure how it happened. They thought their cleaning and sterilisation procedures were foolproof. Needless to say, work at the plant has been suspended and vaccine production has been transferred to another company.’
‘One of the children who was given the vaccine was immunocompromised,’ said Steven. ‘He had a bone marrow transplant a year ago.’
At this, another man stood up and introduced himself as Dr John Leyton, the doctor who had administered the vaccine supplied by St Clair. ‘I’m aware of that,’ he confessed. ‘But as the Nichol vaccine is a non-live vaccine, there was no danger to the child. He may not have produced antibodies in response to the vaccine but there was no chance of him being infected by it.’
‘But he’s dead,’ said Steven.
‘Not because of the vaccine.’
‘It’s something we all regret, I’m sure,’ said the Home Secretary, a view echoed solemnly by the others.
‘But why should this child have been more susceptible to a poison than the others?’ asked Steven.
Leyton shrugged and said, ‘I’m afraid you have me there. Maybe just normal human variation. We all have different levels of susceptibility to a lot of things. It could be the same for toxins.’
‘Was it a case of corners being cut in the manufacturing process?’ asked Macmillan point blank. ‘Sloppy procedures?’
‘Absolutely not,’ countered Coates. ‘We’ve been over the firm’s practices with a fine-tooth comb. They couldn’t be faulted.’
‘But a poison still ended up in the vials,’ said Steven. ‘A poison that’s killed one child and looks like killing another soon.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Leyton. ‘And we all deeply regret that.’
‘I take it you’re still investigating what exactly happened?’ asked Macmillan.
‘We’re currently examining all the equipment used in the vial manufacturing process.’
‘So where does this leave us?’ said the Home Secretary. ‘Sci-Med has caught us — and by “us” I mean Her Majesty’s Government — in flagrante delicto, for this is something for which we must take collective responsibility. Although it was the fault of a few over-zealous individuals and a misunderstanding perhaps over how flexible the rules might be in the current climate, we are responsible for administering a new vaccine to one hundred and eight of our school children and, it has to be said, unwittingly putting their lives a
t risk. You don’t have to be a tabloid editor to see where this is going to end up should it become public knowledge.
‘Just in case there is any doubt,’ the Home Secretary continued, ‘the government will fall, the children’s parents will launch criminal and civil actions, the vaccines programme will grind to a halt and we will be left defenceless against anything the terrorists care to throw at us. They will be free to launch plague after plague until we succumb totally and our green and pleasant land becomes a barren desert.
‘Health and Safety officers, however, will be able to dance on our mass graves — once suitable safety barriers have been erected — from Land’s End to John o’Groats, comfortable in the knowledge that they stopped vaccine safety regulations being breached.
‘Food for thought, eh, John?’ said the Home Secretary to break the silence that ensued.
‘And if we do nothing?’ asked a sombre Macmillan, causing Steven’s heart to miss a beat.
‘I’ll be perfectly frank with you; nothing much will change. We must go on pressing for new vaccines and streamlining the testing process. We have to. Time is not on our side and letting Health and Safety decide whether we live or die is not an option. There may well be occasional victims but this is the way it has to be if our way of life is to survive.’
‘At least you’re honest,’ said Macmillan.
‘Can I ask what happens now to the Nichol vaccine?’ said Steven.
‘We see it as a perfectly good vaccine. It will go into production with a different manufacturing company.’
‘Before you’ve established the exact cause of the problem last time?’
‘We know what the problem was. Establishing at which point in the production process the contamination occurred is purely academic. The company won’t be used any more.’
Macmillan sensed that Steven was squaring up to argue so he interrupted. ‘What about the affected children?’ he asked.
‘We will award generous financial compensation to their parents under the guise of medical insurance covering the children while they were at camp.’
It was Steven’s turn to look down at the table.