by J G Alva
They would have checks to prevent people from walking in off the street. If he wanted to find out anything, then he would need to create his own entrance.
He rang the number on the top of the note without much hope, but was pleased to find it was still live.
It only rang twice before a handsome female voice said politely, “Miescher Centre for Genetic Research. How may I direct my call?”
He only knew one doctor who had enough credentials to have had any dealings with a genetic laboratory. He just hoped he wasn’t going to get him in trouble by using his name.
“Yes, this is Dr Bodel,” Sutton said, trying to push his voice to sound a little more like the good doctor’s. It was a matter of softening a lot of the edges. “I’m just calling to confirm the appointment for my assistant, Dr Mills.”
There was a pause, where Sutton thought he might have blown it. And then –
“I’m sorry, Dr Bodel,” the warm female voice said, “I have no records of an appointment.”
“Oh dear. I did call two weeks ago to confirm. I was told everything was set.”
“Who did you speak with?”
“Gosh. I have no idea.”
“I’m sorry, Dr Bodel. There is no record of any appointment. What was the nature of the visit?”
“I was hoping to use the Miescher Centre to shore up some of my research projects.”
An offer of work must surely nudge the door open.
“Of course. Let me call Dr Fuller and see what we can arrange. Please hold.”
Sutton waited, listening to generic pop float down the line into his ear.
He had to listen to a full three minutes worth before the phone was picked up again.
“Hello, Dr Bodel? Dr Fuller will be available to meet your assistant in fifteen minutes.”
“Excellent. I shall contact him to let him know he is expected.”
“Very well. Thank you for your call.”
“Goodbye.”
*
Fifteen minutes after hanging up, Sutton strode in through the glass fronted entrance to find a tall, stooped man of anywhere between thirty five and fifty standing beside the reception desk, speaking to the attractive young receptionist.
She was such a studied contrast to Felicity, that Sutton had a momentary urge to put her in front of a black piano in a white room and paint her: long dark hair, a pale almost Asian face, dark eyes, a perfect heart shaped mouth.
Dr Fuller was as much a contrast to Lee Shepherd as the receptionist was to Felicity: tall, thin, his face made up of hard uncompromising lines of the intellectual, his dark hair parted to the side and slicked down with oil.
“Dr Fuller?” Sutton said, stretching out his hand.
Dr Fuller turned, and with some surprise took in Sutton; he looked at him very much as an astronaut might look at a Martian.
“Yes,” Fuller said, recovering. Shaking his hand was like wringing a wet lettuce. “Dr Mills?”
“Yes. I’m so glad you were able to see me. I understand there was some mix up?”
Sutton caught a lively, mischievous look from the pretty receptionist. He gathered Fuller had been dressing her down upon Sutton’s arrival, but she wasn’t taking it particularly seriously.
“Yes,” Fuller said, after moment. He was doing some quick calculations behind his dark eyes. “An oversight. Soon corrected.”
“Excellent.”
Fuller was radiating disapproval, and Sutton wasn’t altogether sure why: either at the interruption to his day, or at something larger and more irksome. Maybe Sutton himself.
“I can give you a quick tour of the facility here, and answer any questions you might have. I think you’ll be most impressed with the layout and functionality of the Miescher Centre…but I’m sure Dr Bodel has already briefed you on what to expect.” A tightening of the facial muscles at the mention of Dr Bodel. So. There was more than just an academic connection between Bodel and this facility; there seemed to be a personal one too. And perhaps it was Bodel Dr Fuller disapproved of. Interesting. “If you’ll follow me?”
*
From the exterior, Sutton had expected a bright, futuristic laboratory, each piece of equipment fresh from the manufacturers, the floors pristine, white and flawless, the walls glowing with a fresh coat of paint.
The reality was quite different: the Miescher Centre only occupied the bottom three floors of the building (the top three were given over to an accountancy firm), and each floor, although mostly open plan and filled with impressive machines on desktops and in nooks, was much like any other office in the country: chipped walls, faded paint, the vague sense of disarray that comes from a group of people working together in a confined space.
Dr Fuller had an office at the back of the second floor, next to the “wetlab”, whatever that was. Fuller had little more than a cubicle. But the window looked down the hill at the pleasant tree-lined street outside; a welcome relief from the dim, slightly tired interior.
Fuller himself proved to be much as Sutton had expected: serious, socially awkward, almost robotic; distracted in the way of most intellectual people, as if his mind was on something else, busy struggling with an equation more important and more entertaining than the mundane interruption of his visitor. He became more animated when talking about the Centre’s most recent project.
“…An exciting facet of a serious, modern problem. A fungus, known as Hymenoscyphus fraxineus, could potentially decimate almost ninety percent of the Ash trees in the UK. In a situation such as this, it would make sense to focus all efforts on this deadly fungus: to study it, genetically map it, and then perhaps find a way to counter it. But with this problem we took a different approach: it was to the trees that we turned our talents. What we did, was to sequence the genetic code of the Ash tree. We were looking to discover which had a natural resistance to this “dieback” fungus. Once we were able to do that, then we formulated a test that could predict a low level of susceptibility to Hymenoscyphus fraxineus. So with specimens that had a markedly reduced susceptibility, we could replant populations of Ash trees in the full knowledge that “dieback” would have little to no effect on them. It’s incredibly exciting stuff.”
Fuller indicated the seat opposite him, and Sutton took it. He felt wholly too big for this tiny room; Sutton could understand why Fuller was permanently hunched.
Sutton said, “it does sound very exciting. Dr Bodel mentioned some of the work you do here, and I was immediately fascinated. In fact, he mentioned your work with the Epstein-Barr virus?”
Epstein-Barr was a virus; Sutton had looked it up.
Fuller frowned.
“That was as much his project, as it was ours. Although the government was also involved.”
Bodel had been working with the Epstein-Barr virus? That was a peculiar coincidence.
“What were you doing exactly?”
“The Epstein-Barr virus is perhaps one of the most prolific viruses amongst the human population. Nineteen out of twenty people have it, and although it is on the whole harmless, it can be “triggered” and…well. I’m sure you are aware of what it can do. Essentially, the project we were working on here involved analysis of EBV, and also directing mutagenesis of the EBV genome in order to create specific mutants of interest. We did this by identifying specific genes with unique mutant phenotypes. Once the genes were identified, we then set about creating mutant EBV strains that we could control, and essentially direct to what we required. The reason the virus remains unchallenged in the human body is because the immune system is unable to detect it. With mutagenesis of the EBV genome, we could effectively get the EBV troops to stand up in the line of fire, without them being able to do anything about it. Our own immune system being the firing squad, of course.
“It was incredibly important, incredibly relevant work, and some of the offshoots of that research still exist and are being worked on in this laboratory today,” Fuller explained. “Research inevitably breeds questions as much as it does ans
wers, and we still have so many questions. We won’t have the answers today, or tomorrow, or maybe not in the next year, but we will have them. We are at the beginning of a very long book, Dr Mills. I dare say that we have only just gotten passed the introduction, but every discovery is a new page we get to turn over…before we start reading and understanding the next one.”
“So Dr Bodel is still working with you?”
Fuller frowned once more.
“No. And quite frankly, I was surprised that he wanted to work with us again. But I’m sure he’s told you all this?”
“He hasn’t.”
“Ah. Well.” Fuller lightly tapped the top of his desk. “Let’s just say it was a difference of opinion. We had to temporarily discontinue that branch of his research.”
“Why?”
Fuller hesitated.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Sutton pressed.
Fuller looked anxious then.
“I’m sure Dr Bodel can fill you in on all the details,” he said. “Suffice it to say, we have exhaustive security and procedural checks in place here at the Miescher Centre. We have to. The work that we do is sometimes – not always – but sometimes, very dangerous. Sometimes, in the course of new research, we have occasion to create mutations that, were they to escape the lab, could be exceedingly harmful. Unfortunately, on a number of occasions, Dr Bodel contravened our procedures and put both himself – and others – at risk. I’m sure it was an oversight on his part. Nothing more than carelessness from being overtired.” Fuller smiled. “But if he’s willing to accept our necessary restrictions, then I see no reason not to resume our working relationship. Indeed, we both stand to benefit. Dr Bodel is a brilliant doctor, with some exciting ideas. And here at the Miescher Centre, we offer a high level of expertise. I feel, working together, that we could begin to turn even more pages of that all important book, on our way to discovering the molecular secrets that have been oblivious to us for so long.”
He was starting to sound like a salesman, and it was giving Sutton a headache. Something had happened, and Fuller had not liked it. To turn his back on this research, it must have been bad. But what had it been?
“You’ve been very helpful, Dr Fuller,” Sutton said, rising and offering his hand.
“Of course,” Fuller said, allowing the wet lettuce to be wrung once more. He looked vaguely disappointed, and Sutton assumed it was because he thought he had not won Sutton over.
“I’m sure Dr Bodel will be in contact soon,” Sutton said. “He did want to be here himself today, but…”
“Of course,” Fuller said, with renewed warmth. Maybe the prospect of new business wasn’t dead after all. “He’s a very busy man.”
*
Sutton didn’t know what to do with what he had.
Bodel’s revelation that Gavin had cancer had upset Sutton’s balance somewhat, but it certainly went some way to explaining something of his behaviour toward the end.
But the mention of Epstein-Barr on the printout, and then the revelation that Bodel had been working on this same virus…it couldn’t be a coincidence. He would need to look at Bodel in greater depth, but he wasn’t quite sure how and where to start with that. Maybe Diane?
There was still no discernable connection with his scar-lipped attacker though. Who was he? And what was he after? Had he stolen Gavin’s body? To what end?
Sutton didn’t know.
So not knowing what to do with what he had, he went and did something he did know with what he didn’t have: he went to Freddie’s for a meal, and to meet his new wife.
*
Sutton was shocked to discover that Lisa Hopkins was very lovely.
She greeted him at the door with such genuine warmth he was a little taken aback. She was perhaps five foot three, and when she hugged him she barely reached his collar bone. She had short cut dark hair, almost a boy’s haircut, and an elfin face. He guessed her to be in her early thirties. She wore a dark, strapped dress and small, diamond tear drop earrings.
She was beautiful.
He immediately had to castigate himself. Why shouldn’t she be lovely? In his way, Freddie was a lovely guy.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she said.
She had a penetrating gaze. It was a little unnerving; as if there were no way to hide who he truly was from her.
“For me too,” he said, feeling as if he were getting his wind back. “And belated congratulations by the way.”
She beamed. Two fetching dimples appeared in her cheeks. It was a little difficult to believe she was a lawyer.
Sutton handed her his gift: Wild Kopi Luwak coffee beans.
She took it, unwrapped it, and then smiled at him.
“You know him too well.”
“He’ll like this one.”
“Why?”
“It’s the one that these little tree mammals eat. It’s collected after it comes out the back end.”
She wrinkled her nose but was amused.
“Come in,” she said, stepping back.
He did, and she shut the door behind him.
“Are you alright?” She asked, observing the way he was favouring his left side.
“I’m fine,” he said, smiling. “Just pulled a muscle working out.”
“Freddie’s hard at work on his chilli curry or whatever it is,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I think he’s determined that we all have ulcers.”
“It’s an addiction,” Sutton said, and she was less amused at this; instead, she nodded thoughtfully.
*
Their two bedroom flat was a split level model on the eighth floor of a new building just on the outskirts of south Bristol. Sutton followed Lisa down a hall, to a landing of sorts; to Sutton’s right, the kitchen area, where Freddie was at work over a boiling pot; he didn’t look up, but waved a hand. To Sutton’s left, there was a small, thin set of rails bracketing the end of the landing, and to the side, stairs going down; he moved to the rails and looked down to the dining area, eight feet below: the table was already set, comfortably placed in an economic space in front of floor-to-ceiling windows. The view was of woods and fields, getting dark as the sun set; it was a very pleasing view indeed. Freddie had done alright for himself.
“Sutton,” Freddie called from the kitchen. “This will fucking melt your oesophagus clean out of your body.”
Sutton smiled.
“It’s not a competition, Freddie,” he called back.
“Isn’t it?”
“I have an aversion to heartburn.”
“Such a pussy.”
Lisa said, mildly shocked, “Freddie.”
Freddie looked up then, and smiled.
“Don’t let him fool you, honey,” he said. “He’s hardy. And doesn’t bruise easily.” He looked at Sutton’s face then, at the fading red marks. “Well. Not always.”
*
They sat around the table talking comfortably, between whistling gasps and desperate gulps of water: small attempts to stem irreparable damage to the pallet. Lisa told him the story of the first time she had encountered Freddie, waiting in the large front foyer of the Bristol Crown Court building, looking as tired and dishevelled as his cohort, a Stuart Eden, a homeless man who had been accused of mugging a thirty eight year old housewife. A case of mistaken identity, as it turned out.
“Honestly,” she said, “I didn’t know which one of them was the defendant. They both looked homeless.”
“Not my finest hour,” Freddie admitted. “It had been a long night.”
“Well,” Lisa said. “I was impressed. Here he was helping this man. Out of the goodness of his heart. And he looked so worn out…I just wanted to take him home and make him some soup or something.”
“All part of my plan,” Freddie said, with a twinkle in his eye. “I knew my appearance would appeal to her mothering instinct. She fell right into my trap.”
Lisa laughed.
“You can be so daft sometimes,” she said, amused.
“This is just too hot for me to be able to taste anything,” Sutton remarked, reaching for more water.
“Hang on a minute,” Lisa said, putting down her cutlery and leaving the table.
She returned in moments with two bottles and presented them to him: sour cream and yoghurt.
“I always make sure to have a stock of one or both of these,” she said, sitting once more at the table. “I realized it was an essential ingredient if I was going to be married to Freddie.”
She beamed at her husband, and in that moment Sutton realized how perfectly suited they were for each other: that Lisa was the alkaline antidote to any bitterness or lasting anger in Freddie.
For a brief moment, he couldn’t help feeling a stab of envy.
*
“Criminal defence,” she said, in answer to his question.
They had survived the meal, thanks in no small part to the sour cream. However, his mouth still tingled.
Freddie was cleaning up in the kitchen above them, while Sutton and Lisa attended to the coffee…the coffee that Sutton had brought them as a gift.
Sutton had noticed something, while Freddie had tended to the dishes, wiped the table clean, and collected all the table mats and napkins: the flat was immaculate. No dust, no dirt; everything in its place and a place for everything. And it seemed that Freddie was responsible for such high standards of cleanliness. Sutton would not have guessed he was so fastidious.
“How long for?” He asked.
“Six years now. It’s what I’ve always wanted to be.” She shrugged and gave herself a small smile. She had pushed her chair back, and was reclining comfortably in it at an angle to the table. The dress showed a little too much of the tidy figure, and Sutton made himself look away from it. “Since about the age of fourteen. My parents tried to talk me out of it over the years, but I stubbornly refused to believe that I would be doing anything else with my life.”
“And here you are.”
