Going Viral

by Andrew Puckett

  Before Rebecca could answer, a man appeared behind her.

  ‘Rebecca? Do come in. I’m Marc, and this is my wife, Hannah…’

  Hannah nodded unsmilingly as she stood aside to let her in.

  Marc said, ‘I’ve got a cubby hole I use as an office in the back – come on through.’

  She followed him down the passage past a living room where a boy of two or three simultaneously watched a cartoon on the TV and created mess around himself. Through a tidy kitchen with a faint smell of curry to a utility room, off which was another room, a cubby hole, as he’d said.

  ‘Have a seat -’ he indicated the chair on casters in front of the computer. ‘I’ll bring another chair and some coffee… would you like a coffee?’

  She told him how she liked it and sat down. An outline of Africa with the words Bristol to Africa – their logo, she assumed – moved across the screen… She looked round – on the adjacent wall were shelves crammed with books…

  She’d always believed that the Girl Guides motto should be expanded to: Be Prepared: to take any opportunity as it arises…

  She could hear the rattle of mugs and the hum of the kettle from the kitchen… she had a minute, at least… and she could always say she was looking for him to ask if she could look at the books…

  She slipped out into the utility room and looked round… washing machine, dryer, back door. She’d have loved a quick snoop outside, but there wasn’t time… another door… she crossed the room and opened it… just a downstairs loo. Another quick look round… no other doors, so back to the cubby hole.

  She took a breath and looked at the bookshelves.

  Books on Africa, its ecology, politics and sociology… maps, folders, ring binders – only a highly organised person would be able to cram so much into so little… Anything inflammatory?

  She peered at the books, found one with the promising title of Desperate Times, Desperate Measures, eased it out and flicked through the pages…

  Disappointingly respectable and middle class. She heard him coming back and replaced it.

  He had a chair in one hand and two mugs in the other. He handed her one and sat down.

  ‘No difficulty finding me, then?’

  She shook her head. ‘I googled it.’

  He looked younger than his wife, she thought, maybe thirty. He was tallish, thin, had a boyish, friendly face, untidy hair and blue eyes. She told him how she’d been living in London and had recently moved down here.

  ‘But you weren’t in any overseas aid groups in London, I think you said?’

  ‘No…’ She hesitated as though unsure of herself… ‘I wanted to… join an overseas aid group… but my partner, he disapproved of anything like that. But now we’ve split up…’ She shrugged and smiled. ‘I can do what I like.’

  ‘What made you come down here?’

  ‘I wanted to get right away. And it seems a nice place.’

  ‘Oh, there are lots worse, believe me...’

  He certainly didn’t come from here, she thought – he had that kind of nondescript accent that she thought of as vaguely West London; Hounslow, or somewhere like that.

  ‘What did you do in London?’ he asked.

  ‘General admin in the NHS. Salaries and wages.’

  ‘And you’re looking for a similar job in Exeter?’

  She’d signed on, she told him, but didn’t think she’d get anything quickly. ‘Which is one reason why I’m here – as I said, I’m probably going to have some time on my hands.’

  Pause, then, ‘You said you wanted to join an overseas aid group – what made you pick us?’

  She looked away while she pretended to think about it. ‘I looked at all the websites, starting with Oxfam, but so many of them are…’ she pretended to be searching for a word…

  ‘Up themselves?’ he supplied.

  She grinned. ‘Yeah, something like that. I liked your directness, your way of getting to the centre of things.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Oh… You put the blame where it belongs – with us. We were the ones who started slavery, we were the ones with the empire who raped Africa and left it in such a mess.’ Contrived pause… ‘And it’s no use us trying to blame their leaders. It’s our fault and ours to put right.’

  ‘And you’d like to help us?’

  ‘Very much,’ she said simply.

  ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place,’ he said softly. He took a sip of his coffee. ‘Let me tell you about the set-up here. We’ve got around sixty members, and –’

  ‘That’s pretty good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, but we’re lucky if twenty of them turn up to a meeting.’

  ‘How often d’you have them?’

  ‘Monthly, which you wouldn’t think was too onerous.’

  He told her there was a committee that also met monthly, but staggered with the general meetings. They had a Chair (himself), Secretary, Events Organiser and Local Authority Liaison.

  He looked at her for a moment as though trying to make up his mind about something… ‘What we don’t have at the moment,’ he said, ‘is a Treasurer. There’s a reason for that – it’s boring. Probably the most boring job in creation. Would you be interested?’

  She didn’t have to put on a flustered act – this was too good to be true …

  ‘Well… I thought… if anything, you’d want me to push leaflets through doors, stuff like that…’

  ‘Oh, you’re welcome to do a bit of that as well if you insist,’ he assured her.

  ‘But won’t the rest of the committee want to see me first?’

  ‘Mm. We could do that next week if you like. The next committee meeting is on Tuesday.’

  ‘Well… then, yes. Thank you.’

  He told her when and where it was (the Quakers’ Meeting House) and how to get there, and shortly after that, she left.

  As soon as she got back to the cheerless police flat, she called Brigg on his secure mobile. She’d thought about phoning the other team members first, but she was sure they’d have nothing to report – they’d have called her if they had. Dan had already told her he was going to meet the chair of the Plymouth group tomorrow, while Josh and the others had been told simply to come to the next scheduled meetings.

  ‘It’s Rebecca,’ she said when Brigg picked up.

  ‘How did it go?’ he asked, and she told him…

  ‘That’s a bit of luck,’ he said when she got to the bit about the treasurer’s position.

  ‘Yeah. So much so that I’m almost wondering whether it’s too lucky…’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Oh, probably just me being paranoid. As I said, he seemed completely open and straight. Surprisingly normal, in fact.’

  ‘What were you expecting - beard, sandals and glasses?’

  ‘Well maybe not sandals this time of year… but yeah.’

  ‘It seems to me you’ve done well, so don’t look for problems.’ He paused. ‘Are you coming back for the weekend?’

  ‘I might tomorrow, for a night. I don’t want to be away too much, just in case Marc Bell calls me about something.’

  ‘He won’t know where you are, on a mobile.’

  ‘Suppose he wanted me for something…’

  ‘Unlikely… Anyway, play it how you like and keep in touch.’

  She’d eaten before she’d gone to see Marc, so after she’d rung off, she poured herself a glass of wine. She supposed she could have gone back that night, and her own Grade Two terrace was certainly a lot more inviting than the flat. She wasn’t going to take any chances, though – having screwed up before, she wasn’t going to risk the Group Leader job. She couldn’t afford to get it wrong again…

  But what did she really think about the Bells, Marc and Hannah…? She couldn’t honestly see them as suspects, not Marc anyway… and it was difficult to imagine Hannah having any involvement without his knowledge, even if she did wear the trousers.

  Did she?


  Probably – she seemed like a typical older wife looking with suspicion on any younger woman who came a-visiting… or was that just her own (Rebecca’s) instinctive dislike of her?

  Again, probably – she’d only seen her for a few seconds. And yet she’d felt a tangible hostility coming from her… Relevant?

  Most likely not. After all, they were only the first two BTA people she’d met, even supposing the profiler was right… which was a long shot in itself…

  And yet… Maybe it was a long shot, but at the Home Office meeting, it had all felt right to her, the West Country connection, Bristol to Africa, Exeter…

  She wondered how it was going to work out, especially if these nutters actually released smallpox. That got her thinking about the others at the Home Office meeting…

  Blake. Typical up-his-own-arse bureaucrat … although he did seem to have it in for that Prof woman, Mason … not that it had seemed to bother her much, certainly hadn’t stopped her going for the boss once or twice…

  Her sidekick, that doctor, Herry Smith (she’d thought it had been a posh way of saying Harry at first) had seemed rather likable, a sort of up-market Marc Bell – tall and slim without being skinny, and with fairer hair, bluer eyes and a stronger, more character-full face. And he’d taken the boss’ joshing rather well.

  Married? She hadn’t noticed a ring…

  Blake had seemed to have it in for him as well… at least, he’d pointedly ignored him, even when he had something useful to say… She wondered why for a moment, was it simply because he was prof’s protégé? They’d seemed quite close… Oh well, not her concern.

  She poured some more wine, then sighed, gave up and rolled herself a fag.

  Chapter 4

  The morning after coming back from London, I contacted all the Exeter SCRUB team to arrange a meeting… at least, I tried to contact them. I knew that Helen and Anne, the two nurses, were on leave, but when I rang Roland, his secretary told me he was in Southampton at a conference.

  Not good – only two of us are supposed to be away at one time. I tried his mobile and got the answering service. Left a curt message telling him to phone me back as soon as he got it.

  The nurses both answered their mobiles. One was at home, the other in Wales and both said they could be there for Monday morning.

  I decided I’d better tell Tim Butterfield, the team’s scientist, now, and called him in from the lab.

  ‘It seems that the impossible has happened, Tim,’ I began, and told him about the letter from John Amend-all and the strong suspicion that they were based in this area.

  ‘Bloody hell –’ He actually went pale, then recovered himself and listened carefully while I described SCRUB’s part in what was being done. ‘Do the others know?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet. I’m trying to get everyone together on Monday.’ I didn’t tell him about Roland. ‘The thing is, John Amend-all must have had somewhere to grow the virus, and the feeling at the meeting was that they’ve got a lab of their own hidden away somewhere.’

  He shook his head, ‘Not necessarily –’

  ‘Oh, come on, the security’s a hell of a lot better in NHS labs now.’

  ‘Oh, sure, in the NHS, but you’re forgetting the universities – security was pretty well non-existent when I was at Bristol. Post grads just came and went as they pleased. I did, anyway.’

  ‘That was a few years ago,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I still don’t think they’ve tightened up anything like as much as we have.’

  ‘Do they still use hen’s eggs?’

  ‘Well, they did when I was there...’

  Tim Butterfield was a Senior Scientific Officer who’d already been in the department when I arrived. He’d done a PhD at Bristol Cabot University, and was thus, incidentally, as entitled to the handle Doctor as I. More, some would say, since I hadn’t extended my medical degree beyond Batchelor. He was quiet and rather inward usually, as scientists often are, but was a good virologist.

  ‘What about the Uni. labs here in Exeter?’ I asked him. ‘Eggs and security.’

  ‘I don’t know. D’you want me to find out?’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll tell them we’re doing a survey on Microbiological Safety and say I want a look around.’ In addition to his other duties, he was Health and Safety Officer for the area.

  ‘What if they object?’

  ‘They won’t – nobody argues with Health and Safety these days. And if they do have the temerity,’ he continued, ‘I can always invoke your name.’

  I let out a sigh – he had a habit of coming out with irritating little quips like that sometimes. ‘Can you fix it up for today?’

  He looked at the clock. ‘Doubt it. Probably do it tomorrow, though.’

  ‘OK, do that.’

  He hesitated, then… ‘You think they might really do it? Release live Variola?’

  ‘We’re working on that assumption.’

  He bit his lip as though wondering whether to say more… He had a pleasant, self-contained face with neat features, and always made me think of a well-groomed vole. He’d grown up in Birmingham and had a slight Brummie accent. Actually, mole might have been a better description, since it was he who’d kept me informed about Roland’s perfidies…

  He started to get up – ‘Well, I’d better get on with it.’

  I said, ‘A couple more things…’

  He sat down again and I asked if he could do the same thing for all the other university virology labs in the South West. ‘Say, Plymouth, Bristol, Bath and Gloucester.’

  ‘OK. Cabot’ll be a pleasure.’ he added with a slightly vengeful smile, then, ‘What about the work here?’

  ‘Anything that can’t wait?’

  ‘Not really. You said a couple of things…’

  ‘Mm… Could you make a list of the equipment they’d need, to culture enough virus to infect say a dozen or so people?’

  He nodded, stood and started for the door.

  ‘Oh, and Tim…?’

  ‘Not a word,’ he said.

  After he’d gone, I started on the list of virologists Brigg wanted. The NHS ones were easy enough, there are only about a dozen medical labs in the South West and the information was on their web sites. I rang them to check anyway, in case they were out of date.

  The universities were more difficult. Just because they didn’t have a specific virology lab didn’t mean that someone couldn’t culture viruses there, especially if Tim was right about security. And what is a virologist? The medical schools probably had lab assistants who were perfectly capable of growing viruses – and what about the medical students themselves?

  I did the best I could with them… maybe Tim could find some more as he went round them…

  I tried Roland again in the afternoon, but with no luck. However, he phoned me back a few minutes later.

  ‘Roland, where are you?’

  ‘Southampton,’ he replied.

  ‘I know that, I mean, why didn’t you tell me about it? You know we’re not supposed to have more than two team members away at a time.’

  ‘It’s Southampton, not Siberia,’ he said. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem Roland, is that I’ve been trying to contact you all morning to arrange a meeting and haven’t been able to. You’re supposed to tell me if you want to leave the area. You know that.’

  After a pause, he said, ‘Sorry Herry, it slipped my mind.’ Yeah right… ‘When is the meeting?’

  Monday, I told him. He asked what it was about.

  ‘I’ll tell you when we’re all here,’ I said and rang off.

  I sat for a few minutes, waiting for my heartbeat to settle…

  Roland Wade-Stokes was a consultant in infectious diseases and, like all the other team members, had already been here when I’d been made Team Leader. The problem was that he’d also been the other applicant for the Directorship and had never got over not getting it himself. He was a bit older than me, more exp
erienced and he’d been expecting to get it.

  Now, he baited me at every opportunity, only backing down when I got heavy.

  Infantile, but the fact was that it got my adrenaline going a little bit more on each occasion. There was nothing he’d like better than to see me in the shit again. I knew, through Tim, that he had no qualms about rubbishing me behind my back; I also knew there were others around the hospital who thought he should have got the job.

  With an effort, I forced my mind away and went on with the list of virologists.

  Tim looked in to say that he’d arranged visits with the Exeter med school and university labs for tomorrow morning, and would try and fix up the others for the following week.

  ‘They didn’t kick up, then?’

  ‘Not a bit. I’ll do the list of equipment in the afternoon.’

  ‘Tim, there’s something else you could do for me while you’re at it –’ I explained about my difficulty of identifying exactly who were the virologists in the universities and med schools, and he said he’d find what he could when he visited them.

  The next day, Friday, I finished the list of virologists so far as I could, then started on the morning’s reports.

  I’d just finished when Rebecca Hale rang and asked if the list was ready yet. I told her I’d got some, but not all of them, and she said she’d call at my house on her way back to London. We agreed on six.

  In the afternoon, Tim came to tell me he’d been round the Exeter Uni. labs and that their security was better than he’d expected. He’d also made a list of the equipment needed for a do-it-yourself virus culture kit. We went through it together:

  Incubator, ‘Fridge/freezer, Microscope, Centrifuge,

  Safety Cabinet, Macerator, Bunsen burner,

  Cell lines, cell growth and maintenance media.

  Water, gas, electricity.

  Distilled water, saline, chemicals

  Most of it wouldn’t be too difficult for a reasonably competent virologist to get hold of.

  ‘I can’t see them getting a hood, though,’ I said, referring to the Safety Cabinet virologists work under to make sure they don’t get infected themselves. They work by vacuuming air through the front of the cabinet and exhausting it through a filter to the outside.