Still pondering the task set for him, the scientist took time out for a coffee in the boardroom lounge. Glad none of the others had joined him, he reflected on his short time with the company. During his first few weeks, he’d spent much of his time exploring the impressive headquarters of Parados Pharmaceuticals. Twenty years earlier, a huge tract had been carved out of the Essex countryside near Harlow in order to provide a greenfield site conducive to the well being of staff. The glass edifice allowed an extraordinary amount of light to enter its innards. The chairman believed that neon lighting made people drowsy, thus reducing their capacity for work.
The location of the company gave easy access to the country’s main motorway routes. It was situated a few minutes from the M25, which made it possible to circumnavigate London and spin off at all points of the compass. The site also lay adjacent to the M11 and an easy forty-five-mile run to Cambridge, repository of many of the finest young scientific minds in the country. All had conspired to give sustenance to a workforce of three thousand, although two-thirds of these were employed in the company’s foreign subsidiaries.
The Proctors, leaders of this motley crew, had left for a month-long series of worldwide conferences the day after Tring’s arrival. ‘Get to know your staff and get to know the company,’ Jack Proctor had counselled. ‘The real work will start when I get back. Nobody gets owt for nowt in this company.’
Thus Tring had immersed himself in getting to know the firm’s products and his immediate subordinates. Each seemed eager to please their new director, although he felt an immediate rapport with one of them. Harold Spencer was a bluff Mancunian who was in charge of clinical research. Rotund and middle-aged, he had a ready wit and a general irreverence for the serious business at hand. His preference for wearing brightly coloured bow ties was his sole eccentricity. Yet Tring felt instinctively that this antithesis of the beetle-browed scientist was in fact a past master at his job. Clinical research was part of the complex procedure to demonstrate the effectiveness and safety of drugs and other products of the pharmaceutical industry. It required the collaboration of many personnel with a variety of skills, and their leader had to be someone they could trust. Drug researchers did not like to think of themselves as the scientific equivalent of the National Lottery. They believed that there was no point in hurling a huge range of compounds at a disease in the hope that one of them would cure it. They preferred to deem that rational thought rather than blind chance lay behind their successes. All members of the team, including secretaries and administrators, had to be made aware of the procedures of clinical research and, in particular, the rules placed upon their actions by good clinical practise and standard operating procedures. The professor had noted that the research team at Parados appeared to be both knowledgeable and contented, which was not entirely unexpected. The company was expanding exponentially, and most of them held shares that were ever increasing in value.
‘A penny for your thoughts.’
Tring was startled from his musings, but then relaxed on seeing that it was Harold Spencer. ‘Unprintable, Harold,’ he replied.
‘He’s quite ruthless, you know,’ said Spencer. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Jonathan,’ the florid Mancunian added, carefully pouring his superior a steaming beverage. ‘I’m generally right about who I share my confidences with.’
‘I’m sorry, but who are you talking about, Harold?’ Tring asked somewhat disingenuously.
Spencer raised his thick eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘The man with the Midas touch, the pit bull terrier of our industry, El Supremo. Need I go on?’
‘I would think that a man in his position would need to be like that.’
Spencer shrugged quickly. ‘Sure. I mean the shareholders are happy, most of the staff are happy, Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all are happy.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ queried Tring, accepting the steaming mug from his colleague and gingerly savouring the first sip of piping hot coffee.
‘He killed him, you know.’ The reply was almost matter-of-fact.
‘Killed who?’ Tring’s voice was tinged with apprehension.
‘Old Lockey.’
‘Sorry.’
‘You know, the guy you’ve replaced.’
‘I’m sorry, I still don’t understand. Everyone knows it was suicide.’
Spencer leaned back and half sat on one of the canteen tables.
‘Maybe, but Proctor would be nothing without Locke. Martin was here at the beginning. He was a good man. He developed the drugs that helped make this company a world leader. Sure, Proctor gave him some shares to try to keep him happy. But it was like feeding a dog a bone. Fine to get your teeth into, but ultimately not very fulfilling.’
‘I still don’t understand,’ Tring said weakly.
‘Let me put it like this,’ Spencer went on, ‘it was like putting a pit bull in with a chihuahua. Lockey was run ragged. Once Proctor gets his jaws into you, he doesn’t let go. The man is so consumed by power that if he senses a weakness, you’re finished.’
‘But Locke was here for twenty years. He could have left at any time.’
‘Sure. I used to think the same. But Martin Locke was a complex character. He was a quiet man, always willing to please. Proctor took advantage of this and pushed him to the limit. Proctor always wanted more and better drugs, and sometimes I wondered whether Lockey had a home to go to.’
Tring scratched his temple. Locke had topped himself at fifty-five. In the enthusiasm of his new job, Tring was already putting in fourteen-hour days, but he was damned sure if he would sell his soul to his new employer. There had to be a perspective on everything.
‘Anyway,’ Spencer went on, in an accent as wide as the ship canal, ‘I think Proctor had something else on Locke.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know. Nobody knew much about Locke’s private life, what little he had of it. There were rumours. You know, a middle-aged bachelor and all that.’
‘I’m still a bachelor,’ said Tring, eager to allay any doubts about his own preferences.
‘No, I mean Lockey was a bit effeminate. I know that doesn’t necessarily mean anything nowadays, but the rumours persisted. It’s just a hunch. Anyway, he killed himself because of anxiety about something, sex or overwork, or both.’
‘What about Mrs Proctor?’ Tring was eager to change the subject. ‘I only saw her once, on my first day. She certainly is a looker.’
‘Ah, Mrs Proctor, our very own Southern belle.’ Spencer gestured expansively. ‘I have a collection of aphorisms to describe our Sharon. It was Emerson who said that a man’s wife had more power over him than the state. And remember, it’s the woman who chooses the man who chooses her.’ The Mancunian chuckled and tweaked his purple bow tie. ‘Can’t recall who said that.’
Tring smiled, adding an aphorism of his own. ‘So she’s the power behind the throne?’
‘I guess so. Nobody really knows for sure, but I think you should know that Jack Proctor is an insanely jealous man. As far as his wife is concerned, it’s a case of you can look, but you can’t touch. Every ugly old man with pots of money would be on his guard with a woman like that. Besides which, she’s American.’
‘So?’
‘So, I don’t like Yank women much. They’re all gold-diggers.’
‘I hope you restrict these comments to people you can trust,’ said the new medical director. He was worried that Spencer was being a little too patent.
‘Humph,’ growled the older man, ‘if he sacked me tomorrow, he’d be doing me a favour. I’ve had enough anyway. I’ve spit blood for this company, and I might take early retirement. My wife’s been pushing me to pack it in for a couple of years.’
‘Meanwhile, it’s back to the grindstone, old chap,’ said Tring, deciding to change the subject. ‘The molecules are waiting.’
As the professor watched his colleague leave the lounge, he couldn’t help wondering again why his predecessor had taken his own life. There were many th
ings he didn’t know about Proctor and his company, among which was the listening device hidden in a switch to the right of the coffee maker.
In Whitehall, Stephen Sellars faced the motley collection of his minions with the air of a man who was used to getting results. Power might be the capacity to make others do what you wanted, but he also knew that as a politician, it was much better to foster relationships through persuasion rather than command. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, peering above rimless Armani spectacles, ‘you’ve all read the article, you’ve all been briefed and you’ve had plenty of time to come up with some suggestions. I’m sure they’ll be good ones.’
With others hesitating, Richard Whiting decided to take the initiative. He needed to earn some kudos, and he’d done enough research on the matter to know about as much as anyone present. It was also important, of course, to remain the moderator of this particular set of in-house prima donnas, each of whom coveted sole possession of the health secretary’s heart and mind. He cleared his throat to signal his intentions, only to hesitate upon seeing the vein on his boss’s temple rise like a blue worm. It always held a fascination for him. The delay proved costly.
‘Secretary,’ Brian Bingham, the parliamentary private secretary, rasped, ‘I have investigated this matter fully, and it is my belief that we should stick to the tack taken in the past by our predecessors.’
Damn it, thought Whiting, didn’t this ginger-haired idiot with his adenoidal croaking know there was a pecking order? It galled him even more that the man had come to the same conclusion as himself.
‘Elaborate, Brian, please,’ Sellars requested, in a soft Highland accent edged with steel. He’d already done his own homework, although there would always be some things he could not know. That’s why he had this lot around him.
‘Well, I’ve looked up previous Hansard’s, and even the Tories managed to get themselves out of a sticky situation over this matter in the past.’
‘Presumably, that’s when we were in opposition,’ Sellars proffered.
‘Er, yes.’
‘What did we have to say about the matter then?’
Much to Bingham’s chagrin, he accidentally dislodged the stack of papers in front of him. It was enough to put his presentation out of kilter.
Whiting took his chance. ‘If I may, sir,’ he chimed smugly, ‘I think my colleague is referring to nineteen ninety-three, when David Blunkett was shadow health minister.’
‘What did he say?’ Sellars queried. The blind politician was an old friend and colleague but was no longer in government, having lost a relatively safe seat in the last election. The Party was still scrabbling around to find him an even safer seat somewhere else.
All eyes around the long table were fixed on Whiting. The minister’s principal private secretary cleared his throat. What he now had to say was about as embarrassing as it could get. ‘Er, well, sir, he called for emergency action on arachnoiditis. He referred to the damage caused to innocent people’s health as a needless tragedy, and said there was the need for a clear statement of precisely what action has been taken.’
‘And what action did the Tories take?’
‘Well, nothing, naturally, sir. You see, there was a court case in motion. About four hundred patients were suing Glaxo, the maker of a diagnostic dye called Myodil, which was injected epidurally or intrathecally. They settled out of court in nineteen ninety-five, with Glaxo denying liability.’
‘Did Blunkett say anything else in parliament?’
Whiting took a deep breath. This was the double-whammy. ‘Yes, sir, he called for specific steps, including the establishment of a full inquiry, no-fault compensation for the victims, and all invasive procedures carried out in the course of spinal treatment to be immediately replaced with safer procedures.’
Sellars smiled knowingly. ‘And you’re going to say that now we’re in power, we can’t afford to take that stand.’
‘Er, yes, precisely, sir.’ Whiting could feel his collar begin to tighten.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it would be too costly. There are millions of people with back trouble who would come out of the woodwork and make a claim. We’d be snowed under.’
Sellars pondered his adviser’s words. Admitting anything would indeed open a Pandora’s box, but he still needed more information. ‘How many people are suffering from this disease in the United Kingdom?’
‘We have no real idea, sir.’
‘Why not?’
Bingham watched with undisguised satisfaction as Whiting’s triumphant intervention began to wilt. The man didn’t have the answer.
‘If I may, sir,’ said Bingham, taking his cue, ‘arachnoiditis is under-reported. Because it’s iatrogenic, doctors have, understandably, been somewhat reticent about reporting it.’
Sellars was beginning to feel irritated. The blue vein on his temple was becoming positively rampant. ‘Damn it, man, is it in the thousands or millions?’
It was Whiting’s turn to revel in his colleague’s discomfort. ‘If I may say so, Minister,’ he interjected, ‘the condition is unlikely to be affecting more than a few thousand individuals. It is quite rare.’
‘How do we know that, if it is under-reported by doctors?’ the Scotsman fired back. The set of blank faces before him spoke volumes. Secrecy was the not the exclusive domain of the medical profession. Ted Heath may have been a Tory, but the former prime minister was right when he pointed out that Britain was the most secretive of all the Western democracies, and that the habit of telling its citizens as little as possible was ingrained in the ruling classes, whatever their political persuasion. There was no greater citadel of secrecy than the health department. His predecessor was given a remit to follow a path of more openness and accountability, but it counted for nothing. The system was the system and he was not about to buck it. He already knew what he must do. As much as he sympathised with the sufferers, they were in a no-win situation. He was determined that this would not become another scandal like BSE or Thalidomide.
By the end of the day, a press release was winging its way to the media.
‘This Government does recognise that arachnoiditis is a very painful condition. There is no dispute about the suffering it may cause. As there is at present no known cure for the disease process, it is for doctors to decide, in individual cases, which treatment will best alleviate the symptoms of this condition and help to control the pain.
There is also no dispute that arachnoiditis can be a side effect of invasive back procedures like myelograms and epidurals. However no treatment is completely risk-free. It is for the clinicians to use their knowledge, skill and experience to weigh carefully the likely benefits of any procedure against the anticipated risks for the individual patient and, following discussion with the patient, to exercise their clinical judgement accordingly.
There has never been a cover-up on arachnoiditis. It has been a known possible side effect of certain medicinal products like Myodil and Triamerol. Therefore this Government does not intend to hold any form of inquiry into arachnoiditis nor to award compensation to those suffering from the disease.’
CHAPTER 3
Belfast 1993
Father Seamus O’Hare was popular with sinners and understanding of sin. But the role he found most harrowing was performing the Last Rites. Ministering to the sick, injured and dying was part of the covenant he had made with the Holy Father, and was something he could accept as part of his calling. What he could never bring himself to accept was what he was now being asked to do. It sickened him, and yet he knew he was being left little choice. Priests were not immune from bullets.
‘Don’t try to be heroic or we’ll kill you both. Just get on with it.’
O’Hare looked into the speaker’s eyes, the only features visible from within a woollen balaclava. They were a piercing blue and icy cold, two anonymous sentinels in a field of black. It was the voice, however, that struck a chord. The priest knew that voice. Somewhere in the deep recesses o
f his mind was stored the name of its owner, for when one sat behind the confessional screen for so many years, one developed an innate recognition of voices.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ The utterance was as threatening as the pistol pointed at him.
‘Let us alone, please,’ said the priest quietly. It was an appeal to a mind that he knew was tortured, severed from the soul. These paramilitaries had usurped God. They had declared that they alone had the power of life and death. And yet they relied on the confession to absolve them of responsibility.
‘Two minutes, and that’s all,’ replied the voice. ‘He’s already made his confession to us, and this will be his last.’
Father O’Hare watched the gunman and his two masked accomplices leave the dingy room. He despised these active-service Provos who went to daily Mass and Communion, did their novenas, went home, put on balaclavas and then went out with the gun. He was sure they had a prayer to St Joseph in their pockets for a happy death, and a small wooden cross to protect them from evil. It was the theology of the just war. These people did not regard killing as a sin.
The good priest sighed before turning his attention to the unfortunate victim. The man’s face was slightly bruised and his lips swollen, but he did not look as if he had been tortured, as was usually the case. He was young, probably no more than twenty. Tied to a chair, he seemed to have long given up the struggle for freedom.
‘Please help me, Father.’ The words were almost inaudible.
The priest’s eyes filled with tears. There were two victims in the room, but only one was about to die. ‘God is with you, my son,’ he whispered unconvincingly. ‘Do you want to confess?’
‘Yes,’ said the young man, suddenly finding an inner strength. ‘I betrayed my friends, Father. Our family is poor. We needed the money, and the British – oh, what difference does it make now? I’m going to die. Isn’t that right, Father?’
Cry of the Needle Page 4
