Dust to dust sd-8

by Ken McClure

  ‘37 Belvedere Road?’ asked the operator.

  ‘Yes,’ said Steven, hearing no other option.

  ‘Would you like me to put you through?’

  Mary Lyons answered, giving her phone number in a clear voice, which struck Steven as being charmingly old-fashioned but infinitely preferable to ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Professor Lyons, it’s Steven Dunbar. I’m afraid I’ve got some very bad news for you.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ sighed Mary Lyons. ‘I’ve been dreading this. It has to be about Louise, hasn’t it?’

  ‘She’s had an accident… a fatal one. She fell from a cliff-top in Leeford earlier today.’

  There was a slight choking sound and a long silence before Mary Lyons replied, ‘I don’t think for one moment you’re telling me the whole story, Dr Dunbar. This is all tied up with the man who came to the department yesterday, isn’t it?’

  Steven found himself on the spot. ‘He is part of the story,’ he confessed, ‘but it’s complicated…’

  ‘If only I hadn’t been so stupid…’

  ‘No, professor, none of this is your doing.’ Steven did his best to sound reassuring, but as he knew exactly how she felt he wasn’t sure he was helping. ‘It was just an unfortunate series of events that no one could have foreseen.’

  ‘I take it the police will be investigating this “accident”?’

  ‘The authorities will leave no stone unturned in uncovering the truth,’ said Steven, fearing he sounded like a government minister under interview. ‘I promise you, justice will be done.’

  ‘I just can’t believe this has happened… Louise’s poor parents…’

  ‘The police are informing them. Professor… I know you’ve had a terrible shock but there’s something I must ask you… You said that Louise found something strange or unusual in the results of the tests she was carrying out and pointed this out to the man who came to your department?’

  ‘Yes, but they both agreed it had no significance for the proposed transplant.’

  ‘I know you said you didn’t see what the oddity was but I just wondered if there might have been something said about it that you can remember? Anything at all? I’m clutching at straws here.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. It was just something mentioned in passing.’

  ‘No matter,’ said Steven, acutely aware of the woman’s grief and now her discomfort at not being able to help.

  ‘But you could look for yourself,’ said Mary Lyons suddenly.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’ve just remembered something. When you asked Louise to analyse these samples and she asked me for permission, I told her that a record would have to be kept of the whole thing for the benefit of the university authorities — they’re very strict about contracting for outside work, or rather the university’s insurers are. A file was opened for her on the departmental server so she could list everything she did and cost everything she used in the analysis. The last thing she would enter would be her final report, which would remain on the file until the client was billed and the account settled.’

  ‘And you think she might have done that before handing over the written copy?’

  ‘There’s a good chance she did.’

  ‘How many people know about this?’

  ‘Just myself and the lab manager.’

  ‘Wonderful. I take it this wasn’t mentioned at the meeting you and Louise had with the impostor?’

  ‘It wasn’t relevant,’ said Mary Lyons. ‘Although when he thanked us before leaving, I did remind him he would be getting a bill.’

  Steven considered for a moment but didn’t see how that could have raised any suspicion. ‘It’s absolutely vital that I see that report,’ said Steven. ‘And it goes without saying that no one else hears about it, professor.’

  ‘Understood. When would you like to come?’

  ‘First thing tomorrow?’

  ‘Fine. It’s Saturday. Not many people will be around, certainly not in the accounts department.’

  Steven drove into Dumfries and booked himself into the County Hotel where he had a late bar supper and several gin and tonics before going upstairs to spend a restless night, waves of guilt over Louise Avery’s death lapping on shores of surreal dreams in which broken bodies lay on red beaches under black cliffs and dark skies. They doused any immediate enthusiasm he might have felt for an investigation that was promising to take a turn for the better. He was up and gone by six a.m.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Steven felt his pulse quicken in anticipation as he sat in Mary Lyons’ office watching her use the computer keyboard on her desk to log on to the departmental server and summon up Louise Avery’s file. The movement of her fingers was slow and deliberate; her eyes seemed to flick more than necessary between the keyboard and the screen. It made Steven reflect that this was an age thing. Regardless of intellectual capacity, people over a certain age often behaved as if they didn’t quite belong in the company of computers.

  ‘Here we are,’ she said, followed by another silence. ‘And… yes… she did file it.’

  Steven closed his eyes and gave silent thanks as a tremendous weight seemed to be lifted from them both: they exchanged a rare smile. The head of department punched a few more buttons on her keyboard, the last with a final flourish, before getting up to walk across the room to her printer where she waited for it to grind into action. She returned with a copy of the report and gave it to Steven, saying, ‘I hope this brings justice for Louise.’

  Steven nodded and made a hesitant start on his next request, perhaps too hesitant, because Mary Lyons got in first. ‘You are about to ask me to say nothing about any of this to anyone… including the police?’

  ‘I know it’s asking a lot, but I promise you there will be no cover-up over Louise’s death. Justice will be done, perhaps in a roundabout way, but it will happen.’

  They shook hands and Steven left for the drive back to London. He called ahead to the duty officer at Sci-Med and asked him to make contact with John Macmillan and relay his request that they should meet as soon as possible. He knew that Sir John and his wife often went away for the weekend but Macmillan always left a contact number at Sci-Med for emergencies. ‘I’m driving down from Newcastle,’ he told the duty man. ‘Leaving now.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘We’re going to need scientific advice.’

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘Good question,’ said Steven. ‘An expert in transplant surgery and the science behind it.’

  ‘I’ll see who we’ve got on the list,’ said the duty man. Sci-Med kept a list of consultants who could be called upon to offer advice. They were invariably experts in their fields who were paid a retainer but, more importantly, had the kudos of being classed as consultants to the government. ‘D’you want me to call in the expert or wait until you’ve seen Sir John?’

  ‘Speak to Sir John first and tell him I’ve requested it. See what he says and take it from there.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Steven had reached the southern end of the M1 when his phone rang and the Bluetooth car-phone speaker gave out the news that a meeting had been set up for four p.m. at the Home Office. Could he make it?

  ‘No problem.’

  Macmillan was already at the Home Office when Steven arrived ten minutes early. He was struggling with the coffee machine in Jean Roberts’ office. Steven took over. ‘Do we have an expert coming?’ he asked.

  ‘A transplant surgeon,’ replied Macmillan. ‘Jonathan Porter-Brown. Why do we need him?’

  ‘We need him to spot what Louise would think was unusual in her findings. If he can do that, we might well have found why Monk killed her.’

  ‘So why didn’t our lab find it?’

  ‘Let’s hope our expert can tell us that too. We haven’t compared the reports yet. There could be a difference.’

  The coffee machine finally delivered the goods as Jonathan Porter-Brown arrived and was shown into the room. Steven broke
off cleaning out the coffee holder to shake hands with the tall, tanned man in front of him. He was surprised to find his handshake limp and wet. ‘Coffee?’ he asked. ‘I’m just honing my skills as a barista.’

  Porter-Brown smiled. ‘I’m impressed. Espresso, please.’

  The three men walked through to Macmillan’s office with their coffee and Macmillan thanked Porter-Brown for coming at such short notice.

  ‘I’m a Sci-Med virgin,’ the surgeon joked. ‘I knew I was on your list, of course, but I haven’t been called upon before. What can I do for you?’

  ‘You’re a transplant surgeon, Mr Porter-Brown, a top man in your field. We’d like your opinion on the participants in a bone marrow transplant we’ve become interested in. We need you to examine lab reports prepared on samples taken from the patient and the donor and to tell us if you see anything unusual about them.’

  ‘Seems straightforward enough,’ said Porter-Brown. He was smiling but Steven couldn’t help feeling that the man was nervous. There was something about his body language that suggested discomfort about being in his current surroundings. Steven found this an unusual trait in a surgeon: in his experience self-confidence — sometimes over-weening — seemed to be a prerequisite for the job. Maybe it was just the fact that the man had been summoned to the Home Office at short notice. After all, he’d just admitted that this was his first Sci-Med call-out.

  Macmillan handed him the lab report on Patient X. ‘This is the report on the recipient.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Porter-Brown. He read through the details and said, ‘Nothing too unusual about the patient.’

  ‘And this is the report on the donor,’ said Macmillan, handing over the more detailed report prepared by the Sci-Med lab.’

  ‘Gosh,’ said Porter-Brown, leafing through the file. ‘It’s comprehensive, I’ll say that for it… Was the lab being paid by the test? All that’s missing is his inside leg measurement.’

  Macmillan smiled but Steven was still seeing signs of nervousness in Porter-Brown as he read through the report. There was a slight line of moisture appearing above his top lip.

  ‘I would say that the donor is as near a perfect match for the patient as you could possibly hope for,’ he announced at last, putting down the file.

  ‘Nothing unusual at all?’ Macmillan probed.

  ‘The only unusual thing I can see is the comprehensive detail in the analysis of the donor samples. Frankly, I’m not sure I know what half these things are.’

  ‘We did request a thorough analysis,’ said Macmillan.

  ‘Well, you certainly got one, but as a transplant surgeon, all I would be interested in is the blood and tissue type matches and they’re perfect.’

  Steven handed over the copy of Louise’s report. ‘Would you take a look at this report too?’

  Porter-Brown took the file. ‘Patient or donor?’

  ‘Donor,’ said Steven.

  Porter-Brown started reading, but then stopped to pick up the Sci-Med donor file and began comparing them. He seemed puzzled. ‘They’re the same person,’ he said. ‘They have to be. It must be the same donor. As far as I can see, they’re identical.’

  ‘They are,’ agreed Steven. ‘Just different labs.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Porter-Brown, his features relaxing into a knowing smile. ‘You were checking up on the labs.’ Steven and Macmillan smiled but didn’t comment. ‘Well, gentlemen, I can only say again that the donor is a perfect match for the patient. Both labs agree.’

  ‘Nothing unusual at all?’ Macmillan persisted.

  Steven noticed the nervousness return to Porter-Brown, but in the end he shrugged and said, ‘From my point of view, nothing at all. As for all these extra — and I have to say, probably unnecessary — tests, I’m perhaps not the best person to comment. I’m only a simple surgeon, gentlemen.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Porter-Brown.’ Macmillan smiled. ‘We’re indebted to you. Please accept our apologies for disturbing your weekend.’

  ‘Glad to have been of assistance,’ said Porter-Brown, getting up to go. The men shook hands again. Still moist, Steven noticed.

  Macmillan accompanied Porter-Brown downstairs. When he got back, he said, ‘Well, it seems we’re no further forward.’

  ‘There’s something dreadfully wrong,’ said Steven. ‘As my old granny used to say, I can feel it in my water.’

  ‘Can you or your granny be a little more specific?’

  ‘I think we’ve just screwed up big time, asking Porter-Brown along as our expert.’

  ‘His credentials are impeccable. He’s a top man in his field,’ protested Macmillan.

  ‘I don’t doubt it, but so was John Motram,’ said Steven. ‘That’s why he was chosen in the first place. According to Cassie Motram, everyone involved in that damned transplant was a top player.’

  Macmillan’s eyes opened wide when he realised the full extent of what Steven was suggesting. ‘Don’t tell me you think Porter-Brown was actually involved in the operation?’

  ‘It would explain why he was as nervous as a kitten throughout,’ said Steven. ‘That’s not like a surgeon. He really didn’t want to be here and I got the distinct impression he was hiding something every time you pressed him on whether or not he noticed anything unusual in the reports.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ murmured Macmillan. ‘If Porter-Brown actually carried out the transplant, where do we go from here? Talk about leaving your cards face up on the table…’ He went to the drinks cabinet and poured sherry as if needing a distraction while he assessed the full implications. ‘Alcohol can be such a blessing in times of stress, don’t you think?’

  Steven accepted the glass. ‘They know everything,’ he said.

  ‘Only if you’re right about Porter-Brown,’ Macmillan reminded him.

  ‘He would have been on the phone to the puppetmasters as soon as we called him in. They know we got our hands on Louise Avery’s report after all…’

  ‘But it’s the same as the bloody one we already had,’ protested Macmillan, starting to lose his cool.

  ‘According to our simple surgeon, they are,’ said Steven. ‘But they can’t be. I keep saying this but we’re missing something.’ He picked up the two donor reports and looked at Macmillan. ‘Let’s go through these with a fine-tooth comb, even if it takes us all night.’

  Macmillan only took a moment to concede. ‘Why don’t we use the audio visual equipment in one of the seminar rooms?’ he suggested. ‘If we see the test results side by side up on a screen, one of us might spot a difference more easily. It’ll be better than sifting through masses of meaningless letters and numbers at a desk all night.’

  ‘Good idea,’ agreed Steven. ‘But we don’t have the reports on disk, only hard copy.’

  ‘Then let’s do things the old-fashioned way,’ said Macmillan. ‘There’s an overhead projector in S12.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  The two men made their way to seminar room S12, an ‘inside’ room with no windows and a semicircular tier of seats facing a flat front wall, fronted by a desk, a few chairs and a lectern. Steven set up the overhead projector while Macmillan moved the lectern to one side and pulled down a projection screen from its ceiling mounting. Steven placed the first page from each of the reports side by side on the projector’s glass platen and adjusted the focus until the text became sharp.

  The reports had been prepared using different formats so it wasn’t possible to match up all the pages, but the first page of each showed the major compatibility tests and it didn’t take long for Steven and Macmillan to agree that there were no discrepancies. After that, it became progressively more difficult when the order of the tests started to vary. An hour and twenty minutes had passed before Steven murmured, ‘Hang on…’

  ‘Spotted something?’

  ‘Fourth line from the top in the section headed “Co-receptors”, it says CCR5 — /- in Louise’s analysis, but in the other one I’m pretty sure it said…’ Steven paused to change one of the sheets
on the platen. ‘Yes. Look there, in the Sci-Med lab report it says CCR5 +/+.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Macmillan. He stared at the screen for fully thirty seconds before asking, ‘Any idea what it means?’

  ‘None at all, but it is a difference.’

  ‘It is,’ sighed Macmillan, rubbing his eyes. ‘And, right now, it could be our needle in the haystack. I suggest we complete the comparison to see if we can find any others before we call in the boffins.’

  Thirty minutes later both men were in agreement that there was only the one difference in the lab reports. The sound of the projector fan faded and Steven brought up the room lights.

  Macmillan said doubtfully, ‘Can that really be what this is all about?’

  Steven felt inclined to share his doubts but said, ‘I guess we won’t know that until we understand what it means.’

  ‘Let’s talk to our own lab now,’ said Macmillan. ‘See what they have to say about the difference.’

  ‘It’s Saturday evening,’ Steven pointed out.

  ‘If what you suspect about Porter-Brown is true, time’s not on our side. Get the duty man to call out Lukas Neubauer. I want him here tonight. Tell him to try for eight o’clock.’

  Dr Lukas Neubauer, head of the biological section of Lundborg Analytical, seemed unfazed at being called out on a Saturday evening. When Steven mentioned this, he replied, ‘Arsenal lost today; what more is there to live for?’

  ‘There’s always next season,’ said Steven with a sympathetic smile, knowing that Arsenal’s hopes for the Premier League title had all but gone. ‘With the amount of money Sci-Med are putting your way at the moment you can probably buy them a new striker.’

  The banter stopped when Macmillan entered the room and thanked Lukas for coming, apologising for the timing. He explained what the problem was and handed Lukas the two reports.