by Ken McClure
Steven left the building to find cold, wet drizzle falling. It was putting a fuzzy halo round the streetlights and changing the sound of the car tyres as the evening rush hour got under way. He decided to leave the car where it was and find the salon on foot, which he succeeded in doing without much trouble. He welcomed the blast of heat that hit him when he entered, if not the smell of setting lotion and hair lacquer. He brushed the rain from his hair and turned down his jacket collar as he closed the door behind him.
‘I’m afraid we’re closing shortly,’ said the woman at a semicircular reception bar. ‘Would you like to make an appointment?’
Steven stated his business, showed his ID and was introduced to the owner, a busty blonde woman who was fighting a losing battle with the years by hiding behind an excess of make-up. She invited him through to the back. ‘How can I help exactly?’ she asked in a hoarse voice that suggested she smoked a lot.
‘Does the name Ann Danby mean anything to you?’ said Steven.
‘We’ve been talking about nothing else all day!’ exclaimed the woman. ‘There was a story in the papers this morning saying that she was the cause of the outbreak at the hospital. She was in here having her hair done only a couple of weeks ago. I just hope to God we’re going to be all right. They’re saying it’s that African thing. My God, I was the one who did her hair.’
‘I’m sure you have nothing to worry about,’ said Steven. ‘Can you remember anything at all about her visit?’
‘What sort of thing do you mean?’
Steven went for broke. ‘She didn’t happen to say why she was having her hair done, did she?’
The woman thought for a moment before replying. ‘She didn’t say much at all as I remember. Very reserved, she was, or anally retentive, depending on how you look at it. I found it difficult to get a word out of her, but I think she did say in the end that she was going out for dinner. Yes, because I automatically asked her if it was somewhere special and she said, yes… the… Magnolia, that was it, the Magnolia.’
Steven said, ‘I’m a stranger in town.’
‘It’s a posh place up near the Bridgewater Concert Hall — costs the earth but the food’s good. I just wish someone would take me there.’
Steven saw the none-too-subtle invitation in her eyes. ‘I’m sure they will,’ he said diplomatically. He thanked her for her help, and left. He found the concert hall easily enough, but had to spend some time searching for a parking place.
When he eventually got to the Magnolia it had not yet opened its doors to the public; it had just turned six thirty. The lights inside said that there were people about, so Steven knocked on the door. He had to repeat the exercise twice before the slats of the blinds on the door were parted and a hand pointed to the card listing opening times. Steven showed his ID and pointed to the door lock with an opening gesture.
‘This really is most inconvenient,’ said the man who opened up. ‘We’ve got a full house tonight and we’re very busy. Can’t whatever it is wait?’ He was a stout man with an olive complexion that suggested Mediterranean origins, although he spoke English well enough.
‘Sorry, no. It shouldn’t take long,’ said Steven and stepped inside. The door was locked again behind him and the slats closed. ‘I just need to ask you a few questions. You are?’
‘Anthony Pelota. I’m the owner. Make it quick please.’
‘Did you know a woman called Ann Danby?’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘She had dinner here on the evening of November the eighteenth.’
‘Lots of people have dinner here, but I don’t know them personally,’ snapped Pelota.
Steven described Ann, and Pelota gave a patronising little smile. ‘That would apply to eighty per cent of the women who walk through my door,’ he said.
Steven had to concede that the gravitational pull of a place like the Magnolia on executive women in their thirties and their partners would be considerable. ‘Can I see your bookings for November the eighteenth?’ he asked.
Pelota shook his head. ‘No, you can’t,’ he said. ‘That’s confidential.’
Steven felt irked. ‘Am I missing something? Are you a doctor or a priest?’ he asked.
Pelota’s smile faded. ‘No,’ he said, ‘but we are known for our discretion here at the Magnolia. Our clientele expects no less.’
‘I’m very discreet,’ said Steven, ‘and I have no interest at all in who’s screwing who in Manchester but I would like to see the reservations for November the eighteenth, please.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘You’ll be obstructing me in the course of my duty.’
‘Then what?’
‘Proceedings may be taken against you.’
‘It strikes me that that kind of publicity might do me no harm at all.’ Pelota smiled.
‘Your choice,’ said Steven, keeping a poker face.
Pelota blinked first. He shrugged and fetched the reservation book from the corner of the cocktail bar and flicked through the pages. Steven watched his expression change as he found the page for the 18th. Something akin to alarm flickered across his face and he frowned as if he had just realised something worrying or unpleasant. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t help you.’
Steven sensed that further pressure was not going to work — Pelota had obviously made his mind up — so he simply said, ‘Then you must take the consequences, Mr Pelota.’ He turned to leave but as he got to the door he turned in response to a tearing sound and was in time to see Pelota remove the page from the book.
‘Taking discretion a little far, aren’t you, Mr Pelota?’ he said calmly. ‘Just makes me wonder all the more what you have to hide.’
Steven walked back to his car, concluding that, in spite of what Pelota had done, the visit had not been an entire waste of time. He had learned something valuable. Not only was Victor married, but he was also someone with a bit of influence in this city; he was someone important.
On the way back to the hotel he considered what further action, if any, to take against Pelota, now that the man had destroyed what he wanted to see. He could, of course, have him charged with obstruction, but what good would that do, apart from satisfy the desire for revenge? There was no place for pointless payback gestures in his line of work. That was for schoolboys and amateurs. Professionals substituted logic and reasoning for spite and petulance. If the page had been destroyed, Pelota would have to tell him the names that had been on it. It was as simple as that and, with his objective so clearly defined, all that remained was to think how best to go about persuading the man to do just that. It would require a little thought.
Steven was woken by a telephone call at three in the morning. It was Caroline Anderson. ‘The girl we spoke about earlier has been brought in to City General,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid it’s the real thing.’
‘Damnation,’ said Steven.
‘It gets worse. Her brother, the ambulanceman, died at one thirty this morning, and four other contacts have called in to report that they’re feeling unwell.’
‘Just when you take down your umbrella…’ said Steven.
‘It starts to pour,’ agreed Caroline. ‘Anyway, the meeting has been brought forward to 9 a.m. Everyone is requested to attend.’
‘Thanks for telling me,’ said Steven.
At 5 a.m. his mobile bleeped twice to herald an incoming text message. It came from Sci-Med and said, ‘Read your e-mail, encryption code 5.’ He connected his laptop to the phone line and downloaded the message. He rubbed his eyes while the unscrambling program made sense of it. It was short and to the point. ‘New case of haemorrhagic fever confirmed in Perth, Scotland. No established connection with Heathrow or Manchester outbreaks. Details to follow.’
Steven stared at the screen, as he read and reread the words ‘No established connection’.
‘Another bloody wildcard,’ he whispered. An epidemic without a source was every epidemiologist’s worst nightmare. He tried reassuring
himself that things always looked worse in the wee small hours of the morning, but a filovirus outbreak with no traceable source could wipe out thousands.
The details of the Scottish case arrived before Steven left for the hospital. The victim, Frank McDougal, a forty-year-old assistant bank manager, was already dead. He had died in Perth Royal Infirmary after being taken there in response to a 999 call from his wife. His wife, his eighteen-year-old daughter, a nurse in A amp;E and a hospital porter had all since gone down with the disease and were in isolation at the same hospital. Public Health were doing their best to locate and isolate contacts.
McDougal had not been abroad since his last holiday in Cyprus last July. He had no connection with anyone on the Ndanga flight, or indeed with anyone in Manchester. His condition had been diagnosed three days after admission to the hospital with suspected viral pneumonia.
‘Shit,’ murmured Steven. Apart from anything else, he was alarmed that it had taken three days before the Scottish doctors realised what was wrong with McDougal. Something would have to be done about this situation. An alert would have to be sent out to all A amp;E departments. Hospital staff had to be warned to be on the lookout for filovirus cases. GPs would also have to be alerted.
There were a lot of worried faces in the room when Steven arrived at City General, and his was one of them. The new case was on everyone’s mind, with some people learning about it only on arrival. Steven made his point about the need for forewarning. ‘It took three days in Scotland,’ he stressed. ‘The virus can do a lot of damage in three days.’ Everyone was in agreement except the Department of Health group led by Sinclair.
‘Perhaps a confidential memo to heads of A amp;E units might be in order,’ Sinclair conceded. ‘But we must guard against anything that will cause widespread public alarm.’
‘Is an epidemic really preferable?’ insisted Steven. ‘The warning must go out to all front-line personnel. All A amp;E staff and GPs must be included.’
‘With respect, Dr Dunbar, I think this area is outside your remit,’ said Sinclair with a smile that reminded Steven of the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland.
‘It’s not outside mine,’ Caroline Anderson intervened. ‘And I agree with Dr Dunbar. All clinical staff must be warned to be on the lookout.’
‘I’ll relay your comments to the appropriate ears, of course, but any sort of national decision must be taken at ministerial level,’ said Sinclair.
‘And probably in both parliaments.’ Steven sighed.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Sinclair.
‘The Scots have their own parliament,’ Steven reminded him. ‘I presume the DoH in London has been keeping the Scottish Health Minister informed of events?’
The look on Sinclair’s face told Steven that he had scored a direct hit in spite of the blustering reply, ‘I’m sure all relevant parties have been kept informed of the current situation.’
‘It’s just a great pity that the staff on duty at Perth Royal Infirmary when McDougal was brought in or his GP were not “relevant parties”,’ said Steven.
‘Ah, such clarity of hindsight,’ said Professor Cane, with a sideways sneer at Steven. ‘I don’t think we can blame our London colleague here for not wanting to cause undue public alarm. The public are subjected to an endless stream of scare stories as it is, and it’s not as if we’re talking about an epidemic here.’
‘I think that’s exactly what we are talking about,’ said Steven. ‘And that’s foresight, not hindsight. I take it you and your team have made no more progress than I have in establishing the root cause of these outbreaks, Professor?’
‘My team is exploring every avenue, based on the data we have collected. I’m confident that the rigorous application of epidemiological methodology will prevail over more… unconventional means.’
‘Can we take that as a no?’ said Steven, ignoring the insult. ‘That leaves us with three outbreaks of a fatal disease and no idea where it’s coming from. If things continue like this, we’ll be faced with a country-wide epidemic within weeks.’
‘But they won’t,’ insisted Cane. ‘This is not the Third World. Medical science is on our side. Panic would be a bigger enemy than the virus.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Sinclair.
‘There is a middle course,’ said Steven. ‘Simply saying, “Trust us,” is not enough. We have to make sure that hospitals and surgeries are on the lookout for this thing. Containment is an absolute must.’
‘Won’t the notifiable disease system ensure that anyway?’ asked the social work chief, Alan Morely.
‘This disease isn’t on the list,’ said Byars, sounding slightly embarrassed. He responded to looks of disbelief by adding, ‘Simply because it’s a new virus. The authorities don’t know what to call it, I suppose.’
‘Might I suggest that “the authorities” put it on the list?’ asked Steven. ‘Even if they have to call it Mary Jane for the time being?’
‘In due course,’ said Sinclair.
The ensuing silence made Sinclair’s words hang in the air.
‘Gentlemen, I think we really must move on to more immediate matters,’ Caroline Anderson interceded. ‘We’ve had one new case and there are four new possibles.’
‘All of whom are now here in the hospital,’ said George Byars, ‘but there is a limit to how many more we can cope with in terms of ward space and nurses trained in the appropriate techniques.’
‘It’s more than likely that these will be the last cases,’ said Cane. ‘It’ll all be over by Christmas.’ He laughed at his own joke and his team dutifully followed his lead. Steven couldn’t help but think that the last time someone in authority said that, it had been followed by five years of world war.
‘I still think we should be at least thinking about contingency plans, in the unfortunate event that we’re faced with a more lengthy outbreak than we had anticipated,’ said Byars, tiptoeing through a minefield of egos.
‘I must say I agree,’ said Miss Christie, the nursing director. ‘I think it would be an idea to broaden our nursing base for the courses to include nursing volunteers from other hospitals.’
‘We might also like to talk to the local council about suitable vacant accommodation that could be pressed into service — in the unfortunate event that the need should arise,’ said Byars.
Cane shrugged as if he wanted nothing to do with such considerations, and looked at his watch. He said, ‘I’m due to speak with my Scottish colleagues about the outbreak in Perth in ten minutes. We’re hopeful of being able to establish a link.’
‘Good luck,’ said Steven.
‘And so say all of us,’ added Byars. ‘I suggest we all meet again tomorrow morning to assess the situation. Miss Christie, I suggest you contact your colleagues at other hospitals with your idea, and perhaps Mr Morely might speak to relevant council officials about the accommodation issue — purely as a precautionary measure.’
Steven left the meeting with Caroline Anderson. When they were free of the others he said, ‘You look like a woman in need of a cup of coffee.’
‘I’d sell my soul for one right now,’ she replied.
‘There’ll be no charge.’ Steven smiled.
They sought out a local hotel and sat down at a window table in the breakfast room, where they both ordered black coffee and toast.
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Steven, seeing that she was preoccupied.
‘That damned disco,’ replied Caroline. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about it now that the girl’s gone down with the disease. I’m beginning to think I should have put out that appeal yesterday.’
‘You called it as you saw it and, for what it’s worth, I think it was the right thing to do. The appeal wouldn’t have made any difference in practical terms. It’s not as if you were going to be able to take two hundred people off the streets and lock them away for two or three weeks. The best you could have hoped for was persuading them to stay at home for the period when they’re going to infect the p
eople they’re most likely to infect anyway: their families.’
Caroline looked at him and smiled. ‘Thanks for the support. But I still feel bad because… because I…’
‘You didn’t play it strictly by the book, and that makes you vulnerable should the shit start to fly.’
‘I suppose that’s it exactly,’ agreed Caroline. ‘You sound as if you’re familiar with the feeling.’
‘Story of my life,’ said Steven. ‘Doing what’s right isn’t nearly as easy as people imagine. In your case the book might say that frightening two hundred kids to death is a good idea, but you and I know differently, especially when dealing with a disease we can do nothing at all about.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate your support.’
‘Actually, there’s something else I’d like you to do that isn’t strictly by the book,’ he said.
‘Hence the coffee.’ Caroline smiled.
‘That had nothing to do with it,’ said Steven firmly. ‘Do you think you could spare one of your people to carry out an inspection of a restaurant in town?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Caroline, a bit guardedly.
‘On a daily basis until I say stop?’
Caroline’s eyes opened wide. ‘Are you serious?’ she asked.
‘Never more so.’
NINE
Edinburgh
Paul Grossart hitched up the waistband of his trousers as he approached the desk of the George Hotel. He had lost weight recently and his clothes were starting to hang badly on him.
‘I’m having dinner with Mr Vance,’ he told the receptionist, thinking that eating dinner was the last thing he wanted to do. Food just wasn’t high on his agenda these days.
The girl, wearing corporate uniform with a distinctive Scottish theme, pushed her hair back with both hands and checked a small lined notebook in front of her. ‘Mr Vance’s party is in a private dining room this evening, Mr…?’
‘Grossart.’
‘Mr Grossart. William will take you up, sir.’ She smiled, and summoned the short stocky porter lurking by the stairs and Grossart was led to a small dining room, where he found Vance sitting talking with two other men. His first impression was that the men were not scientists; they were dressed too well.
