by Ken McClure
Steven had turned his phone off while he spoke to Karen and Ian. As soon as he switched it back on, Sci-Med rang to tell him that Mair Jones was due in on a flight from Palma to Manchester Airport at ten-thirty that evening. Did he want to speak to her? After the day he’d had, Steven thought that was probably the last thing he wanted to do. Her importance in the affair had diminished since the appearance of Karen Doig and Ian Patterson on the scene but, because so many people had gone to so much trouble, he said that he would be at the airport. He took the opportunity to check that Sci-Med had passed on his request about the heart valve to Porton.
‘The analysis is already under way. They’d actually decided to do some sequencing on the valve before you asked so you’ll get the result sooner than expected. They say they’ll run a homology search on it as soon as they have enough sequence data to feed into the computer.’
‘That’s exactly what I was going to ask them to do,’ said Steven.
The flight from Majorca was only a few minutes late. Mair Jones, a small woman with sharp eyes and jet-black dyed hair, was escorted to the interview room, while the police took care of retrieving her baggage.
‘Well, I’ve certainly had my fifteen minutes of fame,’ she said in a strong Welsh accent. ‘Who are you when you’re at home?’
Steven told her, and showed his ID. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘Pissed off,’ she replied, missing the point of the question. ‘Wouldn’t you be if two British policemen turned up at your hotel in the early hours and suggested you accompany them home without giving any reason?’
‘You’ve no idea what this is about?’ asked Steven, disbelief showing in his voice.
‘I suppose it’s something to do with poor Maureen and the job we did?’
Steven nodded and said, ‘Yesterday, we had no idea how Maureen Williams contracted the virus, but then I spoke to her husband and he told me about the nursing assignment and your involvement. Maureen was in no position to tell us what we needed to know. That left you.’
‘Poor Mo,’ said Mair. ‘I suppose I panicked and ran off to the sunshine in case I was going to get it too.’
‘You could have taken it with you,’ Steven pointed out.
Mair Jones held up her hands and said, ‘All right, I know, I know, but I just had to get away. What happens now?’
‘I need to ask you some questions.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Who your patients were, what happened to them, and who paid you to look after them in the first place.’
‘We were paid in cash up front,’ said Mair, confirming what Williams had said. ‘Our patients were a man and a woman in their early thirties, Peter and Amy — we weren’t told their surnames, just that they had been diagnosed as having an extremely rare but very contagious viral infection. They were already pretty ill by the time we arrived at Capel Curig.’
‘What happened to them?’
Mair sighed and looked down at her feet. ‘They died,’ she said softly. ‘Mo and I did our best, but all to no avail, I’m afraid.’
‘Then what?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘What happened to them?’
‘Their bodies, you mean?’ exclaimed Mair, as if it were an improper question. ‘I really don’t know. Our job was over, so we were driven back to Bangor, and that was the end of it as far as we were concerned.’
Steven said, ‘Peter’s wife and Amy’s husband turned up this morning, so I was able to piece together quite a lot of what has been going on. They’d come to Wales to look for them.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Mair. ‘We had no idea. I suppose we assumed that they were married to each other. One of the Americans told us they were scientists who had infected themselves through their research work. We weren’t allowed to ask questions.’
‘Peter had a baby daughter,’ said Steven.
‘Poor love,’ murmured Mair. ‘We just never thought — not that there was much we could have done, mind you.’ After a few moments of silent contemplation, she asked, ‘Are you arresting me?’
Steven shook his head and said, ‘No. Private nursing’s not a crime, even though you and your friend may have been mixed up in something criminal.’
‘Does that mean I can go?’
‘Subject to surveillance by the Public Health people,’ said Steven.
‘I don’t have to give the money back?’
‘No, you earned it.’
Mair smiled ruefully. ‘Considering what’s happened to Mo,’ she said, ‘I think maybe I did.’
Steven decided to stay overnight in Manchester, because he suspected that he would be heading north in the morning to tackle Lehman Genomics and fit the last remaining piece into the puzzle. The Snowball project was the key to the whole outbreak, and the introduction of a new virus into the public domain had been part of it. There was just one more piece of information he needed before going to Lehman, and that was the report from Porton. He had a bet with himself that it was going to explain how so many human heart valves could have been contaminated with the same virus. He would hold off going north until he knew but, whatever the details, Lehman was going to be hounded out of business for what it had done, and Paul Grossart, as head of the company, was going to go to prison for a long time. With a bit of luck, the evidence would sustain a murder charge.
Steven was shaving when his mobile rang. His heart leaped: it might be the Porton result.
Instead, Charles Runcie asked, ‘You haven’t heard from Karen Doig at all, have you?’
‘No. What’s happened?’
‘Ian Patterson has just phoned me. Apparently, she disappeared from their hotel some time during the night and she’s taken his car.’
Steven closed his eyes and groaned, ‘Hell’s teeth, that’s all we need.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s my bet she’s gone north,’ said Steven. ‘She wants to get to Paul Grossart before the police do.’
‘Good God, I never thought of that.’
‘No reason why you should, Doctor.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I’ll catch a plane up there and hope I get to Grossart first. I don’t suppose Patterson had any idea when she left?’
‘Don’t think so. He just said she wasn’t there when he went down for breakfast and his car was gone.’
Steven called Sci-Med and told them what was going on.
‘Do you want us to contact the Edinburgh police?’
‘No,’ said Steven after a moment’s thought. He didn’t want Grossart spooked by the police turning up on his doorstep. ‘Is Macmillan there?’
Steven heard the duty man briefing Macmillan before he took up the phone.
‘Nothing in from Porton yet?’ asked Steven when Macmillan came on the line.
‘Not yet. I gather you have a problem?’
Steven told him about Karen Doig’s disappearance.
‘You think this is significant?’ asked Macmillan.
‘She’s an angry lady and she holds Grossart responsible for the death of her husband.’
‘So she might be thinking of doing something silly?’
‘Hard to say,’ said Steven. ‘The fact is that she came to Wales and did pretty well in finding the field station and establishing the connection with Maureen Williams. That alone says that she’s a pretty determined and capable woman.’
‘Damn, this could be messy,’ said Macmillan. ‘Are you sure you don’t want us to warn the local police?’
‘No. I’m going to try getting up there before her. I want to see Grossart and hear what he has to say before the police get to him.’
‘You’ll be lucky.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Steven.
‘It’s Christmas Eve.’
‘Shit. I’d lost track. I’d better go. Could you e-mail me the file on Lehman and Paul Grossart? I’ll download it en route.’
‘Will do. Good luck.’
Stev
en had to use his ID and all the extra clout the Home Secretary had promised him in order to secure a seat on the plane up to Edinburgh. He was sipping orange juice when, twenty minutes into the journey, he was called to the flight deck. The captain handed him a handset and said, ‘It’s for you. A1 priority.’
‘Dunbar,’ said Steven.
‘It’s Clive Phelps here at Porton Down. We’ve done some DNA sequencing on the heart valve and it’s really amazing. All the immunological tests suggested that it was human and a perfect match for the patient, but it turns out the damned tissue isn’t human at all. The DNA says it came from a pig.’
‘Thank you,’ said Steven, silently congratulating himself on having won his bet. ‘Thank you very much indeed.’
‘Good news?’ asked the captain.
‘My cup overflows,’ replied Steven with a smile. He returned to his seat, confident that the last piece of the puzzle was now in place. It was no secret that biotech companies had been experimenting with pigs with a view to using them for human transplant purposes. The big prize in this line of research was to breed a strain with a genetically altered immune system so that human beings would not reject the acquired organs. It looked as if Lehman had succeeded where others had failed. But at what a cost. Talk about the road to hell being paved with good intentions.
Steven thought he’d better check at the Lehman laboratories first. Although it was Christmas Eve there was a chance that a guilty conscience might be keeping Grossart at his desk, so he had a taxi take him to the Science Park on the south side of the city. There was only one car in the car park, a six-year-old Ford Escort with chequered tape on the back bumper, and it belonged to the security guard.
‘There’s nobody here, mate. It’s Christmas Eve.’
‘I thought Mr Grossart might be in,’ said Steven.
‘That bloke needs the rest more than anyone, if you ask me,’ replied the guard. ‘He’s been looking like a basket case for weeks now.’
‘Thanks,’ said Steven. ‘I’ll try to catch him at home.’
Steven gave the taxi driver Grossart’s home address and asked, ‘Is it near here?’
‘Ravelston Gardens? Other side of the bloody city,’ grumbled the driver, who’d maintained a sullen silence since the airport.
‘Then we’d best get moving,’ said Steven.
As they turned into Ravelston Gardens some thirty minutes later, Steven saw a green Toyota Land Cruiser some thirty metres ahead and told the driver to stop. ‘Okay, this’ll do,’ he said. ‘How much?’
‘Thirty quid on the meter,’ replied the driver, turning to offer a smile that was meant to encourage the tip.
‘Here’s forty,’ said Steven. ‘Buy yourself a personality for Christmas.’ He got out, leaving the driver unsure of whether to feel pleased or insulted.
There were probably thousands of green Land Cruisers in the country, and probably several in a well-heeled area like this, but something told Steven that this was Ian Patterson’s and that Karen Doig had beaten him to it. When he got nearer and saw in the window the wildlife stickers he remembered from the car park at Caernarfon General, he was sure. This was a complication he could have done without.
From across the street he took a quick look at the house, hoping to glimpse someone through one of the front windows. He wanted to get a feel for what was going on, but one window was net-curtained and the other had a large Christmas tree in it. His main problem was that he wasn’t sure about Karen Doig’s mental state and why she had come to Grossart’s house. If she was there to take an awful revenge, he didn’t want to spook her into action by startling her.
He walked slowly past, noting that there was a garage entrance at one side, shielded from the house by a tall hedge. It should be possible to get round to the back without being seen, and he decided that that was probably the safest option. He checked that there was no one coming up behind him, then crossed the road and started walking back. Another quick glance over his shoulder and, with the coast still clear, he slipped into the garage entrance and up past the hedge, pausing for a moment before moving in a crouching run along the side of the house to the rear corner.
He lay down and snaked his way round the corner, fearing that there might be someone in the back garden, but there wasn’t. In the back wall there was a window that he could easily pass under without showing himself, and then there was the back door, which he hoped would afford him access to the inside. He lay still for a few moments under the window, listening for sounds from within, but all was quiet, worryingly quiet: the sound of angry voices would have been reassuring.
The back door was a modern double-glazed one, so Steven would be able to see inside, but only at an angle unless he left the shelter of the wall and exposed himself to all the back windows. He watched, listened and waited for a full minute before deciding that the odds against someone standing silently where he couldn’t see them were suitably remote. He reached up and applied gentle pressure to the door handle. To his relief, the door was unlocked and opened smoothly. He slipped inside and closed it behind him. At once he became aware of a strong smell of petrol.
The feeling that there was something dreadfully wrong pushed Steven’s pulse rate higher as he moved towards the door to the hall. Grossart was a family man and this was Christmas Eve. The silence was all wrong… and that smell… A floorboard creaked as he stepped on it and he froze. He was about to continue when the silence was broken by Karen Doig’s voice saying, ‘So you’ve finally come round, have you?’
Steven thought for a moment that she was talking to him, but then realised that the sound had come from the front room to his left. He moved cautiously to the door. It was ajar, and he saw a man he presumed to be Paul Grossart lying on the floor in front of the Christmas tree. His hands were tied behind him and there was dried blood on his forehead. From what Karen had said, Steven deduced that Grossart was just regaining consciousness after a blow to his head. His clothes looked soaked, presumably with petrol from a red plastic container lying at his feet.
‘I wanted you to be conscious,’ continued Karen. ‘I wanted you to understand why I’m doing this. Was my Peter conscious when you burned him?’
‘No, no,’ gasped Grossart. ‘He died of the virus — they both did. You have my word. Everything possible was done for them, right to the end.’
‘Your word!’ sneered Karen. ‘What do you imagine your word’s worth, you bastard? You made me believe my husband had run off with another woman and all the time you knew… you knew, you little shit!’
‘No, no, please no, you don’t understand. It just all got out of hand… I never meant any of this to happen.’
‘I’ll bet you didn’t, now that you’re ten seconds away from hell.’
Steven heard the metallic rasp of a cigarette lighter being lit. He burst into the room, shouting, ‘No, Karen! Don’t do it!’
Karen was startled and dropped the lighter, but she picked it up again before Steven had a chance to get to her. ‘Get back,’ she warned.
‘You’re not thinking straight, Karen,’ said Steven. ‘You’ve lost Peter and you’re sick with grief, but you’ve still got your daughter and she needs you. You mustn’t do this. Let the law deal with him.’
‘I want him to burn like he burned my Peter,’ said Karen through gritted teeth. ‘I want his children to be without their father on Christmas Day, just like Kelly will be.’
‘It won’t make you feel better,’ said Steven. ‘Revenge is never sweet. It’ll taste like poison and you’ll end up regretting it for the rest of your life.’
She looked at him for the first time and he saw doubt creep into her eyes.
‘Give me the lighter,’ he said softly.
‘Get back,’ she said again, with new determination.
‘Look,’ stammered Grossart from the floor. ‘I never meant any of this to happen. God knows I didn’t.’
Steven saw Karen’s thumb move to the lighter wheel. ‘At least hear him out, Karen,’ he
said. The thumb relaxed.
‘We succeeded in breeding a strain of pigs with a genetically altered immune system which made them perfect donors for human transplants,’ said Grossart.
‘The Snowball project?’ said Steven.
‘Yes. All the lab tests suggested that we were on to a winner, so we took a shortcut through all the red tape. We reached an agreement with one of the co-ordinators at the transplant register.’
‘You mean you bribed him to slip your heart valves through as matching human ones,’ said Steven contemptuously.
‘If you like,’ said Grossart. ‘Christ, we’d done every test we could think of on them. They seemed perfectly safe.’
‘But they weren’t,’ said Steven.
‘No,’ agreed Grossart. ‘One of our American virologists found a viral DNA sequence in the genome of our pigs and it was damn nearly identical to Ebola. It wasn’t doing the pigs any harm, but there was a chance that it might suddenly become active inside a human being. We pulled the plug on the whole thing, but it was too late for the patients who’d already been given the valves.’
‘And Peter and Amy?’ asked Karen.
‘They both worked on the project. A routine blood test showed that they were developing antibodies to the new virus, suggesting that they had been infected by it. We decided to send them away for a bit, to see if anything came of it — the trip to the field station in Wales. Unfortunately, they both went down with the virus. As soon as they reported feeling unwell, two of our American people, who had been standing by, went into action to make sure that they got proper nursing care and everything they needed… but they both died. I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry!’ exclaimed Karen. ‘You didn’t even let me say goodbye to him.’
Grossart shook his head. ‘It would have been too dangerous,’ he said. ‘One of the nurses was infected, too.’
‘And she’s very ill,’ said Steven.
Grossart shook his head again and said, ‘When things started to go wrong it was as if the whole affair took on a life of its own. There seemed to be nothing we could do to make things better.’
