by Ken McClure
‘Well, hello to you too,’ she said accusingly. ‘I take it we’ve not had the best of days?’
‘Sorry,’ grunted Barrowman, fighting the fire in his throat. ‘Shit awful. I think I’m going to be looking for a job.’
‘Well?’ Lucy prompted as the silence continued. ‘Are you going to tell me why?’
Barrowman told her.
‘Does it really matter where the money comes from?’
‘Of course, it matters. These anonymous donors could screw up my whole career.’
‘Does that matter more than being out of a job?’
‘I expected more support from my wife.’
‘The baby and I will be expecting some support too.’
‘What bab . . .Oh Christ, I forgot, you were seeing the doctor today. You’re pregnant. Oh God . . . that’s . . . wonderful.’
‘Yeah,’ said Lucy, getting to her feet and leaving the room.
‘Oh, come on Lucy,’ Barrowman called out. ‘C’mon, you know I’m delighted . . . It’s just been such an awful day and not just because of the funding thing . . . this guy at Moorlock Hall . . . he’s really getting to me.
The bedroom door slammed.
FIVE
‘You look thoughtful,’ said John Macmillan.
‘Sorry,’ smiled Steven, ‘a lot on my mind. Owen Barrowman phoned me late last night. An anonymous outfit has come up with funding for the Lindstrom group.’
‘Well, well,’ said Macmillan. ‘I heard a rumour to that effect at dinner last night. Apparently, the fact that her group is looking for genetic links to extreme criminal behaviour attracted someone’s attention, someone to whom money is no object.’
‘Barrowman’s work,’ said Steven. He’s been collecting data from psychopaths in high security units all over the UK. He’s looking for genetic and biochemical differences that might point the way to possible treatments.’’
‘A cure for psychopaths?’ exclaimed Macmillan.
‘The Lindstrom group are looking at a wide range of extreme human behaviour. It’s the old story, if you understand how something works you’re coming close to controlling it.’
Macmillan looked as if his mind had strayed off somewhere else. ‘You know, this is all getting quite . . . bizarre. I had a note delivered to me just before you arrived. It was unsigned.’
‘Was it the kind you have to swallow after you’ve read it?’ asked Steven with a grin, which attracted a withering look from Macmillan.
Thinking that Macmillan had been told the identity of the anonymous Lindstrom benefactors, he said, ‘I take it your billet-doux has given you the name of the funders?’
‘Nothing to do with that,’ said Macmillan. ‘My anonymous informant was telling me why government-sponsored funding had been turned down for Professor Lindstrom’s group.’
‘Payback time for standing on too many toes in the past?’
‘Nothing so banal,’ said Macmillan, looking Steven straight in the eye. ‘Our intelligence services warned them off.’
Steven let out a low whistle followed by a quiet, ‘Oh dear.’
‘And for the life of me I can’t work out why,’ Macmillan continued. ‘You’d think any research into the working of the human mind and how to control it would be right up their street’
‘Shades of, The Manchurian Candidate,’ smiled Steven.
‘I was thinking more of The Quiller Memorandum,’ said Macmillan. ‘Better music.’
‘Maybe it’s just a case of mental illness always being the poor relation when it comes to handing out cash,’ said Steven.
‘That wouldn’t explain MI5’s involvement,’ said Macmillan.
‘True.’
‘Anyway, your friend Barrowman must be very relieved that money has come in from somewhere.’
‘Actually, he’s not,’ said Steven. ‘He’d obviously been drinking when he called last night, but he was angry; he’d much rather the money had come from one of the more usual sources. He’s been told the holders of the purse strings will have the final say about what gets made public and what doesn’t and he doesn’t like the sound of that, thinks it could screw up his career.’
‘Some people are never happy,’ said Macmillan with a world-weary shrug and a wave of his hand.’
‘He has a point,’ said Steven. ‘Young scientists have to get their work published to get a foot on the career ladder. To work hard, make a breakthrough and then be told to keep quiet about it could lead to being seriously pissed off.’
‘Nothing’s ever straightforward these days.’
Steven gave a wry smile. He said, ‘You know, I came in this morning to suggest we keep an eye on the situation and then you drop the bombshell about Five’s involvement. That sort of changes everything.’
‘What was your concern before that?’
‘Supposing . . . just supposing Owen Barrowman did come up with a way of treating psychoses and the funding body wanted to hush it up . . . for whatever reason.’
‘How could they stop publication?’
‘You can bet your house that top lawyers will have been involved in drawing up the conditions attached to the grant.’
‘See what you mean,’ Macmillan conceded with a sigh. ‘So, what does your friend do about that?’
‘Barrowman’s a bright guy. He’ll have seen that scenario on the horizon.’
‘Ah,’ said Macmillan appreciating what Steven was getting at. ‘And be tempted to be economical with reports of his success?’
‘Exactly. I gather he works alone so he’s in a position to decide who gets told about his results . . . and who doesn’t . . . ‘
‘’You’re right,’ agreed Macmillan. ‘So, he hides what he finds out under the bed. What does he do next?’
Steven thought for a moment before saying, ‘He has a first-class degree and a PhD, but he’s probably never been involved in doing anything devious in his life. He’ll be out of his league.’
‘Unlike you,’ said Macmillan.
‘Not sure that was a compliment.’
‘Just a fact.’
‘He’ll come up with what he thinks is a cunning plan. He’ll resign and take his findings with him. He’ll apply for a new job somewhere else, pretend to begin his research all over again. After a while he’ll announce his discovery, accept the congratulations of his colleagues and submit his paper to Nature.
‘Something tells me that isn’t going to work,’ said Macmillan.
‘We don’t know who the funding body is, but, for the moment, let’s call them the opposition.’
Macmillan nodded.
‘The one thing we can safely assume is that they’ll be pretty bright too.’
‘And maybe even streetwise and devious,’ added Macmillan with a smile.
‘That we don’t know, but even if they are perfectly respectable and completely above board, they’ll figure out what Barrowman’s up to and go after him with charges of theft of intellectual property. They’ll inform the scientific journals of pending proceedings and they’ll immediately put a hold on publication.’
‘You said theft?’
‘It won’t be hard to prove that the data really came from Barrowman’s work while he was in the Lindstrom group at Capital and, as such, it’ll belong to the funding body not the scientist under the terms of their agreement. Under these circumstances no one would dare publish it. The opposition might even suggest he made the whole lot up if they were so inclined. One way or another Barrowman’s career would be over.’
‘Maybe someone . . . a friend should warn him if he’s considering going down that route?’
The look on Macmillan’s face suggested that someone should be Steven. ‘He trusts you.’
‘Not sure if a late-night phone call under the influence amounts to that, but I could give it a try . . . if only because there’s another possible scenario.’
‘Go on.’
What I outlined is what might happen if the funding body is a respectable outfit with entirely
innocent reasons for maintaining anonymity.’
‘Anonymous philanthropy? Not that common.’
‘So, let us consider they might not be all that innocent, said Steven. ‘We simply don’t know. But again, for the sake of argument, let’s suppose they are a ruthless bunch of venture capitalists backing the research for some reason we haven’t worked out. Young Barrowman might find himself being persuaded to hand over his data by virtue of having his kneecaps removed.’
Macmillan recoiled at the thought. He got up and walked over to the cupboard where he kept his much-loved Amontillado sherry. He poured two glasses and, in accepting one, Steven recognised this as the ritual, performed by Macmillan when he was about to commit Sci-Med formally to an investigation.
Macmillan took a sip and relaxed back into his chair. He took a moment to get his thoughts in order before looking up at the ceiling and saying, ‘We have a backer for medical research who doesn’t want to be identified, a scientist who might not want to share his results with anyone and an intelligence community who doesn’t want the research to be carried out in the first place.’
‘About sums it up
‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘I don’t know, but I take it you think this is a problem for Sci-Med?’
‘We can’t ignore it,’ said Macmillan. ‘Apart from anything else we can’t sit back and let MI5 interfere with legitimate medical research.’
Steven murmured his agreement.
‘And we can’t stand by idly while a young scientist possibly conceals knowledge which could have huge benefits for mankind.’
‘More difficult,’ said Steven. ‘We don’t know what Dorothy Lindstrom has signed up to and what the nature of the funding body is.’
‘You mean they might want to keep it under wraps?’ asked Macmillan, sounding surprised. ‘But why would they fund it if they wanted to bury the results?’
‘Maybe they’d just want exclusive use of them,’ Steven suggested. ‘And, as you have pointed out on more than one occasion, John, discoveries that can be used for good . . .’
‘Can also be used for evil,’ Macmillan intoned with a weary sigh.
Macmillan’s phone rang and Steven made to leave but Macmillan signalled him back as he reached the door.
‘Well, well,’ said Macmillan replacing the phone. ‘That didn’t take long. After what you told me about Moorlock Hall I asked my sources to keep me informed if any mention of it should crop up in the corridors of Whitehall. There’s to be an inspection of the place by an ad hoc parliamentary committee.’
Steven shook his head and said, ‘They couldn’t leave well alone.’
‘It never rains . . .’
‘Do you know when?’
Macmillan shook his head.
‘I think I’ll contact Barrowman and arrange a meeting, ostensibly to tell him what’s about to happen,’ said Steven, ‘but it’ll give me a chance to assess how he’s feeling about things.’
‘Like I said . . . devious . . . street wise.’
* * * *
Dorothy Lindstrom entered the seminar room just after two o’clock to find her research group waiting expectantly for her. She plumped her heavy shopping bag on to the speaker’s desk and withdrew three bottles of sparkling Italian wine to a murmur of approval.
‘Do you think you could get us some beakers, Molly?’ she asked Molly Bearsden who was sitting at the end of the row nearest the door as chatter broke out all round. ‘We’re going to have a little celebration.’
The girl returned from the sterile glassware unit with a wire basket containing a jumble of glass beakers. She helped Dorothy strip the metal foil covers from the rim of each before whispering, ‘I don’t think Mrs Cotter was too pleased.’ Vera Cotter was in charge of the washing and sterilising of laboratory glassware and not a woman to be trifled with.
‘Ask her to join us,’ said Dorothy, popping the first cork and starting to pour. ‘Help yourselves everyone. We’ve had some good news.’
An orderly line, alive with chatter, formed in front of the desk.’
Owen Barrowman was the last to accept a beaker, insisting that Vera and Molly precede him. He and Dorothy exchanged glances. ‘All right, Owen?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Any happier?’
‘Lucy’s pregnant.’
‘That’s wonderful news. Congratulations. We can have a double celebration.’
Dorothy looked for signs of agreement but found only a slight nod. She waited until he’d sat down with the others before announcing that funding had been secured. She basked for a few moments in the smiles and expressions of relief that filled the room before continuing, ‘I hope those of you who were considering applying for other jobs might reconsider so that we can continue together to enjoy the exciting times and discoveries that lie ahead.
The murmurs were positive.
‘There is something however, that has been brought to my attention and I feel I should mention it at the outset. The money has certain strings attached to it. We will not have the usual academic freedom to submit our findings to the journals of our choice or indeed speak about our work at scientific meetings. This doesn’t mean we won’t be allowed to do that, it just means we’ll have to run it past our fund providers beforehand for approval. This won’t affect many of us but it might be something that will concern a few.
’ Dorothy looked directly at Barrowman who looked down at the floor.
‘Personally, I can’t see this becoming a major issue. I’m sure it’ll just be a case of rubber stamping.’
Someone asked where the funding was coming from.
Dorothy looked slightly embarrassed but made light of it. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘The donor prefers to remain anonymous, Owen thinks it’s the Mafia.’
Owen continued to look at the floor but did his best to adopt a slight grin.
When the laughter subsided Dorothy continued, ‘The donors have instructed a legal firm to act on their behalf and act as intermediaries, which I think suits us very well. I can’t see lawyers wanting to poke around the labs all the time.’
‘Maybe they’ll just ask for written reports . . . all the time,’ said Owen.
‘That’s a possibility,’ Dorothy conceded, ‘but if they do we can complain and point out they’re interfering with research. It’s in the donors’ interests to keep us happy, don’t you think?’
Owen conceded with a nod but added, ‘The real problems will arise when we want to publish our findings and the donors say no.’
‘But, why would they?’ Dorothy argued. ‘It’s not as if we’re working on anything secret. We’re not designing chemical weapons or nuclear missiles. We’re simply trying to work out why people are the way they are . . .’
‘Supposing there was a disagreement, what’s to stop us publishing anyway?’ asked one of the technicians
‘Lawyers,’ said Dorothy in a way that suggested what she thought of the profession. The laughter suggested she wasn’t alone. ‘The university lawyers tell me the contract has been drawn up by people who knew what they were doing.’
‘Some of us will be obliged to sign binding secrecy agreements which would make us personally liable – in a legal sense – should we breach them.’
Jane Lincoln, the American post doc who had worked with Dorothy at Yale and who had moved with her to the UK, broke into laughter.
‘Something amusing you, Jane?’
‘Sorry, I was just thinking I’ve been working with a group of schoolgirls at a boarding school in Wales who more or less simultaneously developed a rash on their bottoms. I suppose it’s the idea of a rash on the bum being some kind of official secret . . . For your eyes only, Mr Bond.’
Everyone joined in the laughter including Dorothy. Even Barrowman managed a smile.
‘Well, there you go. I’m sure our funding body would see the funny side too,’ said Dorothy. ‘I honestly don’t think we have anything to worry about.’
This view
satisfied the room.
‘Okay people, perhaps we can now talk about science and you can tell me what you’ve all been up to since our last get together. As you’ve already whetted our appetite, perhaps you’d like to start, Jane? You’ve got us all intrigued?’
Jane adopted a dramatic pose and announced, ‘This is the tale of the giant spider of Felinbach, a fearsome beast that stalks the corridors of the Aberconwy School for Girls in North Wales.’
Several people went, ‘Wooo,’ to add atmosphere.
‘Just over a month ago a young girl reported to matron that she had a rash on her bottom. When asked if she had any idea what might have caused it she claimed that she had been bitten by a large spider in the toilets but had been too afraid to tell anyone. She had been “in a state of shock” to use her words.
Word got around the school about a giant spider lying in wait for the unwary in the john and, in all, twenty-three girls developed a rash on the buttocks, reporting that they had been bitten too.’
‘Did you get blood samples?’ Dorothy asked.
‘I didn’t get there in time for the early ones but I did manage to get bloods and buccal smears from the final three to report the appearance of a rash.’
‘Well done. What are the medics saying?’
‘No sign of bite marks on anyone.’
‘Ah,’ said Dorothy.
‘Ah indeed,’ Jane agreed. ‘It turns out the original girl made up the story about the spider. She used stinging nettles to give herself a rash to get out of games which she hates.’
‘Her and me both,’ said Dorothy. ‘But presumably not all the others were similarly averse?’
‘No, but they all developed rashes.’
‘Nettle rashes?’
‘No.’ Jane paused for effect. ‘They had rashes consistent with insect bites.’
Jane achieved the desired effect. Eyes opened wide and mouths fell open.
‘Isn’t the mind just wonderful?’ said Dorothy to break the hush that had fallen over the room. ‘These girls believed they had been bitten and their brains managed to convince their bodies to respond appropriately.’
