by Ken McClure
‘Shit.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t mention that word at the moment.’
‘Sorry. Are you going to come round later?’
‘I think I may just go back to the flat. It’s going to be late when I get away and I’m whacked.’
‘Call you tomorrow?’
‘You know where I’ll be.’ sighed Karen.
Dewar put down the phone and smiled affectionately. He and Karen, a down to earth Scottish girl from the East Lothian fishing village of North Berwick, had been together for nearly two years now. They had actually attended the same medical school but hadn’t really got to know each other until they met up again some four years after graduating when Karen had already been with the Public Health Service for three years and Dewar had just joined Sci-Med after deciding a career in research was not for him. He’d had an unhappy attempt at post graduate research and finally decided he’d had enough of pretending to be a team player when he clearly wasn’t. He was a loner by nature and wouldn’t pretend any more. The fact the earth went round the sun had not been discovered by ‘a team’ led by Copernicus. At Sci-Med he’d found a job where he could do things his way.
He and Karen still had their own flats, an expensive arrangement but both were reluctant to risk damaging their relationship through fall-out from their jobs. Both had stressful, demanding occupations, even life-threatening on occasion in Dewar’s case.
Dewar sat down by an open window where he could see the river. His flat wasn’t actually on the waterside — he couldn’t afford that — but was one street back on the first floor of a converted warehouse. It was very small but if he sat to the left of the main window he could see the river through a gap in the buildings across the street. He read through the FAX from Sci-Med again. If Hammadi was Iraqi he’d better find out as much as possible about him, starting with the police file on the incident and then of course, there was his research project. What exactly had he been studying? Although he’d been a student at the same institute where they had access to smallpox DNA fragments, it was, by all accounts, a very large institute. He could have been working on something completely different.
As a foreign student, Hammadi would have been on several official registers. The funding for his degree would presumably have come from abroad but the actual university registration would be British unless of course, he had been on some short-term exchange deal. Dewar opened up his dial-in connection to the Sci-Med computer facility and used it to connect him to the Internet. He then used the Joint Academic Network (JANET) route to get to the computerised information services of the Institute of Molecular Sciences in Edinburgh. He accessed ‘current research interests’ from their home page and found seventeen research groups listed. Two were working on HIV virus and vaccine development. One of them, a group headed by Dr Steven Malloy, had Ali Hammadi listed as a postgraduate student.
‘Shit,’ said Dewar under his breath. ‘Hammadi had been working in a group with a possible reason to use smallpox fragments. He swore again as he continued reading down the list of names. ‘Pierre Le Grice was listed in the same group. He was the one who’d sent the fragments to Davidson at Manchester.
Dewar drank the remainder of his beer and threw the empty can into the bucket that sat beside the fireplace. It went in cleanly, keeping his average for this activity above eighty percent but tonight he could take little satisfaction from it. His ‘paperwork assignment’ did not seem so routine any more. In fact, he felt a distinct feeling of unease. Two research groups not playing by the rules and a dead Iraqi PhD student who’d had access to smallpox DNA meant he was going to be on a flight to Edinburgh in the morning. He left a message for Sci-Med saying where he was going and asking them to inform the Edinburgh institute officially of his impending visit. He would also need the name of a police contact in the city.
SIX
The British Airways Shuttle got into Edinburgh Airport only a few minutes late. Dewar made contact with Sci-Med using the Executive Lounge facility on the first floor. He was told that the Institute of Molecular Sciences was expecting him and that the police had also been informed. An officer, Inspector Ian Grant had been detailed to brief him at Fettes police headquarters. He was expected there at ten thirty.
The airport taxi made such good progress into town despite the rush hour traffic. that Dewar thought he might be too early for his meeting with Grant. He asked the driver to take him round by Princes Street. Being no stranger to the city — he’d come up with Karen on several occasions when she’d been visiting her mother — he always enjoyed the view of the castle.
‘It’s your money, Pal,’ replied the driver dourly.
Police Headquarters in Fettes Avenue, Edinburgh proved to be a large, white modern, functional-looking building on the north side of the city, sitting opposite the striking and much older facade of Fettes College, the top Scottish public school that Prime Minister, Tony Blair had attended.
Ian Grant turned out to be a burly man in his late thirties with a bushy black moustache that emphasised his dark eyes. He wore a sports jacket and dark trousers. He was wearing a tie but it was loosened as was the top button of his shirt, making him look like Hollywood’s idea of a journalist about to write up his story. Grant poured himself some coffee from a silver-coloured jug and waved it in Dewar’s direction. Dewar shook his head.
‘Foreign student, tops himself, what’s to say? Case closed as far as we’re concerned,’ said Grant as he sat back down at his desk.
‘No suicide note?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did you come up with any likely reason for him doing it?’
”Fraid not. We expected tales of exam pressure, fear of failure, the usual shit but not in his case. His supervisor thought everything was going swimmingly. Shows how much he knew about the price of cheese.’
‘University can be a pretty lonely place,’ said Dewar. ‘It can get to kids, particularly if they’re from a different country.’
‘Wouldn’t know about that,’ said Grant. ‘A university of life man, myself.’
‘Are there any other Iraqi students in the city?’
‘Quite a few as a matter of fact.’ Grant brought out a sheet of paper and continued, ‘They’re all registered with us; they have to be. They have their own students association; it’s in Forest Road, near the Royal Infirmary. The address is on here. I guess a lot of them are medical students.’
Dewar nodded. ‘Did you speak to any of them?’
‘Went through the motions. Nobody knew anything. I got the impression they were all shit scared to talk to the police about anything if you ask me.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Goes with their background, I suppose,’ said Grant. ‘If you live in a police state I suppose you think all police forces are the same.’
‘Do you get the impression they were subject to scrutiny from home while they’re here?’ asked Dewar.
‘Oh yes. There were a couple of blokes hanging around that I thought were a bit old to be students but I didn’t bother asking. If you do, they nearly always turn out to be cultural advisors or some crap like that.’
Dewar nodded and got up. ‘Thanks for your help. I’m going to have a word with the people he worked with then maybe I’ll pop in to the place in Forest Road. Take a look around.’
‘Right you are, I wish you joy. What’s your interest in all this anyway?’
‘Home Office Routine,’ shrugged Dewar. ‘Foreign nationals always attract extra paperwork.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Grant.
‘Do you have a copy of the pathologist’s report, by the way?’
‘Not to hand,’ replied Grant. ‘But it was pretty straightforward. He looked to see if Dewar would be satisfied with this. Dewar remained impassive.
Want me to send you a copy?’
‘If you would.’
The Institute of Molecular Sciences was situated on a site just outside the city on the south side, or ‘Science Park’ as
they preferred to call it. As he walked the final two hundred metres or so from the main gate, Dewar could see that academia was now working very much hand-in-glove with commerce. Many of the buildings seemed to be affiliated to pharmaceutical or chemical companies. He remembered being told by a colleague recently that these days you were as liable to find a patent lawyer in a lab than a scientist. Big money had moved in to exploit the promise of molecular biology in a big way.
Dewar had a brief meeting with Paul Hutton, the head of institute whom he found pretty much of the old school. A place for everyone and everyone in their place, the kind of public school product who would show unswerving loyalty to a cardboard box as long as the cardboard box held an official position. This made him easy — by virtue of being predictable — to deal with. He spoke briefly about the tragedy of Ali Hammadi’s death in suitably muted tones and went on to tell Dewar of the proposed scholarship that Hammadi’s parents had proposed.
‘We’re going to call it the ‘Ali Hammadi Research Scholarship’.
Can’t fault that, thought Dewar. He asked if he might speak with Ali’s supervisor and colleagues.
‘Dr Malloy is expecting you. He’s been taking Ali’s death rather badly, I’m afraid. He blames himself. Ridiculous of course. I’ll have someone show you up.’
Dewar felt unsure about Malloy when he first saw him and took in the Tee shirt and jeans. He was inclined to think he might be of the Mike Davidson school of pain-in-the-arses, another free spirit, untied by time, tide or geometry, tethered only to this earth by his university tenure and comprehensive superannuation scheme, but he decided to withhold judgement.
Malloy for his part was equally unsure about Dewar, seeing the well cut hair, the expensive dark suit, the polished shoes and the briefcase. A ministry pen-pusher was the initial thought but he too decided to withhold judgement.
They talked in Malloy’s office. Dewar picked up on a poster on the wall featuring the American tenor sax player, Stan Getz. ‘You’re a fan?’ he asked.
‘Certainly am.’
‘Me too. I saw him live in Kansas City the year before he died. Played a lot of the Brazilian stuff from the early sixties. Wonderful.’
‘I like that stuff too,’ agreed Malloy. His guitarist, Charlie Byrd, came to Edinburgh a few years ago. I went along. Sounded just the same in real life. Little guy, looked like a bank manager, came on wearing a suit, did his thing and left after blowing all the would-be guitarists in the audience away.’
‘You play yourself?’
‘Not in that company I don’t,’ said Malloy.
Dewar smiled. The ice had been broken.
‘I understand you’re here about Ali?’
‘It’s Ali’s connection with smallpox fragments I’m concerned about,’ said Dewar, putting his cards on the table.
Malloy seemed taken aback. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You know all about the ban on fragment movement at the moment?’
‘It’s a real bastard. It’s stopped us in our tracks.’
‘There’s a reason.’
‘But is it a good one?’
‘The WHO and the UN think it is.’
‘Not convincing enough in itself. It’s always the safest course for bureaucrats to pull the plug on something. It’s the best way to guard their own arses.’
‘Be that as it may, the ruling’s been made,’ said Dewar, not wanting to get involved in that kind of discussion.
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong, we’ll abide by it. Doesn’t mean to say we have to agree with it.’
‘Abiding by it will be enough.’
‘So what’s this got to do with Ali?’
‘Nothing I hope but he was Iraqi,’ said Dewar.
Malloy looked at him long and hard before saying, ‘So you don’t have to be Albert Einstein to work out that you think the Iraqis are fucking around with smallpox?’
‘Let’s say, there’s a suspicion and nobody’s taking any chances.’
‘If you think that Ali was involved in anything like that … well, it’s just plain ridiculous,’ said Malloy.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Dewar. ‘But he was Iraqi, he was a scientist, he did have access to the smallpox genome and … he did end up killing himself.’
‘Point taken,’ agreed Malloy reluctantly. ‘But you’re on the wrong trail. We’ve only got a few fragments of the virus here. You couldn’t do anything crazy with that.’
‘I saw your audit return.’ said Dewar, maintaining eye contact.
‘Oh, I see. You think we may have more than we’re letting on.’
‘Maybe not deliberately,’ said Dewar. ‘But that sort of thing does tend to happen in places like this. I’ve just been to a place where they had more than they should have. No criminal intent just … the university way.’
‘You’re welcome to carry out any inspection you like of the lab and its stocks,’ said Malloy.
‘Thanks,’ said Dewar. ‘It’s always nice to have full cooperation but first I’d like to get a feel for the group. How about telling me who you have working for you and what they’re doing exactly.’
‘I’ve got one post doc, a Frenchman named, Pierre Le Grice from the Institut Pasteur in Paris; he’s been her two years, another one to go. I’ve got two PhD students, Sandra Macandrew — she’s second year supported by the Medical Research Council and Peter Moore, he’s first year, supported by the Wellcome Trust. Ali was my third student. He’d almost finished and was preparing to write up his thesis. He was on Iraqi government money.’
Dewar raised his eyebrows.
‘Nothing unusual in that. Foreign students aren’t entitled to British grants. They have to have their own money for tuition fees and subsistence and it usually comes from their own governments.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘George Ferguson, my senior technician. He’s a medical lab technician. He came up to the university when they closed down the old City Hospital and they were looking to resettle the lab staff. He hadn’t really found a niche and I needed someone who was used to handling viruses so I agreed to take him on until his resettlement period runs out. If I get another grant I’ll keep him on.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Did Ali work alone?’
‘No one was looking over his shoulder, if that’s what you mean. He was a graduate student; he already had a good honours degree in his subject so he knew what he was doing. But you tend to know what the person next to you is doing and people talk all the time about their projects. Let’s say, if Ali was trying to create a complete smallpox virus, someone would have noticed,’ said Malloy, making the notion seem ridiculous.
Dewar nodded. ‘Seems reasonable.’
‘Would you like to meet the team?’
‘I’ve come all this way,’ smiled Dewar.
‘What reason would you like me to give them?’
‘Routine Home Office procedure after the death of a student who was a foreign national, I think.’
Sandra Macandrew was first. Dewar found her pleasant and friendly. She couldn’t understand Ali’s death or the change that came over him during the last few weeks of his life.
‘You obviously noticed a change in his personality,’ said Dewar. ‘Did you notice a change in his work pattern?’
Sandra thought for a moment. ‘He still came to the lab and seemed to be working on his project as usual. I suppose Steve would know from his notebooks whether things were working or not. By that time, he’d stopped talking to us.’
‘But you didn’t notice him doing anything different in the lab?’
‘Different? No.’
‘Thanks for your help, Miss Macandrew. If you think of anything else, you can leave a message for me here.’ Dewar handed her a card with a Sci-Med contact number on it.
Peter Moore was next. He couldn’t tell him any more than Sandra had. Hammadi’s death was as big a mystery to him. Yes, he had liked Ali too.
Pi
erre Le Grice was a different kettle of fish. He was positively aggressive, complaining bitterly about the interruption to his research that the fragment ban was causing.
‘To put a complete stop to circulation at is ridiculous. Okay you impose the twenty percent rule. Even that is stupid. What can you do with fifty that you can’t with twenty? tell me that.’
‘Dr Le Grice, I don’t make the rules. If you want to protest you’ll have to do it through your government and the United Nations.’
‘You people never accept responsibility for anything,’ continued Le Grice. ‘It’s always someone else to blame.’
‘I accept responsibility for what I have to do Doctor. I say again, I don’t make the rules but I am empowered and expected to enforce them.’
There was a pause, engineered by Dewar to allow what he’d said to sink in. He continued, ‘So if I learn that someone here has been sending smallpox fragments to a research institute in Manchester without going through proper channels I just might nail his professional hide to the wall.’
Le Grice said simply, ‘You know?’
Dewar nodded. ‘I know it was some time ago and nothing is going to happen about it now but things have changed. Any more of that and you can kiss your career good-bye, Monsieur.
George Ferguson was not in the lab. Sandra explained that he and Malloy had been ‘a right couple of heroes yesterday’. George was currently being thanked by ‘the powers that be. Dewar asked what had happened and was given a run down on what Malloy and Ferguson had done.
‘Better them than me.’
‘Me too,’ agreed Sandra. ‘Would you like to see round the lab?’
‘Sure would.’
The lab struck Dewar as being untidy. This was due in part to a lack of space — people were vying with pieces of equipment for useable bench area. Rows of notebooks filled up the window sills. Racks of test tubes were piled three high and electrophoresis photographs were hanging all along the wall from clips on wall hooks. ‘How d’you ever find anything?’ he asked, making it sound like a joke.
