Tip Off (16 page)

‘No. As far as I can tell, all he wants is to find out what Toby and Connor have been up to.'

I wasn't so sure, but I was also aware that my distrust of Lord Tintern was due, as much as anything else, to his attitude to me personally.

 

David Dysart was buzzing like a dynamo when we were shown into his office – a room with two glass walls set at right angles to each other, overlooking the birch woods that clung to the hillside where the building stood. This gave the impression we were meeting in a forest clearing as the morning sun slanted between the leafless trees.

‘Thank you for coming,' Dysart said, watching his secretary pour coffee for us. ‘I've got one of our development people coming in to demonstrate – ah, here he is. I think you've already met Brian?' he added with a faint grin.

‘Morning.' Brian held out his hand which we shook in turn. He seemed to bear us no grudge from our last visit. ‘David's asked me to show you precisely what you've been looking for, what it does and how it does it – up to a point,' he added with a chuckle.

He led us across the room to a table in front of one of the glass walls. On it was a white plastic object about the length and girth of half a cucumber. One end was flat and slightly concave.

Brian picked it up. ‘This is the dermal version of our Powderjet system. If we place this flat and on an area of skin, reasonably free from hair, the Powderjet can fire particles of drugs – molecules, peptides, proteins or genes – into the skin. And it can do it to varying depths, depending on where the drug is needed.'

‘How do you mean, fire?' Matt asked.

Brian unscrewed the round end of the object. ‘See here? This is a cylinder of highly compressed helium. When it's released, it blows through this drug cassette, accelerating the particles through the end at a supersonic speed, peppering the skin rather like a shot gun.'

‘And the person feels no pain?'

‘They feel nothing.' He deconstructed the compact piece of equipment to show us the various components, impressive in their apparent simplicity.

I turned to Dysart, who hadn't tried to interrupt or override anything Brian had said. ‘When does it come on stream?'

‘The Department of Health have a few more trials of their own to complete, then we launch into the private and public health services.'

‘What about the veterinary profession?'

‘We haven't really looked at that yet because animals don't suffer from the psychological trauma of anticipation and can easily tolerate the actual pain of an injection.'

Matt nodded smugly at me. ‘That's what I was talking about.'

‘But surely,' I pursued, ‘it must be quicker and more convenient not having to jab great needles in? And, anyway, some animals do mind; I've had horses that hated it when you got the needle out.'

‘Our view is that the gain is unlikely to justify the cost,' Dysart said. ‘Besides, it would mean shaving a patch of skin, which would offset the time gain.'

‘Most animals have a few bare patches – a horse on the underside of its loins, for instance.'

Dysart smiled. ‘No doubt once the vets have seen it in action, they'll draw their own conclusions. Certainly, there's no reason why it shouldn't be applied to animals if it was thought appropriate.'

‘As it is, though,' Matt asked, ‘it's got no competition?'

‘As far as we know. We're the only people who have made public what it will do; though, of course, the precise mechanics of it and the physical chemistry involved in particleising the drugs are what we called you in to protect. They're subject to various patents being granted, and there are just a few more hurdles to jump yet.'

‘Could a rival work it all out from one sample?'

Dysart shrugged. ‘Not easily, but it's possible – enough to worry the shit out of us.'

‘What's the most critical element of the equipment?' I asked.

‘Probably the gas projection system,' Dysart said thoughtfully.

‘And who was responsible for that?'

‘Most of the development work was done by Michael Taylor. He came to us from a French company, actually, specialising in highly sophisticated compressed gas weapons. He's the real brains behind the technology.'

‘What do you actually use as a propellant, then?'

‘Very densely compressed helium,' Dysart said, picking up the sample Griffiths had shown us and opening it up again. ‘It comes in these custom-made canisters.' He indicated what looked like a shiny metal miniature Calorgas bottle.

Matt nodded. ‘I can see how tempting it might be for the competition to find a short cut.'

‘That's why I wanted you to see this at first hand.' Dysart waved the sample at us. ‘I should have arranged it when I originally instructed you, but to be honest, at that time I was doubtful that these prototypes had left the building. I'm still doubtful, because I can't identify even a potential culprit from among the people who would have access to them.'

Matt and I nodded together.

‘I'm sorry we haven't got further. We'll give the project absolute priority, but it may mean having to interview all relevant staff in some depth.'

Dysart nodded. ‘All right, but be careful. You know how Brian here took umbrage at your questions – though I'm sure he's not holding it against you.'

Brian smiled. ‘Not at all. Is there anything else I can tell you now about the Powderjet?'

‘Not as far as I'm concerned,' I said, looking at Matt.

He shook his head. ‘No, I'm clear.'

‘Right then,' the ungainly young scientist said. ‘I've got other things to get on with. I'll leave you with David.'

When he'd gone, Dysart invited us to sit at the table by the window while he topped up our coffee.

‘Is there anything else I can tell you?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘I just wanted to confirm that it was through our meeting at Lord Tintern's party that you got on to us?'

‘Yes. I believe I told you the other day on the phone: I met you at Lord Tintern's, and you subsequently sent us your sales package.'

‘Yes. You did tell me, but I wondered how you originally met Lord Tintern?'

Dysart gave me a quick look of surprise, but evidently made up his mind to answer what he clearly thought was an irrelevant question.

‘The research to develop this piece of kit was very expensive. It's the sort of project that has to be funded with real venture capital. Your friend Lord Tintern has a reputation for providing seed money for high-risk projects. I cold called him, and he did it for me, and went on to introduce other investors.'

‘Does he have much to do with the company now?'

‘Not a lot. He's a non-exec director. He turns up for most board meetings and AGMs, and a few internal presentations we've had. But, really, other than giving some financial advice, he's never got more closely involved. Why do you ask?'

‘Just curious,' I said. It's incredible what a small world this is.

 

‘ “Just curious” indeed,' Matt said as we drove from the sylvan valley where Dysart's building nestled. ‘What were you getting at?'

‘I'm not sure, but I wouldn't put it past Tintern to try and sell the idea to some other larger company, now he knows the thing works.'

‘There's no way he'd do that,' Matt scoffed. ‘He stands to make far more from his holding in Biotech. And anyway, I'd say he's totally honest. He's a member of the House of Lords, for God's sake.'

‘Membership of the House of Lords hardly precludes members from any wrong-doing,' I said drily.

‘Maybe not, but there's no doubt you resent him personally simply because he doesn't think you're good enough for Emma. Your name cropped up yesterday evening and, frankly, I can see his point. I mean, she's quite a catch.'

‘Good God!' I said. ‘You sound like Mrs Bennett. And besides, if this business of ours ever takes off,
I'll
probably be quite a catch too.'

‘It's going to be hard to get it off the ground if you keep slipping off for riding lessons at the drop of a hat,' Matt said stiffly.

I didn't speak for a few moments. Instead I picked up the mobile and dialled Connor's tipping line. When I'd heard what he had to say and he'd earned his thirty pence from me, I put it down.

‘We may as well go to Chepstow, now we're here. Connor's nap's running in the second race.'

 

We repeated the exercise with the camera among a Saturday crowd which huddled in a damp west wind and managed to get a comprehensive set of shots covering everyone who came near the horse that had been favoured with Connor's fancy.

Matt dropped me off at The Coach House with a curt good night. I decided I would go on up to London early next morning and took the opportunity to catch up with post, e-mails and phone messages that had accumulated.

For once I went to bed early and was happily dozing off in front of an old film when the telephone jerked me back to reality.

‘Hello, Simon,' a well-known voice said anxiously. ‘It's Toby.' He didn't need to tell me that something was worrying him.

‘What is it?' I asked.

‘Can you come round?'

‘Where are you?'

‘At my flat.'

I weighed up the concern in his voice and balanced it with my own comfort, but couldn't face moving. ‘Toby, what is it?'

‘I just need to talk to someone.'

‘I'll be round first thing tomorrow.'

Toby sounded relieved. ‘Thanks.' He rang off.

I ordered an alarm call for 6.30 next morning and sank back on my pillows. But when I tapped the play button on the VCR remote, somehow the black and white movie had lost its interest for me.

I thought of Toby, and of Connor.

I thought of the legion of starry-eyed punters who pursued their dreams through the utterances of an obscure Irishman.

I got out of bed, wrapped a dressing-gown round myself and went downstairs. I poured myself a whisky and sat down at the battered pine boards of my kitchen table.

Then, as if an outside force was guiding my arm, my hand found the phone and punched in Emma's mobile number.

‘Hello,' I said when she answered.

‘Hello, Si,' she murmured back. ‘Where have you been? I haven't seen you for weeks.'

‘It's only two days.'

‘Two days too much. What are you up to? I'm already in bed.'

‘I couldn't sleep,' I said. ‘I thought you might like to come over and play Scrabble?'

‘Which version?'

‘Which do you want?'

‘
Not
the one with letters and a board.'

‘Suits me.'

When the phone chirruped at me next morning, my first instinct was to thump it. But I prised my eyes open and shook my head clear enough to remember my alarm call and my date with Toby. A quick shot of adrenaline jerked me wide awake. I picked up the phone and cut the call.

‘What's going on?' a sleepy voice asked through the duvet.

I was already out of bed, stepping into rumpled Levi's I'd discarded a few hours before.

‘I've got to go to London.'

‘Oh, God!' Emma groaned and instantly fell back to sleep.

I sighed and in the half-dark delved into a chest of drawers for a clean shirt. I was thoughtful enough not to turn on the light, though I doubted that Emma would have noticed if I had.

Downstairs, I rang Matt. He answered as if he'd been at his desk for hours.

‘Toby called last night,' I said. ‘He wants me to go to his flat.'

‘Are you on your way?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'll meet you at the office in twenty minutes.' He rang off.

 

The traffic on the motorway and in West London was sparse at 7.30 on a Sunday morning. Matt and I were swinging into Park Lane just thirty-two minutes after we'd left our office.

A couple of minutes later, we were standing in the pillared portico of the handsome, Neo-Gothic building that contained Toby's lavishly appointed London apartment.

I pushed the bell button labelled ‘T. Brown, Esq.', gazed into a CCTV lens, smiled for the videotape and waited. When there was no answering squawk from the small speaker set in the wall, I tried again, twice. Still nothing.

Matt had stepped back on to the cobbled street and was looking up at the windows of Toby's second-floor flat. ‘All the curtains are drawn,' he said. He flipped out his mobile and dialled Toby's number.

I watched his face while he listened, until he shook his head. ‘Not even an answerphone.'

I pushed the button marked ‘Porter'.

This time, with a gruff, resentful edge, we were answered. ‘Hello. Who is it?'

‘Simon Jeffries and Matt James. We came a couple of weeks ago.'

‘Morning, sir.' The change in tone reflected, no doubt, his appreciation of the fifty-pound note Matt had pressed into his hand when he'd come to bug the phones. ‘I'll open the door and come up to meet you.'

A long blast on a buzzer indicated that the door's lock had been released remotely and I pushed it open. Matt and I stepped into a lavishly furnished hall, rich with the woollen scent of new-laid Wilton and bright with gleaming brass door fittings.

The porter, unshaven and tieless, appeared through an arch at the back of the hall.

‘Morning, gentlemen. What can I do for you?'