White Death (16 page)

‘I’m sorry, I thought …’ began Steven, feeling embarrassed.

‘Suicide tends to negate life insurance policies,’ said Linda with undisguised venom. ‘So, unless you know differently …’ She fixed Steven with a steely gaze.

‘I’ve no evidence,’ confessed Steven. ‘Only a feeling that there’s more to the green sticker children than I’ve been told. I suspect it was what your husband was concerned about rather than Trish Lyons’ accident.’

‘So you do now believe it was an accident and not the reason for some guilt trip that drove Scott to his death?’

Steven nodded and conceded the point. ‘Like your husband, I do believe it was an accident.’

‘Well, that’s something, I suppose. How can I help you?’

‘You told me that Scott was very upset after making various phone-calls connected with the Trish Lyons case but wouldn’t say why. I just wondered if you’d remembered anything else since the last time we spoke, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. I desperately need something to point me in the right direction. I’ve got the same uneasy feelings your husband had but he obviously figured out more than I have.’

‘God knows I would love to be able to say yes to that question,’ said Linda. ‘But I haven’t. Scott wouldn’t tell me anything. He kept saying he had to be sure before he said anything.’

‘Didn’t you pick up the odd clue from his phone-calls? A name? An organisation? Anything at all?’

‘I think I already told you about him complaining that people were being downright obstructive.’

‘Nothing else?’

Linda looked doubtful. ‘I suppose I may have picked up the odd word here and there when he raised his voice on the phone … I think I once heard him ask, “Who made the bloody stuff?” but I’ve no idea what he was talking about.’

Steven repeated the quote. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said, thinking about the vaccine. ‘I think I may even know what he was asking about.’

‘Really?’

‘Trish Lyons isn’t the only child to have fallen ill after attending the camp in the Lake District. Apart from their attendance there, the one common factor among them was that they were all vaccinated with BCG vaccine.’

‘And you think Scott was suspicious about it?’

‘It’s possible. Not only that, I think he may even have worked out what was wrong with the kids. If you do happen to think of anything else please call me, any time, day or night.’ Steven handed her his card.

‘I will. I promise.’

Steven couldn’t have arrived at the children’s hospital at a worse time. Patricia Lyons’ mother, Virginia, was clearly upset and arguing with doctors having just been told they would have to amputate Trish’s arm to stop the infection spreading throughout her body. Raised voices meant that he could hear much of what Virginia Lyons was saying as he waited outside the room.

‘What infection?’ she demanded. ‘You haven’t come up with anything yet. You’re just guessing. How can something you can’t even grow be spreading throughout her body?’

Steven could only just pick up the muted murmur of reasoned response before Virginia Lyons broke down in tears and was led out from the office by one of the doctors to be handed over to a nursing sister who wrapped her arms round her and led her away for tea and sympathy.

Steven recognised one of the doctors as John Fielding, the man he’d spoken to last time. ‘I came to see how Trish was. I think I may already have my answer,’ he said.

Fielding shook his head in a gesture of hopelessness and said, ‘The lab still can’t grow anything and she continues to deteriorate no matter what antibiotics we give her. We’re fighting a losing battle here. Even if her mother gives us the go-ahead for amputating her arm, she’s still not out of the woods. The patches on other parts of her body are beginning to look as if they might go the same way.’

‘You mean the infection is not a result of her burns becoming infected?’ asked Steven, feeling some trepidation.’

‘That’s what we all thought at first of course,’ replied Fielding. ‘Burns are notorious for becoming infected but none of the usual suspects grew up in culture so we’re beginning to have our doubts. If only the lab could find the bug responsible, life could become a whole lot easier for everyone.’

Steven nodded, thinking he’d heard all this before from the doctors who treated Keith Taylor. It could not be a coincidence. ‘How about necrotising fasciitis,’ he said.

‘Without a cause?’

‘But not without a precedent,’ said Steven under his breath.

‘Would you like to see her?’ asked the doctor.

Steven nodded and was led to a small ante-room to don mask and gown before entering the room where Trish lay, heavily sedated.

‘The nurses removed the dressings so we could show her mother the extent of the problem and they haven’t been reapplied yet so you can see it for yourself,’ said Fielding. He removed the light gauze covering from Trish’s arm and Steven saw the damage and grimaced at the sight.

‘The flesh is just sloughing off,’ said the doctor. ‘There’s no chance of recovery and every chance of gangrene setting in if we don’t act quickly.’

Steven nodded and the doctor replaced the gauze before moving down to Trish’s feet and saying, ‘These are the areas we fear might go the same way.’

Steven saw the discoloured patches on Trish’s legs. ‘Do you mind if I take a closer look?’ he asked.

‘Please do,’ said the doctor, holding out a box of disposable gloves for Steven to help himself.

As he bent down, Steven became aware of a woman standing at the viewing window next door – it was Trish’s mother. Her wan expression spoke volumes about the stress she was under. Steven went ahead and examined the patches, running his fingers over the surface in all directions and pinching at intervals before saying, ‘The flesh seems firm enough. What makes you think they might be becoming infected too?’

The doctor opened a sterile stylet pack and said, ‘Watch.’

Steven saw Trish move in her sleep when the doctor pricked an area of normal looking skin but fail to react when he did the same in the centre of one of the patches.

‘She’s losing sensation in these areas. Not a good sign.’

‘And not a recorded symptom of vitiligo either if I remember rightly,’ added Steven.

‘Good point,’ agreed Fielding.

‘Thank you,’ said Steven, stripping off his gloves and dumping them in a pedal bin. Both men left the room and joined Virginia Lyons and the nursing sister next door. Steven was introduced simply as Dr Dunbar without any further details being given.

‘Mrs Lyons has come to a decision,’ said the nurse.

‘I want you to go ahead with amputation,’ said Virginia as if every word had to be forced from her lips. ‘If it’s the only way to save her …’

‘I’m afraid it’s the only chance she’s got.’

Virginia made to move away but stopped and turned when she reached the door. ‘What were you doing with the needle to Trish’s legs?’ she asked.

‘Reaction testing,’ said the doctor.

‘Dr Haldane did that too,’ said Virginia vaguely.

‘It’s a fairly routine test, Mrs Lyons.’

Virginia Lyons looked as if a nightmare had just been born in her head. ‘My God, you’re not thinking of cutting her legs off too?’ she gasped.

‘Good heavens, no, nothing like that,’ said Fielding, clearly flustered as the nurse quickly put her arm round Virginia’s shoulders and led her away. She would have found the look that passed between Steven and the doctor far from reassuring.

TWELVE

Macmillan and Steven sat in silence for what seemed to be a very long time before Macmillan finally said, ‘You are seriously suggesting that someone in government presided over the injection of a noxious substance into over a hundred schoolchildren under the pretence of protecting them from TB with a vaccine?’

‘That’s what it’s beginning to look like,’ agreed Steven. ‘I don’t believe the kids were given BCG vaccine – there was no reason to give it to them. The kid who was supposed to have TB was a myth.’

‘So what did they give them and why, for God’s sake?’ mused Macmillan.

‘I think in the circumstances you may have to ask the DOH that after all,’ said Steven. ‘Jean has just told me that there is no pharmaceutical company with a name like Nichol or anything close to it. That being the case, my investigation has just hit the wall.’

Uneasy at the prospect of going to war with the upper echelons of government, Macmillan got up and walked over to the window. ‘God, will it ever stop raining,’ he complained as he looked out at the slow-moving snake of traffic outside.

‘Yes, if you believe the climate experts who predict imminent drought from climate change,’ said Steven. ‘No, if you believe the ones who predict widespread flooding and water-skiing in Whitehall.’

‘So cynical and you’re not even forty yet,’ sighed Macmillan.

‘All I ever ask for is proof,’ replied Steven, ‘and all I ever get is plausible-sounding bullshit.’

‘You do have a point,’ murmured Macmillan. ‘Plausibility is the new currency in science. I suppose it’s easier to come up with than fact.’

Steven had stopped listening. He was leaning forward in his chair, inclining his head to read the label stuck on a red folder lying in Macmillan’s ‘pending’ tray on his desk. ‘Nichol!’ he exclaimed.

‘What?’ asked Macmillan, turning away from the window.

Steven lifted the folder from the tray and said, ‘That was the name on the vaccine vials.’

‘It was the name of the young scientist who was killed in the hit and run accident I told you about a couple of weeks ago. Nichol, Alan Nichol. Could just be coincidence, I suppose …’

‘But there again, I remember you said he worked for a biotech company,’ said Steven. ‘D’you mind?’ He held up the folder and Macmillan nodded his assent.

Steven read through the report. ‘St Clair Genomics … I wonder.’

‘It was just sitting there waiting for the final police report,’ said Macmillan.

‘I’d like to check this out,’ said Steven.

‘If it gets me out of a head-to-head confrontation with DOH,’ said Macmillan, ‘by all means go ahead.’

‘Do we have anything more than this?’ asked Steven, holding up the slim report.

‘I did ask Jean to see if she could get more details just in case the police came up with anything that should concern us,’ said Macmillan, pressing the intercom button.

‘I have a file,’ came Jean Roberts’ reply.

* * *

Steven decided to read it before he left the building just in case there was anything else he needed to ask or request. As it turned out, there wasn’t. He had the names of the managing director of St Clair Genomics and a little about his background and also the name and address of the dead man, Nichol, along with some background information and his home address. There was also an accident report from the local police now some three weeks old.

Nichol had been walking his dog along an unclassified country road outside the village of Trenton where he lived in a rented cottage with his wife, Emma, when he had been hit by a car travelling at speed. The car had failed to stop and had not as yet been traced despite a villager claiming to have seen a red 4x4 moving at speed through the village around the time of Nichol’s death. No description of the driver had been forthcoming and Steven had the distinct impression that the police were treating the incident as a drunken hit and run.

Alan Nichol, he read, had been twenty-eight years old, a graduate of Glasgow University in Molecular Biology with first-class honours, who had gone on to do a PhD at Edinburgh University on genes affecting viral pathogenicity, followed by a three-year post-doctoral research position at the University of Cambridge. This was where he had been approached by Phillip St Clair, who ran his own small biotechnology company and who maintained good relations with the biological sciences departments at the university. He did this out of self-interest – he was always on the look-out for good ideas or promising researchers to recruit – although he liked to insist that the relationship was symbiotic and that he was always keen to share information.

St Clair’s charm and gift of the gab had helped enormously with this and, although everyone knew that his real interests were commercial rather than academic, he was generally accepted around the university. Although he had graduated in biological sciences himself, he had always planned to set up in business as soon as he could to exploit what he saw as the huge potential of molecular biology in medicine. His father had made a one-off investment in his son’s future some ten years ago by funding the set-up of St Clair Genomics, insisting that Phillip then stand or fall on his own merits.

It had been touch and go in the early years but the company had come up with a few minor diagnostic aids over the past three years and had attracted some venture capital investment. As yet, it had failed to bring anything major to the marketplace. Steven decided that he would call on St Clair Genomics unannounced.

Unlike Cambridge University, which nurtured and guarded its history in the ancient stone of its colleges and quadrangles, St Clair Genomics was a building of its time – functional and with a very temporary feel about it. An attempt to grow Virginia creeper along the front had not been entirely successful and could not disguise its construction from prefabricated concrete panels. It was, however, light and airy inside thanks to a number of glass roof panels which allowed natural light to fall on the plants in a small atrium. Steven read that they had been supplied on a rental basis from ‘Woodland Office’ as he sat down beside one while the receptionist investigated whether or not Phillip St Clair would be ‘available’.

‘You’ll have to forgive me, Dr Dunbar, I don’t think I’ve come across Sci-Med before,’ said Phillip St Clair with what Steven thought was a nervous smile as he returned his ID card.

‘No reason why you should,’ replied Steven, stating briefly what he and the organisation did.

‘Sounds like a good idea,’ said St Clair. ‘There’s obviously a need …’

‘Really? Why do you say that?’ said Steven. He knew perfectly well that St Clair had said it out of politeness but thought he’d see if he could rattle the man – maybe find out why he seemed so nervous.