‘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.’
Steven 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
