brought a nightmare to Skelmore, must be his wife Myra. She looked young and carefree and… radiant was the word journalists used for brides. It would do; she looked radiant. He put the photograph back gently into Archer’s stiffening hand and rested it in his lap. For the Archers their retirement to Skelmore was over.
Saracen and MacQuillan stood silent and subdued outside the building while policemen in boiler suits and wellingtons sprayed them all over with disinfectant. When they finally emerged from their plastic prison Saracen took great gulps of the night air and accepted the mug of steaming tea that was thrust into his hands. His sense of smell was heightened through having had the respirator over his face for so long. He could smell the night, the grass, rain, after shave, tea, boot polish.
“I never thought I would live to see anything like that in this day and age,” said MacQuillan, rubbing the back of his neck where the respirator straps had chaffed. Saracen swirled a mouthful of tea round his gums and spat it out. “How the hell did it happen?” he asked.
“I don’t know. All of them infected at the same time and dead within hours of each other. It doesn’t make sense.”
“But it did happen.”
“It has to be down to the Archers,” said MacQuillan. “This is where they lived. Anything else would be stretching coincidence too far.”
“I agree but Myra Archer died three weeks ago and her husband never showed any signs of illness at all.”
MacQuillan thought for a moment then said, “Suppose, just suppose that Timothy Archer did have the disease but had been taking tetracycline for, say, bronchitis. We now know that the drug would have slowed down development of the disease so, in theory, it could have been him who was spreading it around.
Saracen looked doubtful. “It’s possible I suppose,” he conceded, “But I’m pretty sure he wasn’t taking any medication. Besides, how could he possibly infect everyone else in the building at exactly the same time?”
MacQuillan thought for a moment then said, “Maybe the residents held a meeting about something, which would bring them all together at the same time. If they had done that when Archer was at his most infective then it’s just possible they could all have contracted the disease at the same time.”
Saracen still looked doubtful but had to concede the possibility. He could even suggest a reason for the proposed residents’ meeting. He said, “The residents were unhappy about the heating in the apartments.”
“There you are then,” said MacQuillan, pleased that his suggestion had been made to sound more plausible.
“But that doesn’t explain why they all got such a massive infective dose that they all died within hours of contracting the disease,” said Saracen.
“No,” agreed MacQuillan. “It doesn’t.”
“Excuse me gentlemen,” said the Police Inspector. “About the bodies, we’ll have to remove them.”
“The place will have to be fumigated first and the bodies sealed in plastic sacks before they are moved anywhere,” said MacQuillan.
“And then there are the funeral arrangements…”
“Too many corpses,” said MacQuillan without enlarging on his assertion.
The inspector looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think I understand,” he said.
Saracen could sense that MacQuillan was on edge. He saw him turn on the inspector as if to snap at him and only restrain himself at the last moment. “There are too many,” he said hoarsely. They will all have to go together.”
“A mass grave you mean?” asked the policeman, obviously astounded at the suggestion.
“A mass cremation to be precise,” said MacQuillan.
“But the relatives…” protested the policeman.
“Our priority lies in getting rid of these corpses as quickly and as cleanly as possible,” said MacQuillan. “Nothing else matters.”
“Doesn’t seem right,” mumbled the policeman.
Saracen could still feel that MacQuillan’s nerves were taut. He stepped in to defuse the situation. He said, “Perhaps some kind of memorial service could be arranged.”
The inspector was pleased at the suggestion but MacQuillan said, “They can do what they like with their mumbo jumbo just so long as they burn these bodies first.” With that he disappeared into the caravan to collect his things.
“Cold bastard,” muttered the policeman.
“He’s under a lot of pressure,” said Saracen. It wasn’t MacQuillan’s coldness that was worrying him it was the look on his face when he had come out of the flats.
MacQuillan came out. He said, “I managed to contact Braithwaite. His people will deal with the fumigation; the army will remove the bodies.”
“The army?” exclaimed the policeman.
“You don’t have twenty eight hearses in Skelmore,” said MacQuillan with what Saracen thought was unnecessary brusqueness. “A squad of soldiers will bag the bodies and take them away in trucks.”
“I don’t know that we will have suitable plastic bags,” said the inspector.
“The army already have them,” said MacQuillan. “Body bags, as used in the Falklands.”
“Where will they store the bodies?” asked Saracen.
“There will be no storage. They will take them directly to the crematorium,” replied MacQuillan.
The inspector indicated his disapproval by taking a deep breath and turning his head away. The gesture annoyed MacQuillan and pushed him too far. He said, “Now understand this! This town is on the edge of disaster. You do not mess around with plague or if you do it kills you, your wife, your children and everyone else you ever knew. Believe it!”
Saracen was alarmed, not at what MacQuillan had said but because of the way he had said it. The man wasn’t just jumpy and on edge. He seemed genuinely afraid. The policeman backed down and slipped behind his professional self saying, “Very good sir. I’ll keep my men here until the army arrive.”
MacQuillan nodded and then said to Saracen, “There’s no point in you hanging around. Go home. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Saracen wanted whisky when he got in but he denied himself and switched on the electric kettle instead. He spooned instant coffee into an earthenware mug and let the spoon fall in with a clatter. He returned to the living room while the water boiled and flicked through his album collection, finally deciding on Schumann. He drank his coffee to the strains of
Within seconds of arriving at the morning meeting Saracen could sense that something was gravely wrong. Saithe looked drawn, Braithwaite looked as if he hadn’t slept all night and MacQuillan seemed nervously preoccupied. Saithe said, “In addition to the tragedy at Palmer’s Green there were eight other new cases during the night.”
Saracen was surprised at the news for he had left strict instructions that he should be called if any cases of suspected plague should arrive at the General.
Saithe continued and answered Saracen’s unasked question. “All the new cases were admitted to the County Hospital’s isolation unit. The County have agreed to accept all plague cases until the General’s new reception area is fully operational, some time later today.”
“Where did the new cases come from?” asked Saracen.
“All from the Maxton estate,” replied Saithe.
“Contacts of known cases?”
Saithe paused and took a deep breath before saying, “Four were but the other four were not.”
“Four more wild cards,” said Saracen thinking out loud. “What are the chances of getting to the new contacts?”
“In the circumstances…nil.”
