Resurrection

police.

He introduced himself to the leader of the team, Doctor Robert Smillie, and briefed him on events.

‘That’s more or less what we’ve been told,’ said Smillie when he’d finished. ‘If you’ll just show us to the lab in question we’ll take over from there. Any special problems? Do we need respirators?

‘No,’ Dewar assured him. ‘The man involved in this affair was a highly trained scientist. If there’s anything to be found it will be in an appropriate container. The question is, which one? There could be several; alternatively there may be none. This is a precaution but a very necessary one.’

The team of three changed into coverall suits and put on gloves before entering Malloy’s lab, carrying a number of sealable plastic containers. They took less than sixty minutes to remove every single tube and bottle in the place, even moving all the furniture to examine the floor underneath for anything that had fallen and rolled.

‘I’m impressed,’ said Dewar to Smillie when his team had finished and were setting the sterilising ‘bombs’ in place.

‘I think this is where I say, all in a day’s work,’ said Smillie.

Dewar grinned and said, ‘But I don’t envy you the next bit.’

Smillie nodded his agreement. ‘There’s no question of analysing the contents of every single container,’ he said. ‘But we’ll do a DNA scan and concentrate on those that come up positive. Can’t say how long it’s going to take. We’ll be using the high containment suite. That always slows things up. It’s like picking your nose with boxing gloves on.’

THIRTEEN

Dewar watched the lights of the small convoy disappear into the night as they headed off back to the airport. Hutton, who had seen it as his duty to be present throughout, looked at his watch and said that he’d have to rush, muttering something about dinner with friends. Dewar wished him good-night and suddenly wondered what he himself was going to do with the rest of the evening. He felt a distinct sense of anticlimax.

So much seemed to have happened since he’d got up that morning but, he asked himself, did he really know that much more at the end of the day? True, Le Grice had been identified as Sandra Macandrew’s attacker and it seemed almost certain that he must be the Iraqis’ man on the inside but he still didn’t know exactly what the Iraqis had asked him to do or how much of it had been achieved, any more than with Ali Hammadi. These were still the key questions in the whole affair.

Maybe he even knew less about them, was Dewar’s next depressing thought. Up until now he’d believed that Hammadi had refused to do anything at all for Siddiqui but that conclusion had been partially based on Le Grice’s report that he’d found nothing out of the ordinary when he’d cleared out Hammadi’s stuff in the lab. That was possibly a lie. If only Le Grice had owned up before he’d taken his life instead of saying nothing. What had been the point of that? he wondered. It was hard to believe that any man about to die would not take the chance to redress the balance of good and evil in his life even if he hadn’t been any kind of believer.

Another man to whom this day had been pivotal was Steven Malloy. It was the day his career had effectively come to an end. Despite having every right to do what he’d done in the circumstances- indeed, he’d had no real option, Dewar felt something approaching guilt. He liked Malloy and believed the good things Ferguson had said about him. Good research scientists weren’t that thick on the ground — much less so than Joe Public imagined. One such person tended to make a university department a good one, two made it a centre of excellence.

He wondered what Malloy was doing tonight. Would he be with friends, or was he brooding at home alone? Almost on impulse, Dewar decided to drive out to Temple and find out for himself but before doing that, he stopped at an off-licence and bought a bottle of good malt whisky.

The drive out to Temple took longer than last time because of heavy rain that started on the way. By the time he left the main road, the wipers were struggling to cope, forcing him to slow right down on the dark winding roads where water quickly gathered into pools in the dips and made estimating their depth a gamble each time before ploughing through. He was relieved when the lights of the village began to flicker through the needles of the pine trees.

When he stopped outside Malloy’s place he could see the lights were on. He sat in the car for a moment listening to a small voice inside his head that told him this was not a very good idea but eventually it was overridden by his conscience telling him that this was the right thing to do. People automatically said sorry; often when they didn’t mean it. He hoped that driving out here to say it again would convince Malloy that at least he did. He got out the car and hurried up the path, pulling up his jacket collar against the rain and hugging the whisky bottle to his chest.

Just before he reached the door he had the thought that Malloy might not be alone. He could hear music coming from inside and recognised it as Stan Getz playing, These Foolish Things. He side-stepped into the garden so that he could take a peek in through the window. As far as he could tell, Malloy was alone. He could see him slumped in a chair with his back to him, glass in hand, feet up on a stool.

Dewar knocked gently on the arched door at first but had to rap progressively louder as he failed to get an answer.

‘All right,’ complained Malloy’s voice as he finally responded to Dewar’s insistence. ‘Who is it?’

‘Adam Dewar,’

There was a long silence before the door finally opened. ‘What the f … ‘

Malloy looked at Dewar as if he still didn’t believe it was him. He was obviously the last person on earth he expected to see standing there, or wanted to see for that matter.

‘Hello. How are you doing?’

‘I don’t think I believe this,’ said Malloy, his voice slightly slurred. He scratched his head.

‘I just came to say that I really meant it when I said I was sorry about your research.’

Malloy regarded Dewar for a long moment through screwed-up eyes. ‘And now you’d like forgiveness,’ he said. ‘Te absolvo, feel any better?’

‘I didn’t come to ask for forgiveness,’ said Dewar evenly. ‘I did what I had to do and I think you know that if you’re honest with yourself. I don’t regret it but I am genuinely sorry. I though we might have a drink together.’ He held up the whisky.

Malloy looked as if he were running through a series of options inside his head, ranging from bursting out laughing to slamming the door in Dewar’s face. Eventually he shrugged and said, ‘You’d better come in.’ He accepted the bottle from Dewar and splashed whisky into two tumblers.

‘What shall we drink to?’ he asked, handing one to Dewar.

‘The future,’ replied Dewar evenly. ‘Whatever it holds. May it be kinder than the present.’

‘The future,’ repeated Malloy, without adding the cynical rider Dewar had been half expecting. That pleased him for although Malloy was drinking, he was not wallowing in self pity. Both men took a large swallow.

‘Sit down.’

‘I thought you might be with Peter Moore and George Ferguson this evening,’ said Dewar.

Malloy shook his head. ‘No, Peter will be at the post-grad union, playing the tragic role to the hilt, I should think. Always a more successful gambit with the ladies than Mr Happy, I seem to remember.’

‘You don’t see his predicament as serious then?’

‘He’s first year. He’s not lost much. Most of them take a year learning to pick their noses without poking their eye out. He’s a good student. I’ll have a word with Cairns about him. I’m sure he’ll take him over. Maybe a change of research project but no real harm done.’

‘Good,’ said Dewar. ‘And Sandra?’

Malloy grimaced. ‘She’s different. She’s going into her third year, too late to change I’m afraid. Assuming she survives her present predicament she won’t have enough for a PhD but she could write up for an MPhil.’

‘Let’s hope she gets the chance,’ said Dewar.

‘Amen to that,’ agreed Malloy, raising his glass to the notion.

‘That just leaves George Ferguson.’