‘Let’s have another,’ she said.
Steven wasn’t sure whether it was the gin or Caroline’s words that made him feel more relaxed but he enjoyed his omelette and the Californian white wine that appeared on the table.
‘Can I ask what your plans are now?’ he asked when they moved with their coffee to the fireside.
‘I’m not sure. I know I’m not really supposed to be involved in the outbreak any more but I still feel that I am, if you know what I mean. It was my city, my responsibility. When it’s over I suppose I’ll have to start applying for Public Health jobs somewhere else and start again.’
‘The MP who forced your resignation…’ said Steven.
‘Spicer? What about him?’
‘He’s the “Victor” I’ve been looking for.’
Caroline’s eyes opened wide. ‘You’re kidding!’
Steven shook his head. ‘Nope, he’s the man.’
‘Well, what d’you know? What goes around comes around.’
‘I’m going to see him tomorrow and tackle him about his relationship with Ann Danby.’
‘You still think it was him who gave her the disease?’
‘I’m almost certain,’ Steven said. He told her about the ill-fated expedition to Nepal. ‘I don’t think it was anything to do with altitude sickness,’ he said.
‘But even supposing it really was haemorrhagic fever, how on earth did he manage to become infected with the same filovirus strain as the Heathrow man and the chap up in Scotland?’
‘That’s what I have yet to find out,’ said Steven. ‘And getting Spicer’s co-operation isn’t going to be easy. He’s a politician so he’s bound to try and bluster his way out of trouble. Can I count on you if I need help in fitting the bits into the puzzle?’
‘Of course,’ replied Caroline. ‘If I’m not here I’ll be down at St Jude’s.’
Steven spent a restless night, with visions of the scenes he’d witnessed intruding on his dreams. He was glad when day broke on a grey December morning with a peculiar colouring to the clouds suggesting that there might be more snow on the way. He had plenty of time before his meeting with Spicer, so he had breakfast in the hotel dining room and settled down to read the morning papers before leaving. The Manchester outbreak was still the lead story in all of them as it had been for the last few days. This in itself meant that their editors were now trawling the outer limits for new angles on the story.
‘Only the Beginning’, suggested one, which painted a scene of new plagues arriving almost on a monthly basis from the African continent. Another gave considerable space over to church leaders for their view of things, the wickedness of man ending up carrying the can as usual. Special prayers would be said at churches all over the nation on the following Sunday, the paper announced. More extreme religious views were also accommodated with a report of an obscure sect announcing that the outbreak heralded the end of the world — something they had mistakenly predicted would happen at the dawn of the new millennium. God had decided to go for a slow, lingering death rather than a sudden decisive end, they maintained. ‘In his infinite mercy,’ added Steven under his breath.
He arrived at Spicer’s house a few minutes before eleven. It was a substantial Victorian villa in a pleasant area with the upper floors commanding uninterrupted views across the city from its elevated position. He walked up the short drive, his feet crunching on the gravel, and rang the bell, noting, as he waited, the sleek green nose of an XK series Jaguar protruding from the double garage at the side of the house.
The door was opened by a blonde, Nordic-looking girl who smiled, showing perfect white teeth. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘What you like?’
‘Hello,’ replied Steven. ‘I have an appointment to see Mr Spicer. My name is Dunbar.’
‘It’s all right, Trudi,’ said a woman coming up behind the girl. ‘I’ll see to it. I’m Matilda Spicer, Mr Dunbar. Do come in. Trudi’s our au pair,’ she said as she showed Steven into one of the front rooms. ‘Victor will be with you shortly.’
‘I thought your husband’s name was William, Mrs Spicer,’ said Steven.
‘It is, but he prefers friends and family to call him by his middle name. When he first went into politics his electoral agent thought that Vic Spicer sounded like a used-car salesman so he’s William to the voters.’
Steven smiled and she left him on his own.
There was a piano in the room, an old upright finished in walnut with brass candleholders bolted to the front. The lid was open and Steven looked at the music that was propped up on the stand above the yellowing keys: it was Debussy’s ‘Claire de lune’. He deduced that the Spicers’ daughter must be learning to play. There were framed photographs on top of the piano; the largest featured the family with Matilda seated in front, cradling her daughter, while Spicer stood behind with a protective hand on his wife’s shoulder and a good, jutting jawline in evidence.
The door opened and Spicer came in. He wore a dark-blue suit with a red-striped Bengal shirt and a maroon silk tie. His wavy fair hair was brushed back and rested comfortably on his collar at the back, making him look younger than his forty-two years. He had a brusque, business-like attitude.
‘I can only give you a few minutes,’ he announced. ‘I have to be on television at midday. I take it you have some kind of identification?’
Steven handed over his ID card.
‘You’re a doctor?’ said Spicer.
‘I’m an investigator first,’ replied Steven.
‘Let’s talk in my study,’ said Spicer. ‘But, as I said on the phone, I can’t imagine how I can help you with your inquiries.’
Spicer led the way through to his study and sat down behind his desk, indicating that Steven should sit down on one of the two seats on the other side of it. Steven noticed that the man was adopting what he suspected might be a well-practised pose. He was leaning back in his leather chair with his legs crossed, his elbows resting on the arms and his fingers interlaced while he tapped his thumbs together. Statesmanlike or what? thought Steven. More family photographs sat on the desk, making him wonder whether Spicer had requested an interior designer to do out the place in ‘family values’.
‘I take it you are familiar with the chain of events that led to the current virus problem in Manchester, Mr Spicer?’ asked Steven.
‘As I understand it, it all started with this Danby woman,’ said Spicer. ‘What should have been a minor outbreak has now escalated out of all proportion, thanks to the bungling of those in charge.’
‘You, of course, would have handled it differently,’ said Steven, almost falling at the first hurdle because he had allowed Spicer to anger him by referring to Ann, his former lover, as ‘this Danby woman’.
Spicer seemed a little taken aback. ‘Not me personally, of course — I have no training in such matters — but that’s no reason to tolerate incompetence in those who are supposed to have.’
Steven bit his tongue. He needed this man’s co-operation, he reminded himself. ‘I understand that you were in Nepal recently and that you were very ill while you were there,’ he said.
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ asked Spicer.
‘Can I ask who diagnosed your illness?’
Spicer shrugged and said, ‘There was no diagnosis as such, because we didn’t have a doctor with us. I survived; my three companions didn’t; that was the bottom line. When I got back to civilisation and described the symptoms of the illness — those I could remember! — it was generally agreed that it had been a severe form of altitude sickness.’ He looked at his watch and said testily, ‘Look, I really can’t give you much longer. Would you please come to the point?’
‘I don’t think you had altitude sickness at all, Mr Spicer. I think you were suffering from viral haemorrhagic fever.’
Spicer looked as if he couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Haemor…?’ he spluttered. ‘You mean the disease that’s out there in the city? What utter nonsense. Are you out of your mind?’
‘I think you contracted haemorrhagic fever and survived,’ continued Steven. ‘You’re one of the few. Then you came home and passed on the disease to your lover, Ann Danby.’
Spicer paled and for a moment looked like a cornered animal, then he went on the offensive. ‘Oh, I get it,’ he rasped. ‘You’re one of these Labour leftie shits who’ve come up with a little scheme to attack me and save your minister further embarrassment.’
Steven said coldly, ‘I am neither leftie nor rightie, nor am I Liberal or Monster Raving Loony. In fact, you
