Steven felt positive about his meeting with Susan Givens. She seemed impressively competent and her assertion of how difficult it would be to fake a DNA fingerprint had reassured him. He was on the way back to his hotel when Sci-Med called with details of John Merton’s whereabouts.
‘ He set up a business called Genecheck some seven years ago,’ said the duty officer. ‘It seems to have been very successful.’
‘ What do they do?’ asked Steven.
‘ Commercial DNA sequencing, paternity checks, inheritance lines, that sort of thing.’
‘ Sign of the times,’ said Steven. ‘Where about are they?’
‘ Nearest to you would be Glasgow — 471 Shamrock Street.’
‘ They have more than one place?’
‘ They’re listed in seven UK cities, only one in Scotland though.’
Steven checked his watch and did a mental calculation before concluding that he could comfortable cover the forty odd miles to Glasgow and find Shamrock Street before the end of the business day. He had however, failed to take account of the road works in Glasgow and it was nearly ten minutes to five when he drew up outside the building which housed Genecheck on its second floor.
‘ I wonder if I could have a word with Mr Merton,’ Steven asked the attractive girl who was in the process of tidying her desk before leaving.
‘ Who?’
‘ John Merton… I think he owns the company?’
‘ Oh, I see,’ said the girl, ‘that Mr Merton.’
‘ Uh huh,’ said Steven.
‘ Sorry, I’ve only been here a few months. I’ve not actually met Mr Merton yet. Mr Kelly is the manager here. Can I ask what it’s about?’
‘ It’s a private matter,’ said Steven.
‘ Usually is with our customers,’ smiled the girl.
Steven showed her his ID. ‘Perhaps I could talk to Mr Kelly?’
‘ Of course, Doctor. Just give me a moment.’ She relayed Steven’s request over the intercom on her desk and Steven heard the affirmative response. He was shown into another office, light, bright and furnished in modern style. A small, thin man, well-dressed in a pin stripe suit, stood up and asked in a gentle Irish accent what he could do for him.
‘ It was actually John Merton I wanted to see,’ said Steven, ‘but I understand he’s not around here very much?’
‘ The business has really taken off,’ said Kelly.
‘ Have you been with him long?’
‘ Almost from the outset. This was the first branch. I think he’s up to seven now and thinking about a move abroad.’
‘ I didn’t realise there was that much call for DNA sequencing among the public,’ said Steven.
‘ Neither did we,’ laughed Kelly. ‘How wrong we were. You wouldn’t believe just how much doubt there is out there over whose child is whose. It’s quite frightening. Skeletons are falling over each other to get out of cupboards! Apart from that we get quite a lot of veterinary work; race horses mainly.’
‘ Well, it’s an ill wind…’ said Steven.
‘ Quite so,’ agreed Kelly. ‘No complaints.’
‘ I need to talk to John about his previous life in the forensics lab in Edinburgh. Perhaps you can tell me how to get in touch with him?’
‘ Easier said than done most of the time,’ said Kelly. ‘He moves around so much that we had to start communicating by e-mail when we have something to say to each other — not that there’s that much call to. The place runs itself. Would you like me to have him get in touch with you? That might be easier.’
‘ I’d be obliged,’ said Steven, giving Kelly his phone number and e-mail address.’
‘ Would you like to see around?’ asked Kelly.
Steven declined. ‘I think I’ve seen enough labs recently.’
When he got back to his hotel he found a large Manila envelope waiting for him at reception. It was addressed to Dr S. Dunbar and marked, PERSONAL. It had, according to the woman behind the desk, been delivered by hand.
Steven took the envelope upstairs to his room and, despite a dislike of melodrama, held it up to the light and felt all around its edges before deciding that it contained just paper. Inside he found six photocopied sheets of A4 and a small, otherwise blank card bearing the inscription, ‘From someone who should know better and must remain anonymous.’ The word ‘anonymous’ was underlined twice. Steven smiled when he saw that the papers contained details of three prosecution cases that had been abandoned due to problems arising with the forensic evidence when Ronald Lee was in charge. McClintock had come up with the goods.
He decided that he would spend the evening going through it but first he would phone his daughter. He was due to visit her next Saturday on his fortnightly visit to Glenvane but he wanted to know in advance if there was anything special that she might like to do. It turned out to be swimming.
Steven had worked his way through three large gin and tonics by the time he stopped reading through the reports that McClintock had given him and leaned back in his chair to rub his eyes. Just as McClintock had said, these cases had collapsed because of challenges from the defence over forensic evidence offered by the prosecution. The three cases in question were spread over a period of eleven months and in each instance the accused had been a well-known criminal with previous convictions for the sort of offence they had been charged with. He now understood the reluctance of the Fiscal’s office to rely on evidence coming from Ronald Lee’s lab. Losing these cases must have been hugely embarrassing for them.
It must have been humiliating for Lee and the lab too, thought Steven. In fact, the only people who could possibly have been happy about the outcome were the three criminals and their respective lawyers. Steven’s jaw dropped when he read that the defence lawyer involved in all three cases was Paul Verdi of Seymour, Nicholson and Verdi, the man who had handled the David Little’s defence.
The immediate feeling that he had stumbled across something sinister was replaced after a few moments thought by the possibility he might be seeing conspiracy everywhere. It wasn’t as if Verdi had managed to get Little off too. Quite the reverse, he hadn’t mounted much of a defence at all. Suggesting to his client that an insanity plea might be his only course of action wasn’t exactly Perry Mason stuff.
The three men cited in the other cases had clearly been guilty but they had been acquitted through lab mistakes, which had been cleverly exposed by Verdi until the judicial system had had no alternative but to acquit them. The thing that troubled Steven was the fact that these three acquittals had been achieved by the same man who hadn’t even bothered to ask about the lack of corroborating evidence at David Little’s trial or indeed request an independent examination of what evidence there was.
Steven called McClintock’s mobile number.
‘ Didn’t I tell you never to call me at home?’ joked McClintock conspiratorially.
‘ I need you to tell me about Paul Verdi.’
‘ Shit, you really have a nose for sniffing out trouble,’ said McClintock. ‘Basically he’s a crooked little shit with the morals of an alley-cat, a lawyer’s lawyer, shall we say.’
‘ Not your favourite sort of people then?’ said Steven.
‘ Money-grubbing bastards the lot of them,’ growled McClintock. ‘Sometimes I think I prefer the villains. At least they’re not bloody hypocrites.’
‘ So what about Verdi?’
‘ The only good thing about Verdi is that he stopped practising a while back. Nothing but rumour and innuendo, you understand, but the word on the street was that he was asked to resign his partnership. He now pursues “business interests” in the city.’
‘ Which are?’
‘ I think they call it, “the leisure industry”. He’s behind a chain of knocking shops called, “Cuddles Executive Saunas”.’
‘ Jesus,’ said Steven.
