construction from prefabricated concrete panels. It was, however, light and airy inside thanks to a number of glass roof panels which allowed natural light to fall on the plants in a small atrium. Steven read that they had been supplied on a rental basis from ‘Woodland Office’ as he sat down beside one while the receptionist investigated whether or not Phillip St Clair would be ‘available’.
‘You’ll have to forgive me, Dr Dunbar, I don’t think I’ve come across Sci-Med before,’ said Phillip St Clair with what Steven thought was a nervous smile as he returned his ID card.
‘No reason why you should,’ replied Steven, stating briefly what he and the organisation did.
‘Sounds like a good idea,’ said St Clair. ‘There’s obviously a need…’
‘Really? Why do you say that?’ said Steven. He knew perfectly well that St Clair had said it out of politeness but thought he’d see if he could rattle the man — maybe find out why he seemed so nervous.
St Clair shrugged and opened his palms. ‘Technology moves forward at such a rate these days. The police can’t possibly hope to keep up with every development…’
Steven smiled and nodded.
‘I have to confess however,’ continued St Clair, ‘that I don’t quite understand what you could possibly want with us?’
‘One of your people died recently,’ said Steven. ‘In unfortunate circumstances, I understand.’
‘Alan Nichol,’ said St Clair. ‘Hit and run.’ He rubbed the side of his forehead with the tips of his fingers. ‘I hope the bastard who did it rots in hell. Drunken yob! Alan was one of the nicest guys you could ever hope to meet and one of brightest of his generation. He had so much to offer and such a brilliant future ahead of him. What a waste. And poor Emma… they’d only been married a year. This has absolutely destroyed her. I suppose it’s a blessing they didn’t have any children.’
Steven nodded, thinking that St Clair had just about covered all the bases in his impromptu eulogy but wondering why his hands were shaking — something he attempted to hide by interlacing his fingers on his lap.
‘What was Alan Nichol working on?’ Steven asked.
‘He was one of our best researchers, a first-rate virologist and a wizard at the bench when it came to molecular biology. The two don’t always go together, you know. I’ve known brilliant people who didn’t have the practical ability to post a letter…’
‘I’m sure, but what was Alan Nichol working on?’
St Clair looked uncomfortable. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.’
‘I do have the right to ask,’ said Steven, nodding to his ID which he’d left lying on the desk. He could see perspiration break out on St Clair’s face.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you.’
Steven disliked playing the heavy but saw no other way forward. ‘I’m afraid I must insist,’ he said. ‘We can do this at the local police station but I was hoping that that wouldn’t be necessary? Believe me; I have no interest in compromising any commercial considerations you might be worried about.’
‘It’s not that,’ said St Clair.
‘Then what?’
‘Dr Dunbar, have you signed the Official Secrets Act?’
Steven said that he had.
‘So have I. Alan’s work was classified.’
Steven looked at St Clair, barely able to disguise his surprise. ‘Are you telling me that Alan Nichol was working for the government?’
‘No, he worked for St Clair Genomics but what he was doing was covered by the act. It still is.’
Steven took a moment to digest what he’d heard. It prompted St Clair to add, ‘You people don’t seem to talk to each other much, do you?’
‘Indeed we don’t,’ agreed Steven. ‘Thank you very much, Mr St Clair, you’ve been very helpful.’
‘I haven’t told you anything at all.’
‘More than you think,’ said Steven with a smile that was not designed to put St Clair at his ease. ‘By the way, does the name Scott Haldane mean anything to you?’
St Clair looked momentarily blank. ‘Haldane…? I don’t think so. Should it?’
‘You tell, me, Mr St Clair. Thank you again for your time.’
Steven sat in the car for a few minutes before driving off. For once, he couldn’t complain about his luck. The chance sighting of a document lying in Macmillan’s in-tray had led to this… and this was certainly no coincidence. There was no doubt at all in his mind that the name the nurse at Pinetops had seen on the vials of supposed BCG vaccine referred to Alan Nichol of St Clair Genomics. Something designed by Alan Nichol had been injected into over a hundred children with the collusion of Her Majesty’s Government.
‘Bloody hell,’ whispered Steven. St Clair’s nervousness now made sense but the man wasn’t just nervous; he was afraid.
Steven considered talking to Emma Nichol but decided against it. There was a good chance that St Clair had phoned ahead to remind her of her duty to say nothing. Apart from that, there was a good chance that she hadn’t known what her husband had been working on anyway if he’d signed the Official Secrets Act. For the moment, he would leave her to grieve in peace.
Steven turned to the file beside him on the passenger seat and checked out the name and address of the witness who claimed to have seen a red 4x4 in the vicinity at the time of the accident. Maurice Stepney, 1 Apple Cottage Row, Trenton. A brief reference to the road atlas he kept tucked into the pocket on the back of the passenger seat and he was on his way to Trenton.
At three in the afternoon, the village appeared to be asleep. There was no one about, no sounds, not even a dog barking as Steven crawled through, looking for Apple Cottage Row. The Porsche was unhappy at low revs, obliging him to blip the throttle intermittently to stop the spark plugs fouling and bringing on feelings of guilt at interrupting the rural calm. As he turned into Apple Cottage Row, he saw his first person, a man working in the garden of the end cottage. The man paused to lean on his hoe and look at Steven and, as he drew nearer, Steven saw that he was standing in the garden of number one.
‘Maurice Stepney?’ he asked as he got out the car.
‘Who wants to know?’ replied the man.
Ye gods, thought Steven. Why did everyone behave as if they were a hit man on the run these days? He showed the man his ID and said who he was. ‘It’s about the car accident a few weeks ago.’
‘Have you got him then?’
‘Afraid not. I wanted to ask you if there was anything else you’d remembered about the car?’
‘What’s all this then?’ asked a small, plump woman, emerging from the house, wiping her hands on her apron. She didn’t introduce herself but Steven assumed she was Mrs Stepney.
‘This fellow’s asking about the hit and run. Wants to know if I’ve remembered anything else.’
‘You remember anything?’ exclaimed the woman. ‘Most of the time you can’t remember what day of the week it is.’
‘Be that as it may,’ said Stepney, looking down at his shoes to hide his annoyance, ‘I can’t tell you any more than I already told the police. It was a red 4x4, travelling fast, not from around here. I’d never seen it before.’
‘And I keep telling you it was probably the same red car I’d seen sitting up by the post office the week before,’ said Stepney’s wife, a comment that got Steven’s full attention.
‘Nonsense,’ said Stepney.
‘It was sitting in the lane the last two Thursdays when I went round to Ellen’s.’ She looked at Steven. ‘Ellen’s my friend. She lives by the post office. I always go round on a Thursday for a cuppa and a chinwag. Her Bill goes out to his club, you see.’
‘Stupid woman,’ said Stepney. ‘You wouldn’t know a 4x4 if it ran over you.’
‘I just said it was a red car.’
‘That should narrow it down to twenty million,’ scoffed her husband.
‘Did you tell the police this, Mrs Stepney?’ asked Steven.
‘He said not to bother,’ said the woman, inclining her head towards Stepney.
‘Where exactly is the post office?’ asked Steven.
Both gave him directions at once but he managed to deduce where he should be heading. ‘Many thanks, you’ve been a great help.’ He got back into the car, leaving the Stepneys arguing in the garden.
