medical records would also have needed the clout to put the knowledge to practical use. He or she wasn’t some filing clerk.’
‘Good point,’ said Steven. ‘And a worry. Maybe one of your people in high places who doesn’t like me rooting around?’
‘Well, like it or not, it’s what we’ll be continuing to do.’
Steven smiled at Macmillan’s resolution. ‘Have you had any more thoughts about who the opposition might be?’ he asked.
‘I still can’t get a handle on it,’ Macmillan replied. ‘I’m convinced it’s not the usual suspects. It’s not MOD despite the military factor we’ve just been talking about, and I’m sure I’d recognise the hand of our colleagues in the Home Office if it were them. The Department of Health I’m not so sure about, but that would still leave lots of things that didn’t fit.’
‘MI5?’ suggested Steven, thinking of Ricksen’s appearance on site at Dryburgh.
‘All wrong for them,’ said Macmillan. ‘Doesn’t have their mark on it at all, although I suspect they know more than they’re letting on. Still, the more opposition we encounter, the more they’ll give themselves away.’
‘A comfort,’ said Steven, tongue in cheek. Macmillan smiled his acknowledgement that it would be Steven who bore the brunt of any future ‘opposition’.
They didn’t discuss the investigation over lunch, preferring instead to talk about other things ranging from climate change to rumours of a scandal brewing over MPs’ allowances, but when they got to the coffee and brandy stage it was time to get back to business.
‘The way I see it,’ said Steven, ‘returning Michael Kelly to Afghanistan with a full-blown MRSA infection was tantamount to murder. He might well have survived had he been treated here.’
Macmillan nodded his agreement. ‘It was a ridiculous thing to do.’
‘But maybe he wasn’t the only one to contract MRSA at St Raphael’s,’ said Steven, suddenly seeing a new line of inquiry opening up. ‘If there were other cases, we could get the lab to do a comparison of the local MRSA and the strain I brought back from Afghanistan. If a DNA comparison showed them to be identical, it would prove Michael Kelly contracted the infection at St Raphael’s and possibly turn his death into a murder inquiry. The hospital would then have to release details of the operation.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Macmillan. ‘The only problem I can see on the horizon is that St Raphael’s aren’t going to admit to any MRSA problem.’
‘Mmm.’
A club server appeared with a silver coffee pot and caused a hiatus while he refilled their cups.
When the man withdrew, Macmillan said thoughtfully but with a glint in his eye, ‘Tell me, what d’you think a private hospital does when it encounters an MRSA problem in their patients?’
A smile broke out on Steven’s lips. ‘Transfer the patients,’ he said. ‘Transfer the patients to the nearest NHS hospital.’
‘I’ll put out discreet feelers to surrounding hospitals,’ said Macmillan.
‘I still think we need to find out what made Michael Kelly so special,’ said Steven. ‘But we’re not going to get that from St Raphael’s or Sir Laurence Samson.’
‘We could request more details from the military,’ suggested Macmillan. ‘But if we do that…’
‘We’d be alerting the opposition to what we’re up to.’
‘An alternative would be better.’
‘John Motram’s wife told me that her husband carried out some tests on the donor samples in his own lab up north… If we could get our hands on them, we could see what our labs could come up with.’
‘Well worth a try.’
TWENTY-NINE
Steven returned to his flat and found an envelope lying behind the door. There was no stamp on it and his name had been written in violet ink in beautiful copperplate handwriting. It was from one of his neighbours, Cynthia Clements, a solicitor in a city law firm. She was informing fellow members that Ms Greenaway, the chair of the Marlborough Court Residents’ Association, had been taken into hospital. She thought it would be a nice gesture if they clubbed together and sent her some flowers. Steven put ten pounds in an envelope and left it on the phone table to put through Miss Clements’ letter box on his way out. He couldn’t help but take on board the fact that there were no new messages on his answering machine. The green zero gave him a hollow feeling in his stomach. Each day that passed seemed to make it more unlikely he would hear from Tally again.
He called Cassie Motram. There was no reply from her home number so he tried the practice. He learned that she had in fact returned to work but was currently with a patient: the receptionist would pass on the message when she became free. Cassie called him back within ten minutes.
‘You’re back in harness,’ said Steven.
‘My patients have decided they’re not going to get Black Death from me after all,’ said Cassie. ‘Their attention span has moved on to worries new — swine flu to be precise.’
‘Good to hear,’ said Steven. ‘Can’t have the public not panicking about something.’ He asked about the donor samples her husband had analysed in his own lab at Newcastle University. ‘D’you think there’s a chance they might still be there?’
‘Quite possibly. I can’t think why anyone would throw them out unless John did when he was finished with them, but tidiness is not his strong point. They’ll probably still be lying in some fridge in his lab.’
‘Good,’ said Steven. ‘I was just checking it would be worth flying up there in the morning to take a look.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘I’m trying to find out what was special about the donor John saw at the London hospital. I think he’s the key to everything. Mind you, samples from the patient himself would be just as good, but I don’t suppose John had access to any samples from him?’
Cassie said not. ‘He was supplied with a lab report listing details for him to compare.’
‘Was it as comprehensive as the one he was asked to provide on the donor?’ asked Steven, almost as an afterthought.
‘Actually, no,’ Cassie replied. ‘I remember John remarking that it had the relevant details but nothing more, while he’d been asked to do all sorts of tests on the donor he couldn’t see the point of.’
‘Interesting,’ said Steven. ‘I don’t suppose you have this report?’
‘I haven’t, but maybe it’ll be in John’s lab. Whoops, I can see old Mrs Jackson getting anxious in the waiting room,’ said Cassie. ‘She’s started complaining to the reception staff about how long she’s been kept waiting. I’d best get on.’
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Steven.
‘Good luck tomorrow.’
Steven took a British Airways flight up to Newcastle in the morning and a taxi for the six-mile journey into the city itself. Jean Roberts had arranged a time for him to meet the head of the Department of Cell Science but the journey had gone so smoothly that he had an hour and a half to spare. He used the time to have a walk round on what was a fine morning, finishing up with a leisurely coffee in a cafe with a view of the Tyne Bridge.
Steven had always liked being near great iconic structures, be they buildings or bridges or natural features like mountains. There was something about proximity to them that promoted him from being a member of the ‘audience’ of life to having at least a walk-on part in the ‘performance’. No fog on the Tyne this morning, he noted before leaving the river to head off for the university.
‘Any word of Dr Motram coming back?’ asked the smiling woman who shook hands with him and introduced herself as Professor Mary Lyons. She was a short woman in her late fifties with white hair that had once been blonde and wrinkles on her cheeks that suggested she smiled a lot. She wore a dark green two-piece suit over a silk blouse with a yellow floral motif on it.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘What an absolute tragedy. Such a nice man, and one of our best researchers too. Everyone misses him —
