get off after killing all those people but if you help us to get the brains behind it… maybe, just maybe, your whole life won’t be wasted in a place like this…’
‘Fuck off.’
Steven returned to the Home Office.
‘How did you get on?’ asked Macmillan.
‘He wouldn’t say anything but I hope I planted a seed of doubt in his mind. I’m sure he knows he was set up, however much he might regret admitting it now.’
‘You said earlier you had some other news?’
Steven brought Macmillan up to date with what he’d learned about the disks and told him of his request that Lukas Neubauer subject the cholera bug to a full analysis. ‘I think that’s why they didn’t make it resistant to antibiotics, to stop us thinking it might have been altered at all.’
‘Why would they want to do that?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Steven, feeling his position weaken: he seemed to be saying that a lot.
‘Well, your instincts usually serve you well. Meanwhile, I haven’t been idle myself.’
‘Really?’ Steven immediately hoped he hadn’t sounded too surprised.
‘I’ve been checking through the things the computer’s been picking up on.’
The Sci-Med computer was programmed to highlight any article appearing in the UK press with a scientific or medical content that might conceivably concern Sci-Med.
‘An elderly woman living in Edinburgh, Mrs Gillian McKay, reported to the police that her next-door neighbour, a Mr Malik, had gone missing; she hadn’t seen him for some days. When police checked the premises they found nothing amiss — he’d apparently just gone away — but they volunteered to check with Malik’s relatives if Mrs McKay knew of any. She said Malik had told her all his relatives were back in Pakistan. Later, however, when a young reporter from the local paper came to see her, she remembered he had a nephew who worked for the water board… she’d seen the van at the house.’
‘Oh, you beauty,’ murmured Steven.
‘She’d spoken to Malik about it: he was going to ask his nephew to investigate her complaint that there was too much chlorine in the local water. She claimed it made her tea taste funny.’
‘Well, well,’ said Steven, ‘if you’ll pardon the pun. Do we know what day the van was there?’
‘We do,’ said Macmillan, breaking into a grin. ‘I checked the dates. The day of the attack on the Edinburgh flats. What’s more, with the story being taken from a local newspaper, a report about a missing person…’
‘The police didn’t pick up on the nephew?’
‘Apparently not.’
‘Maybe we could hand it over after I’ve spoken to Mrs McKay?’ suggested Steven. ‘Actually no,’ he said, having second thoughts. ‘I could pass the info on to John Ricksen at 5. One good turn deserves another and all that…’
‘Frightening,’ said Macmillan with a shake of the head belied by a look of admiration. ‘You put one over on MI5 and then get a round of applause from them. I suggest you get started.’
Steven decided to go up to Edinburgh that evening on the British Airways shuttle out of Heathrow. He wouldn’t try to see Mrs McKay until the following morning, but he thought he might like to have a wander round the streets of Edinburgh. Although he’d never lived there, he knew it well enough. He and Lisa had set up home in Glasgow after their marriage and had often gone through to Edinburgh to see shows or just spend time there.
He’d also had occasion to visit the city several times in the course of his work with Sci-Med, so his memories were not all rosy and, in truth, he’d had some experiences there that he would rather forget. He’d found himself at cross purposes with Lothian and Borders Police on more than one occasion too, so rather than check into a hotel in the city he would keep a low profile and stay at a B amp;B recommended to him by Jean Roberts — Fraoch House in Pilrig Street, on the north side of the New Town. As one of the cities affected by the cholera attack, he wanted to get a feel for how Edinburgh was dealing with it.
If, as he suspected, he didn’t get much out of Mrs McKay, and Lukas Neubauer had not been in touch, he thought he would go down to Dumfriesshire to see his daughter before returning to London. With this in mind, he bought some children’s books for Jenny and his sister-in-law’s children at the airport before boarding the flight. He was flicking through the pages of Mother Goose when the man sitting beside him said, ‘I see you’re a Booker Prize man.’
Steven laughed. ‘Beats celebrity memoirs.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said the man. ‘I’ve just been interviewing a couple.’ He answered Steven’s enquiring glance with, ‘Liam Rudden, entertainments editor with the Edinburgh Evening News.’
The two men shook hands. ‘Steven Dunbar. The book’s for my daughter, honest.’
‘Don’t be embarrassed,’ joked Rudden. ‘Mother Goose is a favourite of mine too. In fact I’m directing it at the Brunton Theatre this Christmas.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘No, I do a panto every year — the perfect antidote to interviewing too many celebrities. Panto’s more realistic than some of them are. What line are you in yourself?’
‘Civil servant,’ said Steven.
Rudden gave Steven his card. ‘Give me a call nearer the time. I’ll sort out some good tickets for you and your daughter.’
‘I may take you up on that.’
Steven’s planned evening walk around the streets of Edinburgh came to an abrupt halt when the heavens opened and torrential rain had everyone running for shelter. He found his in the bar of the Roxburghe Hotel where he stayed until the deluge abated more than an hour later. The talk in the bar was about the weather and how unpredictable it was. Global warming found its proponents and opponents until, with nothing decided, the conversation changed to the terrorist attacks.
As most of the people were out-of-towners — businessmen on trips to the capital — Steven learned precisely nothing about how the locals were viewing them. He gave up eavesdropping and went back to Pilrig Street for an early night, winding his way downhill through the New Town, with the gutters still running like rivers and the professional premises closed and dark.
He was in a deep sleep when his mobile went off. It was Lukas Neubauer. ‘Don’t bother telling me it’s two in the morning. I know it is; I’m the one still working,’ said Neubauer.
‘Fair enough. I’m impressed,’ countered Steven. ‘Is that what you phoned to tell me?’
‘The cholera strain has been genetically modified.’
Steven was suddenly very wide awake, his mind filling with the possible horrors that could stem from that statement. ‘In what way?’ he asked in trepidation.
‘A bizarre way,’ said Neubauer. ‘A cassette has been inserted in its genome. Basically it’s a self-destruct mechanism.’
Steven struggled for words. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘I’m sure that’s what it is,’ said Neubauer. ‘In the early days of molecular biology, people were worried about altered organisms escaping from labs, so scientists came up with ways of disabling such bugs if they ever did. This is a very sophisticated version of that. The bug has a requirement for an amino acid which is being supplied by a gene on the cassette, but the cassette has a limited life span. When it stops supplying the amino acid, the bug will die.’
‘You mean the cholera was meant to die from the outset?’
‘That’s what it looks like.’
‘Well, that explains why the epidemic isn’t spreading like a forest fire,’ said Steven. ‘It was never meant to. What kind of a terrorist attack uses a microbe that’s weakened instead of strengthened?’
‘Happily,’ said Neubauer, ‘that’s your problem.’
THIRTY
