in the industry and heralded a new era in operating conditions for companies like his. It should do much to reduce the mountain of regulations that had built up over the last ten years.
The clock showed nine thirty; it was time to carry out his weekly inspection of the manufacturing floors.
The line managers would be waiting for him on Level 3 as usual to conduct him round their domains. After that he would have his weekly meeting with the quality controllers and then lunch in the canteen with the workers to listen to any minor grievances they might have… just as he’d done for the past two decades. In the afternoon he would inspect the loading bays and talk to the transport manager about delivery schedules. There was also the ongoing discussion about additional fleet vehicles to deal with. He knew the transport manager favoured Mercedes vans but he himself would prefer vehicles that were at least assembled in the UK.
The main event of the day was to be a meeting with representatives from Oxfam and three other major charities at three p.m. to discuss the quantities and distribution of vaccine supplies for Third World countries, and to appraise the latest reports from the World Health Organisation, especially projections for future needs.
Lark Pharmaceuticals was a private, non-profit-making concern set up by a charitable trust some twenty years before. It made a profit from one half of its business — the manufacture of diagnostic kits, antiseptic creams and antihistamine compounds — and this was used to fund the other half, which manufactured vaccines for Third World countries at rock-bottom prices, something that attracted much favourable publicity for the company in a world that was deeply suspicious of the motives driving drug companies. The walls of its reception area were adorned with the many awards it had received from humanitarian organisations.
Mosely was going through his mail when the phone rang. He could see the call was coming from level B2.
‘Everything is ready. We need to talk.’
‘This evening. Seven p.m.’
Sci-Med Inspectorate, Home Office, London
John Macmillan left the office and walked across the park to keep his postponed lunch date with Charlie Malloy. He saw a few snowdrops on the way but they failed to convince him that winter was anywhere near ending. A ‘barbecue summer’ that wasn’t had been followed by a ‘warm, wet winter’ that had turned out to be the coldest in many years, leaving him feeling nothing but frustration with weather forecasters.
Leonard, the club’s doorman of many years, welcomed him into the warmth and took his coat. ‘Chief Superintendent Malloy is already here, Sir John,’ he said. ‘I’ve put him in the lounge.’
It was John Macmillan’s custom to invite contacts in government and administration to have lunch with him on a rotational basis — not people at ministerial level but fairly high-level players who knew what was going on. It was his way of getting a feel for things, hearing the latest rumours and often putting two and two together. Sci-Med investigated what they saw fit, and were therefore very dependent on information gathering. Much of it was done by computers using programs developed over the years to seek out reports of unusual happenings in science and medicine, but the human touch was also very important.
‘Good to see you, Charlie,’ said Macmillan, entering the lounge and shaking hands. ‘How are things?’
‘A bit calmer this week, although we’ve been left with a bit of a headache. You remember the supposed gas explosion that turned out to be a bomb?’
‘And you had identified two of the dead as British?’
‘That’s right. Turns out all six of them were.’
‘What was it? Some kind of club or business meeting?’
Malloy shook his head. ‘They didn’t travel together. In fact, they seemed to come from all over the place to meet their death in Paris on a cold afternoon in February.’
‘The woman you mentioned last week, I remembered why her name struck a chord. Her husband was Sir Martin Freeman, a groundbreaking surgeon in his day who went out on a bit of a low. He collapsed and died in the middle of an operation.’
‘Good God, the stuff of nightmares,’ murmured Malloy, his expression mirroring his words.
‘So what was she? A doctor like hubby or a nurse who got lucky?’
‘Actually neither. In fact I think it was a case of Martin getting lucky. Antonia came from a very well-to-do family whereas Martin got his shoulder tapped for being good at his trade. Story was she and her family didn’t let him forget it either. Not the nicest of people, by all accounts.’
‘That would fit with her not having many friends, then,’ said Malloy. ‘I can’t say my chaps have been finding her sorely missed. Thanks for your input.’
‘How about the others?’
‘Actually, identification wasn’t too difficult.’
Macmillan frowned. ‘How so?’
‘The rest of the dead were all big hitters and quickly reported missing. One was chairman of a merchant bank, another was a top-level civil servant, and the other two were captains of industry. The strange thing was that none of their families knew they were in Paris.’
Macmillan let out a low whistle. ‘So why go there?’
‘Because they didn’t want to be seen here?’ suggested Malloy after a moment’s thought and a long sip of wine.
‘I do believe tonight’s star prize goes to Chief Superintendent Malloy,’ said Macmillan. ‘Do you think I could be kept in the loop on this one, Charlie? For some reason, it’s making me feel uneasy and I’m not sure why.’
‘No problem. Is your Steven Dunbar back with you yet or is he still in a huff?’
Macmillan smiled. ‘I wish it were only a huff, Charlie. I really do.’
‘So what went on there?’
Macmillan adopted a dignified pose. ‘In the interests of the state, I can’t tell you, Charlie. I’m sorry.’
‘Heigh-ho, I’ve been round that block a few times. The bottom line’s always the same. Some high-up bugger’s got away with something.’
Macmillan didn’t argue.
Jean Roberts looked up as Macmillan came in. ‘Nice lunch, sir?’
‘Interesting. Jean, have you had a chance to do anything yet about the information I asked for on Martin Freeman’s last operation?’
Jean brought out a red folder from her desk drawer. It seemed to weigh quite a bit as she struggled to lift it with one hand. ‘There was actually quite a lot going on at the time,’ she explained.
Macmillan accepted the file in amazement. ‘A thorough job as always, Jean,’ he muttered.
He spent the remainder of the afternoon reading through the file recording the events of 1992 when Martin Freeman had died while operating on a severely disfigured patient at College Hospital, Newcastle. Another surgeon, Dr Claire Affric, who had been assisting Freeman at the time, had taken over and completed the operation but press access to the principals at all stages afterwards had been very limited, and there had been rumours that the bandaged figure finally put before the cameras to assure everyone that all was well was not the patient, Greta Marsh, at all. The whole unhappy saga did little to calm Macmillan’s unease. Instead, it triggered off more memories.
A very good investigative journalist had been covering the case at the time, he recalled. He worked for one of the nationals and had been successful in uncovering some NHS funding scandal before he went north to look at the Greta Marsh affair. Kincaid, that was his name, James Kincaid. He’d never returned from that assignment up north. He and a nurse from a local hospital had been found dead. The explanation had been that Kincaid had become interested in another story concerning a drugs racket, and had paid the price for interference along with the nurse, who’d become his girlfriend.
Macmillan read that Kincaid and his girl had not been the only victims of what the papers had called the northern drugs war. Paul Schreiber, a pharmacist who had been involved in setting up a new health initiative at College Hospital, had also died along with two male nurses when thieves had carried out a raid on the hospital pharmacy. Yet another victim of the war had been a local GP named Tolkien, who’d been running a drug rehabilitation clinic in the area.
Macmillan rested his elbows on the desk and cupped his chin in his hands to read on. The violence had not been confined to the north. Kincaid’s editor in London had also been murdered, supposedly in case Kincaid had passed on any of his findings to him.
