Paul Gitsham - The Last Straw

“Huh? You’ve lost me, Professor. Surely with such a need for new antibiotics, whoever discovers a new one stands to make a fortune!”

Tompkinson smiled sadly. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that. It takes up to a billion US dollars and anything up to fifteen years to develop a new drug. The success rate from good idea to pharmacy counter is tiny. The vast majority of potential drugs are eliminated in the early stages of development because they don’t work or have unacceptable side effects. Drug research is an incredible gamble, with the pay-off being massive exclusive sales in the years before the patent expires after which everyone and his uncle can use your research to make your drug at a fraction of the cost and undercut you. Because of that, pharmaceutical firms favour drugs that will recoup that investment. They like to play safe. So what’s the point of spending a billion dollars developing a new antibiotic that ninety per cent of bugs are going to be resistant to before you’ve even made your investment back?”

The question hung in the air.

Scratching his head and trying to keep up, Jones asked the obvious.

“So where is the motive, then? Presumably anyone stealing his idea would still have to spend millions doing the safety trials. I don’t know much about this sort of thing, but I seem to recall from an article in some Sunday supplement that the bulk of the cost of developing a drug lies with the safety testing. Who is going to murder the prof over something that won’t make them any money?”

The professor nodded.

“You are quite right, of course. As regards the bacteria acquiring resistance, rumour has it Professor Tunbridge had solved that particular conundrum.”

“He’s developed a multi-pronged attack to delay the onset of antibiotic resistance, hasn’t he?”

The question was blurted out from DC Hardwick.

Tompkinson nodded enthusiastically as if praising a favourite student.

“Very good. I see that you know something about this, Constable. Did you study at university before joining the police?”

She nodded, confidence buoyed somewhat by the praise.

“Yes, sir. I did a Molecular Biology degree and we learnt a lot about antibiotic resistance. You mentioned that Professor Tunbridge was planning on going commercial with his work — is this what you meant?”

“Yes, ‘Trident Antibacterials’ was the name he was considering. Alan was just starting to put out feelers for potential backers. It was all very hush-hush, of course. I believe that he was in the process of protecting the work with patents before he went public. The word on the grapevine is that he had successfully developed a drug system that attacked three unrelated drug targets simultaneously. The theory is that whilst the odds of one bacterium developing a chance mutation that renders the cell resistant to an antibiotic is fairly good when you consider the trillions of bacterial cells that will be treated over time, the likelihood of all three targets being thwarted simultaneously is infinitesimal. Even if a cell becomes resistant to one or even two of the methods of attack, the remaining drug target will still remain viable.”

“So you are saying that Tunbridge’s murder may have been, for want of a better word, industrial espionage?”

Tompkinson shrugged. “I would say it’s a possibility.”

“Who would benefit from his death, then, and how?”

“I suppose the most obvious candidate would be a rival pharmaceutical company. The idea of a multi-pronged attack isn’t in itself brand new. I’ve no doubt that dozens of laboratories around the world are working on similar approaches. Stopping Tunbridge from launching Trident would buy them time.”

“Murder seems a bit extreme. Why not just buy him out? If the stakes are as high as you say they are, surely somebody could just throw a few million quid his way to sell them his work, or even offer him a job in their company to finish it with them.”

“That may well have happened. However, knowing Alan as I do, working for another company wouldn’t appeal to his ego. For Alan, being the CEO of his own company that produced this miracle cure would be the ultimate goal. He was a huge self-publicist and he’d have relished the idea of a four-page spread in New Scientist or even the front cover of a major news magazine such as Time . In terms of money, if he wanted to sell his work, then he’d make much more if he was able to sell a fully working product. If it is as successful as he wanted it to be — and it is still a big if — he could float Trident on the stock exchange or even license it to the highest bidder. In this case we could be talking hundreds of millions, if not billions.”

“What about the research that he has already published? Surely, the cat’s out of the bag now. Isn’t it just a question of time before somebody else follows his work? What about the other members of his lab? Surely, if they got together they could assemble the pieces and finish the work?”

“Perhaps one day, but you have to realise how controlling Alan was. He still performed some of his own research. That’s rare — most professors of his standing haven’t wielded a pipette in anger for years. I would imagine that the central piece of the jigsaw is all Alan’s own work and he probably hasn’t shared his data with anybody else. I fear that when Alan died, Trident died with him. And with him millions of people who could have been saved from a horrible death.”

As Jones and Hardwick left Professor Tompkinson’s office they were met by a young PC. “Sir, DI Sutton has found something at the main campus security office he thinks you should see.”

Motioning for the young man to lead on, Jones and Hardwick followed him out of the Biology building into the bright sunlight. “Main campus Security is just along here, sir, a few minutes’ walk.”

The temperature had picked up a little now, but the air was still fresh. In a couple of hours it would be too warm for his suit jacket, Warren judged. Impatient to see what Sutton had discovered, he walked as briskly as possible, arriving at the small building slightly out of breath, his calf muscles aching. His more youthful colleagues, he noticed with mild shame, seemed to have taken the rapid pace completely in their stride, so to speak.

You’re getting old, Warren. Too much time behind a desk, not enough time on the beat, he admonished himself.

The campus security centre was a nondescript building, tucked away next to the library on a busy main road. Seeing them arrive, Sutton opened the door to let them in. In his hand he held a sheaf of printed sheets of A4 paper. He was clearly excited; even his customary smirk was absent. As quickly as was polite he introduced Jones to Terry Raworth, Head of Security. A solidly built man his ram-rod straight bearing and no-nonsense attitude suggesting either ex-police or former military. Noting the tattoos on the backs of his wrists as they shook hands, Jones decided upon ex-military. Tattoos hadn’t been encouraged in the police back when this man would have been serving and it seemed unlikely that a retired copper would suddenly develop an interest in body art.

Raworth led them through the back into the main control room. It was small and cramped, one whole wall given over to banks of black and white TV screens, with digital video recorders blinking below. An ancient desktop computer sat on a rickety desk, its fan wheezing loudly. The air was close, smelling of stale coffee and unwashed bodies. Sitting on an even more rickety-looking plastic chair in front of the monitors was another man, similar in age although without Raworth’s military demeanour.

“What have we got, Inspector?”