Ken McClure - Lost causes

‘I suppose it might even influence me,’ said Tally. ‘How about you?’

‘I won’t be voting.’

Tally could see by Steven’s expression that he meant it, and they’d been down this road before. ‘Well, I won’t give you a lecture on what people have suffered in the past so that we can have the right to vote,’ she said. ‘I know you have your reasons.’

‘Correct. I detest the lot of them.’

Tally gave a little smile. ‘I won’t even argue that there must be some good ones. I will simply drop the subject and move on.’

‘Good.’

‘What do you think about the company’s plan?’

Steven thought for a moment. ‘They want to do the opposite from the big guys. They want to change the emphasis from research to production. Less risk equals more happy shareholders. The contract will have to go to tender but they sounded like they really want it; they were talking about coming up with a very competitive bid, cutting every last cent to win it.’

Tally paused while Steven refilled her glass. ‘Where does the head of security fit into all this?’ she asked.

‘We’re not going to be the only company hoping to land the contract. Knowing what the other guys are bidding could be a huge advantage. It’ll be my job to ensure that our figure stays a secret.’

Tally nodded. ‘And if your company lands the contract and the emphasis shifts away from research… where would that leave you?’

Steven smiled as he filled his own glass. ‘I suppose I could be out of a job if the research element of the company disappears completely, but maybe they’ll find something else for me to do, cleaning the lavatories or something.’

‘Pathetic, Dunbar.’

‘It was, wasn’t it? I’ll have to work on my self-pity. What do you say to another bottle?’

‘Grazie mille, signore.’

Lark Pharmaceuticals, Canterbury, Kent

Dr Mark Mosely parked his dark green Jaguar in his designated parking spot, and pulled his collar up against a biting east wind as he crossed to the glass front doors, which slid open on instructions from the infrared detector above them.

‘Morning, serfs,’ he said as he made his way past the potted palms of Reception to the lifts.

The two receptionists smiled dutifully at the daily joke and chanted their ‘Good morning, sir’ like primary school children.

Mosely was in a good mood. The announcement about the vaccines agreement was good news for everyone 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?’