Ken McClure - Dust to dust

Steven nodded. ‘And then he gave you an injection…’

‘Anti-tetanus.’

‘Any after effects?’

‘None… Good God, is that what happened to John? The injection?’

Steven held his hands up. ‘It’s too soon to say anything like that, but I’d be really obliged if you’d keep this to yourself for the time being.’

Fielding nodded and said wryly, ‘No problem. Frankly I wish I could just blot out the whole bloody episode from my memory.’

Steven nodded his understanding. ‘I hope you’re up and about again soon.’

Steven had already decided to visit the family of the dead marine in Glasgow, but it was too late to go up there that day. His first thought was to stay overnight in nearby St Boswells or Melrose, but then he reminded himself it was only a short drive to Dryburgh. If he stayed at the Abbey Hotel again, he might be able to glean some more information about the fake Public Health official from the staff. His gamble on there being a vacancy at the hotel — it still was a couple of weeks shy of Easter — paid off and he was even given the room he’d had before. ‘Nice to see you back, doctor,’ said the receptionist. He recognised her from his last visit and asked her if she remembered anything about Simon Morris. The question brought about an uneasy pause before she said — as if reading from a cue card — ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss other guests, doctor.’

Steven smiled and showed her his ID. ‘It’s OK,’ he assured her. ‘You won’t be breaking any rules.’

The girl seemed relieved at being released from the obvious embarrassment she felt in toeing the company line. ‘What about him?’

‘You do remember him?’

‘He was the doctor from Public Health. He was the only guest we’ve had this year who paid in cash. He’d lost his credit cards.’

‘Bad luck,’ said Steven, thinking, Smart move. You can’t trace cash.

‘He was here to examine the people working at the abbey. We gave him a little room on the ground floor.’

Steven nodded. ‘Did he leave an address when he left?’

The girl shook her head. ‘He just wrote Public Health Service in the book.’

‘Don’t suppose he left anything behind, did he?’

Another shake of the head.

‘Do you think I could see the room he used to see his patients?’

The girl smiled as she came out from behind the desk. ‘It’s not exactly a consulting room,’ she said. ‘It’s the ground floor linen store. We just made space for him on the day.’

Steven could see that the room had been restocked with linen. ‘I hope he cleared up after him,’ he said, ‘and didn’t leave any syringes and needles lying around…’

‘He was very good,’ said the girl. ‘Cleaned up everything when he was finished. Just as well. I hate needles and all that stuff.’

‘A true professional,’ said Steven, although he was thinking about a different profession entirely. He went upstairs and called John Macmillan at his home number, beginning with the usual apology for doing so.

‘Better that than silence,’ said Macmillan. ‘I hate being kept in the dark. Jean told me you’d uncovered something about the excavation at Dryburgh?’

Steven told him about the impostor who had given injections to the four men at the site.

‘You’re certain he was a phoney?’

‘Absolutely. Public Health had never heard of him: I checked.’ Steven told Macmillan that the man had paid in cash at the hotel.

‘So you think he engineered what happened to John Motram,’ said Macmillan slowly, as if he were thinking at the same time as speaking.

‘I think so,’ said Steven. ‘The other three were unaffected by their injections, but I think Motram was given something different.’

‘Which makes him a specific target.’

‘I think they wanted to keep him quiet about something.’

‘Odd way of going about it.’

‘But clever,’ said Steven. ‘If it hadn’t been for the lab not finding spores in the air…’

‘You did well,’ said Macmillan.

‘The point is, it’s not exactly something private enterprise would come up with. It’s more an intelligence services sort of thing, wouldn’t you say?’

He heard Macmillan let his breath out in a long sigh before muttering, ‘Damnation. This we don’t need.’

‘Did you find out anything more about the dead marine?’ Steven asked.

‘The MOD are sticking to their official line: anything else is pure fantasy, according to them. They have every sympathy with the dead boy’s parents but what they’re suggesting is, in the MOD’s view, stuff and nonsense. They’re keen to let it be known that the Kellys’ MSP belongs to the Scottish Nationalist Party: they maintain he’s seizing the chance to make trouble for the Westminster Labour Party.’

‘Mmm,’ said Steven. ‘But in all honesty, I can’t see the Kellys making something like this up, can you? Do we know anything about their reasons for suggesting their son had been back in the UK?’

‘No one I spoke to could say,’ said Macmillan.

‘I’m going to visit them tomorrow,’ said Steven. ‘I’ll try to find out.’

‘Did you learn anything new from John Motram’s wife?’

‘She couldn’t add much to what we knew already,’ said Steven. ‘Motram’s research was being funded by something called the Hotspur Foundation. In return, he had to screen the donor for an unnamed bone marrow patient who was suffering from advanced leukaemia. The man in charge of the transplant was a Sir Laurence Samson, a Harley Street physician, and it was being carried out at a private hospital called St Raphael’s in South Kensington. At some point after the screening, Motram contacted Samson and told him he thought the donor was the dead marine. Samson told him he was mistaken.’

‘Then someone destroyed the synapses of his brain…’ murmured Macmillan. ‘The smell of rat is overpowering.’

The Barony flats in the east end of Glasgow were as bleak and depressing as the area they were situated in. Steven had suspected the worst when the taxi driver gave him a funny look and asked if he was sure when he gave him the address. ‘Why do you ask?’

The taxi driver looked him up and down and said, ‘Three hundred quid leather jacket, designer jeans, Rolex watch: you don’t belong there, pal. They’ll know that too… When you step oot ma cab they’re gonae see it as Santa’s sleigh…’

‘Drop me at the edge of the estate,’ said Steven. ‘I’ll use the quiet streets.’ He was determined that his only compromise was going to be not taking the car. He liked it just the way it was… with wheels.

‘Good luck,’ said the driver with a knowing smile when Steven paid and tipped him well.

There were places like this in every city in the UK, thought Steven as he skirted round a group of young children blocking the pavement, maybe in every city in the world. They were universally described as poor areas, but it wasn’t just money missing from the equation, it was optimism, self-respect, enthusiasm, hope. There would be exceptions — there were always exceptions, people who tried hard against all the odds — but, in the end, the rubbish would win; the rubbish always won. The lazy, the feckless, the stupid, the criminal, the serially disaffected would smother and destroy the seeds of hope and make sure the wilderness remained in perpetuity.

It was no surprise to find that the lift going up to the Kellys’ floor was broken. The smell of urine in the ground floor area suggested this was probably a blessing and Steven took the stairs, picking his way through the accumulated litter of fast-food wrappings and beer cans. He paused at the third landing to look out at the view and reflected that Michael Kelly’s decision to join the military couldn’t have been that difficult. He found the Kellys’ door and rang the bell. The name tag above the button had ‘Kelly’ written on it in Biro: dampness had made the lettering run.