Ken McClure - Dust to dust

Steven grinned broadly — not least because ‘celebrity nail technician’ gained much from being said with a Geordie accent — and found himself warming to the man who’d said it. Some scientists took themselves awfully seriously. Motram clearly wasn’t in that school. ‘Was the grant renewed?’ he asked.

‘No, not for the historical stuff — John’s passion — but he managed to get some money from something called the Hotspur Foundation. As one door closes another one opens, you might say.’

Steven nodded his agreement with Geordie-tinged philosophy.

‘If John didn’t chuck out the samples, they’ll be in here,’ said Louise, opening the top half of a large fridge freezer.

‘Did you work on them at all?’ asked Steven, suddenly realising that the girl might have the very information he was seeking, but the hope was short-lived.

‘No. John said it was something he had to do himself. Delegation wasn’t permitted.’

‘I don’t suppose you saw his results?’

Another shake of the head. ‘I had no reason to. It was nothing to do with our work here. He was checking out a potential bone marrow donor… but I suppose you know that.’

Steven nodded.

‘You’re in luck,’ announced Louise, removing a wire rack from the fridge. It contained a number of plastic tubes of various shapes and sizes. She gave a little laugh. ‘Can’t get much clearer than that,’ she said, holding up the rack.

Steven read the label. Bone Marrow Donor.

Louise produced a small polystyrene box and some dry ice. Steven watched as she packed the samples. ‘Have you been with John long?’ he asked.

‘Ever since I graduated,’ she replied. ‘About eight years now.’

‘Quite a while. Any plans for the future?’

‘I’m thinking of registering for a master’s degree if John agrees. I could do it part time and still continue working here. After that, who knows?’

‘PhD?’

‘Maybe.’

What had started as small talk had given birth to a plan in Steven’s head. ‘You must know almost as much as John about research in receptor biology,’ he said.

Louise smiled. ‘It’s one thing learning what’s there, quite another coming up with what’s not there.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Steven, intrigued by her response.

‘People think research is all about getting answers. It’s not; it’s more about asking questions, the right questions. Out of the hundreds of questions you can ask, only one or two will be the right ones. The others… well, they just keep researchers in employment.’

Steven was impressed. ‘Hang on a moment,’ he said as he saw she was about to seal the box. It had been his intention to take the samples back to London and hand them over to the contract labs Sci-Med used for analytical work. There had never been any trouble with this arrangement in the past and there was no reason to think there would be this time, but the paranoia that came with knowing there was some kind of establishment opposition to the current investigation was making Steven ultra-cautious. ‘What would you say to the idea of Sci-Med commissioning you to carry out an analysis on these samples?’

‘I don’t know what Professor Lyons would say about that.’

‘Assuming she was agreeable?’

‘Then sure, no problem. What is it you’d want me to do exactly?’

‘I need to know everything you can possibly tell me about the donor from the samples in these tubes.’

‘Look, John actually mentioned in passing he was a perfect match for the patient,’ said Louise, ‘if that’s what you’re worried about. In fact…’ She opened a drawer under the lab bench and rummaged around for a few seconds before coming up with a sheet of paper which she handed to Steven. ‘These are the patient’s details. I remember John saying they were too ordinary to be secret.’

‘Thank you,’ said Steven. ‘May I keep this?’ When she nodded, he went on, ‘Look, this is going to be a belt and braces exercise. I want you to divide the samples in two: I’m going to get the lab we use in London to do a second analysis. How do you feel about that?’

Louise smiled. ‘It’ll take more than a bunch of soft southerners to scare me,’ she said.

Steven flew back to London with the small package of samples in his briefcase. Barring unforeseen circumstances, he planned to have them in the lab before the end of the working day. The flight landed on time at Heathrow — his least favourite airport — and he was about to start making his way through the anticipated throngs of people to catch the Heathrow Express into the city when he was stopped by two men who showed him Special Branch ID. They were accompanied by two armed airport police. Steven showed them his ID but to little effect.

‘We know who and what you are, doctor, but we have our orders. Would you please come with us?’

Steven was led away to an interview room where one of the Special Branch officers took his briefcase from him and opened it. He removed the package containing the samples.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ exclaimed Steven. ‘I’m a Sci-Med investigator, on operational duty with the full backing of the Home Office. Take your hands off that.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but our information is such that we’ll have to hold on to this and detain you for the time being.’

‘What information?’

The officer held up the package. ‘Regarding the contents of this, sir.’

‘That package contains biological samples,’ said Steven as calmly as he could in the circumstances. ‘They are vital to my current investigation and they must be delivered to the lab before it closes or they’ll deteriorate.’ This was not strictly true: the dry ice packing would preserve the samples for a day or two, but Steven was in no mood to be reasonable. ‘Give it here: I’ll show you what’s in it.’

The officer withdrew the package beyond his reach.

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir. Special Branch will be carrying out its own examination of the contents.’

‘In which case there’s every chance they’ll fuck up an official Sci-Med investigation big time,’ said Steven, losing all patience. ‘And if that happens. I’ll make a point of making sure you two spend the rest of your careers giving road safety talks to children in the Outer Hebrides.’

‘We have our orders, sir.’

One of the officers left the room with the package; the other remained.

‘What now?’ asked Steven through gritted teeth.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to remain here in the airport holding facility for the time being.’

‘Great,’ snorted Steven. ‘Am I permitted to make a phone call?’

The officer nodded and Steven called John Macmillan. ‘I’m being held at Heathrow Airport. Special Branch have confiscated the samples I brought back from the north.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Macmillan. ‘Didn’t you tell them who you were?’

Steven edited out Of course I bloody did. ‘It made no difference.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ stormed Macmillan. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

Steven spent ninety minutes in a holding cell at Heathrow before sounds of activity outside the door told him his detainment was coming to an end. Sir John Macmillan had arrived in person to oversee his release.

‘A bit like having my dad bail me out,’ said Steven.

Both men got into the back of the black, chauffeur-driven car waiting on the double yellows outside the terminal building.

‘So what’s going on?’ asked Steven.

‘I wish I knew,’ said Macmillan. ‘Special Branch have offered their apologies for what they say was a “regrettable mistake” but there’s more to it than that; I know there is.’ He seemed deeply troubled. ‘There was no mistake. There’s something going on. It’s part of a pattern that’s been emerging. People with power and influence are making things happen.’