Ken McClure - Dust to dust

Steven resisted the urge to say, What’s new?

‘But not in the usual way,’ continued Macmillan. ‘They’re calling in favours, using the old school tie, invoking the old pals act. That’s why I’ve been unable to get a handle on the people behind the opposition to your investigation. It’s not a specific department or arm of government that’s the prime mover, it’s people in very high places asking favours of each other across a whole range of departments.’

‘From the military to Special Branch,’ said Steven. ‘Did the apology include the return of our samples?’

‘They should be on their way back by now,’ said Macmillan. ‘I asked them to return them directly to the Home Office.’

‘So what was it all about?’ mused Steven as they slowed yet again in heavy traffic. ‘They stop me at the airport, take away the samples and now they say it was all a mistake. What kind of mistake are we expected to believe it was? Mistaken identity? They knew exactly who I was… A random search? They knew exactly what they were looking for.’

Macmillan nodded. ‘It’s quite clear they knew where you’d been, what you’d been doing and that you’d be flying into Heathrow. Someone could have a tap on your phone.’

‘Or Cassie Motram’s,’ said Steven. ‘She was the only one I spoke to about flying up to Newcastle for the donor samples.’

‘I’ll get some IT technicians to check out both as soon as we get back,’ said Macmillan.

‘So, if they wanted the samples so badly… why are they now saying it was all a big mistake and giving them back?’

‘I’d like to think it was because I created such a fuss,’ said Macmillan. ‘I told them the fallout from interfering with one of my investigators acting with the full authority of the Home Secretary would end in P45s fluttering down on Special Branch like leaves on a windy day in autumn.’

‘Then maybe that was the reason,’ said Steven. ‘I don’t suppose you found out where they were taking the samples?’

‘I got the distinct impression that Special Branch didn’t actually know anything about what the package contained,’ said Macmillan. ‘It’s my guess that someone suggested to someone that they stop you, take the package from you and deliver it somewhere else…’

‘A high-level favour,’ said Steven.

‘Exactly, but it didn’t work out for them. We’re getting our samples back and, with any luck,’ said Macmillan as he stepped out of the car at the Home Office, ‘they’ll be waiting for us inside.’

The samples had been delivered some fifteen minutes earlier, according to the man on the desk. Macmillan asked Steven to check if the package had been interfered with in any way.

‘I don’t think so,’ replied Steven, examining it briefly on all sides but acknowledging that, if it had been opened, it would have been easy enough to reseal it again. It was a simple white polystyrene box sealed with brown adhesive tape. ‘But I can’t be sure.’

‘Maybe you should check the contents before I ask Jean to call a dispatch rider,’ suggested Macmillan.

Steven opened the box in Jean Roberts’ office and took a look inside. Everything seemed to be in order — there was still blood in the one tube he lifted out.

A motorcycle dispatch rider arrived within ten minutes and was briefed to deliver the box to the contract lab as quickly as possible, together with the patient’s details Steven had obtained from Louise Avery. Jean had warned the lab to expect their arrival, and requested a fully comprehensive analysis of the donor samples.

‘Another day of work and play,’ sighed Macmillan as he sank into his office chair and sipped the sherry he’d poured for himself after handing a glass to Steven. ‘Well, what’s the lab going to come up with, d’you think?’

‘I simply can’t imagine,’ Steven confessed. ‘The whole thing just seems so bizarre. But there has to be something they don’t want us to know about the donor. What are they trying to hide?’

‘The identity of the patient?’ suggested Macmillan half-heartedly.

‘Surely it can’t all be about that,’ exclaimed Steven.

‘Amateurish,’ said Macmillan, causing Steven to raise his eyebrows at the choice of word. ‘That’s what it is, amateurish. Powerful people who don’t have a proper understanding of what they’re doing are pulling the strings of people who do but aren’t being told why because it’s a secret.’ Macmillan managed to put a great deal of distaste into the word and Steven had to smile.

‘Of course it could be we’re just missing something,’ he said. ‘Something we haven’t even thought of.’

‘Yet,’ said Macmillan.

‘Did you have any luck asking round the hospitals about MRSA patients from St Raphael’s?’

Macmillan gave a rueful laugh. ‘I overlooked one factor,’ he said. ‘I should have realised that hospital secretaries would be very circumspect when it came to admitting they’d imported MRSA into their hospitals. I drew a complete blank. Mind you, I could see their point. Imagine what the papers would do with that kind of information.’

‘ Filthy rich send their bugs to the NHS,’ Steven intoned.

‘I think we can forget about official channels on that one,’ said Macmillan. ‘Any progress will have to be made at grass roots level.’

‘Chatty nurses and disaffected cleaners,’ said Steven.

Macmillan nodded. His phone rang and he answered. It was confirmation from the lab that they’d received the samples. They would be giving them top priority as requested.

‘Maybe we need a Plan B,’ said Steven. He responded to Macmillan’s raised eybrows by adding, ‘What are we going to do when the lab tells us that the donor was blood group A2, rhesus positive and an excellent tissue match for the patient, end of story?’

‘We look at the small print — all the extra tests Motram was asked to perform. There has to be something.’

Steven spent a few minutes sitting by the river before going back to his flat. He was conscious of the fact that he hadn’t said anything to John Macmillan about the duplicate analysis of the samples he’d requested and was feeling slightly guilty about it. He owed a great deal to Macmillan and would trust him with his life, but there was some kind of problem in the corridors of power at the moment and he didn’t know how close to home it was going to come. It was like a cancer: people were seeing signs of metastasis but no one knew where the original tumour was lurking.

There had already been one attempt to prevent Sci-Med from examining the donor samples: he didn’t want any more interference. His action in requesting Louise Avery to examine the samples had been unplanned and spontaneous, so it had not been mentioned in any discussion or phone call. This was a good way to leave matters. He resurrected a favourite old adage: two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.

He was still thinking about this when his phone rang. It was Macmillan, which made him feel guilty all over again. ‘Jean tells me the technicians have finished checking out the phone lines I asked them to look at. Your line has not been interfered with but Mrs Motram’s has. Quite a professional job, they said.’

‘Might be useful to leave it that way,’ suggested Steven. ‘In case we need to feed guano to the opposition.’

‘My thoughts too,’ said Macmillan. ‘I’ve asked them to take no action for the time being.’

Perhaps it was the unease he felt at learning of the phone tap on Cassie Motram’s line, but Steven’s senses seemed heightened as he resumed his walk home. He tried telling himself it was imagination when he started to think he was being followed. When he’d last crossed the road, he’d spotted a man in a dark suit about a hundred metres back and it immediately registered that he’d seen him a few minutes before when he’d got up from his seat by the river.