Ken McClure - White death

Steven had been born and brought up in the Lake District, in the small village of Glenridding on Ullswater where he had had an idyllic childhood. Being raised in the shadow of the Cumbrian mountains had fostered in him a great love of the outdoors. He had done well at school which had encouraged parents and teachers to push him towards medicine and he had duly complied by studying medicine although his heart had never been in it. After qualifying and doing his registration year, he had stopped pretending and admitted to his nearest and dearest that this was not the career for him. He had bitten the bullet and informed his family that he was joining the army.

Army life had suited Steven down to the ground. A naturally strong and athletic man, he had taken to it like a duck to water, serving first with the Parachute Regiment and then on secondment to Special Forces where his medical skills were put to good use, ensuring over the years that he had become an expert in field medicine with his skills honed in the deserts of the Middle East and the jungles of South America.

The operational life of a Special Forces soldier, however, has a lifespan not much longer than that of a professional footballer and Steven had recognised this as he approached his mid-thirties. Time for him was running out and the bleak prospect of a return to civilian life was looming on the horizon. The few options he could see had not seemed attractive. The medical career train had long passed him by and demand for his specialist skills in wound treatment and bullet removal under field conditions was not going to be great in civvy street. He saw himself becoming an in-house medic for some large insurance company or working in a liaison role in the pharmaceutical industry, but neither appealed to someone who had always known and craved adventure.

He was saved from the humdrum, however, by John Macmillan who ran a small, elite unit at the Home Office called the Sci-Med Inspectorate. This comprised a small body of medical/scientific specialist investigators who would look into the possibility of crime in areas where the police lacked expertise. Steven was taken on board as a medical investigator and had found his niche in an organisation that only recruited the best. It was a pre-condition that Sci-Med investigators had to have had other careers in which they had demonstrated resourcefulness and initiative on top of professional expertise and above all, in John Macmillan’s estimation, be blessed with a great deal of plain common sense.

Macmillan took the view that no man knew how he would react in times of great personal danger until he was actually placed in that situation and tested. Very few ever were in the course of ‘normal’ jobs. Paint-ball wars and building bridges over imaginary rivers on company weekends was fine for salesmen but not for Sci-Med people. Heroics on the rugby pitch were one thing but continuing to fight on when the man beside you has just been cut in half by automatic weapon fire was quite another. Steven had been tested for real and had come through with flying colours. He had become one of Sci-Med’s top investigators.

Steven still didn’t feel too well but there were no outward signs of this as he dressed in dark blue suit, light blue shirt and Parachute Regiment tie and checked his appearance in the mirror, making sure his dark hair wasn’t standing up. Macmillan did not like sloppiness. He checked his watch and set off for the Home Office.

As he climbed the stairs he knew that the first thing Jean Roberts, Macmillan’s secretary, would ask about would be Jenny and so it proved.

‘She’s growing into quite the little madam,’ replied Steven.

‘Ah,’ said Jean. ‘Getting to that age?’

Steven nodded. ‘How’s the choir doing?’ he asked, wanting to change the subject and knowing that Jean’s membership of the South London Bach choir was one of the cornerstones of her life.

‘Busy, busy, busy,’ replied Jean. ‘One concert every week for the last three weeks and we have a ten-day tour coming up in two months’ time.’

‘That should keep you out of mischief.’

‘Who’s keeping who out of mischief?’ asked John Macmillan, coming out of his office and slapping a file into Jean’s in-tray. ‘Good to see you, Steven,’ he said, shaking hands. ‘It’s been a while.’ He turned back to Jean and said, ‘If you could get these out by tonight, I’d be obliged.’

‘Yes, Sir John.’

Steven reflected on Macmillan’s knighthood as he followed him back into his office and closed the door. It had been granted in the New Year’s honours list and was, in his view, long overdue. Macmillan had always been his own man and had guarded Sci-Med’s autonomy over the years with a zeal that had irritated many in the corridors of power. Suggestions by the powerful that Sci-Med might back off in certain investigations when they came too close to home were always met with refusal and expressions of support for his people. He never excused or ignored any wrong-doing among the rich and powerful of the land and had, as a result, made many enemies along the way. He had once confided in Steven that certain individuals would move heaven and earth to stop him being recognised for Sci-Med’s achievements so Steven had been tickled pink to see Macmillan’s name come up in the honours list. He hoped that his own success in thwarting a potentially disastrous attack by Al-Qaeda on the UK and US government infrastructures might have helped pave the way for the award because he liked and respected the man enormously and had on several occasions in the past good cause to thank him for his backing when he personally had ruffled the feathers of the establishment.

Steven had been on leave for the past two months, recovering from traumas suffered in his last assignment and regaining fitness at a military camp in North Wales through an arrangement with his old regiment.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Fit and well,’ replied Steven.

‘Jean said you were up in Scotland when she contacted you?’

‘I was up seeing Jenny.’

‘How is she?’

‘I think I’ve just had a glimpse of the terrible teens to come.’

‘Oh dear,’ smiled Macmillan. ‘Girls are always so much more trouble than boys in my experience.’

‘So people keep telling me.’

Macmillan settled back in his chair, looking every inch the Whitehall mandarin, tanned, smooth skin belying his sixty odd years, silver hair swept back, confidence oozing from every pore. He looked at Steven for a moment before saying, ‘Nothing too serious I hope?’

‘Not in the great scheme of things, I suppose. It was just a bit of a shock to discover that she no longer sees me as her knight in shining armour who appears out of the mist from time to time bearing gifts and telling tales of fighting evil. She now sees me as a flawed human being who chose to abandon her in a far-off land.’

Macmillan smiled and said, ‘I’m sure that’s not true but it sounds like something all fathers in your position have to go through. The irony is that if you really had abandoned her and she never saw you at all, she’d regard you as a saint and make all sorts of excuses for you.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Don’t let it get you down. You’ve always had Jenny’s best interests at heart. She’s always been a much loved little girl. I remember celebrating her birth in this very office.’

Steven nodded, anxious that the conversation should move on.

Macmillan flipped open a file on his desk. ‘Dr Scott Haldane, aged thirty-five, general practitioner in a family practice in Edinburgh — at least he was until he took his own life, leaving a wife and two young children behind.’

Steven screwed up his face. ‘Thirty-five? No age at all. What’s our interest?’