Ken McClure - White death

‘The affected child was an immigrant.’

Brewer shrugged. ‘That could be your answer. The problem cases are coming from the third world. Desperate times, desperate measures and all that.’

‘Thanks, Jim, you’ve been a big help,’ said Steven, getting up to go.

‘You’re welcome. You’ll have to come down and see us all soon.’

‘I’d like that,’ said Steven. ‘I’ll give you a call.’

It was raining quite heavily when Steven left the hospital but he found a cab that was just turning around to leave and got in, asking to be taken to the Home Office.

‘Bit of a mess your place these days,’ said the driver.

‘Really? I hadn’t heard.’

‘Yeah, they’re going to cut it up into smaller bits. Good idea if you ask me. It’s too bloody big the way it is, far too much for one bloke to run.’

‘Right,’ said Steven. ‘Well, another bloke’s always welcome…’

Steven had coffee and leafed through the current copies of a range of medical and scientific journals while he waited to see John Macmillan. He found a report about what Jim Brewer had mentioned regarding the appearance of drug-resistant strains of TB. It didn’t make for happy reading.

‘He’s off the phone,’ said Jean Roberts and Steven nodded that he was ready. She clicked the intercom and told Macmillan he was waiting.

‘He isn’t going to like this,’ murmured Steven as he passed Jean’s desk.

Macmillan was standing at the window with his back to Steven. He seemed deep in thought. ‘I trust you’ve brought some sunshine to brighten up a rainy day?’

‘Not exactly.’

Macmillan turned round. ‘Well, they do say it never rains but it pours. What’s the problem?’

‘I do need to know more about the child who contracted TB at Pinetops camp — the one they were reluctant to give you information about.’

Macmillan’s look suggested that he’d need to hear more than that to comply. He invited Steven to continue.

‘There’s something they’re not telling us. It’s not just a case of keeping a low profile for reasons of racial harmony. There’s a real chance the kid was suffering from one of the drug-resistant strains that’s been reported in the journals of late.’

‘Need that concern us?’

‘Not directly,’ agreed Steven. ‘But Scott Haldane was very upset about something that was going on with the green sticker business and I’d like to know what it was.’

‘It sounds like you’ve entirely abandoned the possibility that Haldane committed suicide?’

‘The girl herself says her scalding was an accident so there was no reason for him to feel guilty and certainly no other reason for him to take his own life.’

‘And the possibility of murder?’

‘I haven’t been able to rule it out completely and I won’t be until I know what upset him about the Trish Lyons case. I need to know more.’

Macmillan sighed and said, ‘Well, your instincts are usually spot on. I’ll let you know when I get the information. Anything else?’

‘Jean got me a list of all the green sticker kids. I’d like to know how many of them have had occasion to visit a doctor since their time at the camp and for what reason.’

‘You’re not asking for the medical records of over a hundred children, are you?’ asked Macmillan, appalled at the thought.

‘No, just the ones who’ve had their records updated since being at the camp — the records submitted to the TB monitoring group.’

‘Do you think some of them may have contracted TB?’

‘It would be as well to know.’

‘All right, you can ask Jean to deal with it on your way out.’

‘Thanks,’ said Steven, noticing the presence of a red folder on Macmillan’s desk. He always used red folders for new Sci-Med cases when they came in. ‘Anything I should know about?’

Macmillan looked thoughtful. ‘Our computer search picked up on the death of a medical scientist in Cambridge, young chap, hit and run, driver didn’t stop.’

The Sci-Med computer was programmed to scan news stories from all over the UK, looking for possible criminal activity related to science and medicine.

‘Sounds like a police matter,’ said Steven.

‘That’s my feeling too,’ agreed Macmillan. ‘But I’m going to keep an eye on how things develop.’

‘A university don?’

‘No, he worked for a biotech company, St Clair Genomics.’

Steven spent the weekend up in Glenvane. He took Jenny and Sue and Richard’s two children swimming on Saturday morning in Dumfries and then for a pizza lunch followed by ice-cream and a telling-off from Sue when they got back for being so indulgent with them. The children enjoyed seeing Steven being scolded, suppressing giggles behind their hands while he did his best to appear contrite, exchanging secret glances with them.

Things between him and Jenny were not as they’d been — the ghost of her outburst on the last occasion still hung in the air — but she seemed more relaxed and even happy again, and that pleased him. There would, however, be no going back. The one sure thing he had to face was the fact that Jenny was growing up.

Steven flew back to London on the Sunday night shuttle from Glasgow rather than wait for the packed flight first thing on Monday morning. He had some paperwork to take care of and some shopping to do. The fridge in his flat was nearly empty as was the freezer and ready meals played a big part in his diet. Cooking did not interest him. He’d had to look after himself at university but student cuisine was no basis for success in the kitchen. Apart from that, his mother had done all the cooking at home and the army had taken care of such matters throughout his time in the military. When he felt like eating ‘properly’ he would go out to one of a number of restaurants he visited regularly. Tonight, when he’d finished his shopping, it would be Chinese food at the Jade Garden.

‘The child’s name is Anwar Mubarak,’ announced John Macmillan on Monday morning. ‘He’s thirteen years old and he’s currently in the children’s hospital in Leicester. He’s been diagnosed with pulmonary tuberculosis, affecting both lungs, but the lab reports no problems with the strain. It’s sensitive to all front-line antibiotics.’

‘Really?’ exclaimed Steven. ‘That’s a surprise.’

‘Why?’

Steven told Macmillan about Jim Brewer’s assertion that the medical response at the camp had been over the top if there was no reason to believe a ‘difficult’ strain of TB was involved.

‘They wouldn’t know at the time if it was difficult or not,’ pointed out Macmillan. ‘Maybe they were just being ultra-cautious.’

‘I suppose,’ agreed Steven. ‘But it still doesn’t explain why Scott Haldane was so pissed off.’

‘You don’t let go, do you?’ smiled Macmillan.

Steven shrugged.

‘I need hardly remind you that HMG still wants the identity of the boy to remain a secret.’

‘Understood.’

‘Jean has the other stuff you asked for. Let me know when you want to lay this to rest.’

Steven smiled as he left Macmillan’s office. This was the nearest Macmillan would come to suggesting that he might be chasing rainbows. He collected the file from Jean and went to the unit library to read it, collecting a cup of coffee from the machine in the corridor on the way.

Steven learned that fourteen of the children who’d been present at Pinetops camp when Mubarak had been diagnosed with TB had subsequently sought treatment from their GPs. He read with some alarm that one had actually died. Keith Taylor, a thirteen-year-old boy, had succumbed to the ravages of necrotising fasciitis after having been admitted to hospital in Carlisle. Steven screwed up his face as he read the report, thinking how cruel fate could be and what his parents must have gone through, watching their son die a terrible death.