Ken McClure - White death

‘A bizarre decision, I agree,’ said Macmillan.

‘Do we have the address of this Swedish clinic?’

‘They said they’d get back to me today with the details. I take it you’re planning to follow it up and go there?’

‘You bet. All this nonsense for a straightforward case of TB with no treatment difficulties? I don’t think so. I’ll stay up here and catch a flight from Birmingham.’

Steven returned to the breakfast room, smiling his apologies to the couple who’d come in to breakfast in his absence and chosen to sit in front of the French doors. He asked the Polish waitress for more toast and coffee while he digested this latest revelation.

He returned to his room and used his laptop to check out options for Swedish flights leaving from Birmingham: he made a note of their departure times. It was now going to depend on when John Macmillan got back to him. In the meantime, he called Tally with the information that the boy never had been admitted to the children’s hospital in the first place: there had been a ‘misunderstanding’.

‘Good,’ she replied. ‘Then I can stop looking through cupboards for secret patients. Where is he?’

‘Er…’

‘Oh, I understand. If you told me, you’d have to kill me. Right?’

‘He’s in Sweden.’

‘Why?’

‘God knows but that’s the reason I’ll be leaving for Sweden as soon as I get the address of the clinic there.’

‘Well, I wonder what wonderful medical facilities the Swedes have got that we haven’t,’ said Tally. She’d said it tongue in cheek but it triggered off something in Steven’s memory — something that alarmed him. ‘They are world leaders in bio-hazard containment,’ he said distantly.

‘What?’

‘The Swedes are often called in as consultants whenever there is a threatened epidemic of a killer disease. Find an outbreak of Ebola or Marburg virus and you’ll find people wearing Swedish-designed bio-hazard suits working in Swedish-designed mobile labs.’

‘Surely you’re not suggesting that the boy has anything like that?’ said Tally.

‘I’m not suggesting anything right now,’ said Steven. ‘I’m stumbling around in the dark. I take it lunch is still not possible?’

‘’Fraid not,’ said Tally. ‘But thanks anyway. Let me know how you get on in Sweden.’

John Macmillan called just after noon. Steven could tell by the tone of his voice that something was wrong. He tried preempting him. ‘You’re going to tell me that you don’t have the address of the Swedish clinic?’ he said.

‘Steven, I have been approached by people at the highest level…’

Steven could hardly believe his ears. John Macmillan was going to ask him to back off, the John Macmillan who had gone to war with ‘people at the highest level’ so many times in the past to maintain the integrity of Sci-Med and establish the truth.

‘They have asked me to take their word for it that Anwar Mubarak is not suffering from any unusual or exotic disease and is in no personal danger. When I told them about our concern for the green sticker children, they also assured me that Mubarak’s condition had absolutely nothing to do with the death of Keith Taylor or Patricia Lyons’ illness. They have given me their absolute word on that.’

‘I see,’ said Steven in a tone that prompted more comment.

‘I think, in the circumstances, I have to accept what they say. The alternative would be to accuse people in the top echelons of government of lying without having any foundation for the charge.’

‘So you’re asking me to drop the investigation?’

‘You know better. It’s always been my practice to let my people make their own decisions in the field. I’m just asking you to bear in mind what I’ve just told you. The decision is still yours but I have to know. Are you still going to insist on travelling to Sweden to see the boy?’

‘I suppose not,’ said Steven although the words almost stuck in his craw. He was frustrated and angry that Macmillan had put him in such a position and felt hamstrung about saying so because he owed so much to the man. His thinking, however, was tempered by conceding that Macmillan himself had been placed in an almost impossible position. ‘Shit,’ he murmured as he put down the phone. ‘Shit, shit shit.’

A knock came to the door. It was one of the hotel receptionists. ‘Will you be checking out soon, sir?’ she asked.

Steven glanced at his watch and took her point. He apologised because it was nearly twelve thirty. ‘Actually, no,’ he said. ‘I’d like to stay one more night if that’s possible?’

‘I’ll check downstairs for you.’

Steven stood by the window, watching the traffic pass. He felt uncomfortable at having no clear objective. Perhaps it was because he had spent so long in the military but he hated the feeling of being at a loose end. Macmillan’s call had effectively put a halt to his investigation when he felt that it was far from over. There had been no explanation of why the boy had been taken to Sweden and there had been no resolution of the cause of death in the case of Keith Taylor or any clue as to what was behind Trish Lyons’ condition.

The phone rang. ‘Your room will be available for another night, sir.’

Steven’s spur-of-the-moment decision not to go back to London had been taken largely to give him the opportunity to calm down. He needed time to free himself of anger and frustration. If he returned to the capital in his current state of mind he would be liable to come out with something he might regret. He decided — as he had so often in the past — to use physical exertion to help him battle stress. He fetched track suit and trainers from the car, changed and set off on a run with no particular route or destination in mind.

The hotel was well away from the city centre so crowds were not a problem and he was able to pound the pavements of suburbia until he was sweating freely and the endorphins released by physical effort did much to create an inner sense of calm. Apart from that, it felt good to stretch his muscles and feel assured that his physical condition gave no cause for concern. Common sense told him that there was no way that he could be as fit as he’d been some ten to fifteen years before when serving as an operational soldier with ‘the best’ as ‘the Regiment’ liked to see itself but it still felt as if he was and that was a major feel-good factor. Running and swimming kept him lean and occasional sorties into the mountains of North Wales by arrangement with his old regiment let him test himself to the limit. It just took longer to recover these days.

He stood in the shower for a good ten minutes when he got back to his hotel room, letting the warm water soothe away the aches and pains of the run. He towelled himself dry, dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt and called Tally.

‘I thought you’d be on your way to Sweden by now. Where are you?’

‘Change of plan, I’m still in town. How about dinner this evening?’

Tally hesitated for a moment before saying, ‘Ye.. es, if we could make it a bit later. I have a class.’

‘Of course. What are you doing?’

‘Conversational French. I’m planning on going touring there in the late summer with friends.’

‘Good for you. ‘Tell me where the class is and I’ll pick you up.’

Steven asked at the reception desk whether there were any French restaurants in Leicester.

‘Indian, no problem,’ said the girl with what Steven thought might be an edge to her voice. ‘But French… I’ll have to ask Carol.’

The girl returned from the back office with the name and phone number of a restaurant written down on a ‘with compliments’ slip. Steven called the number and made a reservation at Le Gavroche for nine.