Ken McClure - White death

Steven poured himself a drink and gave himself a few minutes before calling Tally. The feel-good factor he’d got earlier from concluding that the attempt on his life had been down to mistaken identity had all but evaporated in the space of Jenny’s long silence on the phone.

He was just about to hang up when Tally answered. ‘Sorry, I was in the bath. I usually take a phone in with me but I’m so tired I forgot. I was going to let it ring but then I thought it might be you.’

Steven smiled at the wealth of information. ‘And now you’re dripping all over the floor?’

‘I’ll just take you back into the bathroom… and put you down while I climb back into the bath… There, that’s better. God, I’m bushed. What a day.’

‘As bad as you feared, huh?’

‘And then some. Sometimes I hate my job.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, maybe it’s not my job I hate; it’s the NHS. I’m sick to the back teeth of being manipulated by bureaucrats so that they can meet targets and tick boxes for a bunch of stupid politicians who don’t know up from down when it comes to health care.’

‘Let it all hang out, girl.’

‘Setting targets hasn’t improved patient care at all; it’s just created thousands of jobs for people who can manipulate figures to make it appear as if targets are being met. It’s a nonsense.’

‘It’s not the first time I’ve heard that,’ said Steven.

‘I’m sorry… it’s been a long day and here I am, taking it out on you. Sorry, how was your day?’

‘Well, I came off the motorway at 80mph, did a couple of somersaults, landed in a field and then the Porsche blew up… apart from that, nothing special.’

‘You are joking. Right?’

‘Afraid not but I’m absolutely fine apart from a couple of scratches here and there.’

‘Oh, Steven, how awful. What happened?’

‘Front tyre blow-out. Nothing much you can do when that happens.’

‘It must have been absolutely terrifying.’

‘I’ve had better experiences. Still, no real harm done and I live to fight another day.’

‘I take it Sci-Med knows what happened?’

‘Yes, I’ve been in touch. There’s a top level meeting scheduled for Friday about the Pinetops affair.’

‘My God, I’d certainly like to be a fly on the wall at that,’ said Tally.

‘I’ll let you know what happens.’

‘If you can.’

‘The Official Secrets Act is not there for the convenience of politicians although you might be forgiven for thinking so sometimes. They’re not going to get away with using it this time without coming up with an explanation which I can’t begin to imagine.’

‘I’ve got a weekend off,’ said Tally.

Steven hesitated as guilt welled up inside him over his earlier exchange with Jenny. ‘I can’t see me getting one,’ he said. ‘The chances of everyone shaking hands after this meeting and agreeing it was all a mistake must be less than zero. People are going to be fighting for their political lives and others are going to be baying for blood and then there’s the question of the children and what happens to them…’

‘And I’m complaining about targets…’ said Tally.

‘I don’t suppose you can get off tomorrow?’ asked Steven. ‘I’ve got a free day tomorrow.’

‘No way, I’m afraid. If anything it’s going to be worse than today.’

‘Call you tomorrow night?’

‘Please do.’

Steven rested his head on the back of the chair and thought through what he’d told Tally. Nothing had been a lie; everything he’d said had been true and yet he didn’t feel as comfortable doing this as he’d hoped. How the front tyres on the Porsche had burst had been quite a big thing to leave out. Maybe another gin would help him feel better.

Steven used his free day to drive down to the south coast: he felt the need to go beach walking. He wanted to taste salt on the breeze and generally escape from the pressures of life by watching the sky fall into the sea on a horizon that would seem suitably far away. The outward trip was a bit of a struggle against a stiff breeze that whipped sand up into his face, causing him to shrug down into the collar of his jacket, but the return leg enabled him to enjoy the sight of the beach becoming almost liquid as its surface moved in deference to the will of the wind. He felt so much better when he got back and sought out beer and a sandwich in a harbour pub before driving home, his skin still tingling and his calf muscles reminding him of the exercise.

Lunch with Macmillan at his club on Friday proved a sombre affair. Macmillan was very much aware that in a few hours’ time he would have to make Sci-Med’s position clear to the government and the consequences of doing this could be catastrophic for many if, as was his intention, he refused to be any part of a cover-up. With this in mind, he told Steven that he had lodged a report of his findings along with all relevant files with a well-respected firm of solicitors in the City together with instructions as to whom the information should be sent to in the event of any concerted efforts to discredit Sci-Med or its people.

‘Or any accident befalling us,’ added Steven.

The two men paused in order to let a waiter refill their coffee cups.

‘I don’t think anyone can afford to be that silly,’ said Macmillan.

‘Good,’ said Steven, not sounding entirely convinced.

Macmillan noticed this and said, ‘After your little off-road experience — and before we knew of any Russian involvement — I made a point of telling all our investigators what’s been going on. I let this fact be known to the powers that be. But of course, this was before your assailants were identified and there was still a possibility that our security services were involved. Maybe we’ve both been guilty of paranoia.’

‘I’d like to think so,’ agreed Steven, feeling uncomfortable with the general tenor of the conversation. The lights went on in the club as the sky darkened outside and rain started to fall.

‘Are we all done?’ asked Macmillan.

‘I think so. Thanks for lunch.’

Macmillan smiled and said, ‘Let’s hope that eating a hearty meal doesn’t imply anything about the afternoon.’

Although they went into the meeting on time, Steven saw that he and Macmillan were the last to arrive. He wondered if this was some psychological ploy on the part of the twenty or so sombre people seated there — many of them instantly recognisable as senior government figures, others not so well known.

The Home Secretary formally acknowledged them but made as little eye contact as possible with either of them. Sci-Med did fall within the auspices of the Home Office although Macmillan was not personally answerable to the Home Secretary — a grey area perhaps but this was not the time to explore it.

The Home Secretary, appearing gaunt and serious, said, ‘I see no point in beating about the bush, ladies and gentlemen. Sci-Med has uncovered a situation relating to a number of school children attending a school camp in Cumbria which they are extremely concerned about. They have requested an explanation, as is their right. We for our part have been somewhat reticent in complying with their requests for information and I can only apologise. If ever there was a case of the road to hell being paved with good intentions, this is it. Gerald, would you be so good as to put our Sci-Med colleagues in the picture?’

Sir Gerald Coates, looking equally grave, got to his feet and said, ‘Gentlemen, it’s important that you understand the background situation that Her Majesty’s Government finds itself in.’ He gave Macmillan and Steven a rundown on the impasse that had surfaced between themselves and the pharmaceutical industry. ‘It’s something we simply have to find ways around.’