Ken McClure: White death

‘No, it isn’t. Don’t tell me you’ve lost the bloody thing,’ said Silver.

‘Nothing like that,’ Steven assured him. ‘I was just wondering how somebody knew exactly where I was the other day.’

‘If you think you’ve been followed and the car’s to blame, maybe someone stuck one on?’

‘It’s a possibility,’ agreed Steven.

‘Bring it round.’

Steven glanced at his watch. ‘I’m driving down from Leicester. I’ll be there in about half an hour.’

‘Inside’s clean,’ said Silver, finishing his inspection and edging out backwards. ‘I’ll put her up on the ramp.’

Silver drove the Honda on to the hydraulic ramp and pressed the button to raise it. He lit a cigarette while they waited for the vehicle to clear head-height. ‘So, are you winning?’ he asked Steven above the noise.

Steven shook his head. ‘Somebody wants me out the game and I don’t know why.’

‘Sounds like bad news,’ said Silver. ‘One particular person or a gang?’

‘A gang, east European.’

‘Shit, not been muscling in on their interests, have you?’

‘I almost wish I had, then at least I’d know what it’s all about,’ said Steven.

Silver was examining the underside of the Honda with a powerful torch, using the fingers of his left hand to rub away dirt. ‘Well, well, what have we here?’ he said, pulling something from the offside rear wheel arch and handing it to Steven. ‘Problem solved.’

Steven looked at the tracking device for a few seconds in silence. ‘I didn’t tell anyone about the Honda,’ he said. ‘No one knew I had it.’

‘Someone must have seen you driving it.’

‘I tend not to drive at all in London.’

‘Well, I’ll leave it to you to work it out,’ said Silver. ‘Maybe you should leave that with me,’ he added, nodding to the tracker.

Steven handed over the device. ‘What will you do with it?’

‘I pass a transport caff on the way home. I’ll stick it on one of the sixteen-wheelers heading for the Channel ports. That should keep the buggers amused for a while.’

Steven thanked Silver and headed for his flat. He felt better for having discovered how his attacker had known where he was but was still left wondering how the opposition knew about the car in the first place. He had deliberately opted not to use a pool car and had made a point of not telling anyone what he was using and yet someone had still managed to find and tag it. His blood ran cold when he considered that it could have been an explosive device instead of a magnetic tracker.

Steven was still thinking about this in the bath with a gin and tonic in his hand when the phone rang. Cursing the fact — or was it his imagination? — that it always did when he forgot to take it into the bathroom with him and thinking that it might be Tally — although he had said he would phone her — he got out the bath and padded through to fetch it.

‘Dr Dunbar? It’s Linda Haldane in Edinburgh.’

‘Oh, hello,’ said Steven, remembering with a slight frisson of excitement that he’d asked her to phone him if she recalled anything at all that might throw light on what had angered her late husband so much. ‘How are you?’

‘Well, thank you,’ replied Linda automatically. ‘The children and I are moving out tomorrow. We’ve spent the day packing.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Steven, remembering that she and the children couldn’t afford to stay on in the house because of the financial problems raised by Scott’s death being treated as suicide.

‘You said that I should contact you if I came across anything, no matter how small…’

‘Yes, I remember.’

‘Scott taped something to the underside of his desk. I found it this morning when I was clearing away his things and dropped something on the floor. I had to crawl under to get it.’

‘What was it?’ asked Steven, aware that his pulse rate had risen sharply.

‘An envelope with two cards in it.’

‘Cards?’

‘Record cards like the ones he used in his file index. I suppose he didn’t want anyone to find these ones.’

‘Like the burglars who came to call,’ said Steven thoughtfully.

‘The police said they were looking for drugs,’ said Linda.

‘Maybe,’ said Steven, suddenly seeing things in a different light. ‘What’s on the cards?’

‘Some sort of code. There are letters and numbers, not telephone numbers. They don’t make a lot of sense to me I’m afraid.’

Steven, who was still dripping wet, wiped his hands on the towel he’d hastily tied round his waist and grabbed pen and paper from his desk before asking for details. He copied down the information as it was read out.

‘First one, C-O-L-E space N-A-T space 4-0-9 space 1-0-0-7 hyphen 1-0-1-1 space 2-0-0-1.’

Steven read it back to her.

‘Second card reads, N-R-G space 2 space 2-3-7 space 2-0-0-1. That’s it, nothing else I’m afraid.’

Once again Steven read the letters and numbers back to her.

‘Do you think it could be significant?’ asked Linda. ‘I mean, does it mean anything to you?’

‘Not right now but if your husband went to the trouble of hiding these cards, there has to be a good reason,’ said Steven.

‘Something that will help prove Scott didn’t take his own life?’

‘I hope so,’ said Steven. ‘Keep in touch. Let me know where you are.’

The bath water had gone cold. Steven dried himself and got dressed. His whole demeanour had changed because of the phone-call. At last he had got a break. It might not make sense right now but he felt he had something to kick-start an investigation that had been threatening to hit the buffers. He called Tally and told her about the call.

‘You deserve a break.’

‘All I have to do now… is decipher it,’ said Steven.

‘I have confidence in you.’

Next morning Steven asked Sci-Med for an update on the green sticker children. It was emailed to him within the hour. Eight more children had been referred to clinics and hospitals with skin complaints varying in seriousness from simple rashes to actual skin degeneration and loss of sensation.

He shook his head as he read through the list but then started to feel puzzled. All the children had been exposed to the contaminating agent at exactly the same time and yet they were developing symptoms at widely varying times. This was not normal for poisoning. Poisons were not subject to the vagaries of individual immune systems as infections were. If the production manager, Dutton, was to be believed, the line used for vaccine distribution had never been used for the toxic compound so the toxin must have already been in the reservoir of vaccine when it was attached. That meant all the kids had been given the same dose, so a variation in body weight should have been the only factor in play. The kids weighing least should have come off worst as they would have received a higher dose of poison per unit body weight.

Steven had the relevant information to hand. He checked up on the records he had on his laptop and compared body weight to dates of referral for medical treatment. There was no correlation at all. In fact, the smallest and lightest child in the group had been the last to develop symptoms.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ he murmured as he searched for any other relevant factors among the sick children. He drew a blank but the appearance of Trish Lyons in the list reminded him that he should have checked up on her condition. He’d been avoiding doing this for fear that he would hear nothing good. He called the hospital in Edinburgh.

‘We had to remove her arm,’ said Fielding. ‘But I think you already knew we were going to have to do that?’