Ken McClure - Wildcard

‘I’m not so sure,’ said Grossart hesitantly.

‘Trust me,’ said Vance. ‘A story about a few guys losing their jobs isn’t exactly Watergate, is it? By tomorrow it’ll be yesterday’s news.’

‘Brannan knew they were working with transgenic animals.’

‘Who isn’t these days, in our line of business?’ said Vance. ‘Relax, Paul.’

‘If you say so.’

‘One thing worries me, though,’ said Vance, sounding less friendly. ‘I see our UK share price has dropped sharply.’

‘The market here’s a bit volatile at the moment,’ said Grossart, feeling his throat go dry.

‘I certainly hope that’s all it is,’ said Vance. ‘I wouldn’t like to think anyone there was trying to unload large numbers of our shares, if you get my drift?’

‘I’m sure that’s not the case,’ lied Grossart.

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Vance. ‘You have a nice day.’

Grossart tried to reciprocate but the line went dead.

Glenvane, Dumfriesshire

It had been a good day and Steven had insisted that Sue and Richard go out to dinner while he babysat: they didn’t often get the opportunity, so there was usually one night when he offered to do this on his visits. Earlier, he and Sue had taken the children up to Edinburgh, where they had visited the zoo, eaten ice cream and generally had a fun time. The children had walked like the penguins, growled like the lions and behaved like the chimpanzees all the way home. The afterglow of a happy day was still with him as he watched a film on late-night television while nibbling potato crisps and sipping a Stella Artois. He always found it easy to unwind at the house in Glenvane. It seemed a million miles away from the bustle of London.

The earth was in danger of being hit by a giant asteroid but the missiles launched by the USA were on their way. Men with caps and epaulettes carrying several kilos of scrambled egg watched their progress on a giant screen, but instead of a nuclear impact Steven’s mobile phone went off and he hit the mute button on the TV remote.

‘Dunbar.’

‘Duty officer at Sci-Med here. Mr Macmillan would like you back in London as soon as possible, Dr Dunbar.’

‘I’m on leave.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to tell him that yourself.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Don’t know but you could try working the words “shit” and “fan” into a well-known phrase or saying.’

‘Gotcha. I’ll catch the first flight in the morning.’ As Steven spoke, he heard the clatter of a diesel engine outside and saw Sue and Richard get out of a taxi. They were giggling like naughty children and it made him smile.

‘Bad news?’ asked Sue when she saw the phone in his hand.

‘I’m on the first flight to London.’

‘Tough luck, old son,’ said Richard. ‘But I’m glad they didn’t take you away earlier, because we have just had a bloody good time.’ He slumped down into an armchair with a silly grin on his face. ‘We really are very grateful, you know.’

‘Not nearly as grateful as I am to you two,’ said Steven, thinking on a different plane. ‘I couldn’t begin to tell you.’

Sue smiled and put her finger to her lips. ‘Coffee?’

‘I’ll make it,’ said Steven.

Steven crept out of the house a little before five in the morning, trying to make as little noise as possible. It was dark and there was a damp mist hanging in the still air. He looked up at Jenny’s bedroom window and imagined her sleeping there, snug and warm and very much part of a loving family. He blew her a kiss before getting into his car and heading north to Glasgow airport to catch the first British Airways shuttle of the day to London Heathrow.

‘They seem determined to deny you a holiday,’ said Jean Roberts when Steven arrived in her office.

‘Next time I’m just going to disappear without saying where I’m going,’ said Steven.

‘Strikes me Mr Macmillan will still know where you are. He has an uncanny knack of knowing where everyone is at any given time.’

‘Electronic tags would be a better bet,’ said Steven. ‘I’m going to take a closer look at my shoes when I get home. What’s up?’

‘I don’t know everything but I do know that the government’s chief medical adviser, several Public Health people and two senior people from the Department of Health are with him at the moment.’

Steven looked at his watch. ‘So I just wait?’

‘I suppose so. He knows you’re here.’

‘I’ll grab some coffee next door.’

Steven was sipping his second cup of coffee and reading the clues of the Times crossword before committing pen to paper — he had to get at least four before starting to fill it in — when he heard the sound of people leaving next door. A few moments later Miss Roberts popped her head round the door to say that Macmillan was asking for him.

John Macmillan was standing looking out the window when Steven entered and closed the door softly behind him. From past experience he knew that Macmillan took up this pose when he had bad news to impart.

‘Any idea why I called you back?’ asked Macmillan.

‘You’re going to tell me there’s been another case of haemorrhagic fever,’ suggested Steven.

‘Guess or inside information?’ asked Macmillan, sounding surprised.

‘Just a guess.’

Macmillan turned round. ‘There are seven new cases in Manchester. One woman has already died.’

‘Sweet Jesus!’ exclaimed Steven. ‘Seven?’

Macmillan walked over to his desk and picked up a sheet of paper. ‘The dead woman is Ann Danby, aged thirty-three, a graduate computer expert who lived alone in the city. Ostensibly she took her own life, but she was found to have been suffering from the disease.’

Steven looked puzzled.

‘The police were called to her apartment by neighbours concerned about noise. They found that she’d taken an overdose of sleeping tablets and washed them down with booze, although it’s not clear why. Maybe it had something to do with her illness, but when a routine post mortem was performed, she was found to be suffering from the disease. Two policemen, a pathologist, a hospital houseman, an ambulanceman and a medical lab technician have all gone down with the disease and all are dangerously ill. They were all contacts of this woman in one way or another. Public Health are waiting for the next wave, when contacts of these people start falling ill. They are resigned to it spreading further.’

‘Classic kinetics of a disease spread by body contact,’ said Steven. ‘If one gets you six, six will get you thirty-six and so on, like ripples on a pond. I take it this woman was a passenger on the Ndanga flight?’

Macmillan shook his head. ‘No, damn it, I’m afraid she wasn’t.’

‘Then how?’

‘That’s really why I called you back. The Danby woman was not on that flight, nor has she been out of the country anywhere during the past two years, not since a holiday in Majorca in spring of 1998.’

‘But she must have had contact with someone from the Ndanga flight?’

Macmillan shook his head again. He said, ‘Public Health have gone through the passenger manifest with a fine-tooth comb. They can’t find a connection with the dead woman at all.’

‘But there must be one.’

‘You’d think so. Apparently the police pathologist started to have doubts during the PM. He thought he was examining a routine drink-and-drugs suicide, but when he opened her up he found that she’d been haemorrhaging badly. Haemorrhagic fever crossed his mind, but when he couldn’t come up with an African connection after talking to the woman’s parents he didn’t sound the alarm for fear of looking foolish.’

‘We’ve all been there,’ said Steven.