Ken McClure - Wildcard

‘Good thinking, Dunbar,’ conceded Cummings. ‘Just testing. So, give me the low-down on the game and the players.’

Steven filled Cummings in on the management team handling the outbreak so far, and gave his frank opinion of those involved. His conclusion was that he thought the whole thing had been handled well by people who knew what they were doing.

‘Who’s been in charge of epidemiology?’ asked Cummings.

‘Professor Jack Cane.’

‘Sourpuss Cane? Always looks as if someone has put vinegar in his tea?’

‘I’ve certainly not seen him smile much,’ agreed Steven. ‘But then he resents my involvement.’

‘That sounds like Jack: everything gets done by the book. He is to imagination what Tony Blair is to socialism, a complete bloody stranger.’

Steven laughed. ‘I take it you don’t rate him,’ he said.

‘The guy who was bottom of the class at medical school has to end up working somewhere,’ said Cummings.

‘He’s got a chair,’ Steven pointed out.

‘He married the vice-chancellor’s daughter,’ countered Cummings. ‘A woman with no dress sense, if I remember correctly.’

Steven almost choked on his drink.

‘Still, mustn’t speak ill of the brain-dead,’ said Cummings, getting up to fetch more drinks. When he came back, he asked, ‘How about the Public Health woman, Anderson?’

‘She’s very good but I’m worried about her,’ replied Steven. ‘Unlike your friend Cane, she doesn’t always play it by the book. She dared to use common sense at one stage and I think she’s about to pay dearly for it.’ He told Cummings about Caroline’s decision not to publicise the girl’s visit to the disco and about the television news earlier.

‘Doesn’t look good,’ said Cummings. ‘The gods might well demand a sacrifice.’

And so it proved on Monday. The papers, as Steven had feared, couldn’t resist making Caroline Anderson a scapegoat. She was blamed for the spread of the disease in the city through her lack of ‘decisive action at a crucial time’, as one of them put it. ‘Public Health Chief’s Blunder Threatens City’, crowed another. Caroline was forced to resign by three in the afternoon.

Steven called her to say how sorry he was.

‘They didn’t listen to a word I said,’ she complained, obviously bemused by the rapidity of events. ‘They’d all made up their minds before they even saw me.’

‘I don’t suppose it’s much help right now, but you made the right decision,’ said Steven.

‘Thanks, but I get the impression people are trying to avoid me this afternoon.’

‘Embarrassment,’ said Steven. ‘They don’t know what to say.’

Steven had scarcely put down the phone when it rang. ‘All right, you win, Dunbar,’ said a voice he didn’t recognise.

‘I’m sorry, who’s this?’

‘Just get these Public Health bastards off my back and I’ll tell you what you want to know. They’re ruining my business.’

The penny dropped: it was Anthony Pelota.

‘We close at midnight tonight — assuming anyone turns up after what you bastards have been doing to me. Come round then and I’ll tell you.’

‘It’s a date,’ said Steven, elated at the prospect of making progress at last. Another comforting thought was that he might not have to tackle Ann Danby’s mother after all. In his book, Ann and Charles Danby seemed two decent people whose life had been turned upside down by their daughter’s death. He suspected that respectability had always been a cornerstone of their lives and now they had to cope with the fact that not only had Ann taken her own life, but she was being cited as the cause of a virulent disease. On top of that, she had been wrongly labelled a drug addict and a whore by several tabloids. The Danbys really didn’t need him questioning them all over again about their daughter’s sex life.

At six in the evening Steven telephoned his own daughter, Jenny, to apologise for not having been up to see her at the weekend. He spoke first to his sister-in-law, Sue, to find out how things had been going.

‘No problems at all,’ she assured him. ‘Jenny was disappointed, of course, that you couldn’t come, but the school’s planning a Christmas fair and the kids are making the decorations, so that’s being keeping all three of them occupied. Jenny’s been made responsible for green stars.’

‘A big responsibility,’ said Steven.

‘You’d better believe it,’ said Sue. ‘I’ll put her on.’

Steven felt the usual lump in his throat when Jenny came on the line with a cheerful, ‘Hello, Daddy.’

‘Hi, Nutkin, how are you?’

‘Busy, busy, busy. I’m making stars for the school hall, beautiful green ones.’

‘Then I’m sure they’ll be the best green stars anyone’s ever seen,’ said Steven, ‘and I look forward to seeing them when I come up there. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it this weekend, Jenny.’

‘That’s all right, Daddy. Auntie Sue said you were busy with sick people, trying to make them better. We prayed for them at school this morning. Miss Jackson said they were very ill.’

‘They are, Nutkin, and the sooner I find out where the germs are coming from, the sooner people will stop falling ill.’

‘Best get on then. Bye, Daddy.’

‘Bye, Nutkin. Love you.’

‘Love you too, Daddy.’

Sue came back on the line. ‘Any idea how long the epidemic down there is going to run?’ she asked. ‘There were three more cases declared in Perth today.’

‘Something tells me it’s going to get worse before it gets better,’ said Steven. ‘Frankly, we’re no nearer finding the source of it today than we were at the outset.’

‘That’s not a happy thought.’

Steven agreed. He had a word with Sue’s kids, Mary and Robin, before hanging up. They asked if they could go to the zoo again the next time he came to Scotland and his ‘Maybe’ was taken as a cast-iron promise.

The streets around the Magnolia were dark and almost deserted when Steven got there just after midnight. The earlier snow had given way to a clear starlit night which had brought a hard frost to the pavements, and they glistened as he walked from his parking place to the restaurant. The lights were on inside but just like last time the blinds were shut and a ‘Closed’ sign hung on the door. He knocked on the glass but this time there was no response. He tried several more times before beginning to think that Pelota had changed his mind.

‘Shit!’ he murmured. More in frustration than anything else, he gave the door handle a sharp twist, and to his surprise the door opened. He stepped inside, paused and called Pelota’s name. Still no response. He looked around. The restaurant was warm, the table lights were all on and Mozart was playing gently in the background. He went to the back of the restaurant and pushed open the kitchen door. He found Pelota lying on the floor in a pool of blood.

‘Sweet Jesus!’ he exclaimed. He bent down to examine the body, which was curled up in the foetal position and facing away from him. The amount of blood convinced Steven that Pelota must be dead, but he was wrong: Pelota gripped his arm weakly and turned to face him. His eyes were wide and his lips drawn back over his teeth in agony. He tried to talk but blood was frothing from his mouth and Steven saw a kitchen knife embedded in his stomach.

‘Don’t try to speak, old son,’ said Steven, freeing himself from Pelota’s grip and fumbling for his mobile phone. He punched in three nines and asked for an ambulance and then the police. He gave the bare minimum of information, knowing that his skills as a doctor were pressingly in demand if Pelota was to survive. He stripped off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and donned a pair of plastic kitchen gloves before grabbing some clean table linen and getting to work on stemming the blood flow.