Ken McClure - Wildcard

He arrived at Spicer’s house a few minutes before eleven. It was a substantial Victorian villa in a pleasant area with the upper floors commanding uninterrupted views across the city from its elevated position. He walked up the short drive, his feet crunching on the gravel, and rang the bell, noting, as he waited, the sleek green nose of an XK series Jaguar protruding from the double garage at the side of the house.

The door was opened by a blonde, Nordic-looking girl who smiled, showing perfect white teeth. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘What you like?’

‘Hello,’ replied Steven. ‘I have an appointment to see Mr Spicer. My name is Dunbar.’

‘It’s all right, Trudi,’ said a woman coming up behind the girl. ‘I’ll see to it. I’m Matilda Spicer, Mr Dunbar. Do come in. Trudi’s our au pair,’ she said as she showed Steven into one of the front rooms. ‘Victor will be with you shortly.’

‘I thought your husband’s name was William, Mrs Spicer,’ said Steven.

‘It is, but he prefers friends and family to call him by his middle name. When he first went into politics his electoral agent thought that Vic Spicer sounded like a used-car salesman so he’s William to the voters.’

Steven smiled and she left him on his own.

There was a piano in the room, an old upright finished in walnut with brass candleholders bolted to the front. The lid was open and Steven looked at the music that was propped up on the stand above the yellowing keys: it was Debussy’s ‘Claire de lune’. He deduced that the Spicers’ daughter must be learning to play. There were framed photographs on top of the piano; the largest featured the family with Matilda seated in front, cradling her daughter, while Spicer stood behind with a protective hand on his wife’s shoulder and a good, jutting jawline in evidence.

The door opened and Spicer came in. He wore a dark-blue suit with a red-striped Bengal shirt and a maroon silk tie. His wavy fair hair was brushed back and rested comfortably on his collar at the back, making him look younger than his forty-two years. He had a brusque, business-like attitude.

‘I can only give you a few minutes,’ he announced. ‘I have to be on television at midday. I take it you have some kind of identification?’

Steven handed over his ID card.

‘You’re a doctor?’ said Spicer.

‘I’m an investigator first,’ replied Steven.

‘Let’s talk in my study,’ said Spicer. ‘But, as I said on the phone, I can’t imagine how I can help you with your inquiries.’

Spicer led the way through to his study and sat down behind his desk, indicating that Steven should sit down on one of the two seats on the other side of it. Steven noticed that the man was adopting what he suspected might be a well-practised pose. He was leaning back in his leather chair with his legs crossed, his elbows resting on the arms and his fingers interlaced while he tapped his thumbs together. Statesmanlike or what? thought Steven. More family photographs sat on the desk, making him wonder whether Spicer had requested an interior designer to do out the place in ‘family values’.

‘I take it you are familiar with the chain of events that led to the current virus problem in Manchester, Mr Spicer?’ asked Steven.

‘As I understand it, it all started with this Danby woman,’ said Spicer. ‘What should have been a minor outbreak has now escalated out of all proportion, thanks to the bungling of those in charge.’

‘You, of course, would have handled it differently,’ said Steven, almost falling at the first hurdle because he had allowed Spicer to anger him by referring to Ann, his former lover, as ‘this Danby woman’.

Spicer seemed a little taken aback. ‘Not me personally, of course — I have no training in such matters — but that’s no reason to tolerate incompetence in those who are supposed to have.’

Steven bit his tongue. He needed this man’s co-operation, he reminded himself. ‘I understand that you were in Nepal recently and that you were very ill while you were there,’ he said.

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ asked Spicer.

‘Can I ask who diagnosed your illness?’

Spicer shrugged and said, ‘There was no diagnosis as such, because we didn’t have a doctor with us. I survived; my three companions didn’t; that was the bottom line. When I got back to civilisation and described the symptoms of the illness — those I could remember! — it was generally agreed that it had been a severe form of altitude sickness.’ He looked at his watch and said testily, ‘Look, I really can’t give you much longer. Would you please come to the point?’

‘I don’t think you had altitude sickness at all, Mr Spicer. I think you were suffering from viral haemorrhagic fever.’

Spicer looked as if he couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Haemor…?’ he spluttered. ‘You mean the disease that’s out there in the city? What utter nonsense. Are you out of your mind?’

‘I think you contracted haemorrhagic fever and survived,’ continued Steven. ‘You’re one of the few. Then you came home and passed on the disease to your lover, Ann Danby.’

Spicer paled and for a moment looked like a cornered animal, then he went on the offensive. ‘Oh, I get it,’ he rasped. ‘You’re one of these Labour leftie shits who’ve come up with a little scheme to attack me and save your minister further embarrassment.’

Steven said coldly, ‘I am neither leftie nor rightie, nor am I Liberal or Monster Raving Loony. In fact, you won’t catch me at a polling station until they put a box marked “None of the Above” on the ballot paper. My experience over the years has taught me to distrust politicians of all shades and hues, Mr Spicer. Now, shall we continue?’

‘Dunbar, I am going to see to it personally that you-’

‘Save your breath,’ interrupted Steven. ‘Bluster isn’t going to work with me. Why don’t you just tell me the truth and save us both a lot of time, assuming you can still recognise it after seven years in parliament?’

‘How dare you!’ stormed Spicer.

‘I dare because I know that you had an affair with “the Danby woman” as you had the gall to call her a moment ago. She was a decent woman, by all accounts, and she ended up taking her own life over a little shit like you.’

‘I know nothing at all about her,’ insisted Spicer, fighting to get his temper under control.

‘You gave her a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets and inscribed the fly leaf, “My love for ever, V.”’

‘My name is William.’

‘You like to be called Victor, Victor.’

‘I tell you, I didn’t know the woman,’ repeated Spicer, red in the face.

‘It was your handwriting; I had it analysed,’ lied Steven, sensing that he had the upper hand.

The blood drained from Spicer’s face and he sat motionless for a moment before leaning forward slowly to rest his arms on the desk. He finally hung his head and said quietly, ‘All right, I did know Ann. These things happen. I’m only human, damn it.’

Steven was not prepared to concede the point.

‘We met at some bloody awful exhibition her employers were putting on and it just sort of went on from there. It was stupid, I know, but like I say, these things happen. You’re not going to pretend that they don’t?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Steven evenly.

There was a slight knock on the door and it opened immediately. Matilda Spicer put her head round and said, ‘I hate to interrupt you boys but you’re going to be late, darling.’

Spicer didn’t look up. He said in a strained croak, ‘Matilda, would you telephone the TV people, make my apologies and say that I will be unable to appear today.’

‘Is everything all right?’ she asked worriedly.