Ken McClure - Wildcard

‘How did they pay?’ asked Karen; the man’s comments had given her an idea.

He had to think for a moment. ‘Credit card, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Ninety per cent of people do these days.’

‘Then you should have a record of the transaction,’ said Karen, her eyes bright with hope.

The man shrugged and said, ‘I suppose. My wife deals with these things.’

‘Would you ask her, please?’ said Karen. ‘It really is important.’

The man shuffled out of the bar and was gone for three or four minutes. When he came back he was arguing with a small grey-haired woman he called Megan. She was carrying a rectangular metal box, which she clutched to her bosom.

‘Megan thinks you’re from the Inland Revenue,’ said the man. ‘You’re not, are you?’ He gave an uncertain smile, revealing bad teeth.

‘Definitely not,’ said Karen.

‘No way,’ added Patterson.

The woman opened the box and tipped out a bundle of credit-card receipts on to the bar counter. Her husband put on a pair of black-framed glasses and started sifting through them, licking his fingers to assist their separation.

Karen felt as if she were watching a slow-motion replay of grass growing. She itched to snatch the forms and go through them herself, but she kept the impulse in check and made do with a glance at Patterson and a roll of her eyes heavenwards.

‘This is the one,’ announced the man. ‘This is it.’ He held the paper up closer to his glasses and read out with difficulty, ‘American Express. J. Clyde Miller. Mean anything?’

Karen and Patterson shook their heads. ‘May I see?’ asked Karen. Her expression changed as she noticed something else. ‘Look!’ she said, handing the receipt over to Patterson. ‘He was using a company credit card. Look at the company name.’

Patterson took the receipt. His eyes widened as he read out loud, ‘Lehman International.’

‘You’ve been a big help,’ said Karen to the two people behind the bar.

‘We can’t thank you enough,’ added Patterson.

‘So you think you can trace these people?’

‘They worked for the same company as my husband — at least, the one who paid the bill did. They must know something. You say the women were local?’

‘Sounded like it.’

Karen looked at Patterson and said, ‘Looks like we won’t be going home just yet.’

‘Might you be wanting some dinner, then?’ asked Megan.

Karen smiled, thinking that the least she and Patterson could do was to eat at the hotel. ‘I think we might,’ she agreed.

Karen and Patterson made plans for the following day while they ate. ‘I think we should call Paul Grossart in the morning and ask for the women’s addresses,’ said Karen.

‘Grossart’s not exactly been helpful so far,’ said Patterson.

‘You think he might refuse?’

‘I think it’s a possibility. I got the impression he wanted to wash his hands of Peter and Amy.’

‘Jesus!’ exclaimed the barman, who was reading his paper again. He called out something in Welsh and Megan appeared, drying her hands on a cloth. He showed her a story in the paper and they seemed to agree about something.

Karen and Patterson suddenly realised that the pair were staring at them. ‘What is it?’ Karen asked.

‘It’s her!’ exclaimed the man, pointing to the paper as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘This is one of the women who came here with the Americans.’

Karen and Patterson went over, and the barman showed them a picture of a middle-aged woman.

‘She’s in Caernarfon General,’ said the man. ‘They say she might be the first case in Wales of the Manchester virus.’

Manchester

Back in his hotel room, Steven slipped the disk into his laptop and felt a welcome buzz of excitement. Please God he was at last holding the key to the outbreak. The disk must be vitally important if Greg Allan had chosen to end his life over it in a cold, dark wood a week before Christmas.

The disk contained a single Microsoft Word file with no title. Steven clicked it open and watched the first page come up under the header SNOWBALL 2000. Beneath it was a list of names in a vertical column, each aligned with the address of a hospital or clinic listed in a column to the right. His first impression was that the locations were pretty much spread over the entire UK. There was also a date assigned to each entry. Steven quickly scrolled to the bottom of the list to see what other information the document held, but there was nothing there. The list was all there was.

He recognised some of the names as those of wildcard patients so he felt confident that he had got hold of the right disk. In fact, when he examined the list in more detail, all eighteen wildcard patients were there but what he found puzzling was that there seemed to be no correlation between donors and recipients. If this was a record of the donors used in the supply of heart valves, as he supposed it to be, why weren’t the donors matched up with their respective recipients? There was nothing to indicate who was what.

In all there were fifty-six names, an even number, so at least in theory they could be twenty-eight donors and twenty-eight recipients, but there was no way of telling. Steven felt a tide of bitter, hollow disappointment sweep over him. There was nothing here to help him establish what had caused the outbreak, and nothing to suggest why Greg Allan should have committed suicide when someone had routinely asked for details of donors. Steven logged off. He’d had enough of puzzles for the moment. He decided to go and see how Caroline was.

Kate Lineham had already come off duty and left for home by the time he got to St Jude’s, so he had to explain all over again — this time to the night staff — who he was and why he was there.

‘Dr Anderson’s not too well, I’m afraid,’ said one of the nurses. ‘She had a bad afternoon, according to Kate, but recovered some ground later on and she’s resting quietly at the moment. Kate left instructions that we should call her if there’s any change.’

‘Maybe I shouldn’t disturb her?’ asked Steven.

‘No harm in sitting with her for a while, if you’ve a mind to,’ said the nurse. ‘It often helps to wake up and find a friendly face there.’

Steven agreed that was what he would do and got changed into protective gear before moving through the airlock into the nave. When he saw Caroline, he was shocked at the change in her appearance since earlier that day. Her skin had taken on a yellowish pallor and her lips were thin and cracked, though beads of sweat were trickling down either side of her nose.

He squatted down, rinsed out a sponge in the basin beside her and gently wiped the sweat away. Caroline stirred slightly, so he stopped for a few moments, shushing her with ‘Sleep, my lady, sleep easy. Everything’s going to be just fine.’

Caroline moved again, as if she were in discomfort.

‘Think of sunshine… golden corn, white sails on blue water… the picnics we’ll go on in the summer…’

One of the nurses came up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Everything all right?’ she whispered.

Steven nodded as he saw Caroline settle down again and heard her breathing become deep and regular. Once she was sleeping easily, his gaze drifted up to the memorial board above her bed and to the names of those who’d died in the ‘bloody slaughter of war’. As he read through them, he couldn’t help but think that they at least had had a tangible enemy, one they could see and fight against, unlike the poor souls in the church, who had been stricken by a colourless, odourless, invisible enemy. Its only function was to replicate itself and, in doing so, kill the body that harboured it. All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small…