Ken McClure - Wildcard

‘You’re absolutely sure about that?’ he asked eventually. ‘All of them?’

‘Absolutely. They’re all recipients. There are no donors at all on that list.’

‘So what the hell were they given?’ Steven wondered out loud.

‘Heart valves,’ replied the duty officer, sounding puzzled.

‘Thanks, but that’s not exactly what I meant,’ said Steven. Then he suddenly saw the importance of what he’d just learned. ‘Oh Christ!’ he exclaimed. ‘Is Mr Macmillan there?’ As soon as he was patched through, he said, ‘The list that Greg Allan had. They’re all recipients.’

‘I know,’ said Macmillan. ‘I’ve just been told.’

‘But don’t you see? Eighteen people on that list have already gone down with the virus,’ said Steven. ‘The remaining…’ mental arithmetic was a challenge with this hangover… ‘thirty-eight have still to go down with it. Don’t you see? They’re all potential wildcards! They’re people who had the same surgery as the others but haven’t got the disease yet. We’ve got to isolate them. Once we’ve done that there won’t be any more unexplained outbreaks popping up all over the place.’

‘Yes, of course, I see what you mean,’ said Macmillan. ‘If you’re right, it means HMG can forget about calling a state of emergency.’

‘It certainly does. They can go back to worrying about fox hunting and the euro.’

‘And maybe the cost of official cars for travel to Manchester,’ countered Macmillan. ‘How is your friend, by the way?’

‘She died early this morning,’ said Steven flatly.

‘God, I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me,’ said Macmillan.

‘You weren’t to know,’ said Steven.

There was a long pause; then Macmillan said, ‘Change of subject. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea about the relationship between the people on the list and the filovirus?’

‘Not yet,’ said Steven. ‘But Greg Allan knew. I’m sure that’s why he killed himself.’

‘Pity he didn’t think to tell us all about it before he did,’ said Macmillan ruefully, and he rang off.

Steven went back to thinking about the fifty-six people on the list. They had all been given human heart valves, and that fact alone had exposed them to the ravages of a terrible infection, although not immediately. The delay was a stumbling block in itself. The other stumbling block was that, if fifty-six people had received human-tissue valves, there must have been at least fourteen donors, people who had, presumably, died in accidents all over the country and who had no connection at all with each other, and yet had all been carrying the same strain of a brand-new filovirus… That was — absolute bloody nonsense, he concluded. There was no other word for it.

He was relieved to have put the constraints of so-called logic behind him. The real question he should be asking was: what was wrong with the heart valves those patients had been given? A few moments’ consideration told him that there was only one way to find out for sure. He’d have to recover one of the transplanted valves from a wildcard victim and subject it to a whole range of tests.

This was going to be not only risky — a post mortem on a filovirus victim was a dangerous procedure — but difficult, because filovirus victims were cremated as soon as possible. He would have to move fast. He called Sci-Med back, asked them about the current condition of the wildcard patients, and told them why he wanted to know.

‘All dead and burned except two,’ said the duty officer.

‘How come the exceptions?’ Steven asked.

‘One’s a success story; it looks as if she might be one of the few who’ll recover.’

Steven closed his eyes for a moment and wished it could have been Caroline. He forced the thought from his mind.

‘The other one’s the nun, Sister Mary Xavier. She wasn’t cremated.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Steven.

‘They came up with a special dispensation for her — apparently, her order has severe religious objections to cremation. Because of the special circumstances and because the convent’s so isolated, the sisters were allowed to bury her in the grounds.’

‘I didn’t realise they made concessions over something like a filovirus,’ said Steven acidly.

‘A local decision in Hull,’ said the duty man. ‘I think they had to comply with strict conditions: sealed body bag, lead-lined coffin and all that. It’s a possibility, don’t you think?’

‘A good one,’ agreed Steven. He thanked the man for his help and rang off, already deep in thought. Requesting the exhumation of Sister Mary Xavier would be certain to meet with a lot of opposition on the grounds of insensitivity, but the only alternative was to wait until another wildcard case got ill and died. That could take another week or two, maybe even longer, and he needed to examine one of the heart valves as soon as possible. He decided to put in the request and get Sci-Med to fix the permissions and paperwork. He would deal with the flak as and when it came.

There was one other thing he’d have to get Sci-Med to set in motion: a thorough examination of Greg Allan’s financial position at the time of his death. In particular, Steven wanted to know if any unaccounted-for sums of money had been paid into his account. If so, pressure must be put on Allan’s wife, to find out how much she knew about her husband’s alternative source of income.

By five in the evening, an exhumation order had been obtained, in the face of considerable opposition from the local council and senior representatives of the Roman Catholic Church, who saw it as sacrilege. The Church’s opposition was heightened even more when they learned that, rather than risk moving Mary Xavier’s body, the mobile containment facility used after the diagnosis of her illness would be put back and used for the post mortem and the recovery of her replacement heart valve. The only problem still unresolved was finding a pathologist willing to carry out the autopsy.

‘It’s proving difficult,’ said Macmillan.

‘All right, I’ll do it myself,’ said Steven.

‘But you’re not a pathologist.’

‘I don’t have to be,’ said Steven. ‘All that’s required is for someone to open up her body and recover the mitral valve. I’m a doctor and I’m perfectly capable of doing that. In fact it might be unfair to ask anyone else to do it in the circumstances.’

‘Well, if you’re sure…’ said Macmillan doubtfully.

‘I take it Porton will be willing to carry out a full analysis of the valve?’

‘No problem there. And the Swedish team will take responsibility for its safe transport.’

‘Then it’s settled,’ said Steven. ‘I’d better get up there.’

‘When will you do it?’

‘Tonight, if you can get the mobile unit back in position,’ replied Steven.

‘Will do,’ said Macmillan. ‘Oh, one other thing. The PM report on Greg Allan came in half an hour ago. Asphyxiation due to a ligature round his neck.’

‘Not the best way to die,’ said Steven. ‘He must have got the jump wrong.’

‘The police have talked to his wife. It wasn’t a good time to do it, but their opinion is that she doesn’t know anything about him being mixed up in anything illegal. She was aware of them having more money in the last year or so, but he told her that it was down to his shares performing well.’

‘His must have been the only ones,’ said Steven sourly.

‘Quite.’

Steven decided to make one more call before he left for Hull. He rang Fred Cummings and asked if he could spare a few minutes to talk.

‘Sure,’ said Cummings. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’m sure we’ve spoken about this before, but I have to ask you again. Is there no conceivable way that a virus can lie dormant for a time before causing infection?’