Ken McClure - Resurrection

He and Karen still had their own flats, an expensive arrangement but both were reluctant to risk damaging their relationship through fall-out from their jobs. Both had stressful, demanding occupations, even life-threatening on occasion in Dewar’s case.

Dewar sat down by an open window where he could see the river. His flat wasn’t actually on the waterside — he couldn’t afford that — but was one street back on the first floor of a converted warehouse. It was very small but if he sat to the left of the main window he could see the river through a gap in the buildings across the street. He read through the FAX from Sci-Med again. If Hammadi was Iraqi he’d better find out as much as possible about him, starting with the police file on the incident and then of course, there was his research project. What exactly had he been studying? Although he’d been a student at the same institute where they had access to smallpox DNA fragments, it was, by all accounts, a very large institute. He could have been working on something completely different.

As a foreign student, Hammadi would have been on several official registers. The funding for his degree would presumably have come from abroad but the actual university registration would be British unless of course, he had been on some short-term exchange deal. Dewar opened up his dial-in connection to the Sci-Med computer facility and used it to connect him to the Internet. He then used the Joint Academic Network (JANET) route to get to the computerised information services of the Institute of Molecular Sciences in Edinburgh. He accessed ‘current research interests’ from their home page and found seventeen research groups listed. Two were working on HIV virus and vaccine development. One of them, a group headed by Dr Steven Malloy, had Ali Hammadi listed as a postgraduate student.

‘Shit,’ said Dewar under his breath. ‘Hammadi had been working in a group with a possible reason to use smallpox fragments. He swore again as he continued reading down the list of names. ‘Pierre Le Grice was listed in the same group. He was the one who’d sent the fragments to Davidson at Manchester.

Dewar drank the remainder of his beer and threw the empty can into the bucket that sat beside the fireplace. It went in cleanly, keeping his average for this activity above eighty percent but tonight he could take little satisfaction from it. His ‘paperwork assignment’ did not seem so routine any more. In fact, he felt a distinct feeling of unease. Two research groups not playing by the rules and a dead Iraqi PhD student who’d had access to smallpox DNA meant he was going to be on a flight to Edinburgh in the morning. He left a message for Sci-Med saying where he was going and asking them to inform the Edinburgh institute officially of his impending visit. He would also need the name of a police contact in the city.

The British Airways Shuttle got into Edinburgh Airport only a few minutes late. Dewar made contact with Sci-Med using the Executive Lounge facility on the first floor. He was told that the Institute of Molecular Sciences was expecting him and that the police had also been informed. An officer, Inspector Ian Grant had been detailed to brief him at Fettes police headquarters. He was expected there at ten thirty.

The airport taxi made such good progress into town despite the rush hour traffic. that Dewar thought he might be too early for his meeting with Grant. He asked the driver to take him round by Princes Street. Being no stranger to the city — he’d come up with Karen on several occasions when she’d been visiting her mother — he always enjoyed the view of the castle.

‘It’s your money, Pal,’ replied the driver dourly.

Police Headquarters in Fettes Avenue, Edinburgh proved to be a large, white modern, functional-looking building on the north side of the city, sitting opposite the striking and much older facade of Fettes College, the top Scottish public school that Prime Minister, Tony Blair had attended.

Ian Grant turned out to be a burly man in his late thirties with a bushy black moustache that emphasised his dark eyes. He wore a sports jacket and dark trousers. He was wearing a tie but it was loosened as was the top button of his shirt, making him look like Hollywood’s idea of a journalist about to write up his story. Grant poured himself some coffee from a silver-coloured jug and waved it in Dewar’s direction. Dewar shook his head.

‘Foreign student, tops himself, what’s to say? Case closed as far as we’re concerned,’ said Grant as he sat back down at his desk.

‘No suicide note?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Did you come up with any likely reason for him doing it?’

”Fraid not. We expected tales of exam pressure, fear of failure, the usual shit but not in his case. His supervisor thought everything was going swimmingly. Shows how much he knew about the price of cheese.’

‘University can be a pretty lonely place,’ said Dewar. ‘It can get to kids, particularly if they’re from a different country.’

‘Wouldn’t know about that,’ said Grant. ‘A university of life man, myself.’

‘Are there any other Iraqi students in the city?’

‘Quite a few as a matter of fact.’ Grant brought out a sheet of paper and continued, ‘They’re all registered with us; they have to be. They have their own students association; it’s in Forest Road, near the Royal Infirmary. The address is on here. I guess a lot of them are medical students.’

Dewar nodded. ‘Did you speak to any of them?’

‘Went through the motions. Nobody knew anything. I got the impression they were all shit scared to talk to the police about anything if you ask me.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Goes with their background, I suppose,’ said Grant. ‘If you live in a police state I suppose you think all police forces are the same.’

‘Do you get the impression they were subject to scrutiny from home while they’re here?’ asked Dewar.

‘Oh yes. There were a couple of blokes hanging around that I thought were a bit old to be students but I didn’t bother asking. If you do, they nearly always turn out to be cultural advisors or some crap like that.’

Dewar nodded and got up. ‘Thanks for your help. I’m going to have a word with the people he worked with then maybe I’ll pop in to the place in Forest Road. Take a look around.’

‘Right you are, I wish you joy. What’s your interest in all this anyway?’

‘Home Office Routine,’ shrugged Dewar. ‘Foreign nationals always attract extra paperwork.’

‘Tell me about it,’ said Grant.

‘Do you have a copy of the pathologist’s report, by the way?’

‘Not to hand,’ replied Grant. ‘But it was pretty straightforward. He looked to see if Dewar would be satisfied with this. Dewar remained impassive.

Want me to send you a copy?’

‘If you would.’

The Institute of Molecular Sciences was situated on a site just outside the city on the south side, or ‘Science Park’ as they preferred to call it. As he walked the final two hundred metres or so from the main gate, Dewar could see that academia was now working very much hand-in-glove with commerce. Many of the buildings seemed to be affiliated to pharmaceutical or chemical companies. He remembered being told by a colleague recently that these days you were as liable to find a patent lawyer in a lab than a scientist. Big money had moved in to exploit the promise of molecular biology in a big way.

Dewar had a brief meeting with Paul Hutton, the head of institute whom he found pretty much of the old school. A place for everyone and everyone in their place, the kind of public school product who would show unswerving loyalty to a cardboard box as long as the cardboard box held an official position. This made him easy — by virtue of being predictable — to deal with. He spoke briefly about the tragedy of Ali Hammadi’s death in suitably muted tones and went on to tell Dewar of the proposed scholarship that Hammadi’s parents had proposed.