Michael Ridpath - Final Venture

'This is going to be much harder,' he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. 'It's much better protected than Enever's e-mail.'

'I really need that clinical trial data,' I said.

'I'll get it.'

Four hours later, he still hadn't. It was nearly midnight. I was exhausted, but I felt morally bound to stay awake and be supportive.

'Shit!' shouted Craig. 'I don't believe this!'

'Still no luck?'

Craig rubbed his eyes. 'These bastards know what they're doin'.'

I yawned. 'Look, Craig. You've tried hard, I really appreciate it. But let's just give up.'

'No way,' said Craig. 'I'm not quittin' till I get you that data.'

'But you'll be up all night!'

'Probably,' said Craig. He smiled. 'I've done it before. Many times. But you get some sleep.'

'No, I'll stay up with you.'

'Simon. You yawning your head off a couple of feet from my ear does not constitute help. Trust me. Go to bed.'

He was right. I was exhausted and useless. At least if I got some sleep, I might not be quite so useless in the morning.

'Thanks, Craig. Good night. But wake me if you get anywhere.'

I went to sleep disappointed. I had pinned so much faith in Craig being able to get hold of hard data, data that would prove neuroxil-5 was dangerous, that would prove there was a major problem that someone had tried to cover up.

I had hoped to be woken in the middle of the night by a triumphant Craig, but it was the alarm clock that jolted me out of my sleep at six thirty. I pulled on some clothes, and went downstairs to the clatter of Craig's fingers on the keyboard.

'No luck?'

Craig turned to me. 'No,' he snapped. He didn't look tired, but he looked angry.

'Have you been at it all night?'

'I went for a walk about three. Didn't help.'

'Here, let me make you some breakfast,' I said. 'Toast, OK?'

'Yeah,' said Craig, getting up from his computer and stretching.

'Thanks for trying,' I said.

We cleared a space at the table, sat down, ate toast and drank coffee. Craig munched noisily, his eyes glazed, his mind still on the problem. I felt refreshed by my sleep and the coffee. The blackness outside was turning slowly to grey as dawn crept over the marsh.

'Don't worry about it, Craig,' I said. 'You never know, there might be some stuff in Enever's e-mails. Someone might have sent him some of the clinical trial.'

Craig stopped in mid slurp, spilling drops of coffee over his chin. 'That's it!' He exclaimed. He pushed the breakfast out of the way, and leaped back to his keyboard, fingers flying.

'What are you doing?'

'Composing a message from Enever, asking the Clinical Trials Unit for the data. They send it. We read it.'

The message was sent. It was still early. We had to wait for the people in the Clinical Trials Unit to get in to work, read their mail, and do something about it.

We stared at the screen, waiting.

At last, at 8. 33 a. m., a response came. We looked at it.

Dr Enever

Here is the summary of the data you requested. Can I give you the rest in hard copy, or do you need it in spreadsheet form?

Jed

A large spreadsheet of figures was attached. It looked quite comprehensive.

'Well I think we need the rest in spreadsheet form, don't you?' said Craig with a smile as he composed a response.

We sent it and watched for a response from the Clinical Trials Unit.

It didn't come. Instead, Message Sent flashed on the screen.

'What message?' I looked at Craig.

He checked the 'Copy of Sent Messages' file. It was from Enever, the real Enever this time, to Jed in the Clinical Trials Unit.

Jed

What's all this data? I didn't ask for the data. Who told you to send it to me?

Enever

'Oh, oh,' said Craig. 'Time to go.'

He quickly downloaded Jed's first e-mail and its spreadsheet attachment, and left BioOne's system. 'Will they know we were there?' I asked.

'I hope not,' Craig said. 'But I don't want to risk going back in.'

'That's OK. I'm sure we've got a lot of good stuff already.'

Craig stretched and began packing up his computer and the scraps of paper he had been scribbling on.

'Are you going home now?' I asked.

'Oh, no. If I can't pull an all-night hacking run any more, I'm not fit to run the company.'

'Thanks again for all your help.'

'No problem.' He paused at the door. 'Stay alive,' he said, and was gone.

I started on the BioOne files right away, using my own laptop. Craig had given me a password so that I could access them in the Net Cop system any time I wanted from anywhere I wanted.

There was a mass of information. Many of Enever's e-mails had meaty attachments to them. And then there was the Clinical Trial Unit's data, columns of dense figures and statistics. If this was the summary, I wondered what the complete data was like. It was good stuff, but I couldn't understand most of it. I had to stop and think about what every document referred to. Someone else would have to look through this. Someone who would instantly be able to sort the interesting from the irrelevant, and who could analyse whatever they found there.

The time had come to see Lisa.

I had held off physically tracking her down until I had something concrete to give her, evidence that I hadn't changed, that I was still the man she had married, that I hadn't killed her father. I was now pretty close to having that evidence. And I needed her help if I was to make sure that more Alzheimer's sufferers like Aunt Zoe didn't die.

I was excited at the prospect, but also nervous. I was confident in my ability to persuade the old Lisa that I was innocent, especially with all that I had now discovered. But the Lisa who had turned her back on me, who had suffered so badly from her father's death and taken it out on me? I wasn't so sure.

From my conversation with Kelly, I guessed that part of her behaviour was due to the effects of the BP 56 she had been taking. Perhaps the greater part. If she had stopped the drug when she'd moved to California, perhaps she'd be more amenable to reason.

I could only hope.

I wrote a one-page note and stuck it in an envelope, packed my bags and left. I drove to the airport and left the Ford in a car park. There were seats on the next flight to San Francisco, and two hours later I was in the air.

Lisa's mother lived in a small wooden town house on Russian Hill with her second husband, an affable banker named Arnie. Technically, the house had a view of the Bay and Alcatraz, and it was true that from one of the upstairs windows you could just see some water and one corner of the fortress-island. Lisa and I had visited them three times, the last being at Thanksgiving almost a year before. Apart from my stupid argument with Eddie about Chancellor Kohl, it had been fun, full of an American family warmth that I was surprised to find attracted me. There were probably English families like that too, but mine wasn't one of them. Lisa and I had agreed to come again for Thanksgiving this year, only two weeks away. Whether I would be there or not depended on what happened in the next twenty-four hours.

I walked up to the freshly painted white door and rang the bell. There was no answer at first, and I wondered if she would be in. I knew she worked a couple of days a week at an expensive children's clothes store run by a friend of hers. I tried to stand as close as possible to the door, so she couldn't see me from any of the windows and pretend she wasn't there.

Finally she answered, patting her hair in place and smoothing down her dress. The automatic smile that came to her lips disappeared when she saw me.

'Simon! What on earth are you doing here?'

'I'm looking for Lisa.'