Val Mcdermid - Blue Genes

At one level, the job Alexis had hired me to do was now complete. I had checked out the consulting rooms and removed any evidence that might lead back to Sarah Blackstone’s patients. But what I had were only backup copies. The originals were still out there somewhere, presumably sitting on the hard drive of the laptop that the doctor had used throughout her consultations. If Gizmo had cracked their file protection, it was always possible that the police had someone who could do the same thing. It was also possible that whoever had killed Sarah Blackstone had stolen her computer and was sitting on the best blackmail source since Marilyn Monroe’s address book. Women who could afford this treatment could afford payoffs too. The game was a long way from being over.

What I needed now was more information. I understood very little of the patient notes sitting in front of me and I understood even less of the fertility technology that I was dealing with here. I needed to know what technical backup Sarah Blackstone had needed, and just how difficult it was to achieve what she had done. I also needed to know if this was something she could do alone, or if she’d have had to involve someone else. Time to beg another favour from someone I already owed one to. Dr Beth Taylor is one of the legion of women who have been out with Bill Mortensen without managing to accomplish what an Australian boutique bimbo had pulled off. Beth works part time in an inner-city group practice where nobody’s had to pay a prescription charge in living memory. The rest of the time she lectures on ethics to medical students who think that’s a county in the south of England. If she feels like a bit of light relief, she does the odd bit of freelance work for us when we’re investigating medical insurance claims.

I tracked Beth down at the surgery. I didn’t tell her about Bill’s planned move. It wasn’t that I thought it would hurt her feelings; I just couldn’t bear to run through it yet again. Once we’d got the social niceties out of the way, I said, ‘Test-tube babies.’

She snorted. ‘You’ve been reading too many tabloids. IVF, that’s what you call it when you want a bit of respect from the medical profession. Subfertility treatment, when you want to impress us with your state-of-the-art consciousness. What are you after? Treatment or information?’

‘Behave,’ I said scathingly.

‘I know someone at St Mary’s. He used to be a research gynaecologist, now he works part time in the subfertility unit. I bring him in to do a seminar on my course on the ethics of interference with human fertility.’

‘Would he talk to me?’ I asked.

‘Probably. He likes to show off what a new man he is. Nothing he loves more than the chance to demonstrate to a woman how sensitive he is to our reproductive urges. What is it you want to know, and why?’

‘I need the five-minute crash course in IVF for beginners and a quick rundown on where the leading edge is right now. What can and can’t be done. I’m not asking for anything that isn’t readily available in the literature, I just need it in bite-sized pieces that a lay person can understand.’

‘Gus is your man, then. You didn’t mention why this sudden interest?’

‘That’s right, I didn’t. Is he going to want a reason?’

Beth thought for a moment. ‘I think it might be as well if you were a journalist. Maybe looking for nonattributable background for a piece you’re doing following women’s experiences of being treated for subfertility?’

‘Fine. How soon can you fix it?’

‘How soon do you need it?’

‘I’m free for lunch today,’ I said. The devil finds work for idle hands; if you can’t manage any other exercise, you can always push your luck.

‘So I’ll lie. I’ll tell him you’re young, gorgeous and single. Gus Walters, that’s his name. I’ll get him to call you.’

Ten minutes later, my phone rang. It was Gus Walters. Young, gorgeous and single must have worked. I hoped he wouldn’t be too disappointed. Two out of three might not be bad, but none ain’t good. ‘Thanks for getting back to me so quickly,’ I said.

‘No problem. Besides, I owe Beth a favour.’

‘Are you free for lunch today? I know it’s short notice…’

‘If you can meet me at half past twelve at the front entrance, I can give you an hour and you can buy me a curry,’ he said.

‘Deal. How will I know you?’ I asked.

‘Oh, I think I’ll know you,’ he said, voice all dark brown smoothness. Definitely a doctor.

It’s a constant source of amazement to me that the staff at Manchester’s major hospital complex don’t all have serious weight problems. They’re only five minutes’ walk from the Rusholme curry parade, as serious a selection of Asian restaurants as you’ll find anywhere in the world. If I worked that close to food that good, cheap and fast, I couldn’t resist stuffing my face at least twice a day. Richard might be convinced that the Chinese are the only nation on earth with any claim to culinary excellence, but for me, it’s a dead heat with the chefs of the subcontinent. Frankly, as soon as I had sat down at a window table with a menu in front of me, I was a lot more interested in the range of pakoras than in anything Gus Walters could possibly tell me.

He was one of the non-rugby-playing medics: medium height, slim build, shoulders obviously narrow inside the disguise of a heavy, well-cut tweed jacket. His hands were long and slender, so pale they looked as if they were already encased in latex. Facially, he had a disturbing resemblance to Brains, the Thunderbirds puppet. Given that he’d opted for the identical haircut and very similar large-framed glasses, I wondered if he had enough sense of irony to have adopted them deliberately. Then I remembered he was a doctor and dismissed the idea. He probably thought he looked like Elvis Costello.

On the short walk to the nearest curry house we’d done the social chitchat about how long we’d lived in Manchester and what we liked most and least about the city. Now I wanted to get the ordering done with so we could cut to the chase. I settled for chicken pakora followed by karahi gosht with a garlic nan. Gus opted for onion bhajis and chicken rogan josh. He grinned across the table at me and said, ‘The orifice I get closest to doesn’t bother about garlic breath.’ It rolled out with the smoothness of a line that never gets the chance to go rusty.

I smiled politely. ‘So tell me about IVF,’ I said. ‘For a start, what kind of technology do you need to make it work?’

‘It’s all very low tech, I’m afraid,’ he replied, his mouth turning down at the corners. ‘No million-pound scanners or radioactive isotopes. The main thing you need is what’s called a Class II containment lab which you need to keep the bugs out. Clean ducted air, laminar flow, temperature stages that keep things at body temperature, an incubator, culture media. The only really specialized stuff is the glassware — micropipettes and micromanipulating equipment and of course a microscope. Also, when you’re collecting the eggs, you need a transvaginal ultrasound scanner, which gives you a picture of the ovary.’

He was off and running. All I needed to do was provide the odd prompt. I was glad I wasn’t his partner; I could just imagine how erotic his bedroom conversation would be. ‘So what are the mechanics of carrying out an IVF procedure?’ I asked.

‘OK. Normally, women release one egg a month. But our patients are put on a course of drugs which gives us an optimum month when they’ll produce five or six eggs. The eggs are in individual sacs we call follicles. You pass a very fine needle through the top of the vagina and puncture each follicle in turn and draw out the contents, which is about a teaspoonful of fluid. The egg is floating within that. You stick the fluid on the heated stage of the microscope, find the egg, and strip off some of the surrounding cells, which makes it easier to fertilize. Then you put it in an individual glass Petri dish with a squirt of sperm and culture medium made of salts and sugars and amino acids — the kind of soup that would normally be around in the body to nourish an embryo. Then you leave them overnight in a warm dark incubator and hope they’ll do what opposite genders usually do in warm dark places at night.’ He grinned. ‘It’s very straightforward.’