Ken McClure - Pandora's Helix

“I phoned Baroda and said I was doing a piece about saunas in the area being used as a front for brothels. I asked him if he’d like to tell me why his green Jaguar is regularly parked outside the Executive Sauna in Melton Place.”

“Good Lord.”

“In the end, we came to an arrangement. He withdraws his objection to the license application and I develop amnesia over his car.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“Yes.”

“Well done.”

“He said the application would be forwarded tomorrow. I said it would be nicer if it went off in the post tonight.”

“Frightening,” said Neef.

“What is?”

“You are, when you’re in pursuit of something you want.”

“It’s that kind of a world,” said Eve.

“You sound more like Max Pereira every day.”

“Anyway, I am sorry about my behaviour earlier. Will I see you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow,” agreed Neef.

Neef felt hungry all of a sudden.

Charles Morse died at eleven next morning. Kate was with him. Neef was warned by Mark Clelland at University College that it was about to happen and took the opportunity of going over to be there for Kate if she needed him. When Kate came out of Charlie’s room and saw Neef standing there she came forward, put her hands on his chest and allowed him to wrap his arms round her. Her tears flowed freely.

“I am so sorry, Kate,” Neef whispered.

Kate nodded mutely against his shoulder. Clelland acknowledged his presence with a nod of thanks.

A nurse ushered them into a small sitting room and brought tea. Neef poured it and Eve gradually composed herself. “I still can’t believe it,” she said. “It’s all happened so quickly.” She got up slowly and walked over to the window, holding the cup in her hand.

“Look at them,” she said. “Buses, cars, taxis, people going about their business as if nothing has happened but it has. My Charlie is dead. Why don’t they realise?”

Neef got up to go towards her but Kate turned and stopped him. “It’s all right, Mike, really. I’ve been preparing myself for this. It doesn’t look like it but I have. Just give me a few moments.”

Kate took slow steady breaths in an attempt to compose herself but she failed; the tears started to flow freely down her cheeks. “Oh Mike,” she sobbed. “What am I going to do without him? He was everything to me, my whole reason for... being. What’s the point in going on without Charlie?”

“I know, I know,” soothed Neef, wrapping his arm round her shoulders. “You need time Kate. Hang in there.”

Kate eventually calmed down and took a sip of her tea. “Are they any nearer to finding out how Charlie got his cancer?” she asked in a voice she was struggling to keep the tremble out of. She flicked at imaginary dirt on her knee with her fingernails.

Neef shook his head. “No, it’s still being investigated.”

Kate was silent for a while then she said, “For God’s sake, tell me something happy.” She was half laughing, half sobbing.

Neef decided to take her at her word. “Thomas Downy’s cerebellar tumour has almost completely disappeared.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yup. No doubt about it.”

“I take back everything I thought about Dr Pereira,” said Kate.

Neef nodded. “Maybe we were a bit hard on him. Thomas Downy certainly owes his life to him.”

“Thank God there’s still some good news in the world,” said Kate, trying to smile through her tears.

“Come on, I’ll run you home,” said Neef.

When Neef got back to the Unit, Ann Miles told him that Tim Heaton had been trying to get in touch. “I thought he might be,” he replied. He returned Heaton’s call, hoping that he could sound surprised when he had to.

“Michael, I’ve got some good news for you. Peter Baroda has apparently changed his mind. Your application has gone in after all.”

“It has?” exclaimed Neef, suddenly realising an acting career wasn’t for him. “That’s marvellous.”

“I don’t know why he changed his mind but he did and that’s the main thing.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Neef. “Wonderful news.”

“Thought you’d be pleased. By the way, I forgot to ask yesterday about your brain tumour patient. Still progressing satisfactorily?”

Neef screwed up his face. It wasn’t Heaton who had forgotten to ask — as Heaton well knew, it was he who had forgotten to call Heaton and tell him.

“Tim, it completely slipped my mind in the excitement,” he said. “Progress has been more than satisfactory. The tumour has shrunk to the size of a pea. With a bit of luck it will be completely gone by next week.”

“Splendid!” said Heaton. “John Marshall has been working on a press release I asked him to draft, just in case.”

“Fine,” said Neef.

“This is just what the hospital needs,” said Heaton. “A cure for cancer.”

“Hang on...”

“It’s a start,” said Heaton. “You can’t deny that.”

“I suppose not,” agreed Neef.

“I’ll let you know the minute we hear anything about the application.”

Neef’s last call of the day came from David Farro-Jones.

“I’ve been through Eddie Miller’s autopsy records for the past three months, Michael. There’s absolutely nothing there to back up his story.”

“That’s a relief,” said Neef.

“I’ll say,” agreed Farro-Jones.

“And still no new virus?”

“No new virus. We’re going to have to stop looking. It’s taking up too much time.”

Charles Morse’s death sparked off a new round of newspaper attention on the following day. Cancer Death Toll Rises as Authorities Continue to grope in the Dark was the headline in the Citizen and this tack was followed by virtually all the others. One of the papers had managed to corner the local Member of Parliament and put him on the spot. He assured his constituents that he had written to the Health Secretary demanding immediate action and that she had assured him that appropriate steps were being taken.

During the course of the day, Neef was to discover what this meant. Lennon called to say that he was no longer in charge of the investigation. A team of specialists had arrived from the Ministry of Health to take charge. They counted among their number a scientist from Porton Down, the government’s chemical and biological defence establishment.

“They’ve also removed Charles Morse’s body,” said Lennon. “They want to carry out their own pathological investigation”

“Can they do that?” asked Neef.

“Under their terms of reference, they can do pretty much what they damn well please,” said Lennon. “They’ve virtually taken over everything down here at Sutton Place and put an immediate ban on all Press briefings. I dare say you’ll be meeting them soon enough. A man named Klein is in charge.”

Two hours later Ann Miles announced that Drs Klein and Waters were outside.

“Send them in.”

Klein, a tall thin man with a prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed disconcertingly above a stiff Bombay-stripe shirt collar, appeared first and held out his hand. “John Klein.” He came across as being neither friendly nor rude, just business-like. His companion, a head shorter, with sloping shoulders and a downturn to the left side of his mouth that suggested a slight stroke in the recent past, introduced himself as Malcolm Waters. Neither man smiled.

“Thank you for seeing us at short notice, Doctor,” said Klein. “As you probably know already, we’re heading a team sent in by the Ministry of Health to deal with your problem.”

“I’d rather you didn’t call it mine,” said Neef, hoping to lighten the atmosphere.