Ken McClure - Deception

‘You weren’t there?’ asked Steven.

‘I’ve been waiting here in the car park for you.’ Sweeney turned to face Steven for the first time. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he asked.

‘You seem to know more about that than I do,’ said Steven. ‘I sent a rat’s body off for analysis. They didn’t find a trace of poison in it and common sense tells me that they’re not going to find a trace of any virus or bacteria either?’

‘No, they’re not,’ said Sweeney, going back to staring at the windscreen, although it was impossible to see out.

‘So what’s the problem with the rats?’ Steven tried again.

Once again, he was ignored. ‘I just didn’t have the guts to stand up to them and tell the truth,’ said Sweeney. ‘They made it sound as if it was my civic duty to keep my mouth shut. It would be unforgivable to cause public alarm when the matter was already being dealt with, they said. Surely the public deserved a break from scaremongering about health issues and the poor farmers could do with a break. It all sounded so plausible but then reasons for cover-ups usually do, I suppose.’

‘Yes they do,’ agreed Steven. ‘But when you examine them closely you almost invariably find a bunch of sleazy charlatans covering their own arses.’

‘That’s about the size of it,’ agreed Sweeney distantly. ‘When I started to ask questions their attitude changed and they made it quite clear that if I didn’t keep my mouth shut they’d make sure I lost my job and wouldn’t get another one. And now my friend is dead because I didn’t have the guts to stand up to them.’

‘I don’t think you should blame yourself,’ said Steven gently. ‘Not many people can stand up to that kind of pressure.’

People were getting into cars parked nearby and the sound of voices reached them. Steven recognised Leadbetter’s voice and saw Sweeney stiffen. ‘Christ! He mustn’t see me here with you!’ said Sweeney, making a grab for the door handle. Steven put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘He will if you open that door right now,’ he cautioned.

Sweeney swallowed hard and looked at Steven who could practically smell the fear on the man.

‘Just sit tight,’ said Steven. ‘The glass is all misted up. Wait a few minutes. They’ll all be gone.’

Sweeney relaxed a little but still kept his hand on the door handle. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But it’s not just my job I’m going to lose if they find out I’ve crossed them, is it?’

Steven could think of nothing reassuring to say. ‘What was wrong with the rat?’ he asked again.

Sweeney took a few deep breaths before saying, ‘What tests did you ask for?’

‘Toxicology, bacteriology, virology.’

‘Ask for neuropathology,’ said Sweeney.

‘Why won’t you tell me?’

‘If you find out for yourself... you didn’t hear it from me,’ said Sweeney, with the air of a man clutching at straws.

Steven decided that there would be no point in pushing him any further; Sweeney was a nervous wreck. ‘As you like,’ he said. He turned on the ignition and wiped the screen a couple of times. The mourners from the Binnie funeral had left and newcomers were all around. Sweeney got out and walked quickly to his car without looking back. ‘Drive safely,’ murmured Steven under his breath.

The murders of Thomas Rafferty and James Binnie now made more sense to Steven as he sat still in the car for another few minutes, thinking over what Sweeney had said. Binnie must have been able to work out exactly what had been going on after Sweeney’s phone call that morning. He must have gone down to Crawhill to have it out with Rafferty over what he thought was wrong with his dog and, with Childs and Leadbetter being there, his fate had been sealed.

So he had been right to think that there had been a connection between the rats’ change in behaviour and the dog, Khan’s. It also meant that the dog’s body had been deliberately destroyed by Childs and Leadbetter — or rather by Leadbetter — Childs had been down in Dumfriesshire on that day... engaged on something else entirely. Steven bit his lip against the feeling of anger that welled up in him whenever he thought about it. He comforted himself with the thought that the net was now tightening around these two and whoever else was involved in this sordid business. If Sweeney was right about a request for neuropathology providing the key and the result meant as much to him as it had to Binnie, he was only one lab report away from finding out the truth. He called up Sci-Med on his mobile and made the request.

‘The bacteriology report on your rat came back this morning,’ said the duty officer.

‘And it was negative?’ ventured Steven.

‘Correct. No pathogens found. Only a normal commensal flora was present in the animal.’

‘Virology the same?’

‘There’s a serology report saying that no suspicious antibody levels were found but it’s too early for direct culture analysis. Mind you, the serology result would suggest that you should put your money on a negative!’

‘Agreed. All my money is now on neuropathology,’ said Steven. ‘Give the request A1 priority, will you?’

‘Will do.’

‘Is John Macmillan available?’

‘Hold on.’

A few moments later Macmillan came on the line. ‘I heard about what happened to Jenny,’ said Macmillan. ‘I didn’t get in touch because I’m sure I would have ended up pulling you out of there. I let you make your own decision.’

‘I came very close,’ said Steven, ‘but I’m going to see it through to the bitter end now and then I’m going to take up crucifixion as a hobby, starting with Childs and Leadbetter.’

‘I know how you must feel,’ said Macmillan. ‘I’ve not been idle at this end but right now Sci-Med is about as popular as Polio in a nursery. No one wants to know us. I don’t think they even know why; the word has just got around that being seen with anyone from Sci-Med could seriously damage your career.’

‘If this thing can be traced right to the top I don’t think I want a career working for the bastards behind this any more.’

‘Let’s wait until we have the whole story,’ said Macmillan.

‘Everything is riding on a neuropathology report I’ve just asked for,’ said Steven. ‘Maybe you could have an expert standing by in case we need help with interpretation?’

‘I’ll see to it,’ said Macmillan.

The minutes passed like hours as Steven waited for the report to come through. Unlike microbiology tests, where time was needed to allow bacteria and viruses to grow in artificial culture, neuropathology was more immediate. The rat’s brain simply had to be examined by a histopathologist, thin sections made using a microtome and a microscopic examination carried out. The report came through at six in the evening. Steven spoke to the pathologist herself.

‘I found very clear evidence of spongioform encephalopathy,’ said the woman, who introduced herself as Dr Wendy Carswell.

‘Spongioform encephalopathy?’ exclaimed Steven. ‘But that’s BSE and Creutzfeld Jakob Disease and Kuru and things like that?’

‘Correct,’ agreed Carswell. ‘For want of a better description, you’ve got yourself a mad rat.’

Steven’s senses were reeling. ‘Mad Rat Disease? How in God’s name would it get something like that?’ he asked.

‘Sorry,’ replied Carswell. ‘I’m afraid I can’t be of much help there. I haven’t come across this sort of condition in rats before, but there again, I’m not often asked to examine rats’ brains.’

Steven thanked her and contacted Macmillan at Sci-Med. ‘You’ve heard?’

‘I have. I got right on to a chap at University College London about it. He’s an acknowledged expert in encephalopathies. He says that many animals do have their own species-specific type of this illness. He asks if there is anything to suggest that this is not the case in this instance.’