Ken McClure - The Lazarus Strain

‘Ever since his arrest, Kevin Shanks’s relatives have been doing their level best to drum up press interest in his claim that there was a third man involved in the attack on the Crick Institute. They’ve been telling the papers that a man named, Ali, was the real murderer and stressing the fact that he’s a Pakistani. Up ’til now the Press have refused to run with it. Even they can see the danger of fuelling racial tension by suggesting that Devon’s torturer and murderer was a bit duskier than a whiter shade of pale.’

‘But?’

‘My witness is a woman who says she passed the Land Rover a few minutes before the attack on Smith. She says the three men in it were, to use her words, “the people you see in corner shops these days”.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Steven.

‘Oh dear indeed,’ said Giles. ‘We could be talking Christmas riots when this particular crock of shit hits the fan.’

‘It never rains…’

‘How true,’ sighed Giles.

‘I don’t suppose they could have had another reason for picking on Smith, could they?’ asked Steven.

‘Like what?’

‘Like maybe he caught sight of the mysterious Ali the first time around and could identify him.’

‘Smith didn’t strike me as someone holding something back,’ said Giles. ‘I saw him a few minutes after he’d found that the institute had been broken into and the intruders had long gone by that time.’

‘Just a thought,’ said Steven.

‘Keep ‘em coming,’ said Giles. ‘We’re going to need all the help we can get on this one.’

Steven put the phone down and considered for a moment. All desire to watch a film had evaporated. Giles was right; another attack on the Crick seemed all wrong, ludicrously wrong from the point of view of an animal rights activist. And to pick on Smith, a low level employee who had looked after the animals’ welfare beggared belief. He was the wrong man in the wrong job working in definitely the wrong place to attack again. What else could you get wrong… from the point of view of an animal rights activist? But suppose there was another view, Steven wondered as he refilled his glass. The leaflets found near the burned out car had naturally been construed as a responsibility claim and a declaration of motive but could there have been another agenda hiding behind the obvious? Giles had discounted the one alternative possibility he had come up with — that Smith had known more about the first attack than he’d let on — so what did that leave? Maybe he should talk to Smith’s widow just in case. He would drive up there in the morning.

The Smiths’ house was a small white-painted cottage sitting just outside the entrance to the Crick Institute and surrounded by neatly clipped privet hedges and cherry trees. There were two cars parked outside, one on the road and one in the short drive-in in front of the garage. Steven had been prepared for relatives to be present but was surprised to find a woman PC at the door. He showed her his ID and asked how things were.

‘The press have been pretty merciless in their attempts to talk to Mrs Smith. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen them myself,’ she said. ‘Hyenas don’t come close.’

‘How is she bearing up?’

‘Pretty well, I’d say, all things considered. Her GP was here again this morning so I guess she’s getting something to help her through it. Her main concern seems to be the house: it came with the job.’

‘Bad luck,’ said Steven. It seemed inadequate but at least he hadn’t said it to Amy Smith who agreed to see him after the WPC had gone inside to ask her. She had however, requested that her sister, Ethel, who had stayed overnight with her, be allowed to remain in the room. ‘Of course,’ said Steven and he was shown inside.

The cottage was gloomy despite the brightness of the day outside, a direct result of its age. Its walls were solid stone, more than two feet thick so the windows were deeply recessed — good for providing nice deep windowsills to stand vases and books on but bad for letting in light. The standard lamp beside the chair Amy Smith was sitting on was switched on, lighting her below like a small, pale porcelain figurine. Steven was introduced to both women and offered his sympathy.

‘I hate disturbing you at a time like this, Mrs Smith,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure you, more than anyone, appreciate the need for us to catch these monstrous people.’

‘Smithy loved animals,’ said Amy. ‘Why pick on him?’ She held a handkerchief up to her face while her sister put a protective arm round her shoulder.

‘It doesn’t make sense, I agree,’ said Steven. ‘This may seem like a very strange question Mrs Smith, but can you think of any reason at all why someone might have wanted to harm your husband?’

Amy bristled. ‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘Smithy got on with everybody. Everyone liked him.’

Steven noticed the look that appeared briefly on her sister’s face and figured that this might not be an entirely accurate answer. Amy looked up at her sister as if seeking reassurance and, suspecting that it was less than solid, she added, ‘He always said what he thought but no one blamed him for that… He told the truth. They respected him for it.’

‘I’m sure they did,’ said Steven, trying to think of an alternative angle to approach the subject from. ‘Did you notice anything troubling Smithy in recent weeks?’ he asked. ‘Any change in his behaviour? Had he become worried, irritable?’

Once again, Steven read the look on Ethel’s face. It suggested that Smithy had always been irritable.

‘He was very upset over what these people did to the professor,’ said Amy. ‘We all were. Smithy said they should bring back hanging for them and even that would be too good for them.’

‘Apart from that.’

‘I don’t think so… apart from that silly business with the monkey but that was just Smithy…’

Steven felt the hairs on his neck start to rise. ‘What business was that?’ he asked.

‘Oh, it was daft,’ said Amy. ‘Nothing really. Something and nothing you could say. When the soldiers finally found the body of the last monkey who’d escaped — they’d been searching for it for weeks — and brought it back to the institute for burning, Smithy went up to see it. He said it was a different animal… They’d got the wrong monkey.’

‘A different animal,’ repeated Steven, feeling his blood turn to ice.

‘Smithy said he knew his Chloe and it wasn’t her; it was a different monkey,’ said Amy. ‘I think the soldiers thought he was having a laugh, telling them they’d got the wrong monkey after all the trouble they’d been to, but he wasn’t. He was quite serious.’

‘Can’t be too many monkeys out there… in Norfolk,’ said Amy’s sister, suppressing a jaundiced little smile.

‘That’s what the soldiers said,’ said Amy. ‘Silly old fool. But once he got an idea into his head… You see, Smithy prided himself on knowing all the monkeys by name. He said they were as different from each other as human beings once you got to know them. They all look the same to me mind you.’

Steven smiled in order to encourage her. ‘Me too.’

‘Six of them escaped. Five were brought back to the institute. Smithy said that Chloe was the missing one but then, when they brought the last one in, he said it wasn’t her.’

‘Typical Smithy, if you ask me,’ said Ethel. ‘If you said black, he’d say white on principle.’

This attracted a hurt look from Amy and her sister gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze and said, ‘You know what I mean, Ames. He’d cross the street to find an argument.’

‘I suppose,’ said Amy. ‘The soldiers pointed out the monkey had been out in the wilds of Norfolk for weeks in the middle of winter and that Smithy’d look a bloomin’ sight different as well if he tried that, but he wouldn’t change his mind. Said it was another monkey. Nothing like Chloe, he said.’