Ken McClure - The Lazarus Strain

‘Appeal to their better nature, you mean?’ said Giles, leading the way along the corridor.

Morley sensed that no reply was necessary.

‘Journalism is an equal opportunity occupation, Morley. Being a half-arsed fuckwit is no impediment to employment.’

Steven knocked on Macmillan’s door.

‘I’m going back to Norfolk. This time I’m going to stay up there for a bit.’

‘A change of heart?’

‘I’ve just spoken to Frank Giles of the Norfolk Police. He’s good. He already suspects that someone other than the animal rights brigade might be behind the killings at the Crick but he’s having trouble coming up with an alternative motive. He thinks there might be some scientific reason involved so he’s asking for our help. What do you think?’

‘The fact that the police have more or less eliminated the animal rights theory through their inquiries makes your explanation all the more plausible,’ said Macmillan. ‘Maybe the time has come to share a little more information. Play it by ear.’

‘There’s going to be an added complication,’ said Steven.

Macmillan arched his eyebrows.

‘Giles says the papers are about to suggest that the killings were racially motivated.’

‘Oh, happy day,’ sighed Macmillan. ‘I’d better get the Home Secretary up to speed on this. I’ll tell him it’s beginning to look more than ever likely that animal rights involvement at the Crick was a red herring and then I’ll throw in what the Press are about to do. Poor chap, he’s only been in the job a few weeks and he’s already got the judiciary on his back.’

‘My God, don’t you ever go home?’ asked Steven when Giles answered the phone at 9 p.m.

‘Not tonight I don’t,’ replied Giles. ‘One of the evening papers ran with the story. All leave’s been cancelled. Where are you?’

‘In your neck of the woods. I decided to drive up tonight. I’ve booked into a hotel for a couple of nights. When do you want to talk?’

‘As soon as possible,’ said Giles.

‘How about socially over a pint right now?’

‘Nipping out to a pub in the line of duty sounds just fine to me,’ said Giles.

‘I’m staying at the Pear Tree.’

‘See you in ten minutes.’

Steven’s suggestion had not entirely been made for social reasons. He was hoping that if he and Giles met on their own he could perhaps persuade the policeman that certain things he might tell him should remain confidential. He smiled as Giles came into the bar and shook his hand. ‘What are you having?’

‘My favourite question,’ said Giles. ‘Pint of best.’

The two men sat down at a table in a corner where the nearest people were three tables away — an elderly foursome drinking sherry before going in to dinner.

‘So you’ve run out of animal rights extremists?’ said Steven.

‘I think we’ve interviewed every bugger who ever patted a dog in the street,’ said Giles, ‘and drawn a complete blank. I think we’ve been taken for a ride. The animal rights stuff was a blind.’

‘I think so too,’ said Steven.

Giles’s glass which had been on its way to his mouth was replaced on the table. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. It sounds like you know something I don’t,’ he said.

‘I suspect something,’ corrected Steven, ‘and because it’s just a suspicion at the moment I would appreciate if we could keep it between ourselves?’

Giles sipped his beer and appeared to consider. ‘Depends,’ he said.

‘On what?’

‘On whether keeping things between ourselves impedes a murder inquiry in any way.’

‘A legitimate concern,’ said Steven. ‘Supposing I were to tell you that what we are dealing with here is a determined attempt by person or persons unknown to get their hands on a biological weapon.’

‘Jesus,’ said Giles. ‘You’re serious?’

‘It’s beginning to look that way.’

‘What weapon exactly?’

‘It’s a virus known as Cambodia 5,’ said Steven. ‘It’s a kind of influenza.’

‘Influenza?’ exclaimed Giles. ‘You mean we’re all going to get flu?’ He managed to sound both relieved and puzzled at the same time.

‘No, I don’t,’ said Steven flatly. ‘If the mortality rate of the virus transfers directly from its original avian host we are talking about a 90 % death rate.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘It’s a variant of the strain of flu that killed more than 20 million people back in 1918.’

‘Shit,’ said Giles as if he’d just realised something. ‘That’s what your escaped monkey was carrying, wasn’t it?’

Steven nodded.

‘And you just said flu.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Well, thank God they found the bloody thing,’ said Giles… before he noticed the look on Steven’s face. ‘They didn’t?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think so,’ admitted Steven. He told Giles about his interview with Robert Smith’s wife and what she’d told him about her husband’s insistence that the animal the army had recovered had not been the one which had escaped.

‘So Shanks’s story about Ali could be true. This Ali character could have gone back to the institute on his own.’

‘And tortured Devon into telling him what he wanted to know about the location of the Cambodia 5 virus but, when he found he couldn’t get his hands on it because of the double key lock on the safe, he did the next best thing and took one of the infected monkeys. He let the rest go to make it look as if he’d liberated them in the cause of animal rights.’

Giles’s shoulders sagged and he shook his head. ‘So we’re not only looking for Ali,’ he said. ‘We’re looking for Ali… and a monkey.’

‘It’s my guess you’ll be joined soon,’ said Steven.

‘Who?’

‘Just about every intelligence agency in the country.’

‘That’ll be nice,’ said Giles. ‘Maybe I’ll get a day off.’ His phone rang, attracting black looks from the would-be diners at the nearest table and stage whispers of ‘I’m in a bar, on a bus, on a train… absolutely bloody awful, isn’t it…’

‘Giles… right, on my way.’

‘Indian restaurant,’ said Giles in answer to Steven’s look. ‘Windows smashed, owner and two waiters given a kicking. It’s started. I’ll have to go.’

‘And our agreement?’

‘If Whitehall are sending in the cavalry, I presume they’ll have the courtesy to inform the relevant police authorities… No need for me to spoil the surprise.’

‘Thanks,’ said Steven.

Steven bought a selection of morning papers and read them over breakfast. They did not make for happy reading. ‘ Police Consider Racial Motive in Crick Killings ’ in one was rivalled by ‘ Animal Activists Not To Blame ?’ in another. He read each story carefully to make sure that they did not contain any information other than Kevin Shanks’s claim that a third man, ‘Ali’, had been responsible for the murder of Timothy Devon and that a woman witness had described the three men involved in the immolation of Robert Smith as being of possibly Asian origin.

He understood that the main concern of the police would now be an outbreak of racial violence but he himself had other things to consider. He tried to put himself in the shoes of Ali and his companions. They would know that their animal rights cover had been blown but would that panic them into changing their plans or could they be past the stage when that mattered?

Steven was pondering this over his third cup of coffee when his phone rang. He was surprised to hear Leila Martin’s voice.

‘I need someone to tell me what’s going on,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry?’