Dust to Dust (15 page)

‘I think so,’ said Steven. ‘The other three were unaffected by their injections, but I think Motram was given something different.’

‘Which makes him a specific target.’

‘I think they wanted to keep him quiet about something.’

‘Odd way of going about it.’

‘But clever,’ said Steven. ‘If it hadn’t been for the lab not finding spores in the air …’

‘You did well,’ said Macmillan.

‘The point is, it’s not exactly something private enterprise would come up with. It’s more an intelligence services sort of thing, wouldn’t you say?’

He heard Macmillan let his breath out in a long sigh before muttering, ‘Damnation. This we don’t need.’

‘Did you find out anything more about the dead marine?’ Steven asked.

‘The MOD are sticking to their official line: anything else is pure fantasy, according to them. They have every sympathy with the dead boy’s parents but what they’re suggesting is, in the MOD’s view, stuff and nonsense. They’re keen to let it be known that the Kellys’ MSP belongs to the Scottish Nationalist Party: they maintain he’s seizing the chance to make trouble for the Westminster Labour Party.’

‘Mmm,’ said Steven. ‘But in all honesty, I can’t see the Kellys making something like this up, can you? Do we know anything about their reasons for suggesting their son had been back in the UK?’

‘No one I spoke to could say,’ said Macmillan.

‘I’m going to visit them tomorrow,’ said Steven. ‘I’ll try to find out.’

‘Did you learn anything new from John Motram’s wife?’

‘She couldn’t add much to what we knew already,’ said Steven. ‘Motram’s research was being funded by something called the Hotspur Foundation. In return, he had to screen the donor for an unnamed bone marrow patient who was suffering from advanced leukaemia. The man in charge of the transplant was a Sir Laurence Samson, a Harley Street physician, and it was being carried out at a private hospital called St Raphael’s in South Kensington. At some point after the screening, Motram contacted Samson and told him he thought the donor was the dead marine. Samson told him he was mistaken.’

‘Then someone destroyed the synapses of his brain …’ murmured Macmillan. ‘The smell of rat is overpowering.’

TWENTY-FOUR

The Barony flats in the east end of Glasgow were as bleak and depressing as the area they were situated in. Steven had suspected the worst when the taxi driver gave him a funny look and asked if he was sure when he gave him the address. ‘Why do you ask?’

The taxi driver looked him up and down and said, ‘Three hundred quid leather jacket, designer jeans, Rolex watch: you don’t belong there, pal. They’ll know that too … When you step oot ma cab they’re gonae see it as Santa’s sleigh …’

‘Drop me at the edge of the estate,’ said Steven. ‘I’ll use the quiet streets.’ He was determined that his only compromise was going to be not taking the car. He liked it just the way it was … with wheels.

‘Good luck,’ said the driver with a knowing smile when Steven paid and tipped him well.

There were places like this in every city in the UK, thought Steven as he skirted round a group of young children blocking the pavement, maybe in every city in the world. They were universally described as poor areas, but it wasn’t just money missing from the equation, it was optimism, self-respect, enthusiasm, hope. There would be exceptions – there were always exceptions, people who tried hard against all the odds – but, in the end, the rubbish would win; the rubbish always won. The lazy, the feckless, the stupid, the criminal, the serially disaffected would smother and destroy the seeds of hope and make sure the wilderness remained in perpetuity.

It was no surprise to find that the lift going up to the Kellys’ floor was broken. The smell of urine in the ground floor area suggested this was probably a blessing and Steven took the stairs, picking his way through the accumulated litter of fast-food wrappings and beer cans. He paused at the third landing to look out at the view and reflected that Michael Kelly’s decision to join the military couldn’t have been that difficult. He found the Kellys’ door and rang the bell. The name tag above the button had ‘Kelly’ written on it in Biro: dampness had made the lettering run.

The door was opened by a woman who immediately changed her mind and said, ‘We’ve nothing more to say to the papers. Please go away.’ She made to close the door and Steven stopped her by putting his hand against it, moderating his action with what he hoped was a friendly smile. ‘I’m not from the papers, Mrs Kelly. My name’s Steven Dunbar. I’m trying to establish the truth about your son’s death.’

May Kelly still seemed suspicious. ‘How do I know you’re not lying?’ she asked.

Steven took out his ID with one hand and showed it to her.

‘It says here you’re a doctor.’

‘Yes, but I work as an investigator. I really am trying to find out the truth about Michael’s death.’

May Kelly relented. ‘You’d better come in.’ She showed him into a small sitting room and gestured to him to sit down.

‘I take it Mr Kelly’s at work?’

‘Sleeping.’

‘Sleeping?’

‘Off sick.’

‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

‘A couple of Rangers guys gave him a doin’.’

Steven made a face. ‘I take it he’s a Celtic supporter?’ He was well aware of the loathing between supporters of Glasgow’s two biggest football clubs. His wife had been a Glasgow girl.

May nodded. ‘Everyone is round here. He was wearing his Celtic top coming out of a pub and these guys jumped him, gave him a right goin’ over.’

Steven shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose you know what I’m going to ask you?’

‘Same as the others. Where did we get our information about Michael’s death not being as straightforward as they were making out.’

Steven nodded. ‘More or less. In particular, what makes you think your son was back here in the UK on a “secret mission”, as the papers called it?’

‘I can’t tell you that,’ said May. ‘The guy who told us would get into big trouble. But take it from me, he knew what he was talking about.’

Steven was about to say something when he was interrupted by the opening of the room door and the appearance of Brian Kelly in a Celtic top and his underpants: his bulk filled the doorway. ‘What did I tell you about talking to these buggers?’ he asked May.

‘He’s no’ the papers,’ said May. ‘He’s an investigator.’

‘Investigator my arse,’ stormed Brian, the heavy bruising to his face making his anger appear even more ferocious. He made a grab at Steven, who rose expertly from his seat, avoided Brian’s grasp and put him in an arm-lock. Lowering him very slowly and gently into the chair he had been sitting on he said, ‘I’m Steven Dunbar of the Sci-Med Inspectorate. I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr Kelly.’

Kelly looked balefully at his wife and said with an air of resignation, ‘Make us some tea, will you?’

May left the room and Steven sat down opposite Kelly, and took in the state of his face. ‘God, you have been in the wars.’

‘Rangers bastards,’ said Kelly, touching his bruises. ‘I take it you’re here like the others tae find oot who blew the whistle on those lying bastards at the MOD? Well, we’re no’ talkin’.’

‘It might help me find out a bit more about your son’s death.’

‘No it wouldnae,’ said Kelly. ‘We’ve told everyone all they need to know to get the answers we want but they’re a’ more interested in getting hold of the guy who told us.’

‘Well, he’s obviously the one who knows what really went on,’ said Steven. ‘You could have made the whole lot up.’

‘Yer arse,’ said Kelly angrily.

‘No matter,’ said Steven. ‘Your wife’s already told me that you folks aren’t going to say anything about your source so I’ll have to respect your decision.’

Kelly looked at Steven and Steven was surprised to see fear in his eyes. ‘We promised,’ he said. ‘We promised the guy we wouldn’t tell anyone …’

‘Of course.’ Steven sensed there was more going on inside Kelly’s head. ‘But?’ he prompted.

‘That’s what those Rangers bastards wanted to know,’ mumbled Kelly.

Steven felt stunned. ‘What?’ he exclaimed. ‘The men who attacked you wanted to know who told you about Michael’s death not being straightforward?’

Kelly remained silent and looked at the floor.

‘I take it your silence means that you told them?’

‘I had to; they were kicking eight kinds o’ shit out of me.’

‘So the cat’s out of the bag anyway.’

Kelly appeared ashamed. ‘It was Michael’s pal,’ he said. ‘Jim Leslie.’

‘He’s a marine too?’

Kelly nodded. ‘He asked us no’ tae tell anyone it was him but he was well pissed off over what happened to Michael.’

‘And what exactly did happen to Michael?’ Steven probed gently.

‘Jim said Mick was called back to the UK but he didn’t know why; it was a secret. Michael said he couldn’t tell him. The next thing Jim knew, Michael was back in Afghanistan, lying in a field hospital. They said he’d been injured by shrapnel and the wounds had turned septic but nobody knew anything about the incident and Jim didn’t get to see Michael … until it was too late.’

‘Too late?’

‘They let him pay his last respects after he died.’

Steven had to make absolutely sure of his facts. ‘So Jim Leslie saw your son’s body in Afghanistan after he died?’

‘That’s what I just said,’ said Kelly. ‘And now he’s goin’ tae get in real trouble because I blabbed.’

‘I don’t think you had much choice in the circumstances, Mr Kelly,’ said Steven, but he saw it was cold comfort.

May Kelly returned with three mugs of tea and three chocolate biscuits on a circular metal tray with a picture of the Grand Canal in Venice on it. She looked suspiciously at each of the two men in turn as if trying to work out what had been going on. They had their tea and biscuits in an uneasy silence before Steven said, ‘Well, I’m sorry you can’t help me with my investigation, Mr and Mrs Kelly, but of course I do understand.’ The look he got from Kelly was thanks enough. ‘And I’m very sorry for your loss.’

TWENTY-FIVE

Steven left the Barony flats. It was his intention to walk until he found a main road and catch either a bus or a taxi back to town, depending on which came along first. He felt like a deer in a concrete forest; the eyes of the hunters were on him, and he had to stay alert. A group of three youths standing in a doorway looked as if they might consider bidding to become the new owners of his wallet and mobile phone, but perhaps the fact that he was over six feet and in good physical condition caused them to reconsider. He kept up his quick pace, however, anticipating a possible call for reinforcements; he’d seen one of them talking into a phone inside his hood.

In the event, he made it to a main road without incident and got on the green and yellow bus that turned up shortly afterwards. Up on the top deck, he thought through what he’d learned from Brian Kelly on the fifteen-minute ride back into the city. The fact that Kelly had been beaten up for reasons other than football rivalry or sectarian bigotry was scary. The real motive had been to find out where he’d got the information about his son’s death and that could mean that Marine James Leslie was in real danger. He’d alert Sci-Med as soon as he was somewhere less public. On a more positive note, he could now be sure that Michael Kelly had died in Afghanistan; Jim Leslie had seen his body there, which removed the lingering possibility that Kelly had met his death back in the UK. Even if John Motram had been right about his being the donor – and plenty was pointing to that – he must have returned to Afghanistan immediately afterwards.

But then what? Sheer bad luck? Had he been killed as soon as he’d stepped off the plane? He hadn’t had time to return to his unit. Apart from that, no one knew anything about the incident in which he’d supposedly been injured, according to Jim Leslie … who’d seen Kelly’s dead body lying in Camp Bastion … Kelly’s dead body … Kelly’s dead body.

A cloud of doubt swirled back in. Maybe he couldn’t eliminate the possibility that Michael Kelly had died in the UK after all. Maybe it was his dead body that had been returned to Afghanistan.

More and more, his attention was being drawn towards the London bone marrow transplant. How had a Royal Marine serving in Afghanistan come to be selected as the donor? Who was the patient? He must have had something more than money going for him to merit this kind of hush-up. Unwittingly echoing the Motrams’ assessment of the patient’s possible identity, Steven supposed the ante could have been raised considerably by his being a member of one of the ruling families in the Gulf that the UK and US depended on for support; he could even con ceivably be a powerful figure in a not-so-friendly administration who had been forced to seek medical help in London without the knowledge of the opposition in his own country – a favour to be called in at a later date. But advanced leukaemia at a stage that required a last-ditch bone marrow transplant wasn’t really something that could be hidden that well …

Steven got off the bus and found a quiet spot to call Sci-Med. He asked that they make immediate enquiries at the Ministry of Defence regarding the current location and welfare of Marine James Leslie, serving with 45 Commando in the Northern Battle Group in Helmand Province. He hoped that having Sci-Med express an interest might make others think twice about initiating any adverse action against him.

Steven had a beer and a sandwich in a city centre pub before calling Tally on his way back to the car park. He was redirected to her answer service. This was nothing new. Life as an NHS hospital doctor meant that she could rarely answer during the day. He left her a message, saying that he’d finished in Scotland and could stop off on the way back if that was all right with her. He asked that she leave him a message if it wasn’t.

He stopped at a service station some three hours later to take on fuel and have a break. The sun had come out, so he took a stroll around the car park and found a spot where the boundary fence backed on to farmland to call John Macmillan. He told him about the attack on Brian Kelly.