Dust to Dust (19 page)

‘Great,’ snorted Steven. ‘Am I permitted to make a phone call?’

The officer nodded and Steven called John Macmillan. ‘I’m being held at Heathrow Airport. Special Branch have confiscated the samples I brought back from the north.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Macmillan. ‘Didn’t you tell them who you were?’

Steven edited out
Of course I bloody did
. ‘It made no difference.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ stormed Macmillan. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

Steven spent ninety minutes in a holding cell at Heathrow before sounds of activity outside the door told him his detainment was coming to an end. Sir John Macmillan had arrived in person to oversee his release.

‘A bit like having my dad bail me out,’ said Steven.

Both men got into the back of the black, chauffeur-driven car waiting on the double yellows outside the terminal building.

‘So what’s going on?’ asked Steven.

‘I wish I knew,’ said Macmillan. ‘Special Branch have offered their apologies for what they say was a “regrettable mistake” but there’s more to it than that; I know there is.’ He seemed deeply troubled. ‘There was no mistake. There’s something going on. It’s part of a pattern that’s been emerging. People with power and influence are making things happen.’

Steven resisted the urge to say,
What’s new?

‘But not in the usual way,’ continued Macmillan. ‘They’re calling in favours, using the old school tie, invoking the old pals act. That’s why I’ve been unable to get a handle on the people behind the opposition to your investigation. It’s not a specific department or arm of government that’s the prime mover, it’s people in very high places asking favours of each other across a whole range of departments.’

‘From the military to Special Branch,’ said Steven. ‘Did the apology include the return of our samples?’

‘They should be on their way back by now,’ said Macmillan. ‘I asked them to return them directly to the Home Office.’

‘So what was it all about?’ mused Steven as they slowed yet again in heavy traffic. ‘They stop me at the airport, take away the samples and now they say it was all a mistake. What kind of mistake are we expected to believe it was? Mistaken identity? They knew exactly who I was … A random search? They knew exactly what they were looking for.’

Macmillan nodded. ‘It’s quite clear they knew where you’d been, what you’d been doing and that you’d be flying into Heathrow. Someone could have a tap on your phone.’

‘Or Cassie Motram’s,’ said Steven. ‘She was the only one I spoke to about flying up to Newcastle for the donor samples.’

‘I’ll get some IT technicians to check out both as soon as we get back,’ said Macmillan.

‘So, if they wanted the samples so badly … why are they now saying it was all a big mistake and giving them back?’

‘I’d like to think it was because I created such a fuss,’ said Macmillan. ‘I told them the fallout from interfering with one of my investigators acting with the full authority of the Home Secretary would end in P45s fluttering down on Special Branch like leaves on a windy day in autumn.’

‘Then maybe that was the reason,’ said Steven. ‘I don’t suppose you found out where they were taking the samples?’

‘I got the distinct impression that Special Branch didn’t actually know anything about what the package contained,’ said Macmillan. ‘It’s my guess that someone suggested to someone that they stop you, take the package from you and deliver it somewhere else …’

‘A high-level favour,’ said Steven.

‘Exactly, but it didn’t work out for them. We’re getting our samples back and, with any luck,’ said Macmillan as he stepped out of the car at the Home Office, ‘they’ll be waiting for us inside.’

The samples had been delivered some fifteen minutes earlier, according to the man on the desk. Macmillan asked Steven to check if the package had been interfered with in any way.

‘I don’t think so,’ replied Steven, examining it briefly on all sides but acknowledging that, if it had been opened, it would have been easy enough to reseal it again. It was a simple white polystyrene box sealed with brown adhesive tape. ‘But I can’t be sure.’

‘Maybe you should check the contents before I ask Jean to call a dispatch rider,’ suggested Macmillan.

Steven opened the box in Jean Roberts’ office and took a look inside. Everything seemed to be in order – there was still blood in the one tube he lifted out.

A motorcycle dispatch rider arrived within ten minutes and was briefed to deliver the box to the contract lab as quickly as possible, together with the patient’s details Steven had obtained from Louise Avery. Jean had warned the lab to expect their arrival, and requested a fully comprehensive analysis of the donor samples.

‘Another day of work and play,’ sighed Macmillan as he sank into his office chair and sipped the sherry he’d poured for himself after handing a glass to Steven. ‘Well, what’s the lab going to come up with, d’you think?’

‘I simply can’t imagine,’ Steven confessed. ‘The whole thing just seems so bizarre. But there has to be something they don’t want us to know about the donor. What are they trying to hide?’

‘The identity of the patient?’ suggested Macmillan half-heartedly.

‘Surely it can’t all be about that,’ exclaimed Steven.

‘Amateurish,’ said Macmillan, causing Steven to raise his eyebrows at the choice of word. ‘That’s what it is, amateurish. Powerful people who don’t have a proper understanding of what they’re doing are pulling the strings of people who do but aren’t being told why because it’s a
secret
.’ Macmillan managed to put a great deal of distaste into the word and Steven had to smile.

‘Of course it could be we’re just missing something,’ he said. ‘Something we haven’t even thought of.’

‘Yet,’ said Macmillan.

‘Did you have any luck asking round the hospitals about MRSA patients from St Raphael’s?’

Macmillan gave a rueful laugh. ‘I overlooked one factor,’ he said. ‘I should have realised that hospital secretaries would be very circumspect when it came to admitting they’d imported MRSA into their hospitals. I drew a complete blank. Mind you, I could see their point. Imagine what the papers would do with that kind of information.’

‘
Filthy rich send their bugs to the NHS
,’ Steven intoned.

‘I think we can forget about official channels on that one,’ said Macmillan. ‘Any progress will have to be made at grass roots level.’

‘Chatty nurses and disaffected cleaners,’ said Steven.

Macmillan nodded. His phone rang and he answered. It was confirmation from the lab that they’d received the samples. They would be giving them top priority as requested.

‘Maybe we need a Plan B,’ said Steven. He responded to Macmillan’s raised eybrows by adding, ‘What are we going to do when the lab tells us that the donor was blood group A2, rhesus positive and an excellent tissue match for the patient, end of story?’

‘We look at the small print – all the extra tests Motram was asked to perform. There has to be something.’

THIRTY-ONE

Steven spent a few minutes sitting by the river before going back to his flat. He was conscious of the fact that he hadn’t said anything to John Macmillan about the duplicate analysis of the samples he’d requested and was feeling slightly guilty about it. He owed a great deal to Macmillan and would trust him with his life, but there was some kind of problem in the corridors of power at the moment and he didn’t know how close to home it was going to come. It was like a cancer: people were seeing signs of metastasis but no one knew where the original tumour was lurking.

There had already been one attempt to prevent Sci-Med from examining the donor samples: he didn’t want any more interference. His action in requesting Louise Avery to examine the samples had been unplanned and spontaneous, so it had not been mentioned in any discussion or phone call. This was a good way to leave matters. He resurrected a favourite old adage: two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.

He was still thinking about this when his phone rang. It was Macmillan, which made him feel guilty all over again. ‘Jean tells me the technicians have finished checking out the phone lines I asked them to look at. Your line has not been interfered with but Mrs Motram’s has. Quite a professional job, they said.’

‘Might be useful to leave it that way,’ suggested Steven. ‘In case we need to feed guano to the opposition.’

‘My thoughts too,’ said Macmillan. ‘I’ve asked them to take no action for the time being.’

Perhaps it was the unease he felt at learning of the phone tap on Cassie Motram’s line, but Steven’s senses seemed heightened as he resumed his walk home. He tried telling himself it was imagination when he started to think he was being followed. When he’d last crossed the road, he’d spotted a man in a dark suit about a hundred metres back and it immediately registered that he’d seen him a few minutes before when he’d got up from his seat by the river.

After another hundred metres Steven stopped, half turned and pretended he was looking for something in his briefcase while really glancing back out of the corner of his eye to see what the man was doing. He was still there but, as Steven prolonged his ‘search’, he turned off up a side street and disappeared from sight. Steven relaxed, feeling slightly embarrassed at having let his imagination run away with him. He was starting to wonder about his stress levels when he came to his own turnoff and started up the lane leading to the street where his apartment block was located. A faint smile at his own gullibility crossed his lips but disappeared in a trice when he caught the scent of aftershave on the breeze – it was a scent he recognised. He continued walking but, as soon as he had turned off to the right, he slipped into a doorway and waited.

The dark figure of a man passed the doorway and Steven had his arm up his back and his cheek pressed to the wall before his victim realised what was happening. ‘This had better be good, Ricksen,’ he hissed. ‘Very good.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Dunbar,’ stammered the MI5 man. ‘I’m here for your benefit. I just wanted to talk to you.’

‘You’ve been following me since I left the Home Office. You had every opportunity to talk to me but instead you’ve been tailing me for the past ten minutes. Then you circle round ahead of me and wait in a quiet lane …’

‘That’s because I didn’t want anyone to see me talking to you,’ groaned Ricksen.

Steven released him slowly, still unsure of the situation and remaining very alert as he watched as the MI5 man dust himself down. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘There’s something going on and I don’t like it,’ said Ricksen. ‘In fact, a number of us don’t like it, including my boss, but for reasons I don’t fully understand there’s nothing he can do about it.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘An ex-MI5 man has reappeared on the scene: he’s behaving as if he’s back in the fold although I’m assured he isn’t. The fact remains, however, that certain people are dancing to his tune whether we like it or not. Rumour has it he’s been detailed to keep tabs on you … maybe more than keep tabs …’

‘Why?’

Ricksen shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Nobody seems to. But you and I, we’ve always got on. I thought I’d warn you. I swear it’s nothing to do with 5 officially, even though it might look like it.’

‘Who is this guy?’

‘Monk. James Monk,’ replied Ricksen. ‘He was with us for three years before being dismissed the service for being – as the euphemism goes – too enthusiastic in the execution of his work. Too many “accidental” deaths. People he was assigned to monitor as possible hostiles kept ending up “taking their own lives in the woods”, if you get my drift.’

‘If you can’t solve a problem, remove it.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Psycho?’

‘Borderline if not official, but comes from a “good” family. Daddy owns a chunk of Berkshire. Rumour has it, it wasn’t Daddy’s foxhounds that were tearing the foxes limb from limb … Any other background and Monk would be in a cage, but, with Daddy smoothing the way through public school and Oxford, Her Majesty’s Secret Service ended up with the pleasure … until we got shot of him like a bad smell.’

‘And now he’s back.’

‘Like I say, it’s not official.’

Steven nodded. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I owe you one. This guy Monk: six-two, well built, wart on the left cheek?’

‘That’s our man. You’ve come across him?’

‘Not personally, not yet.’

‘Take care,’ said Ricksen.

‘You too,’ said Steven. ‘And if you’ll take some advice? Change your aftershave.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Ricksen. ‘My lady loves it: she bought it for me.’

‘Then she’s probably KGB. You’d be as well painting a bullseye on your arse.’

‘She’s the mother of my children,’ protested Ricksen.

‘Could be a quantitative thing,’ said Steven, enjoying teasing the MI5 man. ‘Maybe half a litre’s too much.’

‘I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t bothered.’

‘Seriously, I’m glad you did,’ said Steven. ‘Thanks.’ He started to walk away.

‘Aren’t you even going to tell me what it’s all about?’

‘I don’t know either,’ said Steven. ‘It’s a secret.’

Steven showered and changed into jeans and trainers. There was a chill in the air so he pulled on a sweater before putting on his denim jacket and heading for the lift down to the garage. His first port of call was going to be the Jade Garden restaurant, where he was a once-a-month customer. There were a number of restaurants he visited on a fairly regular basis, chosen first because they were good and second to interrupt the more usual packet-meals-from-a-supermarket foundation of his diet. He’d never learned to cook and had no plans to alter the status quo.

Chen Feng, the owner of the Jade Garden, who’d spotted he was a doctor from the first time he’d used his credit card, never failed to keep him apprised of her state of health and that of her family. Because he liked her, Steven tended to offer very general medical advice which often translated into extra dishes on the table but not the bill. It was a nice, simple arrangement between two people who were less than friends but more than strangers. More importantly, they liked each other.