Dust to Dust (2 page)

Samson shook his head and gathered himself for one last attempt at changing his host’s mind. ‘I said it was theoretically possible, sir,’ he said. ‘But the practical difficulties involved in setting up such an operation and keeping it a secret are just too …’ Words failed him, and he lapsed into silence.

‘I’m well aware you can’t do this alone, Sir Laurence. I’m not a complete idiot. To that end I have approached a group of trusted friends, people in positions of power and influence. They will provide you with all the resources and help you need. You only have to ask. Well, what do you say?’

‘I think I need time to think it over, sir.’

‘Call me tomorrow.’

TWO

A gold carriage clock on the marble mantelpiece chimed the hour, the only thing to break the prolonged silence in the room apart from the almost imperceptible rumble of London traffic outside the double-glazed windows on a grey day in February.

‘I thought we should all meet with Sir Laurence to discuss exactly what it is we have been asked to do and to make sure we all understand exactly what we are getting into,’ said the owner of the Belgravia house. ‘There will be no official sanction for what we’re doing, no committees or advisory bodies to call upon, no spreading of the blame should things go wrong and no overt rewards if they don’t. We will be and must remain the only people ever to know about this mission, apart, of course, from the man who has called upon our friendship and loyalty.’

The others in the room nodded their understanding.

‘Can we be certain it will work?’ asked a clearly nervous man, whose unease had caused him to break the pencil supplied with the pad in front of him. Like the others, he wore a dark suit, the uniform of the city, although the ties that some wore belied anonymity to varying extents. The question was put to a silver-haired man whose neckwear bore a snake and staff motif, proclaiming his link to the medical profession.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Sir Laurence and I agree: there can be no guarantees. The main element of the procedure is a risky business at the best of times – without taking into account the reason for it in this case – but, given the circumstances, it’s almost certainly the only chance we have of … rescuing the situation.’

The man at the head of the table – a Cambridge graduate by his tie – gave a slight smile at the euphemism but added, ‘And the only chance we have of preventing a monumental scandal.’

‘Aren’t we jumping the gun here?’ said the nervous man. ‘I mean, we seem to be going for broke before we’ve even considered the alternatives …’

‘There aren’t any,’ said the Cambridge man, adopting an expression that seemed to suggest this was the reaction he’d been expecting from the nervous man. He looked down at the table as if willing the time to pass. Although bound in this instance by a common friendship, the two men had little time for each other, being poles apart in terms of personality and outlook. The Cambridge man was positive and self-confident to the point of arrogance while the nervous man was prone to analyse everything in great detail and was seen as caution personified.

‘It would not be easy, of course,’ continued the nervous man, ‘but surely the risks involved in what you are proposing are just too great to contemplate? I think that, with decent PR and sensible management, the storm could be weathered. History suggests—’

‘Times have changed’, interrupted the Cambridge man, ‘and so have people. This includes their perception of many things we might have taken for granted in the past. Had there been a feel-good factor abroad in the country at the moment, well, who knows, but the global recession, rising unemployment, sterling hovering on the brink – even the bloody weather’s been conspiring against us this winter. Something like this coming on top of everything else could trigger a complete collapse of public confidence. It could be the final straw for many when they discover that everything they believed in, trusted or revered is turning to dust, especially when they are left with no jobs, no savings, no prospects and no belief in anything. Sociologists – not that I have any great truck with that lot – are already mooting the prospect of anger turning to anarchy in the none-too-distant future.’

‘You say that no one would know apart from us,’ said the nervous man. ‘But surely others would have to be involved? I mean, it doesn’t sound like something that could be carried out by a single doctor at a secret location.’

‘A number of people will have to be involved along the way,’ agreed the Cambridge man. ‘But, as I understand it, there is nothing particularly unusual about the essential element of the procedure itself. Am I right, Sir Laurence?’

Laurence Samson nodded. ‘It’s not exactly routine but it is something that is carried out almost every day in some part of the country, albeit for other reasons. The difference in this case, of course, is the who and the why. Personnel screening for those engaged at the sharp end of things will have to be of the highest order.’

‘James will see to that,’ said the Cambridge man. He turned to the one man in the room wearing a plain tie. James Monk chose not to respond in any way, but sat coldly staring into the middle distance.

‘James’ job will be to ensure that absolute secrecy is maintained at all times. No one is going to end up
selling their story
’ – he suffused the phrase with contempt – ‘or enlivening their otherwise forgettable memoirs with the details. This whole affair must be conducted in secret and remain a secret for all time. It is non-negotiable. Absolute silence from all concerned is a
sine qua non
.’

Laurence Samson looked at James Monk with suspicion in his eyes. ‘I’m not at all sure how you can guarantee something like that,’ he said, making it sound like an accusation.

Monk gave a slight shrug but didn’t see fit to respond, and no one else seemed willing to elaborate. Samson was clearly uncomfortable with the information he was deducing – a clear case of there being some things it was better not to know but unfortunately knowing only too well what they were.

‘We wouldn’t expect you to be involved in … the mechanics of security, Sir Laurence,’ said the Cambridge man, hoping to bring Samson back on board. ‘We are here to assist you in any way we can in achieving our twin goals – a cure for our friend’s son and to make sure that the whole affair remains a secret. You are solely concerned with the former.’

Samson nodded his understanding.

‘What I would suggest’, continued the Cambridge man, ‘is that all of us simply concentrate on the role we each have to play.’

There were nods around the table.

‘Good, then let’s not concern ourselves too deeply with the duties of others. If we all play our individual parts, we must stand a good chance of pulling off something quite remarkable.’

‘And if it should fail?’ asked the nervous man.

‘Let’s not even consider that,’ said the Cambridge man with ice in his voice.

‘Hear hear,’ said a couple of voices in unison, causing the nervous man to retreat into his shell.

‘So, gentlemen, it’s time for the big question. Are we all agreed that we should help our friend in his hour of need?’ The Cambridge man looked around the room. ‘Charles?’

A man wearing an Old Etonian tie nodded.

‘Marcus? Christopher?’

Two more nods.

‘Colonel?’

A man wearing a Guards regimental tie nodded. ‘I’ll certainly do my bit.’

‘Malcolm?’

The nervous man nodded. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Doctor?’

The man wearing the caduceus tie said, ‘Sir Laurence and I have identified the best practitioners in the country and given their details to James’ people for screening after the initial approach.’

‘And the initial approach?’

‘The usual legal firm has agreed to manage things with its customary absolute discretion.’

‘All candidates are currently under surveillance,’ said Monk.

‘Good,’ said the Cambridge man. ‘We don’t want any of them swanning off to conferences on the other side of the world just when we need them most.’

THREE

‘You were very restless last night,’ Cassie Motram said when her husband appeared in the kitchen for breakfast. John Motram wrapped his dressing gown around him and manoeuvred himself up on to one of the new stools that Cassie had bought to accompany a recently installed breakfast bar. He was a little too short for this to be an entirely comfortable procedure and his irritation showed.

‘I feel like I’m in an American film,’ he complained. ‘What in God’s name was wrong with a table and chairs?’

‘We’re moving with the times,’ Cassie insisted, dismissing his complaint. ‘Now, as I was saying …’

‘Bad dreams.’

‘Mmm. You’ve been having a lot of these lately. What’s on your mind?’

Her husband gave her a sideways glance, as if deciding whether or not to come clean, before saying, ‘I don’t think they’re going to renew my research grant for the historical stuff.’

‘They always have in the past. Why should this time be any different? Or are they using the credit crunch as an excuse like everyone else in this country?’

‘It’s not just that; the university’s changing,’ said John. ‘Scholarship’s becoming a thing of the past. The pursuit of knowledge is no longer good enough for the suits in the corridors of power: there has to be an “end product”, something the bean counters can patent, something they can sell. There has to be “economic justification” for what you do.’

‘And researching fourteenth-century plagues doesn’t fit the bill?’

‘They couldn’t have put it better themselves,’ John agreed. ‘Although, of course, they didn’t, preferring instead to go all round the houses using that funny language they speak these days about “moving forward” and being “proactive in the need for networking” as we “embrace the twenty-first century”. Where did they come up with all that junk?’

‘These people are everywhere,’ Cassie said sympathetically. ‘A woman turned up at the WI the other day, giving a talk about detoxifying the system, as she put it. I asked her what toxins she would be removing and she got quite snippy, demanded to know if I was a qualified nutritionist. I said no, I was a bloody doctor and would she please answer the question, and of course she couldn’t. Just what the hell is a qualified nutritionist when it’s at home?’

‘There’s been some kind of fusion between science and fashion which means that pseudo-scientists are popping up everywhere, spouting their baloney.’

‘Maybe we should go for a change of career.’ Cassie accepted the milk jug.

‘I may have to if any more grant money dries up. You know …’ John paused for a moment while he struggled with the marmalade jar. ‘I think I’m going to retrain as a celebrity nail technician.’

Cassie almost choked on her cornflakes. ‘Where on earth did you come up with that one?’ she gasped.

‘I heard some woman on breakfast TV being introduced as that and I thought that’s for me … John Motram, celebrity nail technician. To hell with higher education, let’s do something really important and start polishing the fingernails of the rich and famous. How about you?’

‘International hair colourist, I think,’ said Cassie, after a moment’s thought. ‘Same source.’

‘That’s us sorted then,’ said John. ‘A new life awaits.’

‘It’s just a pity we’re in our fifties,’ said Cassie. ‘And I have a full surgery waiting for me.’

‘And I have a second-year class in medical microbiology to fill with awe if not shock,’ said John. ‘Such a pity. I was looking forward to jetting off to LA or wherever these people go at the weekend.’

The letter box clattered and the sound of mail hitting the floor caused Cassie to swing her legs round on her stool and pad off to the porch in her stockinged feet. She reappeared, head to one side as she shuffled her way through a bunch of envelopes, giving impromptu predictions of their contents. ‘Bill … bill … junk … junk … postcard from Bill and Janet in Barcelona – we must go there: we’ve been talking about it for ages – and one for you from … the University of Oxford, Balliol College no less.’

‘Really?’ John accepted the letter and opened it untidily with his thumb, taking thirty seconds or so to read it before saying, ‘Good Lord.’

‘Well? Don’t be so mysterious.’

‘It’s from the Master of Balliol. He wants to see me next week.’

‘What about?’

‘Doesn’t say.’ John handed the letter over.

‘How odd. Will you go?’

‘What’s to lose?’

‘Maybe he’s heard you’re thinking of a career change and offering you a chair in celebrity nail technology?’

‘Could well be.’ John nodded sagely. ‘But I’ll only accept if you’re given a research fellowship in international hair colouring.’

‘Deal,’ said Cassie, slipping on her shoes. ‘Meanwhile I have coughs to cure and bums to jab … Have a nice day, as we international hair colourists say.’

‘You too. Maybe I’ll have a think outside the box about all this …’

‘Absolutely … Push the boundaries …’

Cassie left for the surgery and John cleared away the breakfast things, still feeling curious about the letter from Oxford. As a senior lecturer in cell biology at Newcastle University, he hadn’t had much to with Oxbridge although he had visited both Oxford and Cambridge for various conferences and meetings over the years and liked them both. It had been almost inevitable that he would: he was a born academic and scholarship was so obviously cherished at both universities. It had been one of the regrets of his earlier life that he had been unable to take up a place at Cambridge after leaving school, but reading science at a university nearer home had made more sense at the time and enabled him to contribute to the family income through part-time work – a not insignificant consideration for the son of a mother who provided for her family by cleaning the homes of the well-off and a father who had been invalided out of mining thanks to the damage that thirty years underground had done to his lungs.

Although both his parents had been dead now for a long time, someone wheezing in the street could still trigger memories of the sound of his father’s laboured breathing. His parents had lived to see him graduate with first class honours from Durham, although his father had died before he completed his PhD and never shared the pride his mother took in calling her son ‘doctor’.