Pestilence (28 page)

“I never thought I would live to see anything like that in this day and age,” said MacQuillan, rubbing the back of his neck where the respirator straps had chaffed. Saracen swirled a mouthful of tea round his gums and spat it out. “How the hell did it happen?” he asked.

“I don’t know. All of them infected at the same time and dead within hours of each other. It doesn’t make sense.”

“But it did happen.”

“It has to be down to the Archers,” said MacQuillan. “This is where they lived. Anything else would be stretching coincidence too far.”

“I agree but Myra Archer died three weeks ago and her husband never showed any signs of illness at all.”

MacQuillan thought for a moment then said, “Suppose, just suppose that Timothy Archer did have the disease but had been taking tetracycline for, say, bronchitis. We now know that the drug would have slowed down development of the disease so, in theory, it could have been him who was spreading it around.

Saracen looked doubtful. “It’s possible I suppose,” he conceded, “But I’m pretty sure he wasn’t taking any medication. Besides, how could he possibly infect everyone else in the building at exactly the same time?”

MacQuillan thought for a moment then said, “Maybe the residents held a meeting about something, which would bring them all together at the same time. If they had done that when Archer was at his most infective then it’s just possible they could all have contracted the disease at the same time.”

Saracen still looked doubtful but had to concede the possibility. He could even suggest a reason for the proposed residents’ meeting. He said, “The residents were unhappy about the heating in the apartments.”

“There you are then,” said MacQuillan, pleased that his suggestion had been made to sound more plausible.

“But that doesn’t explain why they all got such a massive infective dose that they all died within hours of contracting the disease,” said Saracen.

“No,” agreed MacQuillan. “It doesn’t.”

“Excuse me gentlemen,” said the Police Inspector. “About the bodies, we’ll have to remove them.”

“The place will have to be fumigated first and the bodies sealed in plastic sacks before they are moved anywhere,” said MacQuillan.

“And then there are the funeral arrangements…”

“Too many corpses,” said MacQuillan without enlarging on his assertion.

The inspector looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think I understand,” he said.

Saracen could sense that MacQuillan was on edge. He saw him turn on the inspector as if to snap at him and only restrain himself at the last moment. “There are too many,” he said hoarsely. They will all have to go together.”

“A mass grave you mean?” asked the policeman, obviously astounded at the suggestion.

“A mass cremation to be precise,” said MacQuillan.

“But the relatives…” protested the policeman.

“Our priority lies in getting rid of these corpses as quickly and as cleanly as possible,” said MacQuillan. “Nothing else matters.”

“Doesn’t seem right,” mumbled the policeman.

Saracen could still feel that MacQuillan’s nerves were taut. He stepped in to defuse the situation. He said, “Perhaps some kind of memorial service could be arranged.”

The inspector was pleased at the suggestion but MacQuillan said, “They can do what they like with their mumbo jumbo just so long as they burn these bodies first.” With that he disappeared into the caravan to collect his things.

“Cold bastard,” muttered the policeman.

“He’s under a lot of pressure,” said Saracen. It wasn’t MacQuillan’s coldness that was worrying him it was the look on his face when he had come out of the flats.

MacQuillan came out. He said, “I managed to contact Braithwaite. His people will deal with the fumigation; the army will remove the bodies.”

“The army?” exclaimed the policeman.

“You don’t have twenty eight hearses in Skelmore,” said MacQuillan with what Saracen thought was unnecessary brusqueness. “A squad of soldiers will bag the bodies and take them away in trucks.”

“I don’t know that we will have suitable plastic bags,” said the inspector.

“The army already have them,” said MacQuillan. “Body bags, as used in the Falklands.”

“Where will they store the bodies?” asked Saracen.

“There will be no storage. They will take them directly to the crematorium,” replied MacQuillan.

The inspector indicated his disapproval by taking a deep breath and turning his head away. The gesture annoyed MacQuillan and pushed him too far. He said, “Now understand this! This town is on the edge of disaster. You do not mess around with plague or if you do it kills you, your wife, your children and everyone else you ever knew. Believe it!”

Saracen was alarmed, not at what MacQuillan had said but because of the way he had said it. The man wasn’t just jumpy and on edge. He seemed genuinely afraid. The policeman backed down and slipped behind his professional self saying, “Very good sir. I’ll keep my men here until the army arrive.”

MacQuillan nodded and then said to Saracen, “There’s no point in you hanging around. Go home. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Saracen wanted whisky when he got in but he denied himself and switched on the electric kettle instead. He spooned instant coffee into an earthenware mug and let the spoon fall in with a clatter. He returned to the living room while the water boiled and flicked through his album collection, finally deciding on Schumann. He drank his coffee to the strains of
Traumerei
. Twenty eight dead people and that look on MacQuillan’s face. His stomach felt hollow. He got up and looked out of the window; it had started to rain again.

Within seconds of arriving at the morning meeting Saracen could sense that something was gravely wrong. Saithe looked drawn, Braithwaite looked as if he hadn’t slept all night and MacQuillan seemed nervously preoccupied. Saithe said, “In addition to the tragedy at Palmer’s Green there were eight other new cases during the night.”

Saracen was surprised at the news for he had left strict instructions that he should be called if any cases of suspected plague should arrive at the General.

Saithe continued and answered Saracen’s unasked question. “All the new cases were admitted to the County Hospital’s isolation unit. The County have agreed to accept all plague cases until the General’s new reception area is fully operational, some time later today.”

“Where did the new cases come from?” asked Saracen.

“All from the Maxton estate,” replied Saithe.

“Contacts of known cases?”

Saithe paused and took a deep breath before saying, “Four were but the other four were not.”

“Four more wild cards,” said Saracen thinking out loud. “What are the chances of getting to the new contacts?”

“In the circumstances…nil.”

“I don’t understand,” said Saracen, totally bewildered by Braithwaite’s air of hopelessness.

It was MacQuillan who replied. He said, “We’ve had a bit of bad news. Porton Down say that the vaccine we have been using is useless against the Skelmore strain.”

Braithwaite added, “I cannot in all conscience ask my staff to continue working without any protection at all.”

“Of course not,” murmured Saracen.

“So what happens now?” asked the hospital secretary to break the ensuing silence.

“We start general quarantine measures. We close all schools, all shops and businesses that are not essential and we tell people to stay indoors. We back it up with the police and the army if necessary.”

“Are Porton working on a new vaccine?” asked Saracen.

“Of course,” replied MacQuillan. “And an antiserum but it will take a little time.”

“Does Col. Beasdale know about all this?” Saracen asked Saithe.

“I told him earlier. I’m awaiting his reaction. Why don’t we all wait together?”

They did not have long to wait before Beasdale called over their special communications link to announce the new measures for the town. From noon Skelmore would be placed under conditions of generalised quarantine as advocated by his medical advisors. Schools, cinemas, businesses, non essential shops would be closed as from mid day. People would be requested to remain indoors although not ordered to do so at this stage. Public gatherings of any sort would be forbidden.

News of the new measures would be given on local radio at eleven thirty after which the radio station would be used exclusively for advice and information on the emergency. The public would be invited to telephone the station with questions which would be dealt with by a panel comprising an army officer, three civilian administrators and the medical superintendent of the County Hospital. “Are there any questions?”

“Have your men been told that their vaccination against plague was ineffectual?” asked Saracen.

“Not in so many words,” replied Beasdale. “But I will have to reverse my original decision about their wearing protective clothing. They will now wear it for all duties in the town. The public will be told that they are trying out the suits as part of an exercise.”

“Let’s hope they are dumb enough to believe it,” said MacQuillan.

“You don’t believe that they will?” asked Beasdale.

“Would you?” retorted MacQuillan.

“Perhaps not,” conceded Beasdale evenly. “But that’s the way it’s going to be.”

Saracen smiled at having discovered that the velvet glove was not empty.

“Now gentlemen,” continued Beasdale. “You have presented me with facts and figures. What I need now is an explanation. Twenty eight people all die together and eight new cases appear during the night. What’s going on?”

MacQuillan said, “The deaths at Palmer’s Green were… unexpected in an epidemiological sense in that they do not fit into the expected pattern of events. I think we have to treat it as a tragic, one-off occurrence. I would think that the Archers were almost certainly to blame but the exact mechanism of the infection is for the moment unknown and, for that matter, academic. Our main concern must lie in the fact that four of the new cases were not on our list of contacts. This means that we can expect yet more cases.”

“Is the situation out of control?” asked Beasdale directly.

“No,” replied MacQuillan.

“Is it under control?” asked Beasdale.

“No.”

“Then things are still in the balance?”

“Very much so.”

“Thank you gentlemen. Keep me informed and tell me when the General is ready to admit plague cases will you?”

“Of course,” said Saithe.

Saracen inspected the newly completed reception area at two o’clock. He was accompanied by Jenkins, the hospital secretary. It was clean and functional, thought Saracen and the whole area was bedecked with warning signs forbidding entry to the unauthorised. He examined the restored access to the stairs leading to the ward above and saw that Jenkins had been right. There was plenty of room for stretchers.

“It seems fine,” said Saracen.

“Then the General can go on line?” asked the secretary.

“We can go on line.” said Saracen.

When Jenkins had left Saracen phoned Moss at the County Hospital to tell him personally.

“About bloody time,” said Moss.

“Knew you’d be pleased,” said Saracen. “How are things going?”

“Three more this morning.”

“Known contacts?”

“Not on Braithwaite’s list.”

“Not good.”

“To say the least.”

“You’ve heard about the vaccine?”

Moss said that he had.

At four in the afternoon, with the town stunned into enforced idleness, Saracen received the first plague alert for the General. An ambulance was on its way with a forty-five year old male suspect. Saracen checked the name against Braithwaite’s list. It was not there. He swore under his breath.

Saracen donned his protective clothing and headed for the new reception area. One nurse accompanied him, also in full protective gear. They familiarised themselves with the details of the patients while they waited. The man was married with two children and worked for the Water and Drainage Department of the Council. He had no known contact with the Maxton Estate. The sound of a siren in the distance said his arrival was imminent. When the siren stopped Saracen put on his face mask. There was a hospital rule about turning off sirens within a quarter of a mile of the hospital.

The ambulance pulled up outside and its two volunteer attendants, clumsy in plastic suiting, unloaded their patient on to a trolley and brought him inside. The stood by while Saracen examined the man. It did not take long. Saracen’s fear that he might be presented with an atypical case and have trouble reaching a firm diagnosis did not materialise. The patient presented as a classical, text book pneumonic plague.

Saracen nodded to the attendants who, in contravention of normal working practice, had agreed to take all confirmed cases up to the isolation ward. This obviated the need for volunteer porters who would normally have done the job. In a way Saracen was glad that the patient was too ill to realise what was going on around him. Gowns and visors, gloves and scarlet danger signs would not have reassured him. By eight in the evening the General had admitted six patients to Ward Twenty, the County Hospital had taken in another two.