Pestilence (33 page)

MacQuillan had been sleeping in his clothes and smelt strongly of whisky. “We have to talk,” said Saracen.

“The time for talking’s over,” growled MacQuillan.

“It’s just beginning. Sober up,” said Saracen pushing his way past.

“What are you talking about?” grumbled MacQuillan, scratching his head.

“You and the others, you got it all wrong. Myra Archer wasn’t the source of the epidemic at all. It was a place not a person. The source of the outbreak is the flats on Palmer’s green.”

MacQuillan looked at Saracen as if he were mad. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded.

“Get cleaned up and then we’ll talk,” said Saracen forcibly.

“Who do you think you are talking to!” exclaimed MacQuillan, trying to recover some semblance of dignity.

“Are you going to wash or am I going to stick your head under the tap?”

MacQuillan saw that Saracen was serious and capitulated. He went to the bathroom to emerge some five minutes later, subdued and more sensible. Saracen told him what he had discovered.

“I should have picked up on that,” said MacQuillan when Saracen pointed out the discrepancy in the incubation period for Leonard Cohen. “I saw it but I couldn’t let myself believe it.”

“The Wittgenstein problem,” said Saracen.

“But this is all going to be too late,” said MacQuillan.

“No it isn’t,” insisted Saracen. “If we can establish beyond doubt where the outbreak is coming from we can tell Beasdale that it’s spread will soon be under control.”

“If,” said MacQuillan doubtfully.

“There’s no time to lose.” Saracen told MacQuillan of his thoughts about Francis Updale. “He only worked for one day on the heating system in the flats.”

“I’ll talk to Beasdale,” said MacQuillan.

“Tell him we need the architect of these flats, the builder, the site agent or anyone connected with the construction of the block.”

Fifty minutes later the site agent arrived with the plans.

“The heating system,” said Saracen when asked if there was anything in particular he was interested in. He helped the site agent spread out the blueprint on the table.

“Show me the supply to flat fourteen, Myra Archer’s apartment.”

The site agent’s finger traced out a line along the plan. “This is the main duct for the first floor. It has four branch lines, each supplying two flats.”

“Two?” exclaimed Saracen looking closer. “Which is the other flat on Myra Archer’s line?”

“Flat G3.”

“Who lived there?”

The agent checked his list. “A Mr Cohen.”

“That’s got to be it then,” said Saracen quietly. “The bug is in the heating duct. That’s how Updale got it too. He was working on the duct.”

“But how?” exclaimed MacQuillan. “The bug can’t survive on its own. It’s not like Legionnaire’s Disease, living in old water tanks for years or Anthrax lying dormant in the soil.”

“I don’t know how but that’s got to be it,” said Saracen with the bit now firmly between his teeth.

“But what about the other deaths in the building?”

Saracen thought back to what Updale had told him and said to the site agent, “What effect would removing the filters in the system have?”

“There would be an increased air flow and everyone in the building would effectively be on the same line.”

This time even MacQuillan was convinced. “That would explain why everyone in the building got infected at the same time,” he conceded.

“And the enormity of the dose,” added Saracen. “They would be breathing it in constantly.”

“We’ll have to examine the trunking,” said Saracen to the site agent.

“Now?” exclaimed the man in dismay.

“Right now,” replied Saracen. “What do we need?”

MacQuillan relayed the site agent’s requirements to Beasdale who agreed to have them delivered directly to the site. In less than forty minutes Saracen was down on Palmer’s Green donning protective clothing by the light of arc lamps supplied by the military. Two more hours had passed by the time the trunking had been disassembled as far as the branch that served the Cohen and Archer flats. “All ready,” said the site agent to Saracen. He handed him an open ended spanner. “You’ll have to squeeze through there,” he said, indicating to a narrow gap between the trunking and the wall. “You’ll find an inspection cover on the left hand side secured by four hex bolts, that’s what the wrench is for. You’ll need this too.” He handed Saracen a long thin probe. “To check for obstructions.”

Saracen adjusted his respirator and eased himself through the gap. At first he found difficulty in seeing after the glare of the arc lights but, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he could make out the inspection cover in the wall of the duct. Three of the bolts gave in without protest but the fourth refused to budge.

In the confines of plastic suit and face mask Saracen felt the sweat begin to pour off him with the effort he was expending on the jammed bolt. He had to blink frequently to clear his eyes of the stinging perspiration that threatened his temper as much as his vision. He heard the site agent calling out to ask how he was getting on but did not reply; it was too much trouble. Instead he gathered himself for one last assault on the bolt.

Holding the spanner as near to the end as possible so as to exert maximum leverage he strained till the veins stood out on his temples. He saw the paint around the bolt begin to crack, so slightly at first that he thought it might be his imagination but then a piece flaked off and the bolt’s resistance was over. Saracen let the cover clatter to the ground and took a breather. He heard the site agent inquire again. “I’m fine,” he replied.

Saracen inserted the probe to the right found it moved freely at all levels along the duct. He removed it and tried to the left. The probe stopped after half a metre; it had touched something soft. Saracen left the probe in position and reached inside with his gloved hand. His outstretched fingers could feel the obstruction. It was a pile of rags…no it was furry…soft…not rags, a body…an animal’s body. He found what he thought was a leg and pulled the corpse back along the duct to the inspection hatch. In the gloom he saw the partly decomposed body of a cat.

Moving backwards, for there was no room to turn around, Saracen emerged through the gap to look down at MacQuillan and the site agent. He held up the corpse and said, “Here’s the obstruction, a dead c…” Saracen stopped himself for in the light he could now see that what he held was not a cat at all. It was the black carcase of a wild rat.

“Jesus God Almighty,” whispered MacQuillan.

“Is that what you were looking for?” asked the site agent, alarmed at the look on MacQuillan’s face.

MacQuillan ignored the question. “We’ll have to seal all this up,” he said.

Back at the General MacQuillan poured whisky for himself and Saracen. He countered Saracen’s look by saying, “We both need it.” Saracen nodded and accepted the glass. “Do you know what I don’t understand?” he said. “If we have plague rats in Skelmore why don’t we have bubonic plague all over the place instead of just two cases with the rest all pneumonic?”

“The answer must be that we do not have plague rats in Skelmore. They must be confined in some way to one area, the Palmer’s Green site.”

“But the boy Edwards didn’t live on Palmer’s Green. He came from the Maxton Estate,” said Saracen.

“Doesn’t mean that he couldn’t have been down at Palmer’s Green for some reason, a delivery boy perhaps?”

Saracen remembered something. “Edwards!” he said out loud. “Edwards’ treasure!”

“What?”

Saracen told MacQuillan about the episode with the glue sniffers and the story of a boy named Edwards who had supposedly found treasure on the Palmer’s Green site. Half way through the explanation Saracen saw the connection with the medallion that Edwards had been wearing when the ambulance brought him in. He gave MacQuillan a quick resume of the legend of Skelmoris Abbey.

“Then the boy must have discovered the site of the abbey!” exclaimed MacQuillan.

Saracen agreed and said, “It could have been plague that wiped out the abbey all these years ago and anyone who went near it afterwards. That would account for the legend of the wrath of God. But how could the bug have survived this long?”

“In the rats,” said MacQuillan. “The bug could live indefinitely in a rat colony and have been passed on down through the centuries.”

“And if the rat colony had remained isolated from the town until developers moved in on the Palmer’s Green site…”

“We would have a sudden outbreak of plague,” agreed MacQuillan.

“But can that really happen?” asked Saracen.

MacQuillan nodded. “It’s called sylvatic plague,” he said. “There have been several recorded instances in the United States and in China where plague has established itself in a colony of small animals in the wild. It’s not a problem until man moves into their area but when he does you then have the potential for disaster.”

“So we have to destroy the rat colony,” said Saracen.

“Not only the rats but their fleas as well. Poisoning the rats isn’t good enough; the fleas will just look for new hosts. Gas is the answer.”

“We have to find them first,” said Saracen coming down to earth.

“Can we talk to the boy Edwards?”

“He’s dead,” said Saracen.

“How about the glue sniffers?”

“At the time they hadn’t managed to find out Edwards’ secret but they might have in the interim. It’s our only hope.”

“I’ll get the army to trace them.”

“Let’s do it ourselves,” said Saracen. “The addresses will be in the day book.” Saracen checked the book while MacQuillan brought round the car. They set off for the Maxton estate to be stopped twice en route by the army. They showed their identification and received an apology. It seemed that a growing proportion of Skelmore’s population had taken to doing their shopping by night, using bricks instead of Barclaycards. Looting was rife in the town.

Frith Street was like so many others on the Maxton estate. Walls were daubed with spray paint slogans, ground floor windows were boarded up and gardens grew wild. The whole area breathed resentment and aggression.

“Number seventeen, this is it,” said Saracen. They drew up behind an abandoned Ford Cortina. They assumed it had been abandoned for it had no wheels.

“I was brought up in an area like this,” said MacQuillan quietly. “In Glasgow.”

“A long time ago,” said Saracen.

“A long time ago,” agreed MacQuillan. They got out the car.

“Third floor,” said Saracen as they entered the building. The passage stank of urine, so badly that they were forced to hold their breath as long as possible. Saracen managed it to the second floor landing. They found the door they were looking for and knocked. There was no reply. Saracen rapped again and this time was rewarded with shuffling sounds from within. “What do you want?” rasped an angry female voice.

Saracen said who they were and asked to speak to her son.

“What’s he done?” demanded the woman. “What did he steal? The little bugger I’ll take his bloody life before he’s much older!”

Saracen assured her that her son had done nothing wrong and at this point the woman behind the door was joined by a man wanting to know what was going on. “Two doctors from the General,” said the woman’s voice, “They want to speak to the boy.”

“We don’t want anyone from that place coming here,” growled the man. “Don’t you know what bloody time it is?”

“It’s very important,” said Saracen, stretching self control to the limit. It’s vital that we speak to your son.”

MacQuillan and Saracen exchanged glances while they listened to a whispered argument rage on the other side of the door. The woman won and the door was opened. They were ushered into the living room and the woman went to waken her son while the man went back to bed. MacQuillan sat down on a brown plastic arm chair that listed to one side under his weight. Saracen shooed a cat off the sofa where it had been wrestling with a greasy paper that had earlier held fish and chips.

The woman returned with the boy and picked up the paper. “You do your best to keep the place nice…” she said, baring her teeth in what she felt was a smile.”I sometimes wonder why I bother.”

“Remember me?” Saracen asked the boy. The boy rubbed his eyes and remembered. “Your pal Edwards died tonight I’m afraid.” The boy remained impassive; his mother made appropriate noises.

“You told me that Edwards had found treasure on Palmer’s Green and I didn’t believe you,” said Saracen.

“It was true,” said the boy.

“I know that now,” said Saracen quietly.

“Treasure? What treasure?” squawked the mother. Saracen ignored her and addressed the boy again. “Did you ever find out where Edwards found it?” The boy shook his head but Saracen sensed that he was lying. “A lot of people’s lives depend on it,” he said. “I’m not kidding.”

Saracen could see the boy swither. He swallowed hard and prayed that he would make the right decision.