‘Please see that you do,’ replied the woman, retreating indoors. ‘I think I preferred the Gas Board men.’

  Steven found pretty much what he expected to find when he walked through the flat. The ‘Gas Board’ men had gone through it with a fine-tooth comb. The contents of every drawer and cupboard had been tipped out on to the floor and even the floorboards had been taken up in several places.’

  ‘Workmen these days . . .’ said Lawrence, tongue in cheek. ‘Looks like someone beat you to it?’

  ‘Afraid so,’ said Steven. ‘What worries me now is how they got the key. If no one has seen Hendry’s partner for a while -’

  ‘Oh dear,’ sighed Lawrence. ‘Do you think . . . ?’

  ‘I think we’d better check it out,’ said Steven. ‘The neighbour says she’s a teacher at Green Street Primary.’

  Lawrence looked at his watch. ‘The schools are on holiday. I’ll try and get an address for her from the education authorities.’

  Steven continued to look through the flat while Lawrence made his call. He always hated the feeling he got when circumstances forced him to intrude in other people’s lives. He went through the motions of sifting through everything, but knowing full well that he wasn’t going to find anything useful.

  When Lawrence joined him he said, ‘The authorities just have this address down in their records but I managed to contact the head teacher at Green Street and she told me that Lesley has been back staying with her parents since Martin Hendry died. Want to give it a try?’

  Steven said that he did and Lawrence told the two uniformed men they were on their way to 21, Paxton Avenue. ‘He told them to stay put until the flat had been made secure.

  Steven and Lawrence presented their IDs to the man working in the front garden of the neat bungalow in Paxton Avenue. He looked like everyone’s idea of a bank manager – short, plump, bald and bespectacled - so they were taken aback by his immediately aggressive response.

  ‘Hasn’t my daughter been through enough from you insensitive bastards?’ the man demanded. ‘She doesn’t know anything about what Martin was doing or why he took his own life. Isn’t that enough for her to cope with, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘I’m sorry your daughter has been upset, Mr Holland,’ said Steven. ‘But we really do have to speak to her. It won’t take long and we’ll be gentle, I promise.’

  Holland muttered something about dogs chasing their own tails as he tugged off his Wellington boots before going indoors in his diamond-patterned socks to go upstairs.

  ‘Who is it, Sam?’ inquired a woman’s voice.

  ‘The bloody police again for our Lesley,’ replied Holland. ‘No wonder they never catch any burglars.’

  When Holland returned he was accompanied by a small fair-skinned girl with a bank of freckles across the bridge of her nose and upper cheeks and whose blond hair was tied back with a pink ribbon. She looked as if she hadn’t slept for some time. There was an expression in her eyes that was easy to read - fear.

  ‘Miss Holland? I’m Dr Steven Dunbar,’ said Steven gently. ‘This is DI Lawrence. Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  A look of blank resignation crossed Lesley Holland’s face as she indicated that the men should follow her inside.

  ‘I don’t know what Martin was writing about. I’ve told you people over and over again. I don’t know,’ said Lesley Holland as she sat perched on the edge of an armchair, hands clasped between her knees. ‘You can threaten me all you want to but I can’t tell you what I don’t know.’

  ‘Who threatened you, Miss Holland?’ asked Steven.

  ‘The two men from Special Branch, they said they knew perfectly well what Martin had been up to and that he must have told me all about it. They said I would be charged and go to prison for up to fourteen years if I didn’t tell them everything. But I couldn’t tell them. I didn’t know anything. Martin was just doing what Martin did, working on a story. He didn’t tell me anything about it but they wouldn’t believe me. They just went on and on . . .’

  ‘Did you give them the keys to your flat?’ asked Steven.

  Lesley nodded. ‘They forced me to. I’ve been back staying with Mum and Dad since Martin died. They said they were going to search the flat and when they found what they were looking for they would be back to charge me formally. I wasn’t to go anywhere.’

  ‘But they never came back?’

  Lesley shook her head. ‘No. I thought maybe that’s why you were here.’ She looked at Steven pleadingly and said, ‘I don’t know anything. I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘I know Miss Holland and I’m very sorry you’ve been put through all this. There is no question of you being charged with anything and I apologise for the behaviour of my colleagues. They’ve left your flat in a bit of a mess I’m afraid but they won’t be back. I’m deeply sorry about the loss of your partner. We’ll leave you in peace now.’

  As Steven and Lawrence walked back to the car Lawrence said, ‘So does that make the Gas Board men Special Branch, d’you reckon?’

  ‘You won’t believe me but I’m not at all sure,’ said Steven. ‘I take it you’ve had no official word of Special Branch being on your patch?’

  ‘Not a whisper. You’re still not going to tell me what all this is about?’ asked Lawrence.

  ‘Afraid not.’

  Steven left Manchester feeling as if his visit had been a waste of time. Martin Hendry’s killers had obviously had the same idea about a possible copy of the story being at his flat and had beaten him to it. But at least they hadn’t murdered Lesley Holland, presumably because she clearly knew nothing about what Hendry had been working on but she’d been badly scared. It had been his intention to drive on up to Glasgow if nothing came of his trip to Manchester but thoughts of Jane had altered that. He called her and asked if he could come back to her place for the night.

  ‘Why?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Because I want to.’

  ‘Sounds like an excellent reason,’ said Jane. ‘I actually meant why are you coming back to Leicester when you said you’d be going on up to Glasgow?’

  ‘I’ll go tomorrow,’ said Steven.

  ELEVEN

  The Chevalier Restaurant

  Chelsea

  London

  Cecil Mowbray handed his coat to the hovering waiter without making eye contact with the man and sat down. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.

  Donald Crowe waited until the waiter had moved out of earshot before leaning over and saying, ‘Sci-Med has started asking questions about Gulf War vaccines. They’ve requested a meeting with the powers that be at Porton. Dunbar’s behind it. He must know something.’

  ‘Relax,’ said Mowbray. ‘All the old vaccine stocks have been destroyed in response to the outcry from the veterans’ associations. You can’t investigate what doesn’t exist any more. Can you?’

  Crowe’s silence conceded the point.

  ‘But you’re right about one thing; this is down to Dunbar,’ said Mowbray. ‘He does know more than we’ve been giving him credit for. He knows that Sebring was in touch with the journalist, Martin Hendry before he died.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He went to back to talk to Sebring’s wife a few days after the funeral. It must have been her who told him.’

  ‘But I spoke to her at length before the funeral,’ said Crowe. ‘She didn’t tell me anything about that.’

  ‘She must have found Dunbar more persuasive. In fact, she seems to have formed . . . an association with Dunbar.’

  ‘Good God, her husband’s only been dead a matter of weeks. What’s the world coming to? Cheap tart.’

  ‘Not for us to judge,’ said Mowbray.

  ‘God Almighty man, this means she could have been lying all along when she told me Sebring never talked about his past! Maybe he told her everything and now Dunbar knows too!’ said Crowe.

  ‘Possible but I think not,’ replied Mowbray calmly. ‘Dunbar turned up at Hendry’s flat in Manchester looking for information. He talked to Hendry’s girlfriend too but only after my people had made sure nothing incriminating had been left lying around and that she couldn’t tell him anything anyway. He wouldn’t have done that if he already knew all there was to know, would he?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ agreed Crowe. ‘But I worry about what he’s going to do next.’

  ‘He’s going to Glasgow to talk to a Gulf War veteran named Angus Maclean,’ said Mowbray.

  ‘How on earth do you know that?’

  ‘We still have the tap on Sebring’s phone.’

  ‘Well, thank God for that,’ said Crowe. ‘At least it gives us a slight edge. What can this man Maclean tell him?’

  Mowbray shrugged and said, ‘Absolutely nothing. He’s a well-known Gulf War activist, a trouble-maker; full of wild theories but with nothing of any substance to back it up. Think Don Quixote and you won’t be far wrong.’

  ‘The name’s vaguely familiar,’ said Crowe.

  ‘Maclean was trained at Porton. He was one of our Secret Team in the Gulf War,’ said Mowbray. ‘Maybe you came across him at the time.’

  ‘I don’t remember him but if that’s the case maybe he knows more than you think?’ said Crowe.

  Mowbray shook his head. ‘We’ve been keeping tabs on him for years. He’s suffered the traditional fate of all long-term anti-government rebels; he’s become part of the establishment. He’ll probably end up with a gong in some New Year’s honours list in the near future.’

  ‘If you’re sure,’ said Crowe.

  ‘Don’t lose any sleep over it,’ said Mowbray. ‘Everything’s fine. Just you concentrate on what you have to do. Any news?’

  ‘Ready for final briefing in two weeks,’ said Crowe.

  ‘If you’re sure keeping everything a secret until the last minute is still the best idea? . . .’ said Mowbray.

  ‘It is,’ said Crowe. ‘There’s very little for your people to take on board. It’s all very simple. What about Everley?’

  ‘He’s already up there, making friends and influencing people,’ said Mowbray. ‘Keeps him out the way.’

  ‘Good.’

  Leicester

  It was after eleven before Steven got back to Jane’s house. He was tired after a long day but any suggestion of fatigue disappeared when he saw her standing at the door.

  ‘I’m glad you came back,’ she said.

  Steven took her in his arms and kissed her hungrily. ‘You look wonderful,’ he said.

  ‘I thought we might have a late supper,’ said Jane. She made a little movement with her head over her left shoulder.

  Steven looked and saw the table set with a bottle of wine sitting in an ice bucket and candles lit. ‘Great idea,’ he murmured, giving Jane’s neck some serious attention. ‘Bur first things first.’

  ‘Would I be right in thinking you are considering an alternative order of priorities, Doctor?’ murmured Jane.

  ‘Clairvoyant too,’ said Steven, leading her towards the stairs. Jane made to go up first but Steven, catching sight of her bottom, pulled her back into him and cupped his hands over her breasts. Jane responded by gyrating her bottom against him, giggling as she felt his hardness. ‘At this rate,’ she murmured, ‘I fear we’re not going to make it to the bedroom.’

  ‘That . . . is a very real possibility,’ said Steven as he hitched up Jane’s dress over her hips and slipped his hand into her panties to find her already wet.

  ‘God, I want you.’

  ‘I’d never have guessed,’ said Jane, reaching behind her to free Steven. ‘The only question now is geographical?’

  ‘Right here, right now,’ said Steven.

  Jane bent forward to rest her hands on the stairs as Steven slipped her panties off and entered her from behind.

  ‘You weren’t kidding, were you?’ she gasped.

  When Steven finally withdrew he eased himself sideways to lie down beside her on the stairs, his face beaded with sweat. ‘Bloody hell,’ he gasped.

  Jane smiled. ‘Not quite the starter I was planning on,’ she murmured. ‘But nevertheless . . . very nice.’

  Steven kissed her lightly on the forehead and said, ‘I adore you.’

  Jane put a finger on his lips and said, ‘You hardly know me. Go shower while I go do things in the kitchen.’

  Later as they sat talking and sipping coffee, Jane looked up at the clock and said, ‘Look at the time. It’s gone one o’clock. If you are planning on an early start in the morning . . .’

  ‘Let’s sit in the garden,’ said Steven.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a warm night. Let’s sit outside for a little while.’

  Jane looked as if she had tried but failed to come up with an objection. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I don’t think anyone’s ever invited me into the garden in the middle of the night before.’

  ‘You should never take summer nights for granted in England,’ said Steven.

  They sat together on the swing they’d sat on last time, Jane with her head resting on Steven’s shoulder, the air heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and the sky above them studded with twinkling stars. ‘Look, you can see the dagger in Orion’s belt as clear as anything,’ murmured Jane.

  ‘A perfect night,’ said Steven. ‘Now, if only we could make time stand still.’

  ‘But summer’s lease hath all too short a date,’ said Jane.

  ‘But thy eternal summer shall not fade,’ said Steven squeezing her hand.

  ‘If only,’ said Jane.

  Steven was about to set off for Glasgow in the morning when his phone rang. After a brief conversation he turned to Jane and said, ‘Change of plan. That was Sci-Med. Porton have agreed to talk about vaccines. They’ve accepted an invitation to a meeting at the Home Office this afternoon. I’ll have to go back to London.’

  The Home Office

  London

  Steven was late in getting to the meeting, which was held in Macmillan’s office. He apologised, citing a lorry shedding its load on the motorway as the reason, and Macmillan performed the introductions.

  ‘Steven, this is Dr Robert De Fries. ‘Dr De Fries acted as liaison officer between the Porton establishment and the army medical authorities over troop vaccinations before the Gulf War.’

  Steven shook hands with a saturnine man who didn’t bother to smile and appeared to look past him.

  ‘And this is Dr Jonathan Sked, deputy director of the Defence Establishment at Porton Down,’ said Macmillan moving on to a tall, angular man with a greying beard who had no problem with eye contact and whose firm handshake seemed reassuring. Steven sat down beside Macmillan to face both Porton men who also sat side by side with their briefcases at their feet.

  Macmillan said, ‘We’re extremely grateful to you gentlemen for agreeing to meet us at such short notice.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ echoed Steven. Flattery was always a good opening gambit.

  ‘How can we help exactly?’ asked Sked.

  Macmillan nodded to Steven who began by saying, ‘You may know, Doctors, that we’ve been looking into the death of Dr George Sebring, a former employee of yours. Although the police initially thought his death to be suicide, he was in fact, murdered and our investigation has thrown up the possibility that his killing was connected in some way with his time at the defence establishment and what he was working on there. You have told us that he was a member of a team working on the development of an AIDS vaccine but we suspect there is a link between his work and rumoured problems with the vaccinations given to the troops. We’d appreciate any help you can give us in understanding what that connection might be.’

  ‘You are mistaken, Doctor,’ said Sked. ‘As a researcher, Dr Sebring would not have had anything to do with routine troop vaccinations. He was employed as a viral protein specialist. This is something I checked out thoroughly with Dr Crowe, who was his team leader at the time. I did this when you people first asked about his work.

  ‘With respect, Doctor, I don’t think the troop vaccinations were quite the routine matter you suggest,’ said Steven. ‘History records that it was extremely difficult to get any information at all out of Porton about what exactly the troops were given.’

  Sked spread his hands in a gesture of concession. ‘I admit there were problems in that certain components on the vaccination schedule were classified. This fact gave rise to rumour and counter rumour. You know how these things can get out of hand.’

  ‘Perhaps Sebring worked on some classified aspect of the schedule that you don’t feel at liberty to divulge?’ suggested Steven.

  ‘No,’ said Sked firmly. ‘It’s not a case of hiding anything. As I said, I checked all this out with Dr Crowe.’

  ‘Are these vaccine components still classified?’ asked Steven.

  Sked shook his head, ‘No, all the vaccines were declassified by MOD at the end of 1996.’

  ‘Can I ask what the classified vaccines were?’

  ‘There were three: anthrax, pertussis and plague.’

  ‘The Ministry said at the time that there were five or six,’ said Steven, referring to his notes.

  ‘There was a misunderstanding,’ said De Fries, speaking for the first time and interrupting what was shaping up to be an awkward pause, ‘But I think I can cast some light on this. Our records show that cytokines were being incorporated into the vaccines given to the troops. This was actually the first time such technology had been used. It was believed that this would boost immune response, giving more effective protection to the troops. At one point, when the manufacturers reported that cytokines were running low, a request was put to Dr Crowe’s team for a supply of HIV gene envelopes to be used as a substitute - it was thought that they would be just as good in stimulating a heightened immune response.’

  ‘Dr Crowe didn’t tell me that,’ said Sked, sounding annoyed.

  ‘It probably slipped his mind,’ said De Fries. ‘It was no big thing.’

  ‘At least we have established a connection,’ said Steven.

 

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