Read Online Resurrection by Ken McClure - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ken McClure
Tags: Crime
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Replying that he hadn’t ensured that he got a ball by ball account until they reached the university some ten minutes later. Standing out in the rain was suddenly a welcome experience.
‘I’ve an appointment to see Professor Kelman,’ he said to man behind the reception desk after shaking the rain from his hair.
‘Third floor.’
With apparently no more information on offer, Dewar took the lift to the third floor and found what he needed to know on a board facing him when he got out. It even had personnel photographs on it. He was now looking for a bald man in room 317/18.
‘Can I help?’ asked the woman who occupied the outer office (317) and whose severe features suggested that helping anyone was the last thing on her mind.
‘I’ve an appointment with Professor Kelman.’
‘And your name?’
‘Dr Dewar.’
‘Ah yes. from …’ She slipped her spectacles down to the end of her nose and tilted her head back slightly to ease reading from the diary in front of her. ‘The Sci-Med Inspectorate.’
Dewar was shown into a well appointed room by university standards and greeted by Kelman, a tall, angular man with sloping shoulders and a university tie drawing his shirt collar a little too tight. He had very large hands and feet and wore fawn coloured twill trousers that ended a couple of inches short of where they should have. This, in turn, exposed chequered socks that Dewar assumed could only have been a Christmas present from a close but colour-blind relative.
‘I understand we have been naughty boys,’ said Kelman.
Kelman’s seeking to diminish the crime at the outset did not endear him to Dewar. Apart from anything else it cast him in the role of petty official come to annoy an important man with better things to do.
‘You do appear to be in contravention of a WHO/UN ruling endorsed by HM Government, Professor,’ he replied, pushing the stakes right back up again.’
‘Oh dear,’ replied Kelman, now unsure which facial expression to adopt. It was too late to play the contrite card and trivialising the infringement clearly hadn’t worked. ‘What exactly is it that we’re supposed to have done?’
Best you could do in the circumstances, thought Dewar. Ignorance of the crime. Not acceptable in law but always a good first step in moving yourself sideways away from blame.
‘You are licensed to hold two fewer fragments of the smallpox virus than you admitted to in your recent audit submission. This actually brings you above the twenty percent of the genome limit that the WHO has recommended.’
‘Recommended?’ said Kelman, thinking he’d found an linguistic loophole.
‘Enforceable by law in this country,’ added Dewar, closing it off.
‘I see,’ sighed Kelman, ‘Well, this appears to be more serious than I thought and it’s Dr Davidson’s territory, I fear.’
‘It was bound to be someone else’s,’ thought Dewar. No matter, the buck stopped with the head of department, as far as he or anyone else in authority was concerned. It was now just a question of how many others Kelman was going to take down with him.
‘Perhaps I could have a word with Dr Davidson?’
‘Of course. Would you like me to be present?’
‘As the responsibility is finally yours Professor, I’ll leave that up to you,’ replied Dewar.
Kelman’s grin lacked conviction.
A small, thin man wearing Levi jeans and a crushed, grey Tee shirt came in through the door. Dewar thought he knew the type. They were common enough in academia, undersized, spectacle wearing, Mummy’s boys, bad at games, lousy at PT, unattractive to the opposite sex, guys with more hang-ups than a washing line, guys who’d finally found a safe, secure environment in the institutionalised world of academia where they could relax and call themselves, Mike or Steve, where on the outside they’d always been Michael or Steven. They could now wear jeans and be ‘team leaders’ where before they’d always been the type nobody wanted
‘I’ve an appointment to see Professor Kelman,’ he said to man behind the reception desk after shaking the rain from his hair.
‘Third floor.’
With apparently no more information on offer, Dewar took the lift to the third floor and found what he needed to know on a board facing him when he got out. It even had personnel photographs on it. He was now looking for a bald man in room 317/18.
‘Can I help?’ asked the woman who occupied the outer office (317) and whose severe features suggested that helping anyone was the last thing on her mind.
‘I’ve an appointment with Professor Kelman.’
‘And your name?’
‘Dr Dewar.’
‘Ah yes. from …’ She slipped her spectacles down to the end of her nose and tilted her head back slightly to ease reading from the diary in front of her. ‘The Sci-Med Inspectorate.’
Dewar was shown into a well appointed room by university standards and greeted by Kelman, a tall, angular man with sloping shoulders and a university tie drawing his shirt collar a little too tight. He had very large hands and feet and wore fawn coloured twill trousers that ended a couple of inches short of where they should have. This, in turn, exposed chequered socks that Dewar assumed could only have been a Christmas present from a close but colour-blind relative.
‘I understand we have been naughty boys,’ said Kelman.
Kelman’s seeking to diminish the crime at the outset did not endear him to Dewar. Apart from anything else it cast him in the role of petty official come to annoy an important man with better things to do.
‘You do appear to be in contravention of a WHO/UN ruling endorsed by HM Government, Professor,’ he replied, pushing the stakes right back up again.’
‘Oh dear,’ replied Kelman, now unsure which facial expression to adopt. It was too late to play the contrite card and trivialising the infringement clearly hadn’t worked. ‘What exactly is it that we’re supposed to have done?’
Best you could do in the circumstances, thought Dewar. Ignorance of the crime. Not acceptable in law but always a good first step in moving yourself sideways away from blame.
‘You are licensed to hold two fewer fragments of the smallpox virus than you admitted to in your recent audit submission. This actually brings you above the twenty percent of the genome limit that the WHO has recommended.’
‘Recommended?’ said Kelman, thinking he’d found an linguistic loophole.
‘Enforceable by law in this country,’ added Dewar, closing it off.
‘I see,’ sighed Kelman, ‘Well, this appears to be more serious than I thought and it’s Dr Davidson’s territory, I fear.’
‘It was bound to be someone else’s,’ thought Dewar. No matter, the buck stopped with the head of department, as far as he or anyone else in authority was concerned. It was now just a question of how many others Kelman was going to take down with him.
‘Perhaps I could have a word with Dr Davidson?’
‘Of course. Would you like me to be present?’
‘As the responsibility is finally yours Professor, I’ll leave that up to you,’ replied Dewar.
Kelman’s grin lacked conviction.
A small, thin man wearing Levi jeans and a crushed, grey Tee shirt came in through the door. Dewar thought he knew the type. They were common enough in academia, undersized, spectacle wearing, Mummy’s boys, bad at games, lousy at PT, unattractive to the opposite sex, guys with more hang-ups than a washing line, guys who’d finally found a safe, secure environment in the institutionalised world of academia where they could relax and call themselves, Mike or Steve, where on the outside they’d always been Michael or Steven. They could now wear jeans and be ‘team leaders’ where before they’d always been the type nobody wanted
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