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These areas of modern life had just grown to be too complicated for the scrutiny of outside observers. Accordingly, the small team of investigators recruited to Sci-Med were graduates in either science or medicine and with a range of experience acquired in pursuing other careers before coming to Sci-Med – post-graduate degrees from the university of life, as Macmillan termed it.
    From the outset, Steven had fitted in perfectly to Sci-Med. He found the job challenging, exciting - even if, on occasion, downright dangerous - but his background of having had to use his initiative while under great stress in the deserts of Iraq or the jungles of South America had served him well and he had proved himself over the intervening years to be the investigator that Macmillan would place most trust in.
    For his part, Steven had the greatest respect for John Macmillan, who, on many occasions in the past, had needed to fight his corner against heavy odds in order to maintain the independence of the Inspectorate. It was inevitable from time to time that Sci-Med would come across something that perhaps another arm of government – often a far more powerful one – would rather be kept under wraps but Macmillan would not be swayed. In his book, truth was not to be compromised on any political altar. He was also unfailingly loyal to his people on the ground, something that Steven had cause to be grateful for on more than one occasion when he had trodden on the toes of the powerful.
    Although John Macmillan did not behave like a Whitehall mandarin - in that he did not display any of the signs of Machiavellian philosophy that a life close to politics almost inevitably breeds - he did look like one. He was tall, erect, with swept-back silver hair and a smooth, unlined complexion that belied his years.
    ‘ Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said, replacing the telephone as Steven entered. ‘Your colleague, Scott Jamieson’s, exposure of an incompetent surgical regime at that hospital down in Kent hasn’t exactly gone down well with the Department of Health.’
    ‘ I didn’t suppose it would,’ said Steven.
    ‘ Good God, the figures spoke for themselves,’ said Macmillan. ‘A blind butcher with a penknife could have achieved a higher success rate. If the management had faced up to this a couple of years ago the hospital wouldn’t have the press camped at their gate right now and there would be a lot more space left in the local cemetery. Why on earth didn’t his colleagues say something?’
    ‘ Maybe they just didn’t want to see what was there in front of them,’ said Steven. ‘It’s a common enough phenomenon. Apart from that, whistle-blowing isn’t exactly encouraged in the medical profession. You can end up practising in New Zealand.’
    ‘ Well, I can’t see any such conflict arising in this instance,’ said Macmillan, pushing a photograph across his desk towards Steven.
    Steven picked up the A4 size print and grimaced at the sight of a man, lying spread-eagled, face-down beside a stretch of still water. Chequered tape at the scene suggested that a police photographer had taken it.
    ‘ Dr George Sebring,’ said Macmillan. ‘Thirty-eight years old, a lecturer in molecular biology at Leicester University. The police pulled his body from a canal three days ago after a man walking his dog found him lying in a reed bed. You know, I sometimes think that if people stopped walking their dogs the police might be out of a job. Dog-walkers seem to turn up more dead bodies than anyone else on the planet.
    ‘ Good point,’ said Steven. ‘What’s our interest?’
    ‘ Sebring joined the university ten years ago. Before that he worked at Porton Down.’
    ‘ Our microbiological defence establishment,’ said Steven.
    ‘ He was quite a high-flier but he suffered some sort of nervous breakdown in the early nineties and had to give up his job.’
    ‘ Defending get too much for him?’ said Steven, tongue in cheek.
    Macmillan,