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Authors: Ken McClure
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hands with a good looking woman in her thirties with jet black hair, a smooth olive skin and dark brown eyes that seemed to appraise him without seeming intrusive.
‘Forgive me, Dr Dunbar, but I’m afraid I have no idea who or what Sci-Med are,’ she said.
Steven gave her a brief outline of Sci-Med’s function.
‘Ah, you’re a scientific policeman.’
‘Sort of,’ he agreed with a smile, thinking that only a French accent could make the word ‘policeman’ sound sexy. He wanted to tell her that but instead said, ‘Have you worked on influenza virus for long, Doctor Martin?’
‘I did my PhD on it.’
‘You must find it fascinating?’
‘I find its capacity for antigenic change fascinating,’ said Leila. ‘It’s one of the biggest challenges to be faced when it comes to vaccine design. It’s a sort of scarlet pimpernel of a virus, always moving, always changing its appearance and characteristics.’
Once again Steven found the French accent delicious. ‘Sounds like something the scientific police should be hunting down,’ he smiled.
Leila smiled politely.
‘Professor Devon’s death must be a huge blow to your research efforts?’
‘Tim was a lovely man. He knew more about flu virus than anyone else on Earth but he was a true scientist: he shared his knowledge with others unlike so many others these days who rush to the patent office as soon as they have a result. Because of Tim’s openness it will be possible for others to carry on where he left off.’
‘At least that’s something,’ said Steven. ‘And you personally, will you stay here or go back to the States?’
‘It’s too soon to say,’ said Leila. ‘I need time to think. This has come as such a tremendous shock to everyone.’
‘Of course. Well, whatever you decide, I wish you well.’
Steven moved on to chat to some of the others about their work before Cleary eventually escorted him to the front door. Steven handed him his card and looked him directly in the eye. ‘Let me know if you think there’s anything else I should know.’
‘Of course,’ said Cleary.
Steven sat in the car for a few minutes, trying to decide whether or not his investigation was over. The institute hadn’t been licensed to carry out work on the highly dangerous bacteria and viruses normally associated with biological weapons and the escaped animals had not been carrying anything more dangerous than flu virus. Five of the six beasts were already dead and the other probably wouldn’t last long in the wild. End of story . . . or not, because there was no denying that he did feel uneasy about something. Nothing the police or Cleary had told him had given him cause to feel this way. It was just a feeling that he wasn’t in full possession of all the facts. Someone was holding something back and that someone was Nick Cleary.
There had been something about Cleary’s body language during the interview that had aroused his suspicions. He felt sure the man had been considering telling him more but had changed his mind. It might have been something important: equally, it might not, but a small seed of doubt had been planted and Steven had the kind of mind that nurtured such things to maturity. He still had to talk to Marjorie Ryman, the police pathologist, but it seemed unlikely that she would be able to offer him reassurance or wipe away the unease.
Marjorie Ryman was at work in the post-mortem room when Steven arrived. One of the mortuary technicians spoke to her over an intercom link in the reception area: she asked him to put Steven on. After apologising for still being busy at the time they had arranged to meet she gave him the choice of joining her in the PM room or of waiting until she had finished – she thought about forty minutes. He chose to join her rather than wait – a trip to the supermarket was still on the cards. He was shown into a small adjoining room by the technician where there was a row of pegs along one white-tiled
‘Forgive me, Dr Dunbar, but I’m afraid I have no idea who or what Sci-Med are,’ she said.
Steven gave her a brief outline of Sci-Med’s function.
‘Ah, you’re a scientific policeman.’
‘Sort of,’ he agreed with a smile, thinking that only a French accent could make the word ‘policeman’ sound sexy. He wanted to tell her that but instead said, ‘Have you worked on influenza virus for long, Doctor Martin?’
‘I did my PhD on it.’
‘You must find it fascinating?’
‘I find its capacity for antigenic change fascinating,’ said Leila. ‘It’s one of the biggest challenges to be faced when it comes to vaccine design. It’s a sort of scarlet pimpernel of a virus, always moving, always changing its appearance and characteristics.’
Once again Steven found the French accent delicious. ‘Sounds like something the scientific police should be hunting down,’ he smiled.
Leila smiled politely.
‘Professor Devon’s death must be a huge blow to your research efforts?’
‘Tim was a lovely man. He knew more about flu virus than anyone else on Earth but he was a true scientist: he shared his knowledge with others unlike so many others these days who rush to the patent office as soon as they have a result. Because of Tim’s openness it will be possible for others to carry on where he left off.’
‘At least that’s something,’ said Steven. ‘And you personally, will you stay here or go back to the States?’
‘It’s too soon to say,’ said Leila. ‘I need time to think. This has come as such a tremendous shock to everyone.’
‘Of course. Well, whatever you decide, I wish you well.’
Steven moved on to chat to some of the others about their work before Cleary eventually escorted him to the front door. Steven handed him his card and looked him directly in the eye. ‘Let me know if you think there’s anything else I should know.’
‘Of course,’ said Cleary.
Steven sat in the car for a few minutes, trying to decide whether or not his investigation was over. The institute hadn’t been licensed to carry out work on the highly dangerous bacteria and viruses normally associated with biological weapons and the escaped animals had not been carrying anything more dangerous than flu virus. Five of the six beasts were already dead and the other probably wouldn’t last long in the wild. End of story . . . or not, because there was no denying that he did feel uneasy about something. Nothing the police or Cleary had told him had given him cause to feel this way. It was just a feeling that he wasn’t in full possession of all the facts. Someone was holding something back and that someone was Nick Cleary.
There had been something about Cleary’s body language during the interview that had aroused his suspicions. He felt sure the man had been considering telling him more but had changed his mind. It might have been something important: equally, it might not, but a small seed of doubt had been planted and Steven had the kind of mind that nurtured such things to maturity. He still had to talk to Marjorie Ryman, the police pathologist, but it seemed unlikely that she would be able to offer him reassurance or wipe away the unease.
Marjorie Ryman was at work in the post-mortem room when Steven arrived. One of the mortuary technicians spoke to her over an intercom link in the reception area: she asked him to put Steven on. After apologising for still being busy at the time they had arranged to meet she gave him the choice of joining her in the PM room or of waiting until she had finished – she thought about forty minutes. He chose to join her rather than wait – a trip to the supermarket was still on the cards. He was shown into a small adjoining room by the technician where there was a row of pegs along one white-tiled
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