The Delta Chain (8 page)

‘We carry out specific projects on behalf of
our clients – whether they be pharmaceutical companies, hospitals,
universities, or Government departments.

‘Our research is primarily in the field of
biotechnology. I’m not going to go into a lot of mumbo jumbo about
gene splicing, folks. We all know DNA provides the unique genetic
code for every living thing.

‘We’re talking about isolating a portion of
the genetic material from one organism and combining it with a
portion of the DNA molecule from other organisms to grow new cells.
If you’re one of those with concerns to its end use, let me allay
any fears. There are regulations in place to prevent the creation
of new viruses, for instance, and as you would be aware the U.N
inspects countries to ensure biological weapons are not being
developed. In addition, the international scientific community and
various Governments have outlawed any potential development in
cloning human beings.’

‘So’, said a sudden, strong voice from the
audience, ‘genetic scientists aren’t the modern day answer to Dr.
Frankenstein?’ The speaker was a tall, thin man, intense looking,
with carrot coloured hair and blue eyes.

If William Westmeyer was at all startled by
the interruption he didn’t show it. He barely batted an eyelid as
he responded. ‘Not at all. But I’m glad you raised the issue
because I’d like to give an example of how recombinant DNA benefits
us. To wit, one of the earlier by-products of gene splicing was the
manufacture of the now widely used human insulin.’

Westmeyer turned so that he was partially
facing the LCD. The screen showed an illustrated example of a DNA
strand. It was a lengthy double spiral, as though a rope ladder had
been twisted round and round itself. ‘The familiar image of the DNA
molecule, enlarged many, many millions of times,’ Westmeyer
said.

Kate knew Westmeyer was enjoying himself
immensely. This was his turf and he was strutting his stuff like
one who loved the spotlight and knew how to play to it.

‘The bio-technician’s first act,’ he
continued, ‘is to isolate the gene code for human insulin. Through
the use of highly specialised procedures, using enzymes, we can cut
this particular gene sequence away from its surrounding DNA. Then
it’s combined with an isolated bacteria gene.

‘Why bacteria? Because they are the fastest
reproducing cells. They carry plasmids, small loops of self-
duplicating DNA. These combined genes are then injected back into
the bacteria, multiplying at a lightning rate to recreate the human
insulin. Which, in turn, is then used in the treatment of
diabetes.’ Westmeyer paused for effect. ‘Okay, end of the science
lesson.’ There was a ripple of laughter. ‘Ah, I see you’re
relieved.’ More laughter.

Westmeyer directed his focus on the
carrot-topped man. ‘It’s Mr. Carstairs, isn’t it?’

The man cleared his throat, as if suddenly
embarrassed. ‘That’s right. Please call me John.’

Westmeyer gave a relaxed smile. ‘John, that’s
an early, relatively straightforward example of genetically
engineered substances with life enhancing uses. There are many
thousands more being developed in the fight against cancer, AIDS,
and a host of other diseases. That is what our work here is for.
That is what the field of genetic research is committed to
achieving.’

His gaze took in the whole group. ‘In this
business, operating costs are a big consideration, hence my
decision to move from the U.S and set up here in Queensland. Our
current investors have more than tripled their outlay in just the
last three years, and that’s why we’re now offering a restricted
number of Australian investors the chance to play a part in our
contribution to medical science.’

It was a superb performance. It intrigued
Kate that this wasn’t just spin. It was fact. The Westmeyer
Institute was highly rated by scientific bodies. There were huge
profits in biogenetic engineering. What didn’t make sense was that
Rhonda Lagan, an honest and trusted A.B.C.S. employee, would
deliberately plant a custom made virus into the computer network,
which was what Kate now suspected. And that someone had obtained
Rhonda’s password and deleted her diary.

Kate squirmed in her seat. She was anxious
for the moment the back-up files reached her laptop. She wanted to
start reading through those entries.

Located west of Sydney CBD, in Parramatta,
New South Wales, the National Automated Fingerprint Identification
system (NAFIS) provides its service to police departments across
all states. NAFIS receives, searches and stores prints for
identification. It was the Searching Unit that received all
incoming prints, such as the ones for the Northern Rocks drowning
victim, which it checked against its 1.8 million records for a
match.

By the time Adam returned to the station,
Senior Constable Ken Morgan had received the results and placed the
computer printout on Adam’s desk.

‘No match,’ Adam said, picking up the NAFIS
summary and glancing through it. NAFIS had been the first national
computerised fingerprint system in the world and was regularly
updated. And it was fast.

‘We can expect word back on dental records by
early afternoon,’ Morgan advised, ‘and Markham’s already had
replies from the hospitals and blood banks. No matches on the blood
or DNA, and none of the women listed as having blood transfusions
in the past twelve months are missing.’

‘Interpol?’

‘The details have been sent,’ Morgan said,
‘and our identikit is just about ready to follow.’

With Morgan in tow, Adam walked to the
identikit display area. All Northern Rocks police had received
training on the system but at the moment it was one of John
Harrison’s designated duties. Created especially for the Federal
and State police, the system’s database had every possible shape,
size and colour in facial features and hairstyles.

Most commonly it was used when taking down a
description of a suspect: Harrison would digitally combine the
chosen facial parts into one composite picture. Today it was being
used for a different purpose – Harrison had scanned his own photo
of the drowning victim and was using the system’s extended
retouching facility to “touch up and repair” the damage to the
corpse’s features.

The image showed what this girl looked like
before the ocean had taken its toll. Fair hair, blue eyes, full
cheeks, a tiny nose and prominent chin. Adam had the immediate
impression that this young woman would have had an infectious
smile.

‘Attractive, eh,’ Harrison commented, pushing
a wisp of brown hair back from his eyes. There was just a trace of
stubble under his chin. Despite the fact that he conformed to
police appearance and dress regulations, Harrison somehow managed
to project a bohemian air. This amused Adam, most probably because
he knew it irritated the station chief. ‘If it looks like she might
not be I.D’d for a while, then we should give her a name, eh?’

Adam and Morgan mumbled agreement.

‘Then I’ll take suggestions ‘til Friday,’
Harrison said, ‘at which point we pick the most suitable.’

‘Let’s get this image to the media and to
Interpol ASAP,’ Adam said.

‘Consider it done.’

The Australian police had been the first in
the world to establish an Internet web site that carried pictures,
firstly, of wanted criminals, and in recent years of missing
persons as well. Whoever this girl was, Adam thought, someone,
somewhere is missing her.

Back in his office, Adam motioned for Ken
Morgan to pull up a chair. ‘Ken, I want you to get in touch with
the Department of Meteorology. I want all their data on the tides
and ocean currents for twenty-four hours prior to this girl’s
discovery. I’m looking for direction, speed, water depth, wind
movement, anything and everything they record for the entire lower
Queensland and northern New South Wales coastlines.’

Morgan wrote in his notebook. ‘You think you
can trace back to where the body entered the water?’

‘There’s always a chance. The body was washed
in by strong currents. It follows that, around twenty four hours
earlier, the entry point must’ve been somewhere out to sea, further
north.’

‘Which means she could’ve been on a
boat.’

‘Definitely worth pursuing.’

‘If she went overboard there’d have been an
alert.’

‘Not if it wasn’t an accident.’

‘I believe we have a juicy little mystery on
our hands,’ said a voice from the doorway. Both men looked up as
Arthur Kirby strode in. ‘I take my first holiday since arriving
here and an unidentified floater turns up. Bloody
inconsiderate.’

‘Welcome back, Arthur,’ Adam said. Kirby had
been station chief for over five years and had taken his share of
leave, but he had a strange sense of humour. Statements made as a
joke were delivered, not lightly, but with a serious edge. And he
rarely laughed.

Kirby was a large man, with great, beefy
slabs for his arms and legs and a demeanour that was at times, for
Adam, deliberately confrontational. ‘Any answers on this,
Adam?’

Adam didn’t bother to point out that the body
had only been discovered the night before. He calmly put Kirby in
the picture.

‘A drowning is one thing,’ Kirby said, ‘but
an unidentified corpse could be linked with that Mermaid case, and
that’s a whole different ballgame. The town’s fiftieth is on the
horizon and this is a headache none of us need.’

Adam frowned. ‘What made you link this with
the Mermaid? This floater of ours was only found last night.’

‘Because I’ve just had the mayor on the phone
saying exactly that,’ Kirby said. ‘Apparently his office had a call
this morning from some pushy bitch over on the Express. Wanted to
know whether the mayor thought this mysterious body would put a
dampener on the upcoming festivities, to which she was told “no”.
Then she wanted the mayor’s thoughts on the similarity to this so-
called “Mermaid” case in Morrissey. She was told “no comment”. But
of course she’ll print her inflammatory questions and our “no
comment” without regard to the impact.’

‘Why would the Express want to do a big
number on this?’ Ken Morgan wondered aloud.

‘Damn silly bitch is trying to make it a
bigger story than it is,’ Kirby said, ‘and her attitude, I’ll bet,
is that the public have a right to know or some such bullshit.’

‘I’ll take a firm line with the Express,’
Adam told Kirby, ‘I’ll impress on Eddie Cochrane that it would be
irresponsible to make more of this than it really is.’

‘It’s just a drowning,’ Morgan commented,
puzzled.

‘It’s whatever some stuck-up reporter wants
to make of it,’ said Arthur Kirby with disgust. ‘Adam, the mayor
wants to see us in his office at one’o’clock. And you’ll need to
have some answers.’

Adam resisted the temptation to “bite.”
‘One’o’clock it is,’ he said.

The day continued just as William Westmeyer
hoped. Warm, relaxing, stimulating.

He surveyed his guests. They were just as he
wanted them to be after the morning session – unwinding, with their
interest well and truly piqued. Most importantly, he knew he’d
convinced them that scientific research was not something abstract,
confined to uni departments – it was every bit as dynamic as the
worlds of finance and technology. It was commercially viable and
profit motivated. With potential investors, that was the bottom
line.

Westmeyer placed a wing of chicken and an
assortment of salads on his plate as he moved along the serving
table. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Dr. Stephen Hunter
gesturing to him. Hunter was seated with two of the guests. Of all
his scientists, Hunter was the one that reminded Westmeyer of his
own early years. Hunter’s eyes were mysterious and seductive pools,
with the promise of hidden depths. Like Westmeyer, he was one of
the few scientists equally at home in business gatherings as he was
when he was in his lab.

Westmeyer joined the table and Hunter
introduced him to Bill Hadley and Meredith Seals, board directors
with the Inter-Continental Banking Group. ‘Dr. Hunter was just
imparting some fascinating information to us,’ said Meredith Seals,
a slender, conservatively attired woman, ‘about advances in cancer
research.’

‘I lost a brother to the big C,’ said Bill
Hadley, a down-to-earth type whose world weariness seemed at odds
with his bright eyes and sharp features, ‘I think it’s bloody
marvellous what you people do in your white coats.’

‘You’re talking about Toronto?’ Westmeyer
asked.

‘Yes,’ said Hadley, ‘experiments on mice with
cancer, apparently.’

‘Scientists over there had success with those
experiments,’ Stephen Hunter confirmed, ‘and then took the next big
leap, conducting gene transplants on human breast cancer patients.
There is a human gene that stimulates our response to our immune
cells. That gene was transplanted into the cancerous tumour
cells.’

‘Incredible.’ Meredith Seals showed
uncharacteristic excitement. ‘And those patients showed increased
immunity to the cancer?’

‘There’s still a long way to go,’ Westmeyer
pointed out, ‘but yes, there was a registered increase.’

‘Sky’s the limit with this kind of research.’
Hunter took a sip from his wine. ‘And one of my projects is
developing a similar line of research in cell transplantation, but
with blood cells.’

‘Dr. Hunter is known internationally for his
work with blood,’ Westmeyer informed them.

‘I commend you for it,’ said Bill Hadley.
‘I’m afraid I have to admit to going weak at the mere sight of
it.’

‘As do I,’ Hunter joked.

Hadley turned to Meredith, chuckling. ‘Can
you believe these guys? They sit down to lunch and talk genes and
blood cells.’ He was clearly enjoying himself.