Authors: Ken McClure
‘Good is not a word that’s going to come into this,’ said Steven. ‘Before we go any further I need a police guard put on Dr Natalie Simmons in Leicester – a discreet guard. I don’t want her to know. At this stage, it’s just a precaution.’
‘Address?’ asked Macmillan, picking up the phone.
Steven gave him details of Tally’s work and home addresses.
With that done, Macmillan looked to Steven. ‘Now?’
Steven told Macmillan everything leading up to the attempt on his life, watching him become more and more disturbed.
‘Over a hundred children injected with something that looks like it could kill them all?’ he exclaimed as if unwilling or unable to believe it.
‘Something that St Clair Genomics designed and two people have already been murdered to keep it quiet. It was going to be three until I got lucky … They do say it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good, only in my case it was the calm that did the trick.’
‘I think we can do without gallows humour. How could they have known where you were last night? We didn’t.’
Steven shook his head. ‘I can’t work it out. I didn’t know myself until …’ Steven paused in mid-sentence. ‘It was the car,’ he exclaimed. ‘They knew where the car was, not me.’
Macmillan looked blank.
‘The Porsche was fitted with a tracker device in case it got stolen. ‘May I?’ Steven used Macmillan’s phone to dial the emergency number of the tracker service. He said who he was and gave details of his car when asked.
‘Everything all right now?’ came the reply.
‘In what way?’ asked Steven cautiously.
‘You reported your car as being stolen and then when we told you where it was you said everything was okay: it was a misunderstanding.’
‘Yes … thank you, fine … I just thought I’d call and apologise for the trouble I caused.’
‘No problem, sir. All in a day’s work.’
‘It was the car,’ said Steven to Macmillan. ‘They, whoever they are, reported it stolen. The tracker service told them where it was.’
Macmillan nodded. ‘If I remember rightly, that kind of device saved your life once when the police used it to track you down.’
Steven smiled. ‘Well, at least we know the how … all we need now is the who and the why.’
‘I’m going to call a meeting at the highest level,’ said Macmillan. ‘No more pussy-footing around. Someone has some explaining to do. In the meantime we’ll have to square things with the police up in Leicester and see if we can get some ID on your attackers.’
‘And if they should turn out to be MI5 doing HMG’s bidding?’ asked Steven.
‘That doesn’t bear thinking about,’ said Macmillan.
‘Personally, I can think of little else.’
‘You should be armed. Ask Jean to fix it. Keep a low profile for the time being. I’ll let you know when the meeting is set up.’
Steven got up to go.
‘About the police guard on Dr Simmons?’
‘Maybe keep it on until we know a bit more about what happened and why?’
‘Very well. By the way, Jean mentioned something about having something for you,’ said Macmillan as Steven opened the door.
In the outer office Jean Roberts said, ‘This came in for you this morning. It’s the update on the green sticker children you requested.’
Steven thanked her and said that he needed to make a weapons requisition.
Jean brought out the relevant form from her desk and asked Steven to sign. ‘I’ll phone ahead so the armourer will expect you,’ she said. ‘Be careful.’
Steven smiled and nodded in recognition of the concern that had been in her voice. He disliked carrying a gun for all the usual reasons that surfaced when the suggestion that the UK police be armed was made but when his life was under threat – as it clearly was after this morning’s incident – he felt more comfortable with the odds redressed a little.
He picked up a Glock 23 automatic pistol from the armourer, who also fitted him with a shoulder holster. ‘Neat weapon,’ said the man. ‘No one will notice it. Not much good for invading Iraq but fine for just-in-case duties.’
‘Good,’ said Steven flatly.
The mere presence of the weapon underlined the fact that he was now involved in the type of investigation which distanced him from normal life. He’d have to make excuses to Jenny about not being able to come up to Scotland and to Tally because he didn’t want to put her life in danger. It was a depressing thought. How could any relationship flourish in such circumstances? How could he put it to Tally that there had been an attempt on his life this morning? What did he expect her to say?
Gosh, that’s exciting, you’d better take care
? On the other hand, how could he not tell her if he didn’t want the relationship to be built on lies from the outset?
He could hardly dismiss what had happened as a bit of a hard day at the office. He couldn’t even tread a middle path and tell her that this was an unprecedented occurrence and unlikely to ever happen again when the weapon currently nestling under his left armpit had been there before and probably would be again … unless he left Sci-Med and got himself another job, an ordinary 9 ’til 5 – catch the 8.15 every morning, three weeks holiday a year – job. This was the bottom line he always baulked at despite knowing that he wasn’t getting any younger and there would come a time when he would have to leave front-line investigation to someone younger while he … did what?
As always, Steven put an end to this line of thought but remembered the maxim,
Life is what happens to you while you’re planning for the future. Embrace today, not tomorrow
.
Before he went home, Steven decided to sort out his transport problem. He would need a car to use while Sci-Med dealt with the paperwork surrounding the demise of his Porsche. Insurance for Sci-Med people, be it home, personal injury, car or life, was covered by the organisation. He had already decided against using a pool car because details would be too readily available. It might be paranoia but he would make his own arrangements for the time being.
Steven caught a cab and got out about a quarter of a mile from where he actually wanted to go and used a succession of side streets to get to Stan Silver’s garage in Dorset Mews. Silver had also served in the Regiment although not at the same time as Steven but it was enough to cement a bond of respect and friendship between the two men.
‘So where’s the Boxster?’ asked Silver when they’d shaken hands and given each other a hug. It had been Silver who had sold Steven the car. He wiped his hands on an oily rag as he took an exaggerated look along the lane in both directions.
‘It is no more,’ replied Steven.
‘You haven’t trashed another motor?’ laughed Silver.
‘I wasn’t entirely to blame.’
‘Bloody hell. That was a real nice car. So, does this mean you’re looking for a replacement?’
‘As soon as the paperwork’s sorted out,’ said Steven. ‘I’ll give you a ring but in the meantime …’
‘You need wheels.’ Silver led the way to his yard at the back of the mews garage where half a dozen cars were parked. ‘A bit of a come down but you can have one of these for the time being although I may have to call it in if I find an interested party.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Steven.
Silver looked around and pointed to a small, black Honda. ‘How about that one? It’s a Civic Type R. Looks nothing special but hides its light under a bushel you might say.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Steven.
‘I’ll get the keys.’
Steven followed Silver into the garage preparing to formalise the loan of the car and pay up-front. Silver handed him the keys. ‘We’ll sort that out later when you’ve got less on your mind.’
Steven gave him a quizzical look.
‘You’re carrying. I felt it when I hugged you. You’re into something heavy. We’ll leave the paperwork for another time.’
‘Thanks, Stan.’
‘Just don’t go trashing my motor.’
Steven drove the Honda round to his apartment block and parked it in the basement garage, deliberately not using his own space but that of a neighbour he knew to be away in Australia visiting relatives.
Once inside his apartment, Steven took a cold beer from the fridge and settled down by the window. He knew he would have to phone both Jenny and Tally before the day was done – something he wasn’t looking forward to – but first he wanted to read through the update on the green sticker children.
His brow furrowed as he discovered that twenty-eight children had now had occasion to consult their family doctors: three had been admitted to hospital, fourteen had been referred to specialist clinics for further investigation and the remainder had been diagnosed and started on treatment. To the uninitiated, it would have looked as if they were suffering from a wide range of problems but Steven saw the common thread. The kids had skin problems. The three in hospital had been admitted for other reasons but skin complaints still featured somewhere in their notes. One girl had suffered severe lacerations to her left arm after an accident on an artificial ski slope and the failure of her skin to heal properly was giving concern. Steven heard echoes of Trish Lyons in every word he read. Another child, a boy, had crushed his foot in an accident involving farm machinery and post-surgical healing was not progressing as well as had been hoped. Doctors had expressed concern that an infection might be taking hold.
Steven put down the file and rubbed his eyes as he considered this latest instalment of the nightmare. He wondered if it would be worthwhile visiting any of these children and speaking to their doctors but concluded not, feeling that all that would yield would be a succession of medics puzzling over infections with persistently negative lab reports. It might be better to wait until Macmillan had set up the high-level meeting with health officials and hear an explanation of what was going on.
Steven was thinking about phoning Jenny when his own phone rang. It was John Macmillan.
‘We put a priority on identifying the two men who tried to kill you on the motorway and they’ve come up trumps.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Both were ex-security service men.’
Steven closed his eyes as his worst fears were realised. His own side was trying to kill him.
‘Ex-Russian security service men.’
Steven imagined his mind was playing tricks on him. ‘Say again.’
‘Oleg Malkov and Yuri Valchev, both ex-KGB operatives. MI6 had them on file but were unaware of them being in the country. Neither is known to be employed by the current regime but that is as much as they know.’
‘It just gets better …’ sighed Steven, not sure whether to feel relieved that his own side were not hunting him down or alarmed because the KGB – or whatever they were called these days – apparently were.
‘Bizarre, I grant you,’ said Macmillan. ‘I take it you haven’t done anything to offend our friends from the east?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. What about the car owner?’
‘The car was cloned. They copied the registration number of another Jaguar and stuck it on an identical model they’d stolen. The original is still in Dover with its owner currently wondering why his house was surrounded by armed police this afternoon. He’s a chartered accountant with the county council.’
‘At last … some excitement in his life,’ said Steven.
‘The security services will be in touch if they come up with anything more about the two Russians.’
‘Good. Any word about the meeting?’
‘3 p.m. Home Office, day after tomorrow. Come in earlier; we’ll have lunch.’
FIFTEEN
Steven sat wondering for fully ten minutes how two Russian hit men could fit into the picture. There was no obvious way but the fact that it was the car they had traced and followed rather than him made him wonder if it could have been a case of mistaken identity. The car had not been new when he’d bought it from Stan Silver; it had been eight months old. He phoned Stan and asked about the previous owner.
‘A little old lady who only used it to go to church on Sundays,’ said Silver with a chuckle. ‘Like all my cars.’
‘I’m serious, Stan. Someone tried to take me out the game today. They got to me through the car.’
‘Hang on a mo …’
A rustle of paper announced Silver’s return to the phone. ‘Lieutenant Cyril Ormsby-Frew, with a hyphen, Grenadier Guards officer, needed some readies to pay off some gambling debts as I remember.’
‘Mmm, I suppose he might just fit the bill if he didn’t actually use the money to pay off his debts,’ mused Steven, thinking to himself that Russian Mafia were not exactly thin on the ground in the capital at present. ‘Thanks, Stan.’
Steven felt better. Mistaken identity was by far the most attractive explanation. Even if it came to be known that there was no body in the wreckage of the Porsche, the good lieutenant would be the target of whatever vendetta was going on and not him. Embracing this explanation meant that he would no longer have to tell Tally about an attempt on his life … it would only be a white lie if he told about the car accident without giving too much detail … but first he would phone Jenny.
Susan answered the phone.
‘How are things?’ asked Steven.
‘Better after your last visit but we’re still having our moments.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t worry, Steven, it’s only a stage she’s going through. We’ll all ride out the storm, I’m sure. Can I take it you’ll be up at the weekend?’
‘Actually … that’s a bit doubtful. I’m in the middle of an investigation and I’m not quite sure how things are going to turn out in the next few days.’
‘I see,’ said Susan, making it sound like, ‘Oh dear’. ‘That’s a pity. I think Jenny wanted to show you off to her school friends. I said she could ask a few round for tea on Saturday afternoon.’
Steven closed his eyes. ‘Sorry … look, I’ll see what I can do but …’
‘It’s okay, Steven, I understand, I really do. We’ve known each other long enough to know that we don’t bullshit each other. If you can’t come up, I know you’ve got a damned good reason and there’s nothing you can do about it with a job like yours. Unfortunately, it’s Jenny you have to convince.’
‘You’d better put her on,’ said Steven. He heard Sue call out her name above background hubbub. ‘Jenny … it’s your daddy.’