He looked again at the empty box. The source — and therefore the evidence — had been removed, presumably when it had done its job and Sheila and her husband had been taken into hospital. Was that it? Were they now going to get away with it? Was there nothing he could do to prevent that? He reminded himself that the monitor was still registering so there must still be traces of the substance in the box. Maybe that would be enough to identify the isotope and trace its origins.
As he wondered how he could take some sort of sample from the inside of the box he remembered Sheila’s make-up tray in the bedroom. Among the things she kept there was a series of little brushes. One of those would be ideal. He went and selected one, then turned his attention to finding a suitable container. His first thought was a plastic 35mm film container from Cyril’s camera cupboard but plastic would not contain the radiation too well. He would need better shielding. His next thought was to try some kitchen foil. He brought some through from the kitchen.
Very carefully, to avoid dust rising into the air and him inhaling it, he brushed out what little debris there was inside the junction box and collected it on a square of foil. He folded it over into a little packet and checked the outside with the monitor. The reading was still high. The foil was too thin to block the radiation even when folded into several thicknesses; he needed better shielding.
He was facing the depressing thought that he might have to wait until Sci-Med sent up a suitable container before it would be safe to transport the sample, when he remembered that the bungalow was quite old. Although it was unlikely still to have any original lead piping in it after all the health scares of a few years ago, it might have remnants of these days. It was worth looking. He took the torch through into the kitchen and examined the piping under the sinks. It was modern. Copper, steel and plastic. The same applied to the bathroom.
There was one last possibility: the cistern in the loft. Did the Barneses have a loft ladder? They did. Dunbar found the short pole with the hook on the end and used it to open the hatch cover and swing down the ladder. He climbed up the metal treads, torch in hand, and swung the beam around the dark recesses of the roof space. He saw a grey plastic cistern and modern piping, mostly wrapped in plastic lagging.
It was plain that the plumbing in the house had been entirely re-done in the not too distant past. He was about to close the hatch when he saw, below the red plastic tank used to back up the central-heating water supply, something lying between the rafters. He picked it up. It had once been part of an overflow pipe from the old cistern. It was about eight inches long and, more importantly, it was made of lead.
He closed up the loft and brought the pipe down into the living room. He slipped the little foil packet inside it and, using the handle of the screwdriver, flattened the ends of the pipe to seal the packet inside. He ran the probe over the outside and was pleased to hear that the radiation was now in check. He could hear only background clicks. He screwed the plastic cover back on the junction box and stood up. He had a sick, hollow feeling in his stomach as if he had been going up too fast in a lift. It was one thing being afraid of what you were up against, but when you didn’t know what that was it made you doubly fearful. He looked back at the junction box and wondered who had installed it. It must have been so easy. Someone posing as a telephone engineer perhaps? Supposedly checking a fault in the line? He could see how it could have been done without arousing any suspicion.
He put his things back into his briefcase along with the lead-shielded sample of debris and shone the torch around the floor area to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind. He composed himself for a few moments before preparing to run the gauntlet of the security light once more.
This time he wasn’t so lucky. He had only taken one sideways step with his back pressed against the wall when the light clicked on, illuminating him and the garden. He felt as if he had just come on stage at the London Palladium. Instinctively he sprinted to the corner of the house and threw himself flat in the shrubbery. As he did so a light came on in the Proudfoots’ upstairs bedroom and a face appeared at the window; a hand started clearing a patch in the condensation on the glass in order to see out.
Dunbar wasn’t at all sure about his cover so he was reluctant to move a muscle lest movement attract attention. He couldn’t even afford to turn his head to look up at the bedroom window. His peripheral vision suggested that there was someone still there.
At that moment a cat chose to saunter across the garden path, sniffing the night air and haughtily ignoring the human being at the window above him. The cat sensed Dunbar’s presence and stopped in its tracks to stare at him. Dunbar closed his eyes and prayed. This could go either way. Either the neighbour would think that the cat had triggered the light and go back to bed or he would notice that the cat had found something and get suspicious himself.
After what seemed like an eternity, the bedroom light went off and all was quiet again. The cat moved off to more interesting things and Dunbar lay stock still for a further three minutes until the security light had reset itself. Moving slowly backwards and out of range, he quickly glanced both ways in the street before jumping over the fence and walking briskly back to his car. The night air and the icy cold did nothing to help his state of mind. He was filled with apprehension. He had become involved in something that was much bigger than he could ever have imagined at the outset. Sheila Barnes and her husband getting cancer had been no accident.
Thinking about Sheila made him wonder about Lisa. If they — whoever they were — had set out to murder Sheila Barnes, might they not try to do the same to Lisa? Dunbar’s foot flew to the brake pedal and the tyres squealed in protest. He executed a three-point turn with more noise than elegance and started racing through the streets to her flat.
‘Who is it?’ asked a sleepy-voiced Lisa.
‘Steven Dunbar. I have to talk to you!’ said Dunbar into the entryphone.
‘Do you know what time it is?’ she protested.
‘I have to see you. It’s important.’
‘It had better be,’ said Lisa, releasing the lock.
Dunbar sprinted up the stairs, carrying his briefcase under his right arm. Lisa was waiting for him at her front door, wearing dressing gown and slippers. Her arms were crossed over her body in deference to the cold. She quickly ushered him inside.
‘This had better be good.’
‘I think you’re in danger.’
‘What? What are you talking about?’
The sleep had gone from Lisa. She was now wide awake and alert. She watched as Dunbar, ignoring her, brought out the radiation monitor from his briefcase and unclipped the probe. He went directly to the telephone and started tracing the cable back along the wall. There was no sign of any new junction box.
‘Have you had any visits from a telephone engineer in the past few weeks?’ he asked, starting to move the probe to other areas of the room.
‘Telephone engineer? Will you please tell me what’s going on?’
‘Have you?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘Any other workmen calling unexpectedly?’
‘No, no one.’
Dunbar began to relax.
‘Will you please tell me what all this is about?’ said Lisa.
‘I’d better just check your bedroom.’
Lisa said, ‘Dunbar, I’ve heard some crummy lines in my time, but this takes the prize.’
Dunbar didn’t smile. He said, ‘It looks as if Sheila Barnes and her husband didn’t get cancer through some quirk of fate. I think someone may have planted a radiation source in their house.’
Lisa’s eyes went as round as saucers. ‘A radiation source? You mean it could be murder?’
Dunbar nodded. ‘Could be.’
‘But why? I mean who?’