‘I take it we’ll have full Home Office backing on this?’ said Jean.
‘You bet.’ Steven smiled as he felt an unspoken question in the air. ‘I’m going over to see John now,’ he said. ‘I think he’s well enough to make the handover to me official. I’ll ask him to sign the relevant paperwork.’
‘Tell him I was asking for him. Oh, I nearly forgot. I came up with something this morning you’ll be interested in. You asked about Gordon Field, the manager at College Hospital in the early nineties. I found him.’
‘Well done.’
‘He’s in Leigh Open Prison doing eighteen months for fraud.’
Steven gave a sigh of resignation. ‘Well, at least I’ll know where to find him.’
He found John Macmillan doing the Times crossword. The Sci-Med director was sitting in a wing-backed armchair in dressing gown and slippers, his feet resting on a footstool in front of a coal fire. His head was still bandaged but his eyes were bright and alert. ‘Come in, Steven. Good to see you.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ exclaimed Steven. ‘You’ve just had serious brain surgery and you’re doing the Times crossword?’
‘Don’t be fooled. I used to do it regularly in twelve minutes. I’ve been stuck on four down for the past two hours.’
Steven smiled at what appeared to be a genuine complaint. He could see that the puzzle was already three-quarters done.
‘Help yourself to a drink. I would have asked you to stay to dinner but my wife is away, staying with our daughter for a few days. I thought she needed a break from me so there’s just the agency nurse and the housekeeper at home.’
Steven poured himself a gin and tonic. Macmillan declined with a slight wave of the hand. ‘So how are things going?’
‘I think you were right to have… concerns over recent events in Paris and the death of John Carlisle,’ said Steven. ‘I share them. In fact, I’m going to have to expand the investigation. I need our arrangement to be put on a more formal basis. I need something on paper.’
Macmillan nodded. ‘Stating that you are now head of Sci-Med?’
‘No, stating that I’m officially acting head of Sci-Med pending your return. The way things are I just might need a big stick to wave at authority. I’d be happier knowing there’s one in the cupboard. So would Jean. She sends her regards, by the way.’
‘Consider it done,’ said Macmillan. ‘I’ll put something down in writing and send it over in the morning. Now, are you going to bring me up to speed?’
Steven did so. He was genuinely delighted to see Macmillan apparently almost back to his old self. He sat, listening without interruption, looking off into the middle distance, as was his habit, but, as Steven knew only too well, taking absolutely everything in. When he’d finished, Macmillan continued to sit in silence for a few moments before saying, ‘No wonder the Northern Health Scheme was so bloody efficient. They didn’t address problems: they buried them.’
‘That’s certainly what it looks like,’ Steven agreed. ‘But it’s going to take some work to prove it and establish exactly how they did it.’
‘If all this should turn out to be true, the meeting in Paris could have been the first step in starting up the whole thing all over again.’
‘Presumably the prospect of a change of government and an easier administration to infiltrate brought their long hibernation to an end.’
‘But something went wrong. Instead of conducting a secret meeting in Paris, away from prying eyes, they ended up dead. Any ideas?’
‘The killer had to be one of their own,’ said Steven, giving his reasons for thinking so, and adding, ‘Apart from anything else, you don’t go around with a lump of Semtex in your pocket on the off chance
…’
‘Quite so,’ Macmillan conceded.
‘I’d like to think that one of them had an attack of conscience and decided to put a stop to things for once and for all, but… there are alternative explanations.’
‘Like?’
‘Internecine strife? A policy disagreement? A takeover bid?’
Steven went on to tell Macmillan of his doubts surrounding John Carlisle’s suicide. ‘It looks to me as if someone went for a complete wipe-out of the old guard, including Carlisle.’
‘In order to do what?’ mused Macmillan.
‘Now ain’t that the big question. I suppose it could be the same thing again. It could have been that the others in Paris weren’t keen to try that. The scheme seemed to work well enough the first time. If it hadn’t been for James Kincaid and his interfering little band, it could well have spread across the whole country, the end result being
…’
‘A leaner, fitter, richer nation,’ said Macmillan with a wry smile. ‘Right-wing politics do have that unhappy knack of appealing to plain, ordinary common sense, don’t they? It’s only when you start uncovering the pits full of bodies that you see the reality.’
A middle-aged woman in nurse’s uniform knocked and entered. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. Time’s up, Sir John,’ she said, pointing to the face of the watch hanging on the front of her dress. ‘You don’t want to overdo things when you’ve been doing so well.’
‘Sorry, Steven,’ he said. ‘Keep me informed. I’ll get that letter to the Home Office in the morning.’
James Black, the new head of the Schiller Group in his guise as the secretary of the competitions committee of Redwood Park golf club, had called a meeting at only four hours’ notice, so he wasn’t sure how many would make it to the private function room at the usual restaurant by the suggested time of eight p.m. In the event all had arrived by twenty past.
‘I take it we’re not about to be given good news,’ said Toby Langton.
A murmur came from the others.
‘Nothing we should be greatly concerned about, but I thought it best you should know. Sci-Med has started to take an interest in the old Northern Health Scheme.’
‘And we shouldn’t be concerned?’ exclaimed Constance Carradine. ‘That’s the last thing we need.’
‘What in God’s name made them do that?’ asked Rupert Coutts.
‘Take it easy,’ said Black. ‘They’re not exactly knocking at our door. They probably looked at the identities of the dead in Paris to see what they had in common, made the connection to John Carlisle…’
‘And came up with the Northern Health Scheme,’ completed Elliot Soames. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘How much do they know?’ asked Langton.
‘What is there to know?’ said Black. ‘The scheme was very popular and highly successful in its time. Everyone behind it is now dead. Sic transit gloria mundi and all that.’
‘I still don’t like it,’ said Constance. ‘Sci-Med have a reputation for picking away at things.’
‘How did you find out about this?’ asked Toby Langton.
Black hesitated before answering, knowing that his reply would not help to settle nerves. ‘A contact in the police forensic service told me that Sci-Med weren’t convinced Carlisle took his own life.’
‘Jesus Christ, they’re really onto us,’ said Coutts.
‘Whoa,’ said Black. ‘The pathologist’s initial report was confirmed.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘I heard that the head of Sci-Med was seriously ill,’ said Soames.
‘He is.’
‘So who started asking questions about Carlisle?’
‘Someone called Dr Steven Dunbar, Sci-Med’s chief investigator apparently.’
‘Do we know what made him suspicious?’ asked Constance.
‘I understand he went to see Carlisle’s wife.’
‘Do we know why?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe we should ask her?’
‘I considered that,’ said Black. ‘She’s out of the country, in South Africa, getting over the demise of John. Look, I think we’re worrying unnecessarily here. There’s nothing to connect French and the others and what they did to us. They’re all dead.’