Neef was left alone in the room he had first been in on the previous Sunday. This time the curtains were closed, muted jazz was playing on the stereo and the air was lightly perfumed with the smell of incense emanating from a small brass burner on the mantle shelf. Neef guessed that the burner had the same origin as the blue rugs, Tunisia. If the conversation dried up he could always ask about it. There was a silver tray with a selection of spirits on it and some bottles of mixers. A red plastic ice bucket had its lid displaced to the side by matching tongs. Neef helped himself to gin and tonic and called through to Eve, “Can I get you something?”
“Gin would be nice.’
Eve returned from the kitchen, picked up her drink and said, “We’ve got about ten minutes. Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“You said earlier that there had been two cases of cancer caused by this chemical or whatever it turns out to be?”
“Yes.”
“Were the two victims from the same part of the city?”
“Not as far as we know,” replied Neef, “but it’s reasonable to assume that their paths must have crossed at some time. This is what Public Health will be trying to establish. Ironically their job has been made easier by the appearance of a second victim.”
“How so?”
“From interviews with the families, the investigators will build up a picture of each girl’s movements over a period of time and then compare them. They should be able to spot any common factors like a park that both girls visited or woods or even a building. Then they can home in on it and mount a comprehensive search with the aid of the police if necessary.”
“I see. Sounds straightforward when you say it like that,” said Eve.
“It should be,” said Neef. He did not add that as yet, Public Health had failed to come up with anything. “Did you have trouble sitting on the story for the time being?”
“No. I convinced my editor that Mr Lees is under great emotional strain and that we really would have to be sure of our facts before we go to print with the story.”
“Good,” said Neef. “I’m grateful. This kind of story can cause great public alarm.”
“Sometimes public alarm is perfectly justifiable,” said Eve. “It’s the only thing that can galvanise some public bodies into action.”
“I suppose you’re right,” conceded Neef. “But it would be nice if PH were to clear this business up before it appears in print.”
“Let’s eat,” smiled Eve.
Dinner was good and Neef complimented Eve on her cooking. He said with a contented sigh, “That’s the best meal I’ve eaten in ages.”
“If you come to my place more than three times you start getting the same things all over again,” said Eve.
“I’m sure you’re being too modest.”
Eve asked Neef if he wanted a liqueur with his coffee.
“No, I need a clear head tomorrow. We’re starting the Gene Therapy trial.”
“It must be very exciting to be in at the start of something new like this,” said Eve.
“It’s also worrying,” said Neef. “Anything new always means unforeseen problems, “teething troubles” as people like to call them, and Gene Therapy has been having its fair share of these.”
“I didn’t realise it had been used before.”
“Several trials have been carried out internationally with varying results. University College Hospital tried it on Cystic Fibrosis patients last year without any great success.”
“Is that the disease where kids have to have physiotherapy all the time to free their lungs of mucus?” asked Eve.
Neef nodded. He said, “The condition is caused by a genetic defect in a gene that scientists have now identified. The challenge now is to put a normal working copy of the gene into the patient’s own lung cells so that they will start making the missing substance.”
“And cure themselves?”
“More or less. Cystic Fibrosis affects more than the lungs but the lung condition is certainly the worst aspect of the disease and that should clear up once they get the treatment working.”
“So how do they get a working copy of the gene?” asked Eve.
“That’s the easy bit, once you’ve identified it,” said Neef. “The difficult bit is getting it into the patients’ lung cells. For that, you have to use some kind of intermediate vector to carry it in, usually a virus.”
“A virus? You deliberately infect the patients with a virus?” asked Eve, with a horrified look.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” said Neef. “They disable the virus first so it can’t cause infection.”
“But you say it didn’t work at University College?”
“They didn’t actually use a virus vector,” said Neef. “They opted for a liposome system. That’s safer than using a live virus but not nearly so effective in delivering the new gene to the patients’ cells.”
“So it failed?”
“Unfortunately, but the word is, they’re going to try again soon with a new vector.”
“A virus this time?” asked Eve.
“Almost certainly.”
“So it will be more risky?”
“As David Farro-Jones put it, the more efficient the vector, the bigger the risk.”
“Who’s David Farro-Jones?”
“He’s the molecular biologist in charge of Gene Therapy at University College.”
“But not at St George’s?”
“No,” smiled Neef. “St George’s is run by a different hospital Trust, although in practice, we still talk to each other! Our entry into Gene Therapy is coming through a commercial company called Menogen Research and their chief scientist, Max Pereira.”
“Who’s going to be the first patient?” asked Eve.
“Rebecca Daley aged eleven, a hepatoma patient, cancer of the liver. We’re treating her tomorrow morning.”
“Here’s to Rebecca,” said Eve, raising her glass.
Neef nodded.
Eve topped up Neef’s coffee cup and changed the subject. “Do your patients ever get out at all?”
“What do you mean, out?”
“Day trips, home visits, that sort of thing.”
“Yes, that’s quite common.”
“But not Neil?”
“Neil comes from a children’s home. It would be awkward for the routine of the place.”
“Would you let me take him out?”
“I suppose...”
“Maybe to the zoo or something like that.”
“If he’s feeling well enough, I can’t see any harm in it. In fact, it might do him the world of good.”
“Good,” said Eve. “I was just thinking how perky he seemed today. It would be nice if we could go out somewhere away from the hospital.”
“People will stare, remember. His face is not a pretty sight, though you’ve probably got used to it.”
“You’re right, I have,” said Eve, as if she’d just realised it. “I don’t notice the tumour now at all.”
“Maybe a crowded place like the zoo isn’t such a good idea,” said Neef.
“Well, a run in the car perhaps, or a picnic in the country.”
“Sounds good.”
It was raining heavily when Neef left Eve’s place just after eleven thirty. The big tyres on the Discovery made such a noise on the now flooding roads that Neef turned off the Vivaldi tape he’d inserted and listened to the hiss of spray instead. The sound of an English summer, he mused as he turned off the main road and dropped a gear to negotiate the steep hill down to the cottage. He could see the lights, partially blurred by the river running down the windscreen but none the less welcoming. He had fitted random time switches in three of the cottage’s rooms so that it would always appear inhabited.