Neef stood by the door looking at photographs pinned up on a cork board on the wall. They were electron micrographs of viruses, blown up to enormous proportions. One of them looked like an alien space craft. The caption said, T-Even Phage, Negative Stain, Uranyl Acetate.
“Sorry about that,” said Farro-Jones, joining him at last. “Come on into my office. Coffee?”
“Black, no sugar.”
Farro-Jones relayed the request to someone outside the door whom Neef couldn’t see. He did a few minutes later when a middle aged lady with her grey hair tied back in a severe bun came in with the coffee.
“Thank you, Marge,” said Farro-Jones.
“You’re welcome, Doctor,” replied Marge, with a Welsh accent and a smile of acknowledgement to Neef.
“Now then, what can I do for you?” asked Farro-Jones, swinging his feet round and up on to the corner of his desk with a practised ease. “More problems with Max?”
“Not exactly,” said Neef. “It’s about this carcinogen business. I had a talk with Max last night. I showed him the summary sheet we got from Public Health. Max thinks...” Neef paused as if reluctant to say the words.
“Max thinks what?” prompted Farro-Jones.
“He thinks we’re dealing with a virus.”
The smile faded from Farro-Jones’ face. “A virus?” he exclaimed. “You can’t be serious?”
“Max was,” replied Neef.
“But that’s crazy. Cancer isn’t an infectious disease. How could it possibly be a virus?”
“I know, I know. We went through all that last night but Max has almost convinced me. He thinks it’s a new virus and he knows an awful lot more about viruses than I do. That’s why I’m here. You’re an expert too; you’re also medically qualified. I’d value your opinion.”
Farro-Jones sat up straight and brought his hands to a peak over his nose and mouth. “What can I say? I think the idea is ludicrous. I suppose with Charles Morse and Frank MacSween’s grandson getting cancer in some secondary fashion it looks as if an infectious agent might be involved but the fact is, we would have seen a lot more cases if that were true.”
“Pereira suggests that the virus might have a low infectivity rate,” said Neef. “You need to inhale a lot of it. He also brought up the possibility of some people having natural immunity to it.”
“You’d certainly have to invoke something like that,” agreed Farro-Jones, his voice betraying his continuing scepticism. “But there’s been no mention of any new virus in the lab reports on the patients who’ve died.”
“I pointed that out too,” said Neef. “Max said that hospital labs examine specimens for the presence of antibodies against known viruses, not actual viruses themselves. He seemed to suggest they might not pick up on anything new?”
“There’s something in that,” conceded Farro-Jones. “The main screening test is for antibodies against known viruses, an indirect indication of infection if you like.”
“So you couldn’t test for antibodies against something you didn’t know existed?”
“Quite so,” agreed Farro-Jones.
“How would you go about identifying a new virus then?” asked Neef.
“You’d have to examine samples directly, using the electron microscope. You’d actually have to look and see if anything resembling a virus was present.”
“Can that be done?”
“Of course.”
“I was thinking of samples from Charlie Morse? Do you think it’s worth having a look?”
“If you like,” said Farro-Jones without much enthusiasm. “Have you mentioned anything about this to Public Health?”
“Not yet. I thought I’d see what you thought first.”
Farro-Jones nodded and said, “All right, if it would make you feel better, why don’t I discreetly examine a few specimens from Charles Morse as you suggest and see what I come up with. If there’s nothing there, as I suspect there won’t be, we won’t have to worry PH with Max’s crazy idea. Can you imagine the panic if this notion got out? A virus that gives you cancer...”
“It doesn’t bear thinking about,” said Neef.
Eve’s story reporting the third and fourth cancer victims appeared on Saturday evening and Neef’s telephone started ringing almost immediately. Tim Heaton was first; he was furious.
“Damn it! I’ve had the national papers on the line, radio and television, all wanting to know what St George’s are going to do about the situation. This is a Public Health problem!” he exclaimed, “But that woman has made it sound as if St George’s is at fault. Can’t you do something about her?”
“What do you suggest, Tim?” asked Neef coolly.
“I don’t know. Think of something. She’s a friend of yours, isn’t she? This is doing the hospital no good at all. It’s just the sort of thing we didn’t need.”
“Eve believes she is just doing her job,” said Neef. “There is a problem and we don’t know where it’s coming from. She’s just reporting facts.” He felt uncomfortable at having to make out a defence for Eve which he didn’t fully support, a bit like prosecuting an argument in a debating society because it had been picked for you. He reflected that barristers must feel that way a lot.
“But it’s not our problem!” insisted Heaton. “It’s up to the Public Health Service to work this thing out. All this stuff about doctors at St George’s being puzzled is just sheer bad publicity for us.”
“With respect Tim, with one of our staff members at death’s door and the grandson of another already dead, it is our problem. It’s everyone’s problem.”
“We need to agree a policy.”
“If you say so.”
“I’m instructing our PR people to refer all press enquiries on the subject directly to Public Health, making it clear that it’s their investigation, not ours. I’m instructing everyone else to say nothing at all.”
Neef understood that ‘everyone else’ in the context of this conversation, included him. “As you wish.”
“I don’t suppose you have any good news about the Gene Therapy trial that we could use to create a diversion, have you?”
Neef had to admire Heaton’s one track dedication to what he saw as his job. He said, “At the moment, it looks like one success and four failures.”
Heaton sighed then said, “I think I’m going to give Mr Louradis the go-ahead.”
“For what?” asked Neef in trepidation.
“He’s been asked by one of the papers to write a layman’s guide to gene therapy.”
“That vague?” asked Neef.
“Not exactly. The paper wants him to explain just exactly what you and Menogen are trying to do in the current trial.”
“Why doesn’t Louradis go on the stage and be done with it,” snapped Neef.
“I feared you might see it that way,” said Heaton almost apologetically. “But what harm can it do? None of the staff and patients will be identified by name and it might give the hospital a more positive image.”
“If you say so,” said Neef.
“Damn. You know the thing that really galls me,” continued Heaton, “University College Hospital is getting off scot-free! Not a mention apart from the fact that they are the people treating our staff member! They’ve come up smelling of roses again. They’re the star hospital. We’re the baffled donkeys!”
“This will probably all be history in a few weeks time,” said Neef. “I think we should try riding it out with quiet dignity. If we start a slanging match it won’t do anyone any good.”
“Oh absolutely,” said Heaton. “I wouldn’t dream of saying this to anyone else you understand. They’d think I was paranoid or something.”
Neef grinned. He didn’t say anything in case the amusement showed in his voice.
“There is one more thing, Michael.”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering if it might not be a good idea to deny Miss Sayers further access to the hospital. After all, she has no real business here, has she?”