Saracen loosened his tie and tugged at his top shirt button. If the first assumption was wrong how about the second? Could he test it? He got out the files on Archer and Cohen and felt excitement grow within him. Myra Archer died on the sixth so that meant that she must have been very ill on the fifth and probably on the fourth as well. That being the case she must have infected Cohen on the second or third when she was relatively well otherwise Cohen would have raised the alarm and called in a doctor for her. Cohen himself was brought in dead on the fourteenth. A man of his age, living on his own would have succumbed to the disease after three days at the most. That meant that Cohen must have developed plague on the eleventh…an incubation time of nine days…It was too long! It was more than six days and that’s what Chenhui Tang had been saying when she had had her ‘breakdown’! More than six days! She had realised that Myra Archer could not have infected Leonard Cohen! That’s why she had been so upset!
Saracen fumbled in his desk drawer for a marker pen and then highlighted the cases on his list that had been assumed to have evolved from contact with the Archers. What else did they have in common if it wasn’t the Archers? The answer was plain for Saracen to see. It was Palmer’s Green! Myra Archer had not brought plague to Palmer’s Green. Palmer’s Green had given it to her!
Saracen found that it was one thing to come to come up with a new theory but quite another when it came to finding evidence to support it. How could the place have given all these people plague? He threw his pen across the room in anger and frustration as he failed to come up with anything. Somewhere in the distance he heard the wail of sirens and was reminded that time was running out. Suddenly he saw his best line of approach. It was Francis Updale.
Updale had spent only one day at Palmer’s Green and yet he had contracted bubonic plague. Something he had done on that day had given him the disease. One day in Updale’s life had to be re-created. Saracen needed help and the Public Health Department was hors de combat. It would have to be MacQuillan.
MacQuillan had been sleeping in his clothes and smelt strongly of whisky. “We have to talk,” said Saracen.
“The time for talking’s over,” growled MacQuillan.
“It’s just beginning. Sober up,” said Saracen pushing his way past.
“What are you talking about?” grumbled MacQuillan, scratching his head.
“You and the others, you got it all wrong. Myra Archer wasn’t the source of the epidemic at all. It was a place not a person. The source of the outbreak is the flats on Palmer’s green.”
MacQuillan looked at Saracen as if he were mad. “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded.
“Get cleaned up and then we’ll talk,” said Saracen forcibly.
“Who do you think you are talking to!” exclaimed MacQuillan, trying to recover some semblance of dignity.
“Are you going to wash or am I going to stick your head under the tap?”
MacQuillan saw that Saracen was serious and capitulated. He went to the bathroom to emerge some five minutes later, subdued and more sensible. Saracen told him what he had discovered.
“I should have picked up on that,” said MacQuillan when Saracen pointed out the discrepancy in the incubation period for Leonard Cohen. “I saw it but I couldn’t let myself believe it.”
“The Wittgenstein problem,” said Saracen.
“But this is all going to be too late,” said MacQuillan.
“No it isn’t,” insisted Saracen. “If we can establish beyond doubt where the outbreak is coming from we can tell Beasdale that it’s spread will soon be under control.”
“If,” said MacQuillan doubtfully.
“There’s no time to lose.” Saracen told MacQuillan of his thoughts about Francis Updale. “He only worked for one day on the heating system in the flats.”
“I’ll talk to Beasdale,” said MacQuillan.
“Tell him we need the architect of these flats, the builder, the site agent or anyone connected with the construction of the block.”
Fifty minutes later the site agent arrived with the plans.
“The heating system,” said Saracen when asked if there was anything in particular he was interested in. He helped the site agent spread out the blueprint on the table.
“Show me the supply to flat fourteen, Myra Archer’s apartment.”
The site agent’s finger traced out a line along the plan. “This is the main duct for the first floor. It has four branch lines, each supplying two flats.”
“Two?” exclaimed Saracen looking closer. “Which is the other flat on Myra Archer’s line?”
“Flat G3.”
“Who lived there?”
The agent checked his list. “A Mr Cohen.”
“That’s got to be it then,” said Saracen quietly. “The bug is in the heating duct. That’s how Updale got it too. He was working on the duct.”
“But how?” exclaimed MacQuillan. “The bug can’t survive on its own. It’s not like Legionnaire’s Disease, living in old water tanks for years or Anthrax lying dormant in the soil.”
“I don’t know how but that’s got to be it,” said Saracen with the bit now firmly between his teeth.
“But what about the other deaths in the building?”
Saracen thought back to what Updale had told him and said to the site agent, “What effect would removing the filters in the system have?”
“There would be an increased air flow and everyone in the building would effectively be on the same line.”
This time even MacQuillan was convinced. “That would explain why everyone in the building got infected at the same time,” he conceded.
“And the enormity of the dose,” added Saracen. “They would be breathing it in constantly.”
“We’ll have to examine the trunking,” said Saracen to the site agent.
“Now?” exclaimed the man in dismay.
“Right now,” replied Saracen. “What do we need?”
MacQuillan relayed the site agent’s requirements to Beasdale who agreed to have them delivered directly to the site. In less than forty minutes Saracen was down on Palmer’s Green donning protective clothing by the light of arc lamps supplied by the military. Two more hours had passed by the time the trunking had been disassembled as far as the branch that served the Cohen and Archer flats. “All ready,” said the site agent to Saracen. He handed him an open ended spanner. “You’ll have to squeeze through there,” he said, indicating to a narrow gap between the trunking and the wall. “You’ll find an inspection cover on the left hand side secured by four hex bolts, that’s what the wrench is for. You’ll need this too.” He handed Saracen a long thin probe. “To check for obstructions.”
Saracen adjusted his respirator and eased himself through the gap. At first he found difficulty in seeing after the glare of the arc lights but, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he could make out the inspection cover in the wall of the duct. Three of the bolts gave in without protest but the fourth refused to budge.
In the confines of plastic suit and face mask Saracen felt the sweat begin to pour off him with the effort he was expending on the jammed bolt. He had to blink frequently to clear his eyes of the stinging perspiration that threatened his temper as much as his vision. He heard the site agent calling out to ask how he was getting on but did not reply; it was too much trouble. Instead he gathered himself for one last assault on the bolt.
Holding the spanner as near to the end as possible so as to exert maximum leverage he strained till the veins stood out on his temples. He saw the paint around the bolt begin to crack, so slightly at first that he thought it might be his imagination but then a piece flaked off and the bolt’s resistance was over. Saracen let the cover clatter to the ground and took a breather. He heard the site agent inquire again. “I’m fine,” he replied.