He did his best to put all other thoughts out of his mind and concentrate on the evening ahead. He even managed a smile as he recalled animated discussions over pints of Belhaven Best beer in Bannermans bar in the heart of Edinburgh’s old town. Pubs had been important in student days. Looking back now as he approached his thirties he suspected that many ideas in young minds might well have stayed there if expression had been confined to formal seminars and scientific meetings where established scientists ruled the roost, speaking long and loud of the road well-travelled and perhaps discouraging thoughts of any venture into uncharted side roads.
The smile faded as reality insisted that times had changed. Things would not be the same this evening. They couldn’t be. He and Dan had been students in these far-off days, free to speak about the first thing that came into their heads and argue without restraint, but circumstances were different now. He wouldn’t tell Dan anything about what he was working on. He couldn’t. He couldn’t risk telling anyone anything about it. He had too much to lose. The history of science was littered with the wrong people getting the credit for the ideas and discoveries of others.
He would say nothing until his work was safely in print, then he would speak of little else as the invitations rolled in. With one single publication in Nature he would secure his future in academe and more importantly a place in medical history as the man who explained the basis for psychopathic personality and how the condition might be reversed. No one was going to take that away from him. No one.
Thinking about Dan and the old days however, had given Barrowman an idea. Dan was still a pal and he might be useful. He had a favour to ask.
Nine
Four Weeks Later
‘Ye gods,’ John Macmillan exclaimed as he opened a Home Office confidential note that Jean Roberts had brought in. She exchanged a knowing look with Steven, suggesting that something unpleasant might be about to unfold.
‘There’s been a leak from the committee who inspected Moorlock Hall. The report was supposed to be kept confidential but the Press are on to it and have been phoning to check their facts. The existence of Moorlock Hall will be all over the papers in a couple of days unless the government can come up with a reason for a D notice.’
Steven cursed. ‘I take it it was a damning report.’
‘Yes,’ Macmillan confirmed. ‘It appears Mrs Lillian Leadbetter, chair of the committee was not at all pleased.’
‘I wonder if the woman has given a moment’s thought to the victims of these monsters and their families What’s her angle anyway, do-gooder or self-interest?’
‘I’d go for self-interest,’ replied Macmillan. ‘She’s a Lib-Dem MP looking for a bit of a career hike now that her party has decided it’s time to flex its muscles to show the voters they’re not just Tory government gophers in the coalition.’
‘And without a moment’s thought to the consequences,’ said Steven. ‘What does she want for psychopathic killers? Five hundred lines? I must not rape and murder.’
Macmillan smiled ruefully and said, ‘There’s a chance she’s just having her moment in the sun. Maybe she’ll move on and look for a new handhold on the greasy pole of political success.’
‘It might not be that straightforward,’ said Steven. ‘If it suits their purpose, Labour will bring up the subject in a few weeks’ time and point out that the Lib-Dem’s complaint has been completely ignored by their Tory masters and that Labour’s the only party who really cares about mental health issues. This in turn will force the lady to pretend that she’s still deeply concerned and we’ll have a very public competition to show who cares the most — the answer of course being none of them. The less they care the more they have to appear to care. It’s one big game.’
Macmillan gave a resigned nod. ‘I wish I could argue.’
‘Well, I was about due to get in touch with Owen Barrowman anyway. I’ll give him the news.’
‘How have your enquiries been going?’
‘Thanks to some sterling work by Jean we now know something about the firm of lawyers fronting the anonymous backers, Messrs Scarman, Medici and Weiss. They are not a high-profile firm, but they did pop up in a case in the city a few years ago. They were representing the Catholic Church in some big claim against the church for compensation.’
‘Abuse?’
Steven nodded.
‘Were they successful?’
‘Let’s say the claimants weren’t happy with the outcome. Scarman and co. successfully argued that it was all a very long time ago, many of those being accused were now dead and distant memories from middle aged adults who were small children at the time could not be relied upon. In a damage limitation gambit, they did however, accept that there may have been shortcomings in behaviour of a few in positions of authority and offered apologies... along with small payments as a gesture of goodwill.’
‘Bless ’em,’ said Macmillan.
‘As for Dr Tyler, he doesn’t hold a post at any British university as far as we can see although Jean found it quite difficult to check.’
‘Mm,’ said Macmillan. ‘Every pillar box seems to be a university these days. I’ll get her to keep at it.’
When Steven got home he found Tally packing a bag.
‘Was it something I said?’
Tally didn’t laugh. ‘It’s Mum, she’s had a fall. My sister, Laura, called: The home thinks she may have broken her femur.’
Steven screwed up his face. He knew as well as Tally that the breakage of a major bone in an old person was very serious, often leading to death through complications.
‘I’m sorry.’ He gave Tally a hug and asked if there was anything he could do. Tally said not. She would see her mother at the hospital up in Leicester and stay over with her sister.
Tally had always been close to her mother and had gone through a difficult time when it became clear that she would have to go into a home. It had been a guilt-ridden situation familiar to so many and she and her two sisters had gone to great efforts to find a home committed to top class care and comfort.
‘And no bloody stupid names featuring havens of rest or bloody forest lawns,’ her older sister Jackie had insisted. Jackie, who lived down in Dorset, had suggested at one point that her mother might like to live down by the sea near she and her husband, but, in the end, they had all agreed that home territory would be best. They had settled on the Granby Road Care Home in Leicester. It was near where Laura lived and in a part of the city their mother had known all her life.
‘How was your day?’ Tally asked.
‘The newspapers are on to Moorlock Hall.’
‘That doesn’t sound good. Exposing this sort of secret will be right up their street. Heads must roll.’
Steven agreed but said, ‘Let’s not talk about it just now, you’ve got other things on your mind. Off you go. Love to your mum.’
‘I’ll call you.’
Tally left and Steven paused for a moment with his hand resting on the door, letting the silence engulf him. There was no escaping the feeling that one of life’s milestones was looming.
Steven left it until seven thirty before calling Owen Barrowman. A young woman answered. ‘I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. Can I give him a message?’
‘You must be Lucy?’
‘Who is this?’
‘I’m sorry, we haven’t met. My name’s Steven Dunbar.’
Lucy Barrowman’s voice relaxed slightly, but still gave Steven reason to think that all was not well. ‘Oh yes, Owen mentioned you. You had a drink together a few weeks ago?’
‘That’s right, I learned something today that might interest him and was hoping we might meet up.’