Steven left early next morning for Leicester. He wanted to find out if Sebring’s wife could elaborate on what she had referred to as her husband’s ‘troubled state of mind’. He also wanted to find out if she could remember any more about the Scotsman who had called on him and upset him. Although Jane Sebring had told the authorities that her husband had never spoken about his work at Porton, Steven reckoned that there was a possibility that she would have said that anyway — almost as an automatic response to the question. Like most partners of people whose work was secret she would almost certainly have picked up more over the years than she was letting on.
Before he questioned anyone about anything however, he would make himself known to the Leicester police who were dealing with the enquiry. He knew from past experience just how sensitive police forces could be when they felt an outsider was intruding on their patch. If he didn’t get off on the right foot he might well find himself tip toeing through a minefield of fragile egos for the foreseeable future should Sci-Med’s interest in the case continue.
If push came to shove, he had every right to expect — even demand — police cooperation but he preferred not to go down that road. Until he was sure that there really was a reason for Sci-Med to be involved in the case, he would present himself as little more than a Home Office observer, willing to give any help and advice he could. He saw from the road signs that he was entering the outskirts of Leicester and the car radio had just told him it was 10am. He made directly for police headquarters.
Detective Chief Inspector Glyn Norris, the officer in charge of the Sebring murder investigation, gave Steven a world-weary nod when he was shown into his office.
‘Take a pew,’ said Norris, handing back Steven’s ID, which had been brought through to him by way of introduction. ‘A little bird told me at the weekend that you lot were taking an interest in the case. She just omitted to say why.’
‘It’s no big secret,’ said Steven. ‘Sebring once worked at Porton Down. If his death should turn out to have anything to do with that fact we’d like to know about it and for the same reason you might just find your investigation a little hard going.’
‘You mean, no bugger would tell us anything,’ said Norris.
‘More or less,’ agreed Steven.
‘So you’re here to help,’ said Norris as if he didn’t believe a word of it.
‘In a way,’ said Steven.
Norris settled an owl-like stare on Steven. ‘What makes you think that Sebring’s work at Porton Down had anything to do with his death?’ he asked.
‘Nothing apart from the visit from a mysterious Scotsman that you must know about,’ said Steven. ‘His wife got the distinct impression that they had met at Porton Down and as he seemed to be the only suspect on the horizon…’
‘He’s no longer a suspect,’ said Norris.
‘You’ve traced him?’
‘Didn’t take long,’ said Norris. ‘He’s known to the police. He’s been a Gulf War activist for a long time. He’s pulled several stunts over the years to draw attention to what he sees as his cause. Ex-army sergeant, lives in Glasgow, works as a lab technician in one of the hospitals.’
‘But not a suspect?’
‘He was in Glasgow at the time of the murder; he could prove it beyond doubt.’
Steven nodded. ‘Did you ask him why he went to see Sebring?’
‘He thinks the boffins at Porton know more about Gulf War Syndrome than they’ve ever let on. His latest tack has been trying to call on them individually, hoping they’ll admit as much.’
‘How did he manage to find out who they were?’ asked Steven. ‘I shouldn’t think it’s something they go out of their way to advertise.’
‘He claims he was a member of something called the 1st Field Laboratory Unit during his Gulf War service and that he and the others had actually been trained at Porton Down. He claims he knew several of the scientific staff from his time there.’
‘Did it check out?’ asked Steven.
Norris shook his head. ‘Ministry of Defence say they’ve never heard of Maclean or the 1st Field Laboratory Unit.’
‘So Maclean’s lying?’
‘One of them is,’ replied Norris. ‘And Maclean is no doubt as to who the “lying bastards”, as he put it, are in this instance.’
‘You sound as if you believe him,’ said Steven.
‘He was very convincing. He rhymed off names, times, dates, places, says there were forty of them, split into teams of five, all medics and technicians who were trained to detect evidence of chemical and biological attack in the Gulf War. ’
‘So why would the MOD deny it?’ said Steven.
‘I think it’s something to do with the ruling classes,’ said Norris, pushing the loud pedal on a working class accent as emotion got the better of him. ‘They’re taught at public school to deny everything. It’s their way of preventing others finding out what a bunch of screwed-up, anally retentive fuck-wits they actually are.’
‘It’s obviously not working too well in your case,’ said Steven. ‘You seem to have found them out.’
Norris seemed to wonder for a moment or two how he should take Steven’s comment then he said, ‘My brother-in-law fought in the Gulf. Tank commander, he was. He was invalided out the army within six months of coming home.’
‘I’m sorry. What happened?’
‘Absolutely nothing, according to the MOD. There’s no good reason at all for my sister now being the only breadwinner in that family. The fact that her husband now weighs four stone less than he did when he went to war and can’t walk the length of himself without falling down exhausted is all in his mind according to them.’
‘I’ve come across a more than a few stories like that in the past few days,’ said Steven.
‘Well, whatever,’ said Norris. ‘Maclean’s no longer in the frame for George Sebring’s murder. He was on duty in a hospital in Glasgow at the time. Staff and patients testified to that.’
‘So where does your inquiry go from here?’ asked Steven.
‘Unless we can come up with a secret double-life for Sebring — and between you and I, I don’t think we’re going to — it’s going to hit the wall,’ said Norris. ‘It’s the worst possible scenario for an investigating force; murder by a stranger without motive.’
Steven nodded sympathetically and got up to go. ‘Well, I won’t take up any more of your time,’ he said. ‘Best of luck.’
‘Back to London?’ asked Norris, coming out from behind his desk to see him to the door.
‘I’ll have a word with Sebring’s wife first.’
‘She’s busy,’ said Norris.
Steven looked at him questioningly.
Norris looked at his watch and said, ‘She’s burying George at noon.’
‘Damn, I should have thought,’ said Steven. ‘It’s not been that long since the death.’
Out in the car park, Steven looked up the location of the cemetery in the map of Leicester he’d picked up at a service station on the way in. It was less that two mile away and it was five minutes to twelve. He was still thinking in terms of speaking to Jane Sebring today if he could, but first he thought he would drive to the cemetery and get a feel for the situation. If it looked as if the widow might be too distressed, he would put things off until another day and go back to London.
It wasn’t until he had parked the car and walked over to the cemetery gates with the sun warm on his face that Steven realised what a nice day it was. The early cloud had cleared away and the birds were singing as he approached an internal road junction in what appeared to be a large but well-kept municipal cemetery. He looked left and then right to see if he could spot the Sebring cortege.
At this time in the year, the trees were in full foliage and it was difficult to get a clear view in either direction so he left the path and climbed a grassy knoll some twenty metres away, which he thought would afford him a better angle of vision. He caught sight of a funeral group about two hundred metres to the left and quickly returned to the path to hurry towards it. He didn’t want to disturb the proceedings so he veered on to the grass again and circled round behind a clump of yew trees where he could see that his final approach would be masked by a number of large granite monuments from another — probably Victorian — age.