Steven nodded, deliberately making an effort to remain calm in the face of Maclean’s aggression. He said, ‘I’m not so much concerned with the criminal aspects of the case as the scientific ones, particularly where they might provide motive.’
‘What does that mean?’ said Maclean, affecting a scowl and dropping his head slightly to look over the top of his glasses.
‘I think we both know that Sebring once worked at the Porton Down Defence Establishment,’ said Steven. ‘I’m trying to establish if his time there might have had something to do with his death.’
‘Well, there’s irony for you,’ said Maclean with a smile that lacked any vestige of humour. ‘You’re wondering whether his work had anything to do with his death and I’m bloody sure it had everything to do with that of my wife and daughter.’
‘How so?’
‘I don’t know how so,’ replied Maclean. ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to find out for Christ knows how many years. Bloody place. Defence establishment, my arse.’
‘How come you know so much about it?’
‘I was trained there when I was in the army,’ said Maclean. ‘1st Field Laboratory Unit.’
‘That’s what you told the police,’ said Steven. ‘The MOD says they’ve never heard of it.’
‘Lying bastards,’ said Maclean.
‘Why should they lie?’ asked Steven.
‘Christ knows!’ said Maclean, spreading his hands. ‘God knows why they even went to the bother of setting us up in the first place,’ he said. ‘They recruited us from all over the country: they trained us to monitor and detect the use of chemical and biological weapons in all sorts of situations and then they threw away every report we ever made. Now they’ve taken to denying we ever existed.’
‘Bizarre,’ agreed Steven. ‘I take it you’re absolutely convinced that Saddam used these weapons?’
‘Christ man, I was there. I saw it with my own eyes. I ran the tests. I isolated the bacteria. I’m not JK Rowling. I didn’t make the whole thing up. None of us did.’
‘So why blame Porton?’ asked Steven. ‘Surely Gulf War Syndrome should be put down to the Iraqis and the CB weapons you say they used?’
‘Some of the problems are due to that,’ conceded Maclean. ‘But there was something else going on. Saddam’s CB weapons and the allied fuck-ups helped disguise it but there was definitely something else going on.’
‘And you think Porton were behind it?’ said Steven.
‘I know they were,’ said Maclean. ‘I saw it in Sebring’s eyes when I talked to him.’
‘His wife told me he was very upset after your visit,’ said Steven.
‘He was upset when I arrived,’ said Maclean. ‘Now he’s dead, like my family.’
‘I can understand your bitterness,’ said Steven.
‘Can you?’ snapped Maclean. ‘It’s absolutely amazing the number of people who can “understand my bitterness” when they know hee-haw about it.’
‘I lost my own wife,’ said Steven. ‘Cancer.’
The comment stopped Maclean in his tracks. There was a long pause before he said, ‘I’m sorry but I bet it wasn’t from anything you gave her.’
‘What makes you think your wife died from something you gave her?’
‘I just do,’ said Maclean.
Steven gave him a look that suggested this answer wasn’t good enough and Maclean said, ‘First it was me when I got back from the Gulf. I picked up every infection that was going; it was just one thing after another, colds flu, bronchitis, food poisoning, you name it. And then the same thing started to happening to my wife and daughter, only they weren’t so lucky. They died, God love them, one from a brain tumour, the other leukaemia and don’t tell me they’re not infectious conditions or try to tell me it was just bad luck. I’ve heard it all before. I know. Believe me; I just know it was down to me.’
‘Have you ever heard of a man named Martin Hendry?’ asked Steven.
‘He’s a journalist. He came to see me.’
Steven was pleased to hear he’d made the right call. ‘What about?’ he asked.
For a moment Maclean looked as if he might tell Steven to mind his own business but his hard expression changed and he said simply, ‘Gulf War Syndrome, he wanted to “know my thoughts”. He particularly wanted to know about infectious conditions reported by vets of the war.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘What reason did you have in mind?’
‘Did George Sebring’s name come up?’
‘No, why should it?’
‘According to his wife, Sebring contacted Hendry after you’d been to see him and told him he had a story for him. They arranged to meet.’
‘Well, well, well,’ murmured Maclean, smiling for the first time.
‘Apparently Hendry has a particular interest in the Gulf War. He’s done a number of stories about it over the years.’
‘I know,’ said Maclean. ‘I’ve read them all. Social conscience of the nation sort of stuff, high on morals, low on practicalities, typical Guardian stuff.’ Maclean looked thoughtful for a moment before appearing excited at the prospect. ‘Maybe Sebring decided to come clean after all these years?’ he said. ‘It would explain Hendry’s line of questioning. He wanted to know all about the symptoms I and my family had, every little detail. Do you know when the paper’s going to run it?’
‘When I find Hendry I’ll ask him,’ said Steven. ‘But I’m having trouble. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea where he went when he left here?’
‘He told me where he was going,’ said Maclean. ‘Like most of the scribblers I come across, he tried to gain my confidence through small talk so that I’d be lulled into telling him what he wanted to know. He went on about how much he liked Scotland and how he came up here as much as he could. He said he had a place in the Highlands and that’s where he’d be going to work on his article when he left me,’
‘Did he say where?’
‘A stone’s throw from Blair Atholl was how he put it.’
‘Nothing more specific?’
‘Nope.’
‘You’ve been a great help,’ said Steven, getting up to go.
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Maclean, moving from the microscope stool to the one at the bench to start preparing his next sample for examination.
‘You’re a medical microbiologist,’ said Steven as a thought struck him. ‘Did you ever try finding the infectious agent you believe you passed on to your family?’
Maclean gave Steven a look that questioned his basic intelligence. ‘Of course I bloody did,’ said Maclean. He pulled open the top drawer of an under-bench filing cabinet and brought out a blue A4 folder. He held it up in his right hand saying, ‘Analyses of sputum, blood, urine, faeces, gastric lavage, skin scrapings, the lot. I must be about the most well-characterised human being in microbiological terms on the face of the planet.’
‘Sorry,’ said Steven. ‘I suppose it’s obvious you would have screened yourself. I take it you didn’t find anything?’
‘Nothing pathogenic,’ said Maclean, replacing the folder. ‘And no, that does not change my mind. It just means that these bastards at Porton were clever bastards.’
Steven nodded and prepared to leave. ‘Thanks for talking to me,’ he said.
‘Will you let me know when Hendry’s story’s coming out?’ asked Maclean.
‘Will do.’
By the time he reached the front doors of the hospital Steven had made the decision to hire a car and drive up to Blair Atholl. He felt sure he could find Hendry’s place by asking at local businesses, especially if as the editor had said, his parents had owned the place before him. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was twelve thirty. If he got a move on he should be there before they started to close. He used the WAP facility on his mobile phone to find the nearest branch of Hertz and took a taxi there.