‘You’re right,’ said Steven. ‘I think we’re both out of our depth here. I’d have to get expert advice. Our best bet would be to get Michael D’Arcy to tell us what he and his pals were up to at Porton. That would save us all a whole lot of time and trouble.’
‘What about the bug collection?’
‘What form is it in?’ asked Steven.
‘There are about three-dozen cultures, each in a glass vial containing soft agar. Each vial is about an inch long by a quarter inch in diameter. They all fit into a partitioned box about the size of an A4 notebook and weigh probably less.’
‘Do you keep them at the hospital?’ asked Steven.
‘In a lab fridge,’ replied Maclean.
‘Let’s leave them where they are for the moment,’ said Steven. ‘At least until I’ve talked to some people. I take it you have an inventory of what they all are?’
‘All numbered and catalogued and identified according to Bergey’s Manual of Determinative Bacteriology, complete with details of when and from where they were isolated. I’ve got a copy in the flat if you want one.’
Steven agreed that might be useful. He accompanied Maclean back to his flat where it took some time for him to climb the stairs. He paused at every landing, holding on to the banister with one hand while resting the other on his knee, looking down at the steps unseeingly until he got his breath back. Steven’s offer of an arm was dismissed out of hand. ‘It’s my problem. I’ll deal with it.’
Maclean sat down for a few minutes when he got in before returning to the bureau and the pile of papers. This time however, he opened a small drawer and removed a floppy disk from a manila envelope. He handed it to Steven saying, ‘There you go, a complete list of the flora and fauna of Angus Maclean. David Attenborough eat your heart out.’
Steven smiled and slipped the disk into his pocket. ‘I hope you feel better soon,’ he said.
‘I will,’ said Maclean. ‘A couple of days and I’ll be back at work and that’ll be it until the next time. That’s the way it goes. It’s the way it’s been for the past twelve years.’
Steven took a taxi back to the airport and called Jane while he waited for a shuttle flight. ‘What are you up to?’ he asked.
‘Preparing classwork for next week,’ replied Jane. ‘It’s start of term. Where are you?’
‘Glasgow Airport. I talked to Gus Maclean this morning.’
‘Useful?’
‘He gave me a name, Michael D’Arcy; mean anything?’
‘As a matter of fact it does,’ said Jane. ‘He was an old friend of George’s. He always sent us a Christmas card although I don’t think I ever met him.’
‘He and George worked together at Porton,’ said Steven. ‘From what Gus told me, I think they worked on the same team.’
‘No need to ask where you’ll be going next,’ said Jane.
‘Give that lady a prize. I’ll stop off at the flat when I get back to London and pick up the car. With a bit of luck I should manage down to see D’Arcy this evening, assuming he’s still at the same address.’
‘You’re just going to turn up on his door step?’
‘Best that way,’ replied Steven. ‘Doesn’t give him any time to start phoning anyone to ask if seeing me is a good idea.’
‘Well, I learn something new every day,’ said Jane. ‘When will I see you again?’
‘I have to go in to the Home Office tomorrow morning. After that, I could drive up to Leicester or maybe you could come to London? Whatever suits?’
‘You come up,’ said Jane. ‘I’ve got a pile of stuff to get through for school on Monday so I could use the time.’
Steven said that he would come up late in the afternoon and suggested that they go out to dinner.
‘That’d be nice,’ said Jane.
‘See you tomorrow,’ said Steven. His flight was called for boarding as he switched off the phone.
The evening sun was bathing Canterbury Cathedral in pale orange light as Steven drove across Kent and down to the seaside town of Ramsgate. The Glasgow flight had been on time and he’d had no problems in getting in to the city. He’d showered and changed at the flat and been on his way again in seemingly no time — but getting round the M25 orbital had been a nightmare. Roadwork had reduced the speed of travel to a snail’s pace and caused him to give up all hope of missing the evening rush hour traffic on the roads leading to the south coast. It was nearly eight o’clock when he entered the outskirts of Ramsgate and stopped to ask for directions to Beach Mansions. The first two people turned out to be holiday makers who had no idea; the third, a local, gave him directions which turned out to be wrong but brought him close enough to find someone who actually did know where the building was.
Steven liked the look of Beach Mansions. He guessed that the building itself had been built around the end of the nineteenth century because of the styling and the fact that it was stone-built, but it had obviously been well looked after and exuded an air of solidity and middle class respectability. The long low building, interrupted in the middle by an arch giving access to an inner courtyard, occupied an elevated position where front-facing flats had uninterrupted views from their bay-windowed rooms out to sea. He noted that at least two of them had telescopes that would allow the residents to watch the comings and goings of cross channel ferries.
Steven parked in one of the white-lined parking bays marked ‘visitors’ and got out to approach the half of the building to the right of the arch, having been directed by a signboard pointing to numbers 18 to 36. The uniformed man behind the desk looked up from his paper and said, ‘Yes?’
‘I’m calling on Dr Michael D’Arcy,’ said Steven. ‘Number 21.’
The man carefully folded his paper before lifting a handset and pressing a button on a board on his desk. Several moments passed before he said, ‘Dr D’Arcy’s not in.’
‘Any idea when he might be back?’ asked Steven.
‘He often works late.’
‘Maybe I’ll hang around for a while,’ said Steven. ‘See if he comes home. What kind of car does he drive?’
‘Green Toyota like my son, Gordon. It’s got a dent in the back. Some old dear along in Sandwich went right into him last Monday at traffic lights.’
‘Gordon or Dr D’Arcy?’
‘Dr D’Arcy,’ replied the man, looking as if it were a stupid question. ‘Gordon works in Newcastle.’
The daylight had all but gone as Steven paused to look down at the lights of the town before getting back into his car and turning on the radio. Half a dozen cars were to come and go in the next hour before Steven saw a green Toyota enter the car park. As it turned to park in a bay opposite he saw the damage to its rear end. He got out but had to delay crossing because another vehicle was coming into the car park. The car, a dark blue Range Rover, slowed to a crawl and Steven could see that its driver was watching the Toyota. His first assumption was that the driver must be a neighbour of D’Arcy’s waiting to say something to him when he got out — a view reinforced when Steven saw the driver’s window of the Range Rover slide down — but then he saw the gun appear in the driver’s hand.
Everything seemed to happen at once. D’Arcy who was now out of his car and locking his door, turned to face the Range Rover just as its driver raised his weapon to fire. Steven yelled out, ‘D’Arcy, get down!’
The silenced gun fired and D’Arcy was thrown over backwards from the impact of the bullet and lay spread-eagled on the ground as the Range Rover driver turned his attention to Steven whom he obviously hadn’t realised was there. Steven, now in a desperately vulnerable position, sprinted across the car park to throw himself into the shrubbery: it was the only cover available. He was conscious of another two dull plops coming from the gun. One resulted in wood splintering from a nearby branch while the other sent up shards of tarmac in front of him. A piece hit him on the left cheek and opened up a cut.