Sarah made her way towards the city by-pass and picked up speed as she joined it from the slip road with a quick glance over her shoulder. With the car comfortably settled at sixty-five, and the traffic sparse at seven-fifteen in the evening, she relaxed a little and turned on the radio. She changed station three times before finding some music she liked. She didn’t know the name of the piece but she did know it was Mozart.
As her Fiesta ate up the miles, she gave thanks for the by-pass which took her all the way round the outside of the city and brought her to the coast road, which she joined at the small village of Longniddry. Her speed dropped considerably on the winding road that now traced the shoreline eastwards, but a glance at her watch told her she still had plenty of time to reach the coastal town — where Tyndall lived — by eight o’clock. Although it was dark, the night was clear and there was no sign of the rain promised by the local weather forecast at six. At five to eight she found the road where Tyndall lived and started looking for the house.
The Elms was a large, detached Victorian villa which looked less than welcoming on a dark night. Apart from a dim porch-light, there was no sign of a light on in the rest of the house. This puzzled Sarah, but there was no mistake; this was the house. Its name was etched into the stone pillar that supported a gate that had obviously not been closed for many a long year. She locked her car and walked up the gravel path leading to the front door. There was a large, brass bell-push on the wall. She pushed it and heard it ring somewhere inside. After a few moments, she heard footsteps and felt her throat tighten with nerves. Cyril Tyndall opened the door.
“Dr Lasseter, how nice,” he said, extending his hand. Sarah shook it and found it moist. Tyndall was nervous too.
“I thought we might talk down here,” said Tyndall, leading the way from the main entrance-hall down a wide, carpeted flight of stairs to the basement rooms. This was why she couldn’t see a light on from outside, thought Sarah. Tyndall opened a white-painted door and ushered her inside. She found herself in a long, low room, comfortably furnished as a sitting room and welcomingly warm after the outside temperature.
“I live alone,” explained Tyndall. “It makes more sense for me to use the basement rooms. They’re easier and more economical to heat.”
“It’s a big house,” said Sarah. Nervousness made her smile a little wider than usual.
“It was our family house,” said Tyndall. “Murdoch and I were brought up here.”
“I see,” said Sarah.
“A drink, Dr Lasseter? Or may I call you Sarah?”
“Please do,” said Sarah, although it did little to put her at her ease. She really didn’t like rooms that had no windows. “Gin and tonic would be nice.”
She watched Tyndall pour her a very large measure and thought how amateurish his behaviour was for a respected professor and potential Nobel Prize winner. She accepted the glass with a smile and took a small sip.
Tyndall poured himself a small malt whisky, added a little water and sat down on the chair beside her which he pulled a little closer. “Now, Sarah, what would you like to know about my research?”
“Everything,” smiled Sarah. “The development of the vaccine is such an enormous achievement. There are so many questions I’d like to ask; I just don’t know where to begin.”
Tyndall gave a half smile as if he hadn’t anticipated this response. Sarah noticed that he was sweating along his top lip. His eyes had taken on a flint-like quality which alarmed her a little. She had counted on Tyndall behaving like a shy, awkward academic. Maybe this wasn’t going to be the case.
“How exactly did you identify the virus trigger?” she asked.
Tyndall looked a little reluctant to talk about work and Sarah wondered if she had overdone the sexy voice in the phone conversation. She was anxious to get things back on an even keel. Eventually Tyndall said, “Using a new technique which we developed in the lab, we managed to isolate undisrupted viral DNA in its latent form. From that, we sequenced the upstream DNA and, from that, we identified a protein which bound reversibly to this sequence. When the protein was absent, the virus was free to replicate and cause an active infection. But when the protein reappeared and bound tightly to the sequence, the virus was inactivated. We went to work in the lab and designed a protein that would bind irreversibly to the trigger sequence.”
“Brilliant,” said Sarah. “But how could you be sure that the binding was irreversible?”
Once again, Tyndall looked at Sarah strangely. “Tissue culture,” he said. “We challenged the virus in tissue culture.”
“I don’t know too much about tissue culture Professor. What little I know suggests that it’s a technique of culturing human cells in glass bottles?”
“That’s right,” said Tyndall.
“But is that really the same as testing the system in a human being?” asked Sarah.
“Not really,” said Tyndall as if the reply didn’t matter. He was staring at Sarah in a way which made her regret having come. But she was here and she had a job to do, she told herself as Tyndall moved even closer. She got to her feet and said, “Phew, it’s hot in here. Do you mind if I take my jacket off?”
Tyndall’s features suddenly relaxed and he said, “Of course not. Let’s both get more comfortable.” He took off his own jacket and tossed it carelessly over the couch. Sarah noticed his wallet sticking out of the inside pocket.
“That’s better,” said Sarah sitting back down again.
“You’ve hardly touched your drink,” said Tyndall, nodding in the direction of her glass.
“Actually, I’m rather thirsty,” said Sarah, putting a hand to her throat. “I don’t suppose you have anything soft. Orange juice? Coke?”
Tyndall let a slight look of irritation betray him before he said, “I think I have some orange in the fridge.”
Sarah felt an adrenaline surge, fuelled by fear, as she watched Tyndall leave the room. This was her chance and she had to take it. With a supreme effort she overcame the nerves which threatened to paralyse her and picked up Tyndall’s jacket to extract his wallet. Her fingers became thumbs as she searched through the contents, looking for the electronic key-card. She was almost sick with apprehension before she found what she was looking for. A black and blue, plastic card marked, ENTACARD. She slipped it into the side pocket of her skirt and stuffed the wallet back into Tyndall’s jacket. Her pulse was still racing when Tyndall returned carrying a glass of orange juice. She accepted it with a smile and hoped that he hadn’t noticed that her hand was shaking. Tyndall watched her like an owl eyeing up a mouse as she drank the juice.
“Better?” he asked.
“Much,” smiled Sarah. “What I don’t understand, Professor, is how you managed to do field trials on your vaccine. Surely if...” Sarah ground to a halt as Tyndall put his hand on her knee.
“Later,” he croaked.
Sarah gripped his hand and pulled it off her knee. “I think you are presuming too much Professor,” she said, hoping to rebuff him, but still keep everything on a civil basis. She was now very afraid. She had totally underestimated Tyndall and she was now alone with him in the basement of a deserted house.
Tyndall’s eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t think so,” he murmured, moving ever closer. “We both know why you came here, so cut out the silly games. You want me, I want you, so let’s stop teasing, shall we?”
Sarah felt her knee being gripped so hard it hurt and she let out a little cry.