‘Not in the conventional sense, but in a manner of speaking,’ replied Steven. ‘What we have to look for now is a common factor, something about the heart surgery that distinguishes these patients from the hundreds, if not thousands, of others who had heart surgery in the past year or so.’
By three in the morning Steven and the team had managed to obtain precise details of five of the operations, although they had had to deal with some pretty irascible people along the way at that time in the morning.
Steven rang Macmillan again as soon as he’d had time to appraise the information. He said, ‘It looks as if the common factor is going to be a prosthetic heart valve. So far, five patients have a record of having had replacement valves fitted. No cases of surgical repair so far.’
‘My God,’ said Macmillan. ‘Contaminated heart valves. Who would have believed it? You’ve done well.’
‘We’re not out of the woods yet,’ said Steven. ‘We still have to explain why there was a delay of many months before the infection took hold and how the valves came to be contaminated in the first place.’
‘And with a virus that no one’s ever come across before,’ added Macmillan.
‘Quite.’
‘Well, I’ll leave figuring that out in your capable hands,’ said Macmillan. ‘In the meantime, I’ll wake the PM with the news.’
Steven asked his team to put out immediate requests for the type and make of heart valve used in the surgery. In the meantime, details on three more patients came in: they, too, had had surgery to replace a damaged valve.
‘It’s looking good, folks,’ said Steven, accepting a mug of much-needed coffee from one of the civil servants. ‘We could be talking a champagne breakfast here.’
Shortly before first light the first fax sheet came in with technical details of the valve used in replacement surgery. A human-tissue valve had been used in the operation on Humphrey Barclay. It had been a pretty nigh perfect immunological match for him and anti-rejection measures had not been necessary. Steven swore bitterly under his breath.
At six-thirty, feeling thoroughly depressed, he called Macmillan and told him, ‘We’ve hit the wall. The first five results are in. They all had human-tissue valves fitted.’
‘But how can that be?’ asked Macmillan as if he were appealing to the gods for mercy.
‘I don’t know,’ confessed Steven.
‘One contaminated heart donor is a possibility, but there’s no way all those people could have received heart valves from the same person,’ said Macmillan.
‘My maths tells me that too,’ agreed Steven wearily. Tiredness was catching up with him.
‘Get some sleep. We’ll talk later.’
SIXTEEN
Steven took a cab home. The flat had been empty for some days and it was so cold that the air felt damp. He turned on the heating, then switched on the electric kettle and rubbed his arms while he waited for it to boil. It was just after seven-thirty. He would give Caroline a call before he tried to catch up on some sleep. There was still no answer. Steven tapped the receiver thoughtfully, wondering where she could be. As he sipped his coffee, huddled over the electric fire, curiosity became concern and then finally worry. He tried calling George Byars at the City General but he hadn’t come in yet. He decided to wait and try again. His third call, at 8.45, was successful.
Steven told Byars he’d been having trouble contacting Caroline Anderson. ‘Has she changed duty shifts, by any chance?’ he asked.
The ensuing pause was more eloquent than any answer could have been. It spoke volumes and Steven felt his stomach turn over.
‘I tried getting you at your hotel last night,’ said Byars softly. ‘Caroline’s gone down with it.’
‘Jesus, no,’ murmured Steven.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Byars.
‘Are they sure it’s the virus?’
‘There seems little doubt.’
‘Where is she?’
‘St Jude’s. Sister Lineham insisted on nursing her personally.’
Steven put the phone down without saying any more, feeling as if absolutely everything was going against him and he was fighting a battle against insurmountable odds. At that moment he envied people who believed in God, any god, because they at least had someone to lean on, someone to turn to and ask for help in times of trouble. For his part, he felt the devastation of an utter loneliness verging on despair. There was no way he was going to be able to sleep now. Apart from anything else, he had to consider the possibility that he himself might go down with the virus because he and Caroline had slept together. The thought sent a chill down his spine. However, there was nothing at all he could do about it. It would be a case of wait and see — que sera sera, or, as his grandmother had been fond of saying, ‘What’s coming for you will not go past you.’ He had a second mug of coffee to raise his caffeine levels while he worked out the quickest way of getting to Manchester.
Remembering that the Home Secretary had assured him of ‘every facility’, he called Sci-Med and asked for a laptop computer equipped for mobile-phone-mediated download, as his own was still in Manchester. He also requested a car and driver immediately. This wasn’t exactly in the spirit of the Home Secretary’s offer but at least he’d be in Manchester by the time any shit hit the fan. Twenty minutes later a powerful Jaguar was outside his apartment block, its grey-suited driver waiting beside it.
Steven sat in the back and downloaded the latest information from Sci-Med as they sped up the motorway. Information on nine patients was now available, and all of them had received human-tissue valves. ‘Shit,’ he said out loud.
The driver looked at him in the mirror and asked, ‘Problems?’
‘You spend weeks working out a puzzle, then when you get the right answer it turns out to be impossible,’ complained Steven.
‘Maybe you only think it’s impossible.’
‘I know it’s impossible,’ said Steven.
‘Have you eliminated all the other possibilities?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then whatever remains must be true, however improbable it seems. That’s what Sherlock said,’ said the driver.
‘You’re a Holmes fan?’ asked Steven.
‘He was a real detective,’ said the driver, ‘not like the sort you find on television these days, asking the public to do their job for them. I reckon old Sherlock could have shown these blokes a thing or two if he was around today. Lord Lucan would be in pokey before you could say, “Tea, please, Mrs Hudson.”’
I’m sure he could show me a thing or two, thought Steven as he typed in a request for details of the donors of the tissue. He suspected that he was just going through the motions, but he didn’t know what else to do. He’d probably finish up with just a list of dead people’s names, but at least the paperwork would be complete.
As they entered the outskirts of Manchester, the driver asked him where exactly he wanted to go. Steven told him St Jude’s, then helped with directions.
‘Do you want me to wait?’ asked the driver.
Steven said not.
‘Good,’ said the man. ‘This place is giving me the creeps already.’
Steven appreciated what he meant: the streets around the city centre were eerily quiet. ‘Turn left here.’
The driver drew up in front of St Jude’s, just outside the police barrier, and said, ‘Good luck with whatever you’re doing, and remember what old Sherlock said about what you’re left with being the truth.’
Steven smiled as he thanked him, but a lump had come into his throat when he saw his hired car still sitting where Caroline had parked it. After explaining to the nurses in the duty room who he was and why he was there, he changed into protective gear and entered the patient area. His heart sank: he found himself once again in a bloody nightmare. The only comfort was that the numbers had not gone up but even that was only because of the physical impossibility of cramming any more people in.
It took him a moment to work out which of the three hooded and visored orange-suited nurses was Kate Lineham, but he recognised her walk when she went over to a disposal bin to dump some blood-soaked swabs. He joined her, turning full-face so that she could see who he was.