‘I don’t know. Where?’
He opened his hands and shrugged.
‘And you really believe they’re prepared to kill?’
‘If the reason’s good enough.’
‘OK, what is the reason?’
He raised the lid of his computer and switched the machine on. ‘See if this means anything to you.’
He moved his chair so that he was sitting beside Monty, and opened the ‘In’ section of his electronic mailbox. Moving the cursor down, he double-clicked on one item and it came up on the screen. It was a memo from Linda Farmer, Director of Medical Information to Dr Vincent Crowe, and it said simply: Confirm we may have 4th Maternox problem. Kingsley C. (Mrs). Under observation. Will report further.
‘Does that mean anything to you?’ Conor asked.
Monty stiffened, then suddenly drummed the table with her index finger. ‘Where – where did that come from?’
Conor gave her a conspiratorial wink. ‘I can’t answer that right now. Just tell me if it means anything to you?’
She nodded, the words of Zandra Wollerton, when they had met in the hotel, flooding back to her.
I’m waiting for one more pregnant woman to die in labour from a virus and give birth to a Cyclops Syndrome baby, then I’m going to sit on her family doctor’s tail round the clock for a week until he bloody well talks to me.
Conor looked at her expectantly.
‘Zandra Wollerton’s files,’ she said. ‘There must be something in her files at the paper.’
‘I’m not with you.’
She drained her coffee. ‘Give me your home number. I’m going to Berkshire right now and I’ll call you this evening.’
He sounded hesitant. ‘Sure, I’ll give you my home number – but listen – you need to be really careful about saying anything on the phone. Use it to arrange to meet, but nothing else. And I think we both need to watch who we talk to from now on.’ He sipped some of his coffee. ‘I’m going to the country tomorrow – to spend the weekend with my immediate boss, Rowley. Come across him?’
She hesitated. ‘I think I may have met him very briefly.’
‘He knows his way around the company, and he’s OK. If the opportunity comes up, I’ll talk to him to see if he knows anything.’
Monty was precise. ‘What we need is to get hold of some Maternox samples from the suspect batch and have them compared to other Maternox capsules.’ She gave him the relevant batch number.
He nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
She stared at her untouched doughnut, but had no stomach for it.
49
Berkshire, England. Friday 18 November, 1994
Monty found the sprawling Enterprise Park industrial estate off the Reading ring road without difficulty, pulled the MG up beside a large sign listing the companies, and wound down her window. A strong wind immediately blasted her face.
Central & Western Publishing Plc – Thames Valley Gazette. Unit 26, she read and wound the window up again, the car rocking slightly in the gust. She drove on, past a row of modern industrial buildings in identical dark grey livery, then she saw the name of the newspaper emblazoned on a four-storey structure much older and shabbier than the rest.
She parked in a visitor’s space, then hurried towards the front entrance of the building, the wind savaging her hair. She’d phoned Hubert Wentworth from a call box after leaving Conor Molloy, and he’d suggested an afternoon meeting. Her watch said 3.15.
In the centre of the lobby a uniformed security guard sat tall behind a desk and politely asked her to take a seat whilst he contacted Mr Wentworth’s office.
Monty sat in a low chair and picked up a copy of the Gazette, scanning the headline: ‘Local Vicar Plans Xmas Visit to Bosnia.’
Christmas, she thought. Only five weeks away and she hadn’t made any plans at all. She was due to accompany her father to Washington at the beginning of December, and wondered if she could persuade him to stay on afterwards and take a holiday; skiing in Vermont?
She used to love Christmas as a child when her mother was still alive. But the only ones she’d enjoyed in the past decade were the two that she had spent with a boyfriend at his family’s Yorkshire farmhouse. Then she’d realized she was probably more in love with his large, welcoming family and the warmth they radiated than with the man himself. With the result that she’d let the relationship peter out. But there had been plenty of moments during the past eighteen months when she’d wondered whether she had thrown away her last chance of getting married.
Idly flicking through the Thames Valley Gazette, she tried to get the flavour of the paper. It was all local news. Accidents, burglaries, bicycle thefts, weddings and advertisements. Then as she reached the centre pages, a huge photograph of the mangled remains of a car made her freeze.
‘GAZETTE REPORTER’S DEATH CRASH MYSTERY: Remains of the Ford Fiesta in which 21-year-old Zandra Wollerton died.’
‘Miss Bannerman!’
Hubert Wentworth’s voice startled Monty, and she stood up hastily. ‘Oh, hello! It’s good of you to see me.’
He noticed the page she’d left open and gestured at it. ‘Terrible business, such a tragedy. Zandra was a bright girl, she would have gone to the top, had all the qualities. Tough. You have to be tough in this game, you see, Miss Bannerman.’ He inclined his head as if to underline that when necessary he, too, could be tough.
‘No one knows how the accident happened yet?’
He pondered her question before responding. ‘I’ve just spoken to the police. There was a witness, it seems, a man on a bicycle. He says she made no attempt either to brake or accelerate – as if she didn’t even see the barrier.’
‘Could she have fallen asleep at the wheel?’
He shrugged, his eyes widening into roundels, then shrinking. ‘At eight o’clock in the evening? Possible, of course. Who knows? The police experts will be examining the wreckage; perhaps the postmortem will reveal something?’ It was almost as if the last remark was a question directed at Monty. Then he glanced at his watch. ‘Look, should be quiet in the canteen, a good place to talk. Just one flight of stairs, if we walk it?’
He led the way, greeting the occasional colleague deferentially, as if everyone in the building was senior to him, and yet they all seemed equally respectful back. Monty felt she was seeing a new side to this man.
They went into a huge canteen, served themselves with tea and cheese sandwiches at the counter, walked over to the far end and sat down. The tables were small and narrow and the chairs hard and uncomfortable. Keeping her voice as low as possible, Monty described her approach to Walter Hoggin and his subsequent death.
When she had finished, Wentworth was looking at her with baleful eyes. ‘Mr Seals, Zandra and now Mr Hoggin, yes? The tally is mounting. Is that how it seems to you, Miss Bannerman?’
She took a large bite of her cheese sandwich, then chewed and swallowed as quickly as she could. ‘Did Zandra Wollerton say anything to you about a fourth Maternox case?’
‘Another Cyclops Syndrome baby?’
‘Yes.’
He shook his head blankly. ‘No, nothing at all. But that’s not to mean, of course, that she had no leads.’
‘Would it be possible to have a look at her files?’
His eyebrows raised like two large, hairy insects preparing for flight. ‘Yes! Good idea, I’ll take you up to her desk.’
‘It’s just that, from what she told me I think she did know of a fourth case – or at least a pregnant woman with the same symptoms your daughter had.’
They went up into the large newsroom and walked past desks with computer screens, some occupied, others looking as if they had been hastily abandoned as a result of a bomb scare. They stopped in front of a desk that looked neat and orderly. It was the same as the others, with a melamine wood-grain surface, a blank computer screen, a metal spike with a thick wodge of impaled papers and a stack of untouched Gazettes. The only personal object was an oversize terracott
a mug filled with pens. A tweed upholstered secretarial chair was pushed tight into the kneehole. Monty felt a lump in her throat at the forlorn emptiness.
The newspaperman reached down and began opening the drawers at the bottom of the desk. The first contained a jumble of spare reading glasses, ruler, scissors and other paraphernalia. The second was packed with lined pads. He lifted one out.
‘Can you read shorthand?’ he asked Monty.
‘No.’
He scanned through the pages himself. ‘Looks like there’s nothing there.’ He took out the next pad and went through that, but again was disappointed. Then he leaned forward and pressed a switch on the back of the screen, bringing it to life. When he tapped the computer keyboard, a series of names and commands appeared then vanished from the screen in rapid succession.
When the word ‘Maternox’ appeared, Monty looked closely. It was followed by three names: Sarah Johnson. Zeenat Patel. Roberta McDonald. Beside each was the date of death, followed by the name of the certifying doctor. There was nothing else.
Wentworth cleared the screen and typed in a search request. A list! files appeared after a few moments. One was marked ‘New Cases’.
He glanced at Monty, then typed in a command to open the file. They both read the screen.
Mrs Caroline Kingsley. b. 14.7.67. 215 Roland Gardens, London SW7. Tel. 071-244-9359.
8 months pregnant. Prescribed Maternox in June 1993, for infertility treatment by family doctor. Dr Paul Corbin, 46 Redcliffe Road, SW10. (Info supplied by husband, Charles, to ZW 12.11.94) Whole-body rash and viral symptoms consistent with previous cases. Admitted Intensive Care University College Hospital 10th Nov. Under consultant obstetrician Mr Gordon Benchley.
Monty felt a knot tighten in her stomach. Kingsley, C (Mrs) was the name Conor Molloy had shown her on his computer that morning. ‘The name tallies,’ she said.
‘Tallies?’
‘With some information I’ve come across.’
‘Perhaps we should find out how she is?’
Monty nodded.
The newspaperman picked up the telephone on Zandra’s desk and called Directory Enquiries. ‘University College Hospital, London, please,’ he said. A moment later he rang the number he’d been given and asked for Intensive Care. Monty watched him in silence as he went on. ‘Ah, good afternoon. My niece, Mrs Caroline Kingsley, was admitted last Thursday. I wonder if you could let me know how she is. Whether she’s had the baby?’
Monty continued watching. His face tightened expectantly, then slackened. ‘I see,’ he said finally. ‘I had no idea – I – I was away, you see, just returned this morning.’ He shot an expressionless glance at Monty. ‘Yes, yes, I’m sure they’ll be in touch, of course, such a close family. Just one question. The baby? Would you be good enough to tell me – would it have been Cyclops Syndrome by any chance?’ He glanced at Monty again. ‘No, of course, I quite understand. Mr Benchley, consultant obstetrician. Would he be in the hospital now? I see. I see. Yes, her father, of course, I’ll telephone her father. My brother-in-law. Thank you so much.’
Wentworth replaced the receiver and turned to Monty. ‘Mrs Kingsley died during Caesarean section childbirth this morning. The ward sister can’t confirm to me that the baby, which also died, was a Cyclops Syndrome, but she seemed unsurprised by the question. She told me that was a matter for the obstetrician.’
She stared back at him. ‘Christ.’ Then Monty read the family doctor’s name on the screen. ‘Dr Paul Corbin. I’m going to see him. Someone’s got to know about this. I’ll go now and tell him he has to believe me.’
‘Shall I send a new reporter?’
Monty looked worried. ‘No. It’s dangerous and too many people are involved already. I’ll go myself.’
‘Publishing the story is our best weapon, Miss Bannerman, but I need more evidence. Something that my editor can’t refuse regardless of any financial pressures put on him. Something that Fleet Street will run with.’
She looked at him, startled. ‘Have you tried to publish something already?’
‘No, but my editor is aware of the story. Central and Western Plc, the owners of this paper, have had a warning from Bendix Schere. Threats to withdraw advertising – could be very damaging to the group as a whole. Fortunately my editor’s got principles; if we can substantiate the story he’ll run it.’
Wentworth had pressed his lips together as if he were sucking a toffee, and now he nodded thoughtfully. ‘There’s a rather unpleasant character in charge of Security at Bendix who’s been creating waves. A Major Gunn.’ He smiled. ‘I have a contact, an old friend at GCHQ, who’s provided me with some information on him regarding his divorce. I could make his life a little uncomfortable, but it’s not perhaps the best tactic. You’re still prepared to help, in spite of all that’s happened?’
‘Even more so than before,’ Monty said determinedly.
He rotated his teacup in the saucer. ‘Tell me something. When you were questioned by the police, did you mention anything I or Zandra had told you – or any of your suspicions?’
‘No, I didn’t. Nothing.’
He looked relieved. ‘How many people know of your interest in this? Does anyone in the company?’
The concern in his voice was deepening her own anxiety. ‘No one – just one colleague – and he really approached me.’
He put an arm on her shoulder and guided her out into the corridor. They stopped beside a notice board and he stared gravely at her.
‘Bendix Schere is a ruthless company, Miss Bannerman.’ He drew a deep breath before underlining this. ‘Please be careful.’
‘You too,’ she said. Her mouth felt dry.
He shook his head. ‘My life has been over for a long time. Yours is only beginning.’
She turned her head from him, wishing she was as brave as she was pretending.
50
Brighton, England. Saturday, 19 November, 1994
The saloon bar of the pub was crowded, but Conor and Charley Rowley had found an empty snug tucked away at the rear. They’d just spent the morning at Michael Norman Antiques, so that Conor could kit his flat out, but he’d been too dazzled by the emporium’s many treasures to make any choices and had pleaded thirst.
Rowley slurped the head on his pint of Flowers. Conor poured out his Budweiser. ‘Charley. The Director of Medical Information – Linda Farmer – do you know her?’
‘Met her a couple of times.’
‘What’s she like?’
Rowley slurped some more beer. ‘Ball-crusher.’
‘But is she pro Bendix Schere? Like totally loyal, do you think?’
Rowley gave him a sideways look. ‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’
Conor grinned, pulled out a pack of Marlboros and offered him one.
Rowley leaned forward to get a light from Conor’s Zippo. ‘Why do you ask?’
Conor lit his own cigarette and composed his reply carefully. Although he now considered Rowley a friend, and knew that he was scornful of Bendix Schere’s petty regulations, he didn’t really know how far that scorn went. ‘Because it seems there are two kinds of people in Bendix Schere: those who are brainwashed into the company ethos, and those who have an open mind.’
‘Dr Farmer is right up there with the brainwashers and the brainwashed,’ Rowley said, and took a long draught of beer. ‘You just have to accept that ninety-nine per cent of the company are robots, and get on with it. Doesn’t bother me.’
Conor finished his cigarette, deep in thought, whilst Rowley went to the bar to collect their food order. When he returned, Conor asked him: ‘Would it bother you if the company was doing something illegal?’
Rowley dug his fork into his dish of bolognese and began to eat ravenously. ‘Such as?’
Conor shrugged. ‘Altering the design of a drug without going through any clinical trials procedures.’
‘Do you mean unethical or illegal?’ Rowley asked Conor through a mouthful of food, his face as rubbery and shapeless a
s the pasta he was shovelling into it.
‘Both, I guess.’
‘Well, the whole pharmaceutical industry takes short cuts at times. But in principle it would bother me, yup. Why?’ He raised an eyebrow sharply.
Conor speared a strip of onion in his tuna salad and chewed it. ‘How much do you know about internal security at the company?’ he asked, ignoring Rowley’s own question.
Rowley chewed another mouthful of pasta. ‘Fucking paranoid outfit. No one outside the Main Board could really tell you more. There are all kinds of rumours – wouldn’t surprise me if they have more eavesdropping devices than GCHQ. There’s even talk about a secret underground floor.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘Beneath the health hydro in the basement. Meant to be filled with hundreds of dwarves listening in with headphones.’
Conor looked at him in shock, then saw the grin spread across his face. ‘You’re pulling my leg, right?’
Rowley winked.
Conor asked him, ‘Do you know anyone down at the Reading plant – one of your one per cent of Bendix Schere employees who aren’t robots? Someone you could trust?’ Conor watched Rowley’s face carefully for any signs of shiftiness that might indicate that he would report him for disloyalty, but Rowley looked totally open, if a little baffled.
‘What do you need?’
Conor told him about the three pregnant women who had died, and that he wanted to obtain samples of the Maternox capsules they’d taken and a template of the original specification. But he told him nothing of the possible connection with the death of Jake Seals, nor about Zandra Wollerton or Walter Hoggin. Finally he gave him the suspect batch number.
‘Jeez, that’s some scenario you’ve got there …’
‘I don’t want anyone to know –’ Conor hesitated, not wanting to tell his friend too much, not wanting to put him in any danger either.