The Gulf Conspiracy (12 page)

‘
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.

It started to rain as he finally escaped the gravitational pull of Glasgow’s traffic and headed north-east, first to Stirling and then on to Perth. It was coming down in torrents when he negotiated the last of a series of roundabouts and joined the A9 north to Pitlochry and Blair Atholl. For the most part here the road was no longer dual carriageway or motorway and he was not long in finding out that the rented Ford he was driving fell a long way short of his own car’s performance when it came to brisk overtaking. An angry blare of the horn from an oncoming truck driver when he took too long to pass a bus reminded him to assume that he was towing the QE2 the next time he considered such a move.

After drawing a blank at the first two places he asked about Martin Hendry - a petrol station and a small craft shop - he decided that the local hotel might be his best bet, based on the assumption that journalists and alcohol went together like love and marriage. He found the bar busier than he’d expected with tourists and day-trippers but this was because of the weather. It was still raining cats and dogs outside. He waited patiently while a man from Yorkshire, judging by the accent, placed his family’s order for food and drink. The man finished by asking, ‘Is it always like this up here, luv?’

‘
Mostly,’ replied the girl behind the bar as she started pulling a pint. Steven reckoned she was a student working her vacation. ‘It keeps the grass green.’

‘
It’s a wonder you Scotties don’t have webbed feet,’ said the Yorkshireman, breaking into laughter and turning to share it with Steven. ‘I brought a caravan; I should have brought a bloody boat!’

Steven smiled and said, ‘Maybe it’ll be better tomorrow.’

‘
You sound like bloody wife!’ exclaimed the Yorkshireman. ‘The sun will come out tomorrow,’ he half sang as he picked up his tray of drinks, changing it to a tuneless whistle as he headed for his table.

‘
What can I get you?’ the girl asked Steven.

He ordered a pint of Stella and then said, ‘I’m looking for a friend of mine. He has a place up here. His name’s Martin Hendry.’

‘
Doesn’t mean anything I’m afraid,’ said the girl.

‘
He’s a journalist.’

‘
Maybe Peter will know him,’ said the girl. ‘I just work the holidays. I’ll ask him when I get a chance.’ She gave a meaningful look at the queue forming behind him.

Steven found a seat and sipped his beer while he took in his surroundings. It was just before four in the afternoon and they had the lights on because of the dark clouds outside, yet it still seemed gloomy. It was noisy too because of bored children being allowed to run around and people playing the electronic games machines. Two television sets, mounted high up on wall brackets, were switched on although their sound had been turned down and the air was heavy with the smell of wet clothing and fried food. At a table next to Steven, two Germans, wearing leather biker gear, had spread a road map and were planning the next leg of their journey. They were going to Inverness and then on to Loch Ness.

Steven saw that, for the moment, there was no queue at the bar. He managed to catch the girl’s eye and jog her memory. She smiled and disappeared through the back for a few moments. She returned with a short bald man wearing an apron and they both looked in Steven’s direction. He went over to the bar.

‘
You’re looking for Martin Hendry, I hear,’ said the man.

‘
Do you know him?’ asked Steven.

‘
Comes in quite a lot,’ replied the man. ‘Comes up here to work on his novel. Going to be the next John Grisham, he tells me.’

Steven was unaware of this but inwardly conceded that it would not be an unusual ambition for a journalist or maybe it was just bar room bullshit. That wouldn’t be unusual either. ‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘Have you seen him lately?’

‘
He was in two or three nights ago,’ said the man.

‘
So he’s still up here?’

‘
As far as I know. He usually says cheerio when he’s going back down south and he didn’t say anything the other night.’

‘
Thanks,’ said Steven. ‘Can you tell me how to get to his place?’

‘
He’s got a cabin over on Tulach Hill.’

Steven looked blank and the man beckoned. He moved along to the end of the bar and came out from behind to lead Steven to a framed map of the area hanging on the wall. ‘Over here to the west,’ he said. ‘You can’t miss his cabin. It’s called
Garry Lodge
. It’s the only one on that side of the hill.’

Steven thanked the man and left, running across the car park to get in out of the rain as quickly as possible. He followed the man’s directions, finally stopping at a rough track leading uphill. At first he was unsure as to whether this was the right one – there seemed to be so many farm tracks leading off the road – but he found reassurance when, through the semicircles of the screen being cleared by the wipers, he caught sight of the small board nailed to a tree saying
Garry Lodge
. He nursed the Ford up the steep slope, its wheels scratching unsurely at the wet stones, until the cabin came into view and he saw to his relief that the lights were on and there was a car parked at the side.

Steven brought the car to a halt right in front of the cabin - something he did deliberately so that Hendry should be aware that he had a visitor. With a bit of luck he wouldn’t have to stand too long outside in the rain. However, the cabin door remained firmly closed as Steven ran up the five steps to it and knocked. He tugged his collar up against the rain while he waited but it still found the back of his neck.

‘
C’mon, c’mon,’ he murmured as the seconds ticked by with no response from inside. He knocked again, this time harder and longer but with still no answer.

Feeling loath to just turn round and drive away after coming so far, Steven tried the door and found it unlocked. ‘Hello, anybody there?’ he called out as he stepped inside.

The only sound to be heard inside the cabin was that of the rain on the roof. Steven moved through it slowly, looking into each of the rooms in turn. It didn’t take long; there were only two and a small shower cubicle. Hendry, dressed in cream chinos and a blue denim shirt, was lying on top of the bed, an empty glass resting lightly in his right hand, a two-thirds empty whisky bottle sitting on the bedside table

Thinking that Hendry was in a drink-induced sleep, Steven was about to rap his knuckles against the door when he noticed the dark brown pill bottle lying on its side beside the whisky and understood its significance.

‘
Oh, shit,’ he murmured as he moved towards the bed. ‘What brought
you
down cemetery road, my friend?’

Steven touched Hendry’s cheek and found it icy cold. ‘And through the gates.’

He checked for a carotid pulse but it was little more than a gesture. The man was dead - and had been for some time.

Seeing that Hendry was about the same age as he himself, Steven felt a lump come to his throat. There had been a time in his life when he had looked down the same road and found it attractive. It had been one option in ending the tide of sorrow and pain that engulfed him after Lisa’s death. Only thoughts of his daughter, Jenny, had stopped him but it had been a close-run thing. He knew nothing about Hendry’s personal circumstances but it was obvious that he had not found anything as strong to cling to. ‘They call it the easy way,’ said Steven softly. ‘But we both know that ain’t so.’