Wildcard (16 page)

Excited at the prospect, Steven decided to drive over to Tyne Brookman as soon as the working day began and ask Hilary Black who the people in that photograph were.

‘Well,’ said Hilary with a smile, ‘Marie Claire didn’t change too much about your hairstyle. I thought maybe blond highlights and a quiff …’

For a moment Steven couldn’t think what she was talking about and then he remembered that the last thing he’d asked her was for directions to Ann Danby’s hairdresser.

‘I chickened out.’ He smiled.

‘What can I do for you this time?’

‘The photographs in Ann’s room. I’d like you to tell me the names of the people in them.’

‘I’ll just get them,’ said Hilary. She left the room and was back a few moments later with both photographs. She put them on the desk and then stood beside Steven.

‘This one,’ said Steven, pointing to the print of Ann shaking hands with the mayor.

‘This is Cedric Fanshaw, our managing director.’ Her forefinger moved along the row. ‘Tom Brown, our chief editor, Martin Beale, who organised the exhibition, and William Spicer, our local MP. This is the mayor, Mr Jennings, and, of course, Ann.’

Steven looked closely and pointed at Spicer. ‘I’ve seen him before and quite recently,’ he said. ‘He was on television.’

‘A rising star in the shadow cabinet,’ said Hilary. ‘I think Health is his current bag.’

‘That’s it,’ said Steven. ‘He was arguing with a Labour minister about the handling of the outbreak here. He was accusing the authorities of incompetence, and destroying the career of your director of Public Health.’

‘Did he deserve it?’ asked Hilary.

‘He’s a she, and no, she didn’t. Spicer reckoned the time was right for a scapegoat so he threw Caroline Anderson to the wolves in order to up his profile and further his own career.’

‘How unlike a politician,’ said Hilary acidly.

‘Quite so. Is he married, do you know?’

‘Yes, I remember his election leaflets carrying pictures of his wife doing good works, handing out buns to the poor or knitting socks for AIDS victims, that sort of thing. Can’t remember her name, though.’

‘You’re absolutely sure his name is William?’

‘Well, yes. I didn’t vote for him but he is my MP. I live in silent-majority-land where they’re still in mourning for Margaret Thatcher. They’d vote a chimpanzee in as long as it was wearing a blue rosette and had a strong policy on law and order.’

The description made Steven think about Ann Danby’s parents. ‘So how come you live there?’

‘I met my husband at university, where we shared ideals and principles about social justice. We were going to change the world.’ Hilary smiled at the memory. ‘He finished up by ditching me so he could marry his boss’s daughter and become a director of the firm but I got the house out of it, in “a nice area”.’

‘Life,’ said Steven sympathetically.

‘I wouldn’t have believed people could change so much.’

‘The rebels of today usually turn out to be the bald fund managers of tomorrow,’ said Steven.

‘And with that sobering thought …’ Hilary smiled.

‘Yes, I mustn’t take up any more of your time. Thanks again for your help.’

‘You’re still piecing together Ann’s life?’

‘Still trying.’

‘The outbreak doesn’t seem to be slackening off.’

‘Things could get a bit worse yet,’ said Steven.

‘You look tired, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ said Hilary.

‘I had an exciting night,’ said Steven.

‘Lucky you,’ said Hilary.

As he drove back to his hotel, Steven thought again about the men in the photograph. It was a pity that Spicer’s name was William and not Victor, because he would have fitted the bill nicely. He supposed that he might be attractive to women in a Tory MP way – chubby face, wavy hair, cheesy smile. He was married, had a high-profile job and was clearly ambitious. Steven decided that it would be worth asking Sci-Med for more information about him anyway. He still felt there had to be a reason why Ann had kept that particular photograph in both her flat and her office, and, apart from the mayor and the MP, she could see the others in the office on any old day of the week. He realised that he hadn’t bothered to ask the mayor’s first name. Ann might have had a thing about gnarled men in their sixties with small Hitler moustaches who wore heavy gold chains – a bondage thing, maybe? No, forget the mayor.

Steven e-mailed his request for information about Spicer to Sci-Med, then downloaded and decoded the information he had requested earlier about the Scottish outbreak. He spent the next hour going through it, searching for a possible link – however tenuous – with either of the other two outbreaks but failing to find one. He was preparing to drive over to City General when the information on Spicer came through.

The first line of the report made Steven feel that life was suddenly worth living: William Victor Spicer had been a Conservative Manchester MP for seven years.

‘Well, well, well,’ murmured Steven. ‘Got you, Victor!’ He read on. The MP had been educated at Ampleforth College before reading Classics at Cambridge and then joining his father’s export/import business. He had been appointed export manager with the company and had at one point survived a Board of Trade investigation into the nature of certain items being exported to Arab countries as ‘automotive spares’.

A year later he had been adopted as Conservative Party candidate for the Manchester seat which he now held. He had been adopted in the face of stiff competition, because it was generally regarded as a safe Tory seat, and his father, Rupert, was believed to have played a significant role in securing junior’s selection. Spicer senior had long been an influential character in the local business community and Conservative Party Association.

‘The son shall also rise,’ murmured Steven. Spicer was married to ‘Matilda, née Regan’ and they had a daughter, Zoe, aged seven. He was currently acting as a spokesman on health matters and was widely tipped as a future minister. He supported Manchester City and enjoyed hill-walking. Steven felt that a little gloat might be in order. There was now no doubt in his mind that he had found the elusive Victor.

Spicer had recently returned from an expedition to Nepal, where he had narrowly escaped death through illness. Steven could feel the pulse beating in his temples as he read the story. Spicer and three companions, one European and two Nepalese, had fallen violently ill with altitude sickness when several hundred miles from the nearest civilisation. Spicer was the only survivor when another walking party had eventually come across them.

‘Altitude sickness, my backside,’ whispered Steven. ‘It was haemorrhagic fever, my son, and you lived to tell the tale.’

It made perfect sense. Spicer had fallen ill with haemorrhagic fever while in Nepal but he’d survived and come home to infect Ann Danby with the virus, which he was still harbouring inside him. It was odds on that he had infected her when they made love on the Thursday when they’d last met, but then it looked very much as if Spicer had ditched her and she had ended up taking her own life.

The spotlight was now swinging away from Ann and the question was no longer how she had got the disease – he’d answered that one. What he had to find out now was how Spicer had contracted it. Steven could see one big plus in this change of emphasis. Unlike Barclay from the African flight and the Scotsman McDougal, Spicer was alive. He was the one prime mover in this affair who could answer questions. This was a cause for elation.

However, it was not going to be plain sailing. Spicer would have to be handled with kid gloves. He’d probably start off by denying any involvement with Ann Danby so Steven would have to win his trust and assure him of complete discretion in the affair, whatever he felt about the man on a personal level. The object of the exercise would be to gain Spicer’s co-operation in finding out how he had contracted the virus, not to blow his career out of the water or destroy his marriage.

Steven wondered how best to contact Spicer and concluded that there must be a good chance that the MP had remained in Manchester after his televised spat with the Labour man, just to see if any more political points could be scored by decrying the current handling of the crisis. His Manchester home address and telephone number were included in the Sci-Med report.

Steven picked up the phone and dialled.

A woman answered. She had a plummy contralto voice and Steven immediately had an image of her standing at the gate of her home announcing to a waiting gaggle of reporters that she would be standing by her man in spite of everything. He dismissed the thought and asked, ‘I wonder if I might have a word with Mr Spicer?’

‘Who’s speaking please?’

‘My name is Steven Dunbar.’

‘My husband holds surgeries on the first Saturday of each month, Mr Dunbar. Perhaps you’d like to go along to one of them? I’ll just check when the next—’

‘I’m not a constituent, Mrs Spicer,’ interrupted Steven. ‘It is Mrs Spicer, is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m an investigator with the Sci-Med Inspectorate. It’s to do with the current virus outbreak.’

‘One moment, please.’

‘William Spicer,’ said the voice from the TV programme.

Steven made his request for a meeting.

‘I really don’t see how I can help,’ said Spicer, sounding puzzled.

‘Don’t worry, I think you can, Mr Spicer,’ said Steven cryptically.

‘Oh, very well. Come on over tomorrow morning at eleven. I can give you fifteen minutes.’

Steven put down the phone.

At five in the evening, with confirmed cases standing at fifty-seven and eleven more deaths reported, Fred Cummings rang Steven to say that a state of emergency had been declared in the city.

‘Justified?’ asked Steven.

‘No, it’s political. HMG are determined to appear on the ball, so we’re taking this step, with the support of the CDC Atlanta team, to divert attention from the fact that City General can’t take any more virus patients. We’re going to start using a couple of disused churches to accommodate new cases.’

‘Churches?’ exclaimed Steven.

‘Yes. I know it’s unfortunate and I know Joe Public won’t like it, but it makes sense. There’s no point in trying to squeeze virus patients into other hospitals where they’re not going to benefit anyway because there’s nothing anyone can do for them except give them nursing care. They’ll just be a danger to everyone concerned. It makes much more sense to house them together, away from other patients and the community and concentrated in an area where trained staff can cope.’

‘How are you doing for trained staff?’

‘It is becoming a problem,’ admitted Cummings. ‘We’re almost stretched to the limit but we’ve had a good response to a request for volunteers. Nurses who’ve left the profession in the past few years have been calling in to offer their services. We’ve had retired GPs volunteering to help and Caroline Anderson has been working as a volunteer down at one of the churches.’

‘Good for her,’ said Steven. ‘I wondered what she was going to do. Which one?’

‘St Jude’s on Cranston Street.’

‘Maybe I’ll go round and see her. She got a raw deal.’

‘The vagaries of public life,’ said Cummings.

‘You didn’t say what emergency measures you were bringing in,’ said Steven.

‘Closure of public places like cinemas, theatres, night clubs and restaurants in the first instance, asking people not to make journeys that are not absolutely necessary, and a leafleting campaign about simple precautions to be taken in avoiding the disease. We’re also going to have to insist on cremation of the dead from the outbreak within twenty-four hours. Apart from the mortuary space problem, the bodies are just reservoirs of the virus.’

‘It sounds as though you think it might be airborne, after all,’ said Steven.

‘We still can’t be sure,’ said Cummings, ‘but it’s hellishly infective if it’s not. Contacts are going down like David Ginola in the box. We could be looking at over two hundred cases before we’re through, and that’s providing there are no new nasty surprises.’

‘Then the new cases are all still contacts?’

‘That’s the one good thing,’ said Cummings. ‘There are no new wildcards.’

‘Thank God for that.’

‘One other thing,’ said Cummings. ‘Three patients have recovered, so at least we know now that it’s not a hundred per cent lethal.’

‘Good,’ said Steven. He felt sure that he could think of a fourth. ‘What’s the state of the Scottish problem?’

‘Eight cases, three deaths, but they’re containing it well. I understand they don’t have any high-rise housing schemes to worry about. People have more room to breathe up there.’

‘Let’s hope their luck holds.’

Steven drove down to St Jude’s church and found a police cordon round it. It comprised a series of no-parking cones and striped ribbon tape except for an area near the front entrance, which was guarded by two constables and where ambulances had access. He showed his ID and was permitted to enter. As he walked in through the stone arch he found himself thinking that this was the first time he’d ever entered a church and found it warm. Industrial fan heaters had been pressed into service to raise the temperature to hospital standards. Large signs in red warned against proceeding any further without protective clothing.

At the reception office, he found two tired-looking nurses sitting drinking tea, with an open packet of Jaffa Cakes on the table in front of them. He said who he was, then asked if Caroline Anderson was on the premises.

The older nurse looked at her watch and said, ‘She’s due for a break in ten minutes. Would you like to wait?’

Steven said he would, but declined her offer of tea. ‘How are you coping?’ he asked.

‘We’re running just to stand still,’ replied the younger nurse. ‘It’s a rotten feeling.’

‘I can imagine. What about the building itself?’

‘Every time I go through there,’ said the first nurse, nodding towards the nave of the church, ‘I feel like I’m stepping into a scene from Dante’s
Inferno
. It’s an absolute nightmare.’

The other nurse checked her watch and said to her colleague, ‘We’d best get ready.’ She turned to Steven and said, ‘It takes us a good five minutes to get into these suits. Just wait here, and Caroline will be with you when she’s had her shower.’