Wildcard (18 page)

He arrived at Spicer’s house a few minutes before eleven. It was a substantial Victorian villa in a pleasant area with the upper floors commanding uninterrupted views across the city from its elevated position. He walked up the short drive, his feet crunching on the gravel, and rang the bell, noting, as he waited, the sleek green nose of an XK series Jaguar protruding from the double garage at the side of the house.

The door was opened by a blonde, Nordic-looking girl who smiled, showing perfect white teeth. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘What you like?’

‘Hello,’ replied Steven. ‘I have an appointment to see Mr Spicer. My name is Dunbar.’

‘It’s all right, Trudi,’ said a woman coming up behind the girl. ‘I’ll see to it. I’m Matilda Spicer, Mr Dunbar. Do come in. Trudi’s our au pair,’ she said as she showed Steven into one of the front rooms. ‘Victor will be with you shortly.’

‘I thought your husband’s name was William, Mrs Spicer,’ said Steven.

‘It is, but he prefers friends and family to call him by his middle name. When he first went into politics his electoral agent thought that Vic Spicer sounded like a used-car salesman so he’s William to the voters.’

Steven smiled and she left him on his own.

There was a piano in the room, an old upright finished in walnut with brass candleholders bolted to the front. The lid was open and Steven looked at the music that was propped up on the stand above the yellowing keys: it was Debussy’s ‘Claire de lune’. He deduced that the Spicers’ daughter must be learning to play. There were framed photographs on top of the piano; the largest featured the family with Matilda seated in front, cradling her daughter, while Spicer stood behind with a protective hand on his wife’s shoulder and a good, jutting jawline in evidence.

The door opened and Spicer came in. He wore a dark-blue suit with a red-striped Bengal shirt and a maroon silk tie. His wavy fair hair was brushed back and rested comfortably on his collar at the back, making him look younger than his forty-two years. He had a brusque, business-like attitude.

‘I can only give you a few minutes,’ he announced. ‘I have to be on television at midday. I take it you have some kind of identification?’

Steven handed over his ID card.

‘You’re a doctor?’ said Spicer.

‘I’m an investigator first,’ replied Steven.

‘Let’s talk in my study,’ said Spicer. ‘But, as I said on the phone, I can’t imagine how I can help you with your inquiries.’

Spicer led the way through to his study and sat down behind his desk, indicating that Steven should sit down on one of the two seats on the other side of it. Steven noticed that the man was adopting what he suspected might be a well-practised pose. He was leaning back in his leather chair with his legs crossed, his elbows resting on the arms and his fingers interlaced while he tapped his thumbs together. Statesmanlike or what? thought Steven. More family photographs sat on the desk, making him wonder whether Spicer had requested an interior designer to do out the place in ‘family values’.

‘I take it you are familiar with the chain of events that led to the current virus problem in Manchester, Mr Spicer?’ asked Steven.

‘As I understand it, it all started with this Danby woman,’ said Spicer. ‘What should have been a minor outbreak has now escalated out of all proportion, thanks to the bungling of those in charge.’

‘You, of course, would have handled it differently,’ said Steven, almost falling at the first hurdle because he had allowed Spicer to anger him by referring to Ann, his former lover, as ‘this Danby woman’.

Spicer seemed a little taken aback. ‘Not me personally, of course – I have no training in such matters – but that’s no reason to tolerate incompetence in those who are supposed to have.’

Steven bit his tongue. He needed this man’s co-operation, he reminded himself. ‘I understand that you were in Nepal recently and that you were very ill while you were there,’ he said.

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ asked Spicer.

‘Can I ask who diagnosed your illness?’

Spicer shrugged and said, ‘There was no diagnosis as such, because we didn’t have a doctor with us. I survived; my three companions didn’t; that was the bottom line. When I got back to civilisation and described the symptoms of the illness – those I could remember! – it was generally agreed that it had been a severe form of altitude sickness.’ He looked at his watch and said testily, ‘Look, I really can’t give you much longer. Would you please come to the point?’

‘I don’t think you had altitude sickness at all, Mr Spicer. I think you were suffering from viral haemorrhagic fever.’

Spicer looked as if he couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Haemor …?’ he spluttered. ‘You mean the disease that’s out there in the city? What utter nonsense. Are you out of your mind?’

‘I think you contracted haemorrhagic fever and survived,’ continued Steven. ‘You’re one of the few. Then you came home and passed on the disease to your lover, Ann Danby.’

Spicer paled and for a moment looked like a cornered animal, then he went on the offensive. ‘Oh, I get it,’ he rasped. ‘You’re one of these Labour leftie shits who’ve come up with a little scheme to attack me and save your minister further embarrassment.’

Steven said coldly, ‘I am neither leftie nor rightie, nor am I Liberal or Monster Raving Loony. In fact, you won’t catch me at a polling station until they put a box marked “None of the Above” on the ballot paper. My experience over the years has taught me to distrust politicians of all shades and hues, Mr Spicer. Now, shall we continue?’

‘Dunbar, I am going to see to it personally that you—’

‘Save your breath,’ interrupted Steven. ‘Bluster isn’t going to work with me. Why don’t you just tell me the truth and save us both a lot of time, assuming you can still recognise it after seven years in parliament?’

‘How dare you!’ stormed Spicer.

‘I dare because I
know
that you had an affair with “the Danby woman” as you had the gall to call her a moment ago. She was a decent woman, by all accounts, and she ended up taking her own life over a little shit like you.’

‘I know nothing at all about her,’ insisted Spicer, fighting to get his temper under control.

‘You gave her a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets and inscribed the fly leaf, “My love for ever, V.”’

‘My name is William.’

‘You like to be called Victor, Victor.’

‘I tell you, I didn’t know the woman,’ repeated Spicer, red in the face.

‘It was your handwriting; I had it analysed,’ lied Steven, sensing that he had the upper hand.

The blood drained from Spicer’s face and he sat motionless for a moment before leaning forward slowly to rest his arms on the desk. He finally hung his head and said quietly, ‘All right, I did know Ann. These things happen. I’m only human, damn it.’

Steven was not prepared to concede the point.

‘We met at some bloody awful exhibition her employers were putting on and it just sort of went on from there. It was stupid, I know, but like I say, these things happen. You’re not going to pretend that they don’t?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Steven evenly.

There was a slight knock on the door and it opened immediately. Matilda Spicer put her head round and said, ‘I hate to interrupt you boys but you’re going to be late, darling.’

Spicer didn’t look up. He said in a strained croak, ‘Matilda, would you telephone the TV people, make my apologies and say that I will be unable to appear today.’

‘Is everything all right?’ she asked worriedly.

‘Fine, fine. I’ll explain later.’

The door closed and Spicer said, ‘You do realise what this will do to my wife? It will destroy her.’

Steven looked at Spicer as if examining a particularly uninteresting species of pond life. ‘My only concern lies in finding out where this virus came from,’ he said. ‘A lot of people have died. I need you to tell me everything you know.’

‘What can I tell you if I didn’t even know I had it?’ spluttered Spicer.

‘First, I need you to give me a blood sample so that it can be tested for antibodies to the virus. That will establish beyond doubt—’

‘That I was the cause of the outbreak?’ completed Spicer. He sounded shaken, as if realising the full implications for the first time.

‘Here in Manchester, yes,’ said Steven.

‘And if I refuse?’

‘That’s not an option,’ said Steven.

‘But it’s not conclusive yet, is it? It could be negative. I mean, it could still turn out that I had nothing to do with the outbreak or Ann getting the disease?’

‘Theoretically,’ agreed Steven, ‘in the way that six million people could suddenly visit the Millennium Dome in the next four weeks. You used to go hill-walking with Ann?’

‘I took it up last year. Ann was new to it, too. We both enjoyed it.’

‘You saw her on a number of weekends and then there was a long gap in her diary. That was when you went off to Nepal?’

Spicer nodded.

‘When you came back you had dinner with her on Thursday the eighteenth, and that was the last time you saw her?’ said Steven.

Spicer hesitated, as if searching for words. He said, ‘When I was close to death in Nepal I came to see just how much my wife and daughter meant to me. I decided to end it with Ann when I came back. You can understand that, can’t you?’

Steven nodded, then asked, ‘How did Ann take it?’

‘Very badly.’

‘But you still made love to her that night,’ said Steven flatly.

Spicer swallowed. ‘It was impossible not to,’ he said. ‘She was all over me. God, I’m only human.’

Once again, Steven did not concur. ‘That was the night you gave her the virus,’ he said.

‘Christ, I wasn’t to know,’ said Spicer. ‘How the hell could I?’

‘You made love to her, then you left her, and Ann took her life a few days later. Sound about right?’

‘Give me a break. I didn’t know the silly cow was going to do anything like that, did I?’

Steven’s right hand balled into a fist but he kept control. ‘I suppose not, Mr Spicer,’ he said. He let a few moments go by before saying suddenly, ‘So why did you kill Anthony Pelota?’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ blustered Spicer.

Steven stared hard at him, suggesting total imperviousness to bluster. After a few seconds’ silence he noted with some satisfaction that Spicer’s expression was changing; his defiance was being undermined by a decidedly hunted look.

‘I know Ann ate at the Magnolia that Thursday,’ continued Steven flatly. ‘Pelota was about to tell me who her dinner companion was. It was you, wasn’t it?’

‘So what if it was? There must have been twenty other people there that night,’ retorted Spicer.

‘They didn’t kill Pelota, Spicer, you did, and you didn’t wear gloves when you stuck that kitchen knife in him, did you?’ Steven was taking a gamble; he saw from Spicer’s expression that he was right. ‘Was he blackmailing you?’ he demanded. ‘Was that it?’

All the fight went out of Victor Spicer and his shoulders sagged. Almost inaudibly, he said, ‘The little wop called me to say that someone had been making inquiries. He made a great play of how discreet he’d been and then suggested that I might care to show my gratitude.’

Steven nodded impassively.

‘We agreed on five hundred pounds but when I went along there he raised the price to a thousand, and I just lost it. I knew that that wouldn’t have been the end of it. The red mist came down. We argued and fought. I grabbed the knife. You know the rest. What happens now?’

Steven said, ‘If you answer all my other questions, I’ll give you some time alone with your wife to prepare her for what she’ll have to face, then I’ll have to call the police. You do realise that your wife has been at risk of contracting the virus too?’

Spicer’s eyes opened like organ stops. ‘What d’you mean?’ he stammered.

‘The virus remains in the body fluids of someone who recovers from a filovirus infection for some time afterwards; that’s how Ann got it. If you’ve made love to your wife since your return, well, you can work it out.’

Spicer took a few deep breaths before saying, ‘As it happens, I haven’t … because of my illness …’

‘No need to worry, then,’ said Steven, but to his puzzlement he noticed that Spicer’s expression was not one of relief.

TWELVE

Edinburgh

Karen Doig left Paul Grossart’s office feeling as if the bottom had fallen out of her world. She walked slowly down the stairs in a daze and out through the front door without really seeing anything or anyone. It was raining heavily but she didn’t notice as she walked hesitantly across the car park to where she’d left the car. Not even the deep puddle that lapped over her shoes as she unlocked the door seemed to register with her. She sat stock-still and stared unseeingly through the windscreen for fully five minutes before driving off.

Karen’s mother, Ethel Lodge, who had come over to baby-sit her granddaughter, Kelly, opened the door as Karen drew up outside her house, a smart semi-detached villa on the new Pines estate on the outskirts of Edinburgh.

‘You’re drenched, love,’ fussed her mother. ‘Give me your coat or it’ll drip all over the place. I’ll hang it up in the kitchen. Go and warm yourself by the fire. The kettle’s just boiled. I’ll make some tea.’

She brought through two mugs of tea and handed one to Karen. ‘Well, what did Mr Grossart have to say for himself?’ she asked. ‘Any news?’

Karen looked at her with tear-filled eyes. ‘Oh yes,’ she said quietly, ‘Peter’s left me. He’s run off with Amy Patterson.’

‘Who the hell’s Amy Patterson?’ exclaimed Ethel, sinking slowly into a chair.

‘The scientist Peter went to Wales with.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘That’s what Mr Grossart told me,’ said Karen. ‘He said he was sorry but there was nothing he could do about it. If Peter didn’t want to talk to me about what had been going on, that was his prerogative. The company couldn’t involve itself in domestic matters.’

‘But this is absolutely crazy!’ exclaimed Ethel. ‘You two are so happy together.’

‘That’s what I thought too,’ said Karen distantly. ‘I can’t … believe he’s done something like this.’ She buried her face in her hands, and her shoulders heaved as she sobbed silently.