Going Viral (3 page)
Blake thanked him, then said, ‘I think now may be an appropriate time for us to split up, since there are matters I need to discuss with Professor Mason.’ He rose to his feet. ‘If you’re ready, Professor…?’ He held the door open for her.
*
The atmosphere relaxed the moment the door clicked shut. Gibb stretched himself and got up.
‘I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could do with some more coffee. Shall I be mother?’
We variously nodded and grunted our agreement. As he took our cups and filled them, Brigg leaned across to me and said quietly, ‘Forgive me, but I don’t think your boss is doing herself any favours.’
I said, ‘Mm,’ which was as far as I was prepared to go.
Once we were all re-coffeed, Brigg asked the inspector to tell us how she was going to manage the infiltration. She looked up – she had deep brown eyes to go with her hair, I noticed, which seemed somehow appropriate in an undercover worker.
‘As the commander said just now, there’ll be six of us covering the South West, one in each of Gloucester, Bath, Exeter and Plymouth, and two in Bristol. I’ll be taking Exeter because we think it’s the most likely. I’ll con –’
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ I said, ‘but
why
d’you think Exeter’s the most likely? I head the SCRUB team there.’
Her eyes turned to me. ‘It’s the nearest to the animal feed place, and the profiler thought it the sort of town this kind of person would like. You know, cathedral city with Dartmoor and the sea nearby, but only a couple hours from London.’
She had a pleasant, slightly husky voice and a South London accent.
‘What about Bath?’ I asked.
‘The profiler felt that
Bristol
to
Africa
was the most likely of the three charities and they don’t have a branch in Bath.’
She told us how she was going to phone the chairman of the BTA branch in Exeter that afternoon to join and volunteer her services. She’d drive down tomorrow and hopefully meet him for a chat, then go to all their meetings and get to know as many of them as possible. ‘They’re far more likely to give things away about themselves in that kind of setting than in a police interview,’ she finished.
‘And meanwhile, you want me to make a list of all the virologists in the area?’ I said.
‘Please. I’ll contact you when I’ve got something to compare it with. What’s your mobile number?’
I gave her all my numbers, work, home and mobile. When I asked for hers, she hesitated…
‘I’d rather not at the moment. I don’t want the risk of you calling while I’m with the BTA people, not in the early stages, anyway.’
Close to, her straight brown hair and snub nose made me think of an Indian maiden – North American Indian, I mean, with their characteristic aloofness.
I said, ‘What if something urgent comes up?’
Brigg said, ‘Phone me, and I’ll pass it on.’ He continued, ‘The most useful thing you can do, Dr Smith, is to make sure you and your teams are ready for an outbreak.’
‘How much can I tell them?’
‘How many people are we talking about?’
There were five teams in the Western Area, I told him, each containing two medics, two nurses and a scientist, making 25 in all.
He thought for a moment… ‘You can tell them about the threat, but not the police operation. The less people know, the better – so as few as you can, and only what’s necessary.’
Rebecca Hale came in again: ‘There is one other thing – where are they doing it? I had the impression earlier that you think it’s more likely that they’ve got a lab of their own hidden away somewhere?’
‘It’s just that security’s so tight now in NHS labs that I don’t think you’d be able to get away with it.’
She nodded. ‘OK – could you look into that? Oh, and a list of the equipment they’d need would be useful.’
I hear and obey, I thought, making a note.
Gibb, who up till now had been watching all this with a look of detached amusement, asked whom
he
should liaise with if the worst happened.
‘Me,’ said Brigg.
‘And in an emergency?’
‘Still me. I’ll be available at all times.’
We talked for a while about what constituted an emergency and how we’d communicate as things went on. Brigg told me I should make myself available at all times to cooperate with Inspector Hale in case my medical knowledge was required.
‘Anything else?’ I enquired. ‘The laying on of hands, perhaps?’
Brigg glanced quickly at her, then replied deadpan, ‘You can try that if you like, so long as you don’t mind a foot in the groin in reply.’
There was nothing to do but take it gracefully and smile. A moment later, we were all laughing.
We finished shortly after that. Fenella was waiting for me and we walked back to the Tube together.
‘Well, he’s accepted it for now,’ she said.
It seemed that Blake had told her the day before that since I’d have my hands full as Area Head, he thought she should seriously consider having Roland as her executive. Which explained his po-face on seeing me turn up…
‘What made you risk it?’ I asked.
‘Because I think you’d be better. But also because, bearing in mind your present difficulties with Roland, it seemed to me the thin end of a very thick wedge.’
‘Thanks.’
She went on, ‘He was never happy about your appointment – Sir, I mean. He’d assumed Roland would get it – as did I. The difference being that whereas I was pleased, he was not.’ She gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘I underestimated Roland – I hadn’t realised the extent to which he’d managed to crawl into Sir’s bed. Forgive the revolting imagery.’
She didn’t say anything about how bad a bollocking it had been… although then again, perhaps she just had.
Rebecca Hale parked the ratty looking Nova with some difficulty at the end of the street, locked it, and started walking back along the row of Victorian terraced houses. They were what she thought of as Grade Two terraces. She had one herself in Tooting.
Grade Ones were those fronting directly onto the pavement, Two, those with a front garden, but too small to convert into a car space, and Three, large enough for the car with perhaps a bay window and porch thrown in. Four was so far out of her pay scale that she didn’t bother thinking about them.
She found number 26 and pressed the bell, reminding herself not to scratch the vaccination site on her arm where it was beginning to itch.
She’d picked up the Nova (which wasn’t anything like as ratty as it looked) from the car pool, driven down to Exeter and moved into the anonymous police owned flat the day before.
After the Home Office meeting, she’d phoned Marc Bell, Chair of the Exeter branch of
Bristol
to
Africa
, whose name she’d got from their website. She’d told him she’d just moved into the area, was very taken with what she’d read about BTA, and would like to volunteer her services.
He’d asked her a few questions, then suggested she come and see him Thursday evening (which was what she’d been angling for). So, here she was…
The door was opened by a sturdy looking thirty something woman with short dark blonde hair.
‘Yes?’
‘Oh… I was looking for Marc Bell…’
‘And you are…?’
Before Rebecca could answer, a man appeared behind her.
‘Rebecca? Do come in. I’m Marc, and this is my wife, Hannah…’
Hannah nodded unsmilingly as she stood aside to let her in.
Marc said, ‘I’ve got a cubby hole I use as an office in the back – come on through.’
She followed him down the passage past a living room where a boy of two or three simultaneously watched a cartoon on the TV and created mess around himself. Through a tidy kitchen with a faint smell of curry to a utility room, off which was another room, a cubby hole, as he’d said.
‘Have a seat -’ he indicated the chair on casters in front of the computer. ‘I’ll bring another chair and some coffee… would you like a coffee?’
She told him how she liked it and sat down. An outline of Africa with the words
Bristol
to
Africa
– their logo, she assumed – moved across the screen… She looked round – on the adjacent wall were shelves crammed with books…
She’d always believed that the Girl Guides motto should be expanded to:
Be
Prepared:
to
take
any
opportunity
as
it
arises
…
She could hear the rattle of mugs and the hum of the kettle from the kitchen… she had a minute, at least… and she could always say she was looking for him to ask if she could look at the books…
She slipped out into the utility room and looked round… washing machine, dryer, back door. She’d have loved a quick snoop outside, but there wasn’t time… another door… she crossed the room and opened it… just a downstairs loo. Another quick look round… no other doors, so back to the cubby hole.
She took a breath and looked at the bookshelves.
Books on Africa, its ecology, politics and sociology… maps, folders, ring binders – only a highly organised person would be able to cram so much into so little… Anything inflammatory?
She peered at the books, found one with the promising title of Desperate Times, Desperate Measures, eased it out and flicked through the pages…
Disappointingly respectable and middle class. She heard him coming back and replaced it.
He had a chair in one hand and two mugs in the other. He handed her one and sat down.
‘No difficulty finding me, then?’
She shook her head. ‘I googled it.’
He looked younger than his wife, she thought, maybe thirty. He was tallish, thin, had a boyish, friendly face, untidy hair and blue eyes. She told him how she’d been living in London and had recently moved down here.
‘But you weren’t in any overseas aid groups in London, I think you said?’
‘No…’ She hesitated as though unsure of herself… ‘I wanted to… join an overseas aid group… but my partner, he disapproved of anything like that. But now we’ve split up…’ She shrugged and smiled. ‘I can do what I like.’
‘What made you come down here?’
‘I wanted to get right away. And it seems a nice place.’
‘Oh, there are lots worse, believe me...’
He
certainly didn’t come from here, she thought – he had that kind of nondescript accent that she thought of as vaguely West London; Hounslow, or somewhere like that.
‘What did you do in London?’ he asked.
‘General admin in the NHS. Salaries and wages.’
‘And you’re looking for a similar job in Exeter?’
She’d signed on, she told him, but didn’t think she’d get anything quickly. ‘Which is one reason why I’m here – as I said, I’m probably going to have some time on my hands.’
Pause, then, ‘You said you wanted to join an overseas aid group – what made you pick us?’
She looked away while she pretended to think about it. ‘I looked at all the websites, starting with Oxfam, but so many of them are…’ she pretended to be searching for a word…
‘Up themselves?’ he supplied.
She grinned. ‘Yeah, something like that. I liked your directness, your way of getting to the centre of things.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Oh… You put the blame where it belongs – with us.
We
were the ones who started slavery,
we
were the ones with the empire who raped Africa and left it in such a mess.’ Contrived pause… ‘And it’s no use us trying to blame their leaders. It’s
our
fault and ours to put right.’
‘And you’d like to help us?’
‘Very much,’ she said simply.
‘Well, you’ve come to the right place,’ he said softly. He took a sip of his coffee. ‘Let me tell you about the set-up here. We’ve got around sixty members, and –’
‘That’s pretty good, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, but we’re lucky if twenty of them turn up to a meeting.’
‘How often d’you have them?’
‘Monthly, which you wouldn’t think was too onerous.’
He told her there was a committee that also met monthly, but staggered with the general meetings. They had a Chair (himself), Secretary, Events Organiser and Local Authority Liaison.
He looked at her for a moment as though trying to make up his mind about something… ‘What we
don’t
have at the moment,’ he said, ‘is a Treasurer. There’s a reason for that – it’s boring. Probably the most boring job in creation. Would
you
be interested?’
She didn’t have to put on a flustered act – this was too good to be true …
‘Well… I thought… if anything, you’d want me to push leaflets through doors, stuff like that…’
‘Oh, you’re welcome to do a bit of that as well if you insist,’ he assured her.
‘But won’t the rest of the committee want to see me first?’
‘Mm. We could do that next week if you like. The next committee meeting is on Tuesday.’
‘Well… then, yes. Thank you.’
He told her when and where it was (the Quakers’ Meeting House) and how to get there, and shortly after that, she left.
As soon as she got back to the cheerless police flat, she called Brigg on his secure mobile. She’d thought about phoning the other team members first, but she was sure they’d have nothing to report – they’d have called her if they had. Dan had already told her he was going to meet the chair of the Plymouth group tomorrow, while Josh and the others had been told simply to come to the next scheduled meetings.
‘It’s Rebecca,’ she said when Brigg picked up.
‘How did it go?’ he asked, and she told him…
‘That’s a bit of luck,’ he said when she got to the bit about the treasurer’s position.
‘Yeah. So much so that I’m almost wondering whether it’s
too
lucky…’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Oh, probably just me being paranoid. As I said, he seemed completely open and straight. Surprisingly normal, in fact.’
‘What were you expecting - beard, sandals and glasses?’
‘Well maybe not sandals this time of year… but yeah.’
‘It seems to me you’ve done well, so don’t look for problems.’ He paused. ‘Are you coming back for the weekend?’
‘I might tomorrow, for a night. I don’t want to be away too much, just in case Marc Bell calls me about something.’
‘He won’t know where you are, on a mobile.’
‘Suppose he wanted me for something…’
‘Unlikely… Anyway, play it how you like and keep in touch.’
She’d eaten before she’d gone to see Marc, so after she’d rung off, she poured herself a glass of wine. She supposed she could have gone back that night, and her own Grade Two terrace was certainly a lot more inviting than the flat. She wasn’t going to take any chances, though – having screwed up before, she wasn’t going to risk the Group Leader job. She couldn’t afford to get it wrong again…
But what did she really think about the Bells, Marc and Hannah…? She couldn’t honestly see them as suspects, not Marc anyway… and it was difficult to imagine Hannah having any involvement without his knowledge, even if she did wear the trousers.
Did she?
Probably – she seemed like a typical older wife looking with suspicion on any younger woman who came a-visiting… or was that just her own (Rebecca’s) instinctive dislike of her?
Again, probably – she’d only seen her for a few seconds. And yet she’d felt a tangible hostility coming from her… Relevant?
Most likely not. After all, they were only the first two BTA people she’d met, even supposing the profiler was right… which was a long shot in itself…
And yet… Maybe it was a long shot, but at the Home Office meeting, it had all felt
right
to her, the West Country connection,
Bristol
to
Africa
, Exeter…
She wondered how it was going to work out, especially if these nutters actually released smallpox. That got her thinking about the others at the Home Office meeting…
Blake. Typical up-his-own-arse bureaucrat … although he did seem to have it in for that Prof woman, Mason … not that it had seemed to bother her much, certainly hadn’t stopped her going for the boss once or twice…
Her sidekick, that doctor, Herry Smith (she’d thought it had been a posh way of saying Harry at first) had seemed rather likable, a sort of up-market Marc Bell – tall and slim without being skinny, and with fairer hair, bluer eyes and a stronger, more character-full face. And he’d taken the boss’ joshing rather well.
Married? She hadn’t noticed a ring…
Blake had seemed to have it in for him as well… at least, he’d pointedly ignored him, even when he had something useful to say… She wondered why for a moment, was it simply because he was prof’s protégé? They’d seemed quite close… Oh well, not her concern.
She poured some more wine, then sighed, gave up and rolled herself a fag.