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  ‘Nice car,’ said Steven. ‘Better than a Ferrari in my book.’

  ‘I’ll never understand men and cars.’

  ‘I’ll never understand women and shoes,’ countered Steven with a smile. ‘You have a lovely home here, Mrs Field, is this your only one?’

  The coolness returned like morning frost. ‘No, we have a place in the Dordogne, Dr Dunbar. My husband was a very successful man, but he also helped thousands of terminally ill people in coming to a much better end than they might otherwise have done.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Mrs Field and I’m sure their families are very grateful.’

  ‘They are, Dr Dunbar, ‘now if you’ll excuse me . . .’

  Steven paused for a moment before accepting his dismissal with a slight smile. He went back to the Home Office.

  ‘How did it go?’ asked Jean Roberts.

  ‘Asking the English about money is never a very good idea,’ Steven replied.

  ‘Then why did you?’

  ‘I was struggling to think of any line the police wouldn’t have pursued with her, then I remembered something Tally told me about the other murdered man – she knew him vaguely when she worked in Leicester. She told me he drove a white Rolls Royce.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Martin Field drove a Maserati.’

  ‘Wow again.’

  ‘Big house in Notting Hill, holiday home in the Dordogne, drives a Maserati . . . The other guy drives a white Rolls Royce . . . I know the pair of them were medical consultants at the top of their game, but something about it doesn’t feel quite right . . .’

  After a few moments, Jean said, ‘You know, I think I see what’s wrong.’

  Steven raised his eyebrows.

  ‘It’s their specialties, palliative care and prosthetic limb control . . . you’re not exactly going to have private patients banging on your door. You won’t need a place in Harley Street to pander to the rich and famous, will you?’

  ‘You are a star,’ said Steven. ‘The two of them are famous in medical and scientific circles but it would be fame without fortune. Neither was a surgeon charging ten grand a pop for new hips or knees or shed loads of cash for plastic alterations to your looks. The connection between the murdered two – if there is one – is the fact that they became rich for another reason.’

  ‘I think we can wear our pants outside our trousers from now on,’ said Jean.

  ‘I’d really rather you didn’t,’ said ‘John Macmillan coming out of his office: he had heard what was going on. ‘Bit showy for Sci-Med, don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe you’re right, sir,’ said Steven sharing a secret smile with Jean.

  ‘Actually, there’s some more news, Sir John,’ said Jean. ‘I hadn’t got around to telling Steven, Interpol has come up with a third murder.

  The two men looked at each other but didn’t have time to say anything before Jean continued.

  ‘And possibly a fourth.’

  THREE

  ‘There have been two murders, one in Paris and one in Geneva, almost identical to our two, but neither were doctors or scientists. Phillipe Lagarde worked for the World Health Organisation in Geneva, he was a high-level strategist charged with making the logistical decisions in accordance with WHO’s global strategy for wiping out infectious disease. The other man was an investment banker; based in Paris. No further details as yet.’

  ‘Any obvious connection between the two?’ Steven asked.

  ‘None at all,’ said Jean. ‘The French and Swiss police have had as little luck as we have in establishing a link between victims.’

  ‘So, where does that leave us?’ asked Macmillan. ‘We have four murder victims in three countries with little or no connection to each other apart from the distinctive method of their demise. Sci-Med’s interest lies in the fact that two were senior UK medical specialists enjoying perhaps a questionable degree of wealth. In view of what Jean has come up with about two further murders, is this enough to sustain Sci-Med involvement?’

  ‘I think the fact that one of them is some kind of decision maker in the World Health Organisation maintains the medical thread,’ said Steven.

  ‘And the investment banker?’ Macmillan asked.

  ‘The drummer,’ said Steven.

  In response to blank looks, he invoked his love of jazz. ‘There are those who claim a jazz quartet comprises three musicians and a drummer.’

  Jean said, ‘Maybe the drummer being an investment banker is connected to the wealth of the two English victims.’

  Macmillan said, I think we have talked ourselves into continuing our interest for the moment. Any ideas?’

  ‘We should try to find out just how well-off Field and Pashley were,’ said Steven. ‘That might tell us whether they’ve been involved in something dodgy or whether we are reading too much into a couple of holiday homes and two fancy cars.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Macmillan.

  ‘No problem getting the info from UK banks,’ said Jean, ‘but, if we’re talking Swiss bank accounts and off-shore shenanigans, it might get a bit trickier.’

  ‘The government has been making inroads into obtaining information about secret Swiss accounts,’ said Macmillan. ‘It’s not as easy as it used to be to squirrel away cash in Zurich. ‘If we link our request to an ongoing murder and high-level crime investigation there’s a chance, we can make it difficult for the gnomes to refuse.’

  ‘Sounds promising,’ said Steven.

  ‘But it won’t tell us what the dead four have been up to.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Steven, ‘It will however, give us a sense of perspective, tell us if they’ve been stealing sweeties or planning to topple governments.’

  Jean asked Steven if he still wanted her to set up a meeting with Simon Pashley’s widow.

  ‘Not right now,’ he replied. ‘Let’s wait until we have more info about how much money has been floating around. If it’s significant, we can tackle both widows over what they knew about it.’

  Steven told Tally about the latest two victims.

  ‘Don’t you think this is a matter for the police?’

  ‘We spoke about that,’ said Steven, ‘but with two senior UK medics and a WHO official involved, John thinks that’s enough to maintain Sci-Med’s interest for the moment.’

  ‘Mm,’ said Tally doubtfully. ‘All I see is torture, murder and the involvement of an investment banker, not exactly a cocktail for peace of mind.’

  Steven told Tally about the plan to find out more about the sums of money involved.

  ‘If it warrants murder, I can’t see it turning out to be a few quid in backhanders from a pharma company, can you?

  ‘No,’ Steven agreed, ‘I can’t.

  ‘So, when you find out it’s big bucks, what then?’

  ‘If we think there are any scientific or medical concerns, we try to find out who paid them and why they did it.’

  ‘Just like that.’

  Steven sensed he was on a collision course with Tally and didn’t like the feeling. It wasn’t the first time the dangers of his job had become a factor in their relationship.

  ‘Steven, if people out there are prepared to torture and murder in the most horrible way, how do you think they’re going to feel about you poking your nose in?’

  ‘What’s that saying about evil triumphing if good folks do nothing? Steven snapped.

  ‘Why do you always have to be the good folk?’

  ‘Because it’s my job and I’m good at it. I am not some amateur poking my nose in, as you would have it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way, I just can’t bear to see you put yourself in harm’s way when we have a large police force . . .’

  ‘Other good folk,’ said Steven.

  Tally conceded the point with a slight smile.

  ‘Tally, Sci-Med only exists because the police don’t always have the necessary expertise to understand what’s going on in science and medicine. We’re there to provide that experti
se, not to engage in heroics. Once we see what’s going on, we will be only too happy to hand things over to the police . . . promise.’

  Tally nodded, but said, ‘It doesn’t always work out that way, does it?’

  It was Steven’s turn to concede the point.

  ‘It’s only because I love you.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  A hug ended the discussion.

  Steven asked Tally about her day.

  ‘Busy, but well organised and with everything I needed to hand.’

  Steven smiled. Tally had never quite got over the difference she’d found in moving from an NHS hospital in Leicester to a well-funded, world famous hospital like Great Ormond Street in London where the great and good were always keen to associate themselves with it.

  ‘You know, there’s one thing that keeps troubling me,’ said Tally. ‘I’ve been getting daily updates on the Ebola situation in DRC – I suppose it’s because I was the hospital rep at the initial meeting.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t understand why the subject has disappeared from public consciousness. The press isn’t bothering to cover it and things are not going well.’

  ‘Yesterday’s news,’ Steven suggested.

  ‘But it shouldn’t be,’ Tally retorted, ‘A disease like that could wipe us all out and we seem to be burying our heads in the sand or arguing about trade tariffs and Irish borders.’

  ‘You don’t think they’re getting on top of things with all the money that’s been flooding in to finance volunteers and equipment?

  ‘I think it’s proving hard to vaccinate in clever circles made on maps when it takes all day to travel twenty kilometres because there are no roads. Successful vaccination is largely dependent on getting to contacts as quickly as possible and that needs planning and management. Apart from that, the volunteers are running up against witch doctors who tell people that vaccines are a western plot to poison them and give them herbs instead, and then there are those who claim to be able to cure Ebola by prayer alone.’

  ‘I was about to say it’s another world,’ Steven confessed, ‘but it’s not.’

  No, it’s not,’ agreed Tally. ‘I just wish the authorities would wake up to that before it’s too late.’

  Tally withdrew a thick file from her briefcase and answered Steven’s inquiring gaze with, ‘I have to get up to speed with DRC if I’m to keep getting these updates. They keep saying they’d welcome comments and I can’t comment unless I know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘The government seems to manage,’ said Steven, narrowly avoiding a swipe with the file. ‘I take it we’re not going out for a drink then?’

  ‘No, we’re not.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll go for a run instead.’

  Steven liked to keep fit, but didn’t like gyms, preferring instead to run through streets and parkland. The length of the run would vary with how much he had on his mind. The idea was that he would run at an undemanding pace until he felt better about the things that were troubling him and then increase his pace so that the last fifteen minutes would leave him drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. He would finish off with a variable number of press-ups – variable because he did them until he no longer could and collapsed to lie with his cheek on the ground. This always made him remember his training with Special Forces when a drill sergeant would look down at his exhausted body in the Welsh mountains and suggest, ‘Let’s do that all over again . . . shall we?’

  Giving up was not an option. You didn’t give up. Your body did . . . but you didn’t.

  ‘Yugh,’ Tally exclaimed when Steven came through the door, ‘don’t come anywhere near me like that . . . and don’t drip on the floor.

  ‘Yes dear,’ Steven replied meekly, but the joke appeared lost on Tally who had gone back to concentrating on her papers. ‘That it has come to this . . .’ Steven continued the joke sadly as he headed for the shower.

  He was half way through a second chorus of April Love when he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder and whirled round to find Tally standing there naked. She took the sponge from his hand and put her finger to her lips to suggest he didn’t speak.

  ‘It hasn’t quite come to that, Dunbar . . .’

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  Steven found Jean Roberts gazing out of the window when he arrived on Tuesday morning. She didn’t turn around when he closed the door, so he asked, ‘Everything all right?’

  Still without turning, she said, ‘You know that feeling you get when you feel a storm is coming and you’re just waiting for first giant raindrops to fall before all hell is let loose . . .’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘I have it. There’s something going on and I’m not party to it: it’s making me uneasy.’

  ‘Get it off your chest.’

  ‘People have stopped answering my enquiries. The banks are usually very helpful when it comes to giving account information – they know we’ll have a good reason for asking, but not this time. The Fraud Squad hasn’t responded to my request for help in accessing Swiss bank information and Interpol haven’t got back to me with any more information about the dead banker. They said they would and also put out a wider net for any more reported murders like the ones we’ve seen. I keep thinking the information has been coming in, but someone or something is stopping me seeing it.’

  ‘John will hit the roof if that’s the case,’ said Steven. ‘You know what he’s like when it comes to preserving our independence. You interfere with that at your peril, even if you’re the Prime Minister.’

  ‘I could be imagining it . . .’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Steven, ‘Your gut feelings have always been right in the past. If you think something’s not right . . . it isn’t.’

  John Macmillan arrived in the office, obviously in a bad mood. ‘Five o’clock in the morning,’ he fumed. ‘Would you believe it? Five o’clock in the bloody morning and the Home Secretary calls me to apologise for not calling me yesterday, says he owes me an explanation but it can wait until after the meeting.’

  Steven and Jean exchanged glances. ‘The meeting?’ Steven enquired politely.

  ‘Sorry, yes, we’re having a meeting at Albert Embankment at eleven. MI6 are hosting, but MI5, Special Branch and the Met will also be present. Apparently, Jean has opened Pandora’s box.’

  ‘Really?’ exclaimed Jean.

  ‘She has been asking perfectly legitimate questions,’ Steven interjected. ‘Does this mean we’ve intruded on someone else’s pet investigation?’

  ‘Far from it,’ said Macmillan. ‘From what I hear, no one has the faintest idea what’s going on.’

  The Home Secretary opened proceedings by apologising for his lack of familiarity with what he called, ‘the usual channels’ – he had only been in the job for a couple of months – and offered this as his reason for ‘a lack of correlation’ in departmental interests.

  ‘I shall do my best to summarise what I’ve been told and hope that we will all be able to see a bigger picture . . . should there be one.’

  The Home Secretary turned to Macmillan. ‘Sir John, your people have been investigating the deaths of two senior medical scientists who were found dead after being subjected to a particularly horrible death. A request to Interpol led to the highlighting of two further murders involving the same MO, a Swiss strategist working with the World Health Organisation in Geneva and a French investment banker based in Paris. More recently, one of your people asked the Metropolitan Police for help in securing details about the two English victims’ financial status. Might I ask why?’

  Macmillan nodded to Jean who answered, I made the request, Home Secretary, preliminary enquiries suggested that both men enjoyed a lifestyle which we suspected might be well beyond their apparent means.’

  ‘But both were very successful medical professionals,’ countered the Home Secretary.

  ‘In specialties that would not allow them much if anything in the way of private practice,’ Steven pointed out.
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  ‘Ah, where the real money is,’ said the Home Secretary. ‘Understood, and what have you learned?’

  ‘We haven’t heard back from the Met, sir.’

  ‘Chief Superintendent?’ said the Home Secretary, raising his eyebrows and turning to a silver haired woman wearing police uniform.

  ‘We were in an unusual situation, Home Secretary. We received much the same request from more than one party. At that point I decided not to respond to anyone until you were brought into the loop.’

  ‘Who or what were these other parties, chief superintendent?

  ‘MI5 and MI6, sir.’

  ‘Both of them!’ exclaimed the Home Secretary. ‘Who’d like to go first?’

  A man Steven knew to be a senior MI5 Intelligence officer smiled and said, ‘We have been watching a man named Jeremy Lang for some time, sir. He operates as a high-end London estate agent dealing in expensive properties, but we believe his main focus has been in money-laundering for Russian would-be London residents. Unfortunately, he passed away recently – from natural causes as far as we know – but we managed to get our hands on his books, so to speak. Among the Russian names, were two English ones, Martin Field and Simon Pashley. We wanted to know why and made a request similar to Sci-Med’s to the Met for bank account information.’

  ‘That leaves you, C, what was your interest?

  ‘The head of MI6 cleared his throat and said, ‘We were aware of the murders of Field and Pashley, and of Sci-Med’s request to Interpol for details of any matching crime, which unearthed two more victims, the French investment banker and the WHO strategist. We extended the search even further and found one more, Dr Samuel Petrov, who was killed in the same manner. At the time of his death, he was working at the University of the Negev in Beer Sheva in Israel but had moved there from his previous employment in the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) in Atlanta, Georgia in the USA. He was Jewish, and as such, had been eligible for Israeli citizenship, which had been granted, but it did look to us a bit of an odd move. People leaving places like CDC tend to attract the attention of intelligence services. We were able to share information with our US colleagues regarding similarities to the European deaths; they were able to tell us about Petrov having come into a great deal of money, secreted away in foreign accounts with no obvious source. Looking for links, we too asked the Met about the financial standing of the two Englishmen.’