‘Okay,’ said Gavin, holding up the file. ‘But maybe I’ll take this home with me if you don’t mind?’
‘Of course... but give that seminar some thought.’
When the door closed, Simmons went back to reading the letter that had come with the report. It included a glossy blurb about a new research grants scheme being sponsored by Grumman Schalk, and a suggestion from Max Ehrman that he should consider applying for one. Such grants were an entirely new initiative from the company, and would be available to established researchers who held a recognised university position and were working in the broad areas of cancer diagnosis and treatment. Each grant would provide support for one or more postdoctoral workers and technical support for a period of up to three years. Larger grants would be available in exceptional circumstances.
Simmons frowned as he thought about it. In the past he had steered clear of applying to commercial companies for money because they usually had strings attached. He preferred funding from the Medical Research Council or the Wellcome Trust, although he had on one occasion been successful in attracting support from the EEC. The problem with accepting funding from drug companies was that they tended to place restrictions on what could and could not be submitted for publication. They often insisted on having the final say and this could lead to conflict.
Getting work published in peer-reviewed journals was essential to young scientists hoping to pursue a career in research, and equally so to established workers trying to attract continued funding for their work, but the criteria for publication became more complicated when commercial concerns played a part in the process. Scientists had traditionally shared their findings with one another for the common good, but drug companies had little enthusiasm for disseminating information they thought might prove useful to a competitor, and could be equally reticent about publicising the failure of a product they’d hoped might be commercially viable. Share price was all important.
Frank put the letter to one side for the moment and opened an internal mail envelope from Graham Sutcliffe. There would be a meeting with people from the BBC on 9 January to discuss the planned programme on cancer. It had been decided to hold the meeting in Edinburgh because Professors Gerald Montague, Neil Carron and Linda Surrey, who had already agreed to take part in the programme, would be in the city to attend an international scientific meeting at Heriot Watt University on genetic influences in cancer susceptibility. Senior members of staff — which included Frank — were invited to dinner with these three after the meeting. The meal would be at The Witchery by the castle.
Frank told Jenny about this when he got home.
‘Don’t suppose wives are invited,’ she said. ‘I like The Witchery.’
‘Some chance if the university’s paying. They make Ebenezer Scrooge look like Andrew Carnegie.’
‘Thought that might be the case. How come they never have any money? They seem to pull in grants and bequests from all over the place, but they’re always pleading poverty.’
‘Universities are a bit like the National Health Service,’ said Simmons. ‘No matter how much money you pour in, it will disappear without trace into an ever-expanding system. I seem to spend half my time dealing with administrators’ unending demands for facts and figures, while they plunder my grants in order to keep their own arses on seats, thinking up new forms to send out.’
‘Do I sense I’ve touched on a sore spot?’
Simmons smiled. ‘I refuse to be drawn on administrators today. Gavin got a clear result this morning. It wasn’t what we wanted but it stopped us wasting our time for twelve months or more. He’s doing well.’
‘Good, I’m glad... for your sake. You went out on a limb for that boy.’
‘I just did what was necessary, but we’re not out of the woods yet. I’m currently trying to persuade him to give a seminar to the department about his work. If he agrees to that it really will feel like I’ve made progress.’
‘If you say so.’
‘How do you feel about asking him to Christmas dinner?’
Jenny’s mouth fell open. ‘I’m hoping that’s a joke,’ she spluttered.
‘He’s not going home for Christmas: Mary told me he’s planning to work over the break.’
‘Oh, come on, Frank, this could ruin Christmas for all of us — especially the cat.’
‘Of course, if you feel that way about it let’s just forget it. It was just a thought.’
Jenny looked suspiciously at her husband. ‘You’ve just cast me in the role of pantomime villain, haven’t you?’
‘Don’t know what you mean.’
‘Oh yes you do.’
‘You have every right not to have him here after last time. He may have matured considerably, but we still shouldn’t take the risk...’
‘God damn it, I can feel you playing me like a fish on the end of a line, but I can’t seem to do anything about it,’ complained Jenny.
‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m sure...’
‘All right, I give in. He can come, but make sure our insurance is up to date, hide all sharp objects and check we have enough fire extinguishers — and cat shampoo.’
‘Can you really get cat shampoo?’
‘Call it poetic licence.’
When Gavin left Frank’s office he went out to a local shop to pick up a Coke and a sandwich for lunch. He planned to eat it at his desk while he skimmed through the Grumman Schalk report. When he got back, the lab was empty — a bit like the Mary Celeste, he thought — lights on, books open on desks, Bunsens burning and incubator lights blinking on and off at the whim of their thermostats. After a moment, he remembered that it was the day of the first meeting of Peter Morton-Brown’s new journal club. He checked his watch and noted that he’d have another thirty minutes to himself.
The Grumman Schalk investigation seemed to be just as comprehensive as he’d imagined it would be. Their scientists had left no stone unturned in their attempts to discover why Valdevan had not worked in the human body, but in the end, they had failed. The bottom line was that it remained a mystery.
One thing that did catch his attention, however, was the good quality of the photographs in the report, and a much wider range of them than he had managed to find in the published papers about the drug. He was examining them with an eye lens when Mary and Tom returned to the lab. Frank was shortly behind them.
Gavin waited until Frank had gone into his office before asking, ‘Did I miss much?’
‘No,’ said Mary. ‘Peter was speaking about Gerald Montague’s new paper in UK Cell Science.’
‘Jesus,’ murmured Gavin.
‘I think he plans on asking Gerald Montague to be his external examiner when he’s finished writing up,’ said Tom.
‘A match made in heaven,’ said Gavin without looking up.
‘You know...’ announced Mary, ‘for once, I agree. That Montague paper was rubbish. How the hell does he go on getting that nonsense published?’
This was so unexpected, coming from Mary, that both Tom and Gavin looked at her in surprise, not sure what to say.
‘He’s one of the managing editors of the journal,’ said Gavin.
‘Oh, God,’ said Mary, sitting down as if she felt too weak to stand. ‘Are things really that awful in science these days?’
Tom and Gavin looked at each other, equally alarmed at what they were hearing from someone who was usually so positive.
‘Hey, come on, Mary, of course they’re not,’ said Tom.
‘They’re no worse in science than they are in anything else,’ said Gavin, as if it were the best he could manage.