“What do you mean—‘hungry’?”
“I said ‘alive’.”
“You said: ‘the last person to see him hungry’. I’m sorry but I heard you.”
“All right. Slip of the tongue. You were the last person to see him alive.”
“Not so — his killer, Adam Kindred, was the last person to see him alive,” Keegan said with quiet logic and looked at his watch. “I’m sorry to break this up, Ingram, but I really have to go.” He stood.
“The meeting’s not over, Burton. I have more questions.”
“Send me an email. We have very important business today. All this talk about Philip advances nothing.”
Now Ingram stood up. “This isn’t going to be brushed aside—”
“If you’re not happy with anything I suggest you call Alfredo. Thanks for the coffee.” He walked out of the office.
Ingram felt a burning itch spring up on his left calf that he banished by rubbing his leg against the sharp glass edge of the coffee table. It must be stress after all.
39
BURTON KEEGAN POURED SOME more Scotch into Paul de Freitas’s glass.
“I really shouldn’t,” de Freitas said, “but I think I should.”
“You ready?”
“Let’s go for it.”
They were in Burton’s office on the top floor of his Netting Hill town house, under the eaves with a good view down dusky Ladbroke Grove. This was where he kept the scrambled phone line. Both men’s wives were downstairs in the kitchen clearing up the remains of supper.
Burton dialled Alfredo Rilke’s private number, feeling his mouth go dry, and his shoulders tighten. It never became any easier — there was always that element of apprehension, of the unforeseen, when you talked to Alfredo — even after ten years of experience of working with him, working with him closely. He was twenty seconds early from the appointed time to call.
“Burton,” Rilke said, “good to talk to you. How’s the weather in London?”
“Surprisingly good.” Burton felt his hands begin to sweat — banter was always a bad sign. “I’ve got Paul here with me. Can I put you on speaker?”
“Sure. Hi, Paul. How’s the beautiful Mrs de Freitas?”
“She’s excellent. How are you, Alfredo?”
Too familiar, thought Burton, anxiously.
“I’m still waiting, actually — waiting for news from you guys,” Rilke said, the tone of his voice changing. Burton made a zip-your-lip sign to de Freitas.
“We have a slight problem with Ingram,” Burton said. “He knows about my meeting with Philip Wang on that last day. I think he thinks he’s on to something.”
There was a long pause from Rilke and Burton began to massage his neck.
“Does he have any idea what was discussed at that meeting?” Rilke asked.
“No. I told him Philip was delighted, was pressing for accelerated approval from both agencies, US and UK.”
“I want you to be extremely nice to Ingram until this is all over. Got that?” There was real edge in his voice now. “What made him suspicious? Is it something you did?”
“I’m always extremely nice to him,” Burton said, not answering the question. “I just don’t think he likes me.”
“Then make him like you. Apologise, keep him sweet. What’s happening your end?”
“Things are good,” Burton said. “We have our guys talking up Zembla-4 to all the important people. We’re arguing compassionate use.”
“We’re confident we’ll get priority status,” de Freitas chipped in. “Did you see the latest WHO report on asthma? People need Zembla-4. Couldn’t be better timing.”
Burton was regretting pouring him that extra Scotch — you just didn’t become garrulous with Alfredo Rilke.
Burton jumped in. “We think the compassionate use, accelerated approval principle is unanswerable. Some of those AIDS drugs were approved in months, weeks.”
“What about post-marketing studies?” Rilke said. “Funded by us. You should have all that in place.”
“We have,” Burton lied. He forgot, very rarely, that Rilke knew more than anyone when it came to pharmaceuticals. He made a note on a pad: ‘post-marketing studies’. He should have thought of that himself. It was obvious — compassionate use, accelerated approval, licensee-funded post-marketing studies. It all fell into place — in theory.
“Children are dying,” de Freitas said, ignoring Burton’s finger held to his lips. “The data is enormous, exemplary, Alfredo, magnificent. Everything’s ready.”
Rilke was silent again. Then he said: “Run out the first advertorials next week.”
“Should I tell Ingram?”
“I’ll tell him.”
“What about the PDA?” Burton asked. “Are they happy with the European trials?”
“I think so,” Rilke said. “Our people are very close — close to people who are close to people: though nobody knows how close anyone else is to the other. The word is that they seem happy. So,” he paused. “Submit for approval, simultaneously, after the ads have run for a month.” Burton and de Freitas looked at each other, eyes wide. “Then we want the opinion pages.”
“Consider it done.” Burton saw the logic, clearly. “Everybody’s ready.” Announce the impending wonder drug, have people start talking about it, have journalists write articles about it, then asthmatics will start asking their doctors for it. There are millions upon millions of asthma sufferers out there — a powerful lobby, exerting a lot of pressure. Nobody will want to be seen dragging their feet, no bureaucratic impediments, niggling rules and regulations preventing relief from awful suffering, saving children’s lives.
“We’ll get right on to it,” Burton said. “Have a good even—”
“Just one thing.”
“Sure.”
“Did they ever find this Kindred guy? It’s the one factor that disturbs my peaceful sleep. He could ruin everything.”
“We’re closing in, is my latest report. He was seen in London a matter of days ago. We have a new description. A new name he’s been using. It’s just a matter of time.”
Now Rilke’s silence grew ominously long.
“This is just not good enough, Burton.”
The rebuke was devastating even though Rilke’s tone was mild. Burton felt the air leave his lungs and his guts contract. Somehow he managed to say, “I’m sorry. We just can’t explain how Kindred—”
“How many times do I have to ask for this? Prioritise it. Call your people.”
They said their goodbyes. Burton felt nauseous. He knew his hands would shake if he held them out.
“Why’s he so obsessed with Kindred?” de Freitas asked, oblivious, with all the confidence of the nearly drunk. “What can he do to us? It’s all too late now, isn’t it?” He put on a bad cockney accent: “Kindred is toast, mate.”
“Yeah,” Burton said vaguely. But he was thinking: that’s the first time in ten years I’ve heard Alfredo Rilke sound worried. That was serious. “I’ll see you downstairs, Paul,” he said. “Take the Scotch with you.”
De Freitas left and Burton thought back to that afternoon’s meeting with Philip Wang…Nice, mild, clever, plump Philip Wang in a shivering incoherent rage, his voice shrill, threatening to bring everything down on their heads — the deaths of children, cover-up, manipulation of research data. The trials would end, he’d go to the FDA himself, he didn’t care. Philip Wang’s fury as he had listed the abuses was almost as if it were driven by the death of one of his own children. Burton had stalled, but it was alarmingly clear to him that Philip Wang had independently figured out almost everything that had gone on in the Zembla trials — indeed, he was even impressed by Wang’s detective powers, in an unhappy, panicky way, feelings that he managed quickly to control.