Just before he reached the door he had the thought that Malloy might not be alone. He could hear music coming from inside and recognised it as Stan Getz playing, These Foolish Things. He side-stepped into the garden so that he could take a peek in through the window. As far as he could tell, Malloy was alone. He could see him slumped in a chair with his back to him, glass in hand, feet up on a stool.
Dewar knocked gently on the arched door at first but had to rap progressively louder as he failed to get an answer.
‘All right,’ complained Malloy’s voice as he finally responded to Dewar’s insistence. ‘Who is it?’
‘Adam Dewar,’
There was a long silence before the door finally opened. ‘What the f … ‘
Malloy looked at Dewar as if he still didn’t believe it was him. He was obviously the last person on earth he expected to see standing there, or wanted to see for that matter.
‘Hello. How are you doing?’
‘I don’t think I believe this,’ said Malloy, his voice slightly slurred. He scratched his head.
‘I just came to say that I really meant it when I said I was sorry about your research.’
Malloy regarded Dewar for a long moment through screwed-up eyes. ‘And now you’d like forgiveness,’ he said. ‘Te absolvo, feel any better?’
‘I didn’t come to ask for forgiveness,’ said Dewar evenly. ‘I did what I had to do and I think you know that if you’re honest with yourself. I don’t regret it but I am genuinely sorry. I though we might have a drink together.’ He held up the whisky.
Malloy looked as if he were running through a series of options inside his head, ranging from bursting out laughing to slamming the door in Dewar’s face. Eventually he shrugged and said, ‘You’d better come in.’ He accepted the bottle from Dewar and splashed whisky into two tumblers.
‘What shall we drink to?’ he asked, handing one to Dewar.
‘The future,’ replied Dewar evenly. ‘Whatever it holds. May it be kinder than the present.’
‘The future,’ repeated Malloy, without adding the cynical rider Dewar had been half expecting. That pleased him for although Malloy was drinking, he was not wallowing in self pity. Both men took a large swallow.
‘Sit down.’
‘I thought you might be with Peter Moore and George Ferguson this evening,’ said Dewar.
Malloy shook his head. ‘No, Peter will be at the post-grad union, playing the tragic role to the hilt, I should think. Always a more successful gambit with the ladies than Mr Happy, I seem to remember.’
‘You don’t see his predicament as serious then?’
‘He’s first year. He’s not lost much. Most of them take a year learning to pick their noses without poking their eye out. He’s a good student. I’ll have a word with Cairns about him. I’m sure he’ll take him over. Maybe a change of research project but no real harm done.’
‘Good,’ said Dewar. ‘And Sandra?’
Malloy grimaced. ‘She’s different. She’s going into her third year, too late to change I’m afraid. Assuming she survives her present predicament she won’t have enough for a PhD but she could write up for an MPhil.’
‘Let’s hope she gets the chance,’ said Dewar.
‘Amen to that,’ agreed Malloy, raising his glass to the notion.
‘That just leaves George Ferguson.’
‘Poor George. He’s not having the best couple of years, poor bugger. They pull his hospital down after thirty years, transfer him all around the university and now this. He’s got a wife with cancer and a mentally retarded boy, you know.’
‘I knew about the boy,’ said Dewar ‘I didn’t know about his wife. I was speaking to him before I left, or should I say he was the only one left speaking to me by that time!’
Malloy gave a lop-sided grin. ‘I can imagine.’
‘He seemed to be taking it philosophically,’ said Dewar.
‘Good,’ said Malloy. ‘He usually imagines that life is waging a personal vendetta against him.’
Dewar smiled. ‘He has a point by the sound of it. And you? What will you do now?’
‘I’ve had a couple of offers from drug companies in the last year. I turned them down but maybe it’s time for a slice of humble pie. Maybe mammon and me’ll get along just fine.’
‘Academics often talk a lot of nonsense about working in industry,’ said Dewar. ‘If you’re good, there’s no problem,’ said Dewar. ‘It’s half-arses industry’s not so keen on and most of the university-luvvies throwing up their hands in horror at the very idea of industry are exactly that. They know they’d be rumbled in that world within ten minutes and be shown the door.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’
Malloy got out of his chair and replenished their glasses. Dewar was about to decline but thought better of it. He could always get a taxi back to town and pick up his car tomorrow. Malloy needed company; it seemed the least he could do in the circumstances.
The Getz record had come to an end. ‘Other side?’ asked Malloy.
‘Why not.’
Dewar woke with a splitting headache to find that he still had all his clothes on and was still in the church at Temple. Malloy was asleep in the chair opposite, snoring quietly, his glass lying on its side on the carpet at his feet. He looked for his own and found it standing on the table beside an empty whisky bottle.
‘Streuth,’ he muttered as he rubbed at the stiffness in his neck from having slept in a chair. He stood up at the second attempt and went over to the window to look out. The rain had stopped but the sky didn’t look too promising. The grass was speckled with wet autumn leaves, themselves spattered with mud after the downpour of last night. He went off to the bathroom and felt better when he’d sluiced some hot water up into his face then rinsed out his mouth.
When he returned, Malloy was coming to with groans of protest at the stiffness in his limbs. ‘God, what time is it?’ he asked.
Dewar looked at his watch. ‘Seven thirty.’
‘Coffee, I need coffee.’
Dewar grinned and switched on the kettle.
Malloy didn’t speak again until he had taken a second mouthful of black coffee then he said suddenly, ‘You know, I still don’t believe that Le Grice agreed to do what you think he did.’
‘Everything points to it.’
Another long pause while Malloy, coffee mug cupped in two hands, considered. ‘I knew the man well,’ he said. ‘I didn’t like him much but we got on and I respected him as an able scientist. He was a lot of other things too- ambitious, insensitive, intolerant, obstinate: I wouldn’t have wanted my sister to marry him but he was anything but a fool and only a fool would have contemplated playing around with smallpox.’
‘I hear what you say,’ said Dewar. ‘But I have to go on the facts and they say he was up to no good.’
‘Oh, I accept that,’ said Malloy. ‘I just don’t think live smallpox was involved in the no-good he was up to.’
‘I can honestly say I hope to God you’re right about that,’ said Dewar with feeling. ‘Let’s look forward to Sandra being able to tell us what really happened before too long,’
‘Thanks for coming over last night,’ said Malloy. ‘I appreciate it.’
Dewar got up and started to put on his jacket. ‘It’s been a while since I drank myself to sleep.’
‘Me too,’ said Malloy.
The two men shook hands and Dewar started back for the city. The journey was uneventful and he got a knowing look from the desk clerk at his hotel when he asked for his key. He answered it with a stony stare before going upstairs to shower and change. He checked with the hospital; Sandra was still unconscious. He checked with Barron; the Iraqis still hadn’t shown any signs of leaving. He reported in to Sci-Med and was told that the contents of Malloy’s lab had reached Porton Down safely and were now being examined as a matter of urgency. There was nothing to do now but wait.
By Friday morning Dewar was starting to worry, not because Sandra was still in a coma but because the Iraqis were still not preparing to leave the city. This was not in the script. The fact that they were still there even started to cast doubt over Le Grice’s role.