Dewar sighed but was not really surprised. He said he’d be in touch. The words, “no evidence” as applied to Kelly, stayed with him as he drove over to the hospital, this time in a pool car supplied by the Scottish Office. When considered dispassionately, that could mean one of two things. Either there was evidence but Malloy hadn’t found it yet or there never could be any evidence because Kelly really never had been there
If the latter were true but the institute was still the source of the virus, then he must have come into contact with a pure culture of the virus somewhere outside the institute. That was the simple conclusion. He was back to wondering about Kelly possibly having known Ali Hammadi or Pierre Le Grice. He’d been down that road before but maybe Kelly had been employed as some kind of go-between somewhere along the line? But then, who would use a drug addict with all that that implied in terms of unpredictability and unreliability, on any kind of an errand involving a deadly virus. He was back to square one.
George Finlay wasn’t in the Wellcome Unit; he was up in the ward they were using. Dewar spoke to the woman doctor left in charge; he’d seen her on his last visit but hadn’t spoken to her.
‘Anne McGowan,’ she smiled as she shook his hand.
‘How are things?’
‘It’s going to get worse before it gets better. ‘We’re full; the ward upstairs has been filling up and there are still more coming in. Dr Finlay is supervising the commissioning of the second ward. Anyway, what can I do for you?’
‘I need to speak to Tommy Hannan.’
‘I don’t think you’ll get much sense. He’s been deteriorating rapidly since he came in.’
Dewar grimaced and said, ‘I should have interviewed him when he was first admitted but he seemed at an early stage of the disease and I thought it would be more productive if I let him settle in first, get over the disorientation of being admitted, that sort of thing.’
‘I could say, I’d never seen anything like it, but that wouldn’t mean much. None of us have seen smallpox before. What I really mean is that it wasn’t like the text books say it should be. The disease in Tommy Hannan’s case developed much faster than it should.’
‘As fast as Kelly?’ asked Dewar, suddenly excited and seeing a very good question to ask.
Anne McGowan thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I think so,’ she said. ‘The other cases have been more text book in terms of development time. Only Hannan and Kelly had the rapid form.’
This was progress, thought Dewar. If the ‘rapid form’, as the doctor called it, was really down to a much higher infecting dose, as Wright had proposed, then Hannan had not caught the disease from Kelly. He too must have been in contact with a pure culture. That was worth knowing. It meant that Hannan, in theory, might be able to tell him everything that Kelly might have.
‘What about Hannan’s wife, Sharon?’ he asked. ‘Is she still okay?’
‘She’s been complaining of feeling unwell. She’s developed flu-like symptoms. I think she may be coming down with it.’
‘Damn,’ said Dewar quietly. ‘And Denise Banyon?’
‘Still well and still as obnoxious as ever.’
Dewar smiled but he recognised it would no longer be possible to put Sharon and Denise together if Sharon were coming down with the disease. He’d have to see them individually if he couldn’t get any sense from Hannan.
‘I think I’d like to see Tommy Hannan anyway,’ he said.
‘If you get suited up, you’ll find him in number 6. I’ll tell the nurses to expect you.’
Dewar put on his protective clothing, checking all the points listed on the wall of the changing room before venturing into the airlock leading through to the corridor leading to the isolation suites. It was quiet, the only sound coming from the hum of the electric air filters. He knocked and entered suite 6.
He was shocked at the appearance of Hannan. The slight papular rash he’d had on his face when he’d first seen him had progressed incredibly quickly into full pustular smallpox. His breathing sounded rasping and laboured; the mucosa of his throat was obviously affected. The sound made Dewar ponder on just how much faith he and the people working here and up in the ward were putting in the vaccine that protected them. The breath that Hannan was expelling with so much difficulty would be loaded with tiny moisture droplets containing thousands of live virus particles.
‘Tommy, can you hear me?’ he asked.
Hannan stopped staring at the ceiling and turned his head slightly, as if it were painful to do so. ‘Who? …’ he croaked.
‘Adam Dewar. I brought you in. Remember? With Sharon in the ambulance?’
Hannan closed his eyes and gave a slight nod and a croak.
‘Tommy, I need to know how you got this disease. Will you help me? I have to ask you some questions.’
No response.
‘It’s important, Tommy.’
‘Bastard,’ croaked Hannan.
Dewar wondered about the abuse then realised it wasn’t directed at him. ‘Who, Tommy? Who’s a bastard?’
‘Mike … took …stuff from this guy … Bastard!’
Dewar hadn’t realised that Hannan still though his condition was down to bad drugs. The hospital obviously hadn’t sought to disillusion him as yet.
‘Tommy, your illness is a disease. It’s got nothing to do with drugs. Do you understand?’
‘Bastard … when I get … out of here … I’m gonna cut. that bas …
A rasping sigh came from Hannan’s throat and his head rolled on the pillow. For a moment Dewar thought he was dead but he could still hear his breathing like a saw cutting soft wood. He was exhausted; he had lapsed into the margins that lay between sleep and unconsciousness. Dewar stood there watching him for a few moments before he heard the nurse come in. He nodded and moved away, wondering if he would get another chance to talk to Hannan. It was something he wouldn’t bet on.
As he straightened up, he noticed the light in the room catch the tiny drops of moisture on his visor. For the first time in a long time he felt a pang of genuine fear. It only lasted a moment or so but to feel his throat tighten and his stomach go hollow while goose-bumps rose on his neck was something that made him feel slightly ashamed before he started to rationalise it. Maybe it was no bad thing to be afraid of the virus. If nothing else, it meant you had respect for it. More importantly, it made damn sure you wouldn’t underestimate it.
Dewar returned to the changing room and went through the routine of primary disinfection of his protective suiting and visor before taking a shower. He had decided to tackle Denise Banyon again.
Denise was slumped in a chair, watching television as she had been the last time he’d seen her. This time she was watching something involving wailing police sirens. She greeted his entrance with, ‘I thought I told you to fuck off.’
‘I hoped we might clear up the misunderstanding and start over,’ said Dewar calmly.
‘There’s no fucking misunderstanding, pal. Just get your arse out of here.’
‘Denise, I desperately need your help. I have to know how Mike caught the disease.’
‘Mike’s dead.’
‘I know and I’m sorry but I still have to know how he got it. It could save many other lives.’
Denise sneered at the notion. ‘Not that old one. Other lives my arse, you just want to know where he got the stuff. Well, you’re not getting it from me. Right? Now, for the last time, fuck off!’
‘For Christ’s sake woman, I don’t want to know anything about drugs! Can’t you get that through your thick head? Mike died of smallpox not bad drugs!’
Dewar immediately regretted having lost his temper. He saw the look of triumph appear on Denise’s face. ‘Dearie me,’ she sneered. ‘Whatever happened to Mr Nice Guy?’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s true.’
‘Bollocks! You lot are always so full of shite. You think I don’t know what you’re really thinking but I do. You think the likes of me and Mike are rubbish, little pieces of shit for you to smarm up to when it suits you, just until you get what you want. Treat her like a lady and she’ll think Prince Charming’s arrived on his bloody horse. The silly cow’ll tell you everything, shop her mates, drop them in it, drop her drawers for you too if you fancy a bit of rough. Dead easy. Well, you’ve picked the wrong one here, pal. Now for the last time, … FUCK OFF!’ The look of loathing in Denise’s eyes made Dewar accept defeat and leave the room.
The drive back to the Scottish Office was a time for facing facts. The wipers cleared away light rain as he recognised he wasn’t going to get any more out of Hannan or Denise Banyon — Hannan because he’d be too ill or even dead by the morrow and Denise because she was absolutely determined not to tell him anything. He doubted that Sharon Hannan would have any more to add to what she’d already said so that meant he had all the information he was going to get. It wasn’t much.
Two drug-addicted petty criminals had come into contact with a live culture of smallpox virus. God knows how. Both men had ascribed their illness to bad drugs. Neither man had any known connection with the Institute of Molecular Sciences or any of the staff there. It definitely wasn’t much.
Dewar phoned Karen when he got back.
‘You don’t sound too happy,’ she said.
‘I’ve got nothing to be happy about. Things are going from bad to worse up here.’
‘I caught the news,’ said Karen. ‘Your “mystery illness” seems to be getting a hold.’
‘It looks like it,’ agreed Dewar.
‘I had a vaccination today,’ said Karen.
‘What for?’ asked Dewar, sounding alarmed.
‘We had an internal request for Public Health Service volunteers to come to Edinburgh. I volunteered.’
‘Jesus,’ said Dewar.
‘That’s it? That’s all you have to say?’
‘God, I don’t know what to say … I’m proud, I’m pleased … I’m scared stiff and I wish to God you hadn’t done it.’
‘Well, I have. ‘I’ll be up the day after tomorrow. I’ll stay at Mum’s until they tell me where I’ll be most useful. My briefing also said you lot were going for physical containment of the disease?’
‘We don’t have an alternative. Starts tomorrow before daybreak.’
‘The sort of thing that could go very wrong,’ said Karen.
‘We won’t know until we try it.’
‘I’ll be thinking of you.’
‘Karen, I love you.’
‘I love you too. Take care. I’ll see you soon.’
Dewar put down the phone and walked over to the window. It was raining heavily now. There was no wind; it was falling like stair rods.