The Crick Institute, as Macmillan had indicated, was a Scientific Civil Service establishment with twelve members of scientific staff and eighteen technical and ancillary staff. Its broad general mandate was to design and test vaccines in accordance with perceived national requirements.
Steven made his own notes of its location and of the staff he might want to talk to. At the head of the list was Dr Nicholas Cleary who had been one of the first on the scene and who had gone in with the bio-hazard team to check the integrity of the institute’s microbe stocks. He also wanted to speak with the policeman in charge of investigating the case, Inspector Frank Giles, and to talk to the police pathologist, Dr Marjorie Ryman. He was particularly interested in establishing who had been responsible for calling in the army to deal with the escaped animals. And why? There had been no indication of this in the file.
Collected press cuttings showed that the public in general had been outraged by the murder of Timothy Devon and feelings against the animal rights movement in the country was running high — a situation fuelled by a tabloid press who were also getting on the backs of the Norfolk Police with their demands for an early arrest. ‘Blinded with Bleach!’ screamed The Sun. ‘Tortured to Death in a Cage’ trumpeted The Mirror.
Efforts by ‘responsible’ leaders of the animal rights movement were clearly failing in their attempts to distance themselves from what had happened at the Crick: the public simply didn’t want to know. Animal activists were all being tarred with the same brush. Moderate public opinion, that might until recently have had some sympathy with the aims of the animal lobby, were now turning away in disgust. People who could dig up the grave of an old woman and steal her body in an effort to blackmail her family into closing down their laboratory animal business — an outrage that had happened only a few weeks before in Staffordshire — and who could torture and murder a quiet academic were quite beyond the pale.
The broadsheets had also involved themselves in the case with readers’ letters suggesting that feeling was running almost as high among the country’s chattering classes. Steven found one particularly interesting cutting, an article taken from The Times, in which an expert on terrorism had claimed that the UK had become the equivalent of Afghanistan when it came to training animal rights activists. The British activists, he maintained, were the al-Qaeda of the animal rights world. This made Steven consider for a moment before concluding with a wry smile that this situation would not have escaped the attention of MI5 chief, Liz Manningham-Buller and her colleagues at Thames House. He wondered just how many security service personnel had already penetrated the animal rights movement. Not too many in Norfolk, he concluded ruefully.
He closed the file and saw that it was getting dark outside. It was four o’clock on a late November day and there was a slight drizzle in the air that was forming halos round the street lights. He’d been sitting in the library for three hours and now, he decided, it was time to go home, home to the flat he’d been away from for the past two weeks. He had flown down from Scotland that morning and gone directly to the Home Office to see Macmillan.
The flat would be cold and silent in the way it always was after he’d been away for more than a couple of days and the heating had been turned off. That first moment when he opened the door always served to remind him of how alone he was in the world. It was a moment he couldn’t avoid and it was always the same. Time would stand still as he thought how different life might have been had Lisa lived — he would imagine a scenario of light and warmth, full of smiles and news from Lisa and chatter from his daughter Jenny about her day at school but instead he would be standing perfectly still in darkness, feeling the cold, still air of the flat on his cheek and facing the fact that Lisa had gone for ever and Jenny was hundreds of miles away, telling someone else about her day at school. As always, he would quickly turn on all the lights, switch on the central heating and generally seek distraction in noise from either the radio or television and the moment would pass. Until the next time.
Steven’s flat was near the Thames but not quite on the waterfront. It was one street back but he could see the river and some of its traffic through a gap in the buildings opposite. He could see this from his favourite seat by the window which he plumped himself down in after pouring himself a large gin and tonic. He needed a plan of action: the water, gas and heating had all been turned back on but it would take a while for the flat to heat up and for there to be enough hot water for the bath he was looking forward to. He decided that he would go out and pick up some take-away food from his local Chinese restaurant, The Jade Garden, where he was a once-a-week regular customer; he hadn’t developed a liking or aptitude for cooking. The cupboards were bare, as was the fridge: he would have to pay a visit to the supermarket and stock up on packet meals but that could wait until tomorrow.
‘Yes sir… no sir… couldn’t agree more, sir… I’m sure we will sir… very good sir.’ Giles put down the phone.
‘Chief Super?’ asked Morley.
‘Wishing us well with our inquiries,’ said Giles.
‘That was nice of him…’ Morley faltered as he saw the sour look appear on Giles’ face.
‘If we don’t crack this and get the Press off his back real soon he’s going to have us both on school crossings for the foreseeable future.’
‘It’s not for want of trying; we interviewed nearly thirty animal rights suspects today,’ said Morley.
‘All of them adamant that the Crick affair was nothing to do with them or their responsible, law-abiding organisation and most of them with alibis.’
‘You have doubts?’ asked Morley.
Giles shook his head. ‘No, it takes a special sort of nutter to do what these bastards did to Devon and none of that lot fit the bill. They might be up for a bit of placard waving and hunt sabotage, maybe even stretch to car scratching and tyre slashing but cold blooded murder? Nope. We’re looking for outsiders. Our only hope is that they are not complete outsiders…’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’m hoping they at least made contact with local activists for information, if for no other reason.’
‘And that these locals contact us?’
‘You got it. I’m counting on them shitting themselves when they find out just what they’ve been accessories to. It’s my guess the weakest link will already be in a bad way, unable to eat or sleep, conscience screaming at them to get it off their chest. He or she will want to contact us and tell all. The strongest on the other hand will argue the case for saying nothing — just keep your trap shut and they can’t possibly touch us… just keep your nerve… keep your nerve.’
‘Who’ll win?’ asked Morley.
‘The desire to confess will be strong. But going down for life is a powerful deterrent however bad they’re feeling.’
‘We need a break.’
‘That’s right. Someone who notices their brother or sister, their boyfriend or son or daughter falling to pieces before their eyes for no known reason. Loss of appetite, constantly watching the news on telly, jumps down your throat at the most innocent of inquiries.’