‘Yes… thank you, fine… I just thought I’d call and apologise for the trouble I caused.’
‘No problem, sir. All in a day’s work.’
‘It was the car,’ said Steven to Macmillan. ‘They, whoever they are, reported it stolen. The tracker service told them where it was.’
Macmillan nodded. ‘If I remember rightly, that kind of device saved your life once when the police used it to track you down.’
Steven smiled. ‘Well, at least we know the how… all we need now is the who and the why.’
‘I’m going to call a meeting at the highest level,’ said Macmillan. ‘No more pussy-footing around. Someone has some explaining to do. In the meantime we’ll have to square things with the police up in Leicester and see if we can get some ID on your attackers.’
‘And if they should turn out to be MI5 doing HMG’s bidding?’ asked Steven.
‘That doesn’t bear thinking about,’ said Macmillan.
‘Personally, I can think of little else.’
‘You should be armed. Ask Jean to fix it. Keep a low profile for the time being. I’ll let you know when the meeting is set up.’
Steven got up to go.
‘About the police guard on Dr Simmons?’
‘Maybe keep it on until we know a bit more about what happened and why?’
‘Very well. By the way, Jean mentioned something about having something for you,’ said Macmillan as Steven opened the door.
In the outer office Jean Roberts said, ‘This came in for you this morning. It’s the update on the green sticker children you requested.’
Steven thanked her and said that he needed to make a weapons requisition.
Jean brought out the relevant form from her desk and asked Steven to sign. ‘I’ll phone ahead so the armourer will expect you,’ she said. ‘Be careful.’
Steven smiled and nodded in recognition of the concern that had been in her voice. He disliked carrying a gun for all the usual reasons that surfaced when the suggestion that the UK police be armed was made but when his life was under threat — as it clearly was after this morning’s incident — he felt more comfortable with the odds redressed a little.
He picked up a Glock 23 automatic pistol from the armourer, who also fitted him with a shoulder holster. ‘Neat weapon,’ said the man. ‘No one will notice it. Not much good for invading Iraq but fine for just-in-case duties.’
‘Good,’ said Steven flatly.
The mere presence of the weapon underlined the fact that he was now involved in the type of investigation which distanced him from normal life. He’d have to make excuses to Jenny about not being able to come up to Scotland and to Tally because he didn’t want to put her life in danger. It was a depressing thought. How could any relationship flourish in such circumstances? How could he put it to Tally that there had been an attempt on his life this morning? What did he expect her to say? Gosh, that’s exciting, you’d better take care? On the other hand, how could he not tell her if he didn’t want the relationship to be built on lies from the outset?
He could hardly dismiss what had happened as a bit of a hard day at the office. He couldn’t even tread a middle path and tell her that this was an unprecedented occurrence and unlikely to ever happen again when the weapon currently nestling under his left armpit had been there before and probably would be again… unless he left Sci-Med and got himself another job, an ordinary 9 ’til 5 — catch the 8.15 every morning, three weeks holiday a year — job. This was the bottom line he always baulked at despite knowing that he wasn’t getting any younger and there would come a time when he would have to leave front-line investigation to someone younger while he… did what?
As always, Steven put an end to this line of thought but remembered the maxim, Life is what happens to you while you’re planning for the future. Embrace today, not tomorrow.
Before he went home, Steven decided to sort out his transport problem. He would need a car to use while Sci-Med dealt with the paperwork surrounding the demise of his Porsche. Insurance for Sci-Med people, be it home, personal injury, car or life, was covered by the organisation. He had already decided against using a pool car because details would be too readily available. It might be paranoia but he would make his own arrangements for the time being.
Steven caught a cab and got out about a quarter of a mile from where he actually wanted to go and used a succession of side streets to get to Stan Silver’s garage in Dorset Mews. Silver had also served in the Regiment although not at the same time as Steven but it was enough to cement a bond of respect and friendship between the two men.
‘So where’s the Boxster?’ asked Silver when they’d shaken hands and given each other a hug. It had been Silver who had sold Steven the car. He wiped his hands on an oily rag as he took an exaggerated look along the lane in both directions.
‘It is no more,’ replied Steven.
‘You haven’t trashed another motor?’ laughed Silver.
‘I wasn’t entirely to blame.’
‘Bloody hell. That was a real nice car. So, does this mean you’re looking for a replacement?’
‘As soon as the paperwork’s sorted out,’ said Steven. ‘I’ll give you a ring but in the meantime…’
‘You need wheels.’ Silver led the way to his yard at the back of the mews garage where half a dozen cars were parked. ‘A bit of a come down but you can have one of these for the time being although I may have to call it in if I find an interested party.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Steven.
Silver looked around and pointed to a small, black Honda. ‘How about that one? It’s a Civic Type R. Looks nothing special but hides its light under a bushel you might say.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Steven.
‘I’ll get the keys.’
Steven followed Silver into the garage preparing to formalise the loan of the car and pay up-front. Silver handed him the keys. ‘We’ll sort that out later when you’ve got less on your mind.’
Steven gave him a quizzical look.
‘You’re carrying. I felt it when I hugged you. You’re into something heavy. We’ll leave the paperwork for another time.’
‘Thanks, Stan.’
‘Just don’t go trashing my motor.’
Steven drove the Honda round to his apartment block and parked it in the basement garage, deliberately not using his own space but that of a neighbour he knew to be away in Australia visiting relatives.
Once inside his apartment, Steven took a cold beer from the fridge and settled down by the window. He knew he would have to phone both Jenny and Tally before the day was done — something he wasn’t looking forward to — but first he wanted to read through the update on the green sticker children.
His brow furrowed as he discovered that twenty-eight children had now had occasion to consult their family doctors: three had been admitted to hospital, fourteen had been referred to specialist clinics for further investigation and the remainder had been diagnosed and started on treatment. To the uninitiated, it would have looked as if they were suffering from a wide range of problems but Steven saw the common thread. The kids had skin problems. The three in hospital had been admitted for other reasons but skin complaints still featured somewhere in their notes. One girl had suffered severe lacerations to her left arm after an accident on an artificial ski slope and the failure of her skin to heal properly was giving concern. Steven heard echoes of Trish Lyons in every word he read. Another child, a boy, had crushed his foot in an accident involving farm machinery and post-surgical healing was not progressing as well as had been hoped. Doctors had expressed concern that an infection might be taking hold.
Steven put down the file and rubbed his eyes as he considered this latest instalment of the nightmare. He wondered if it would be worthwhile visiting any of these children and speaking to their doctors but concluded not, feeling that all that would yield would be a succession of medics puzzling over infections with persistently negative lab reports. It might be better to wait until Macmillan had set up the high-level meeting with health officials and hear an explanation of what was going on.