‘See you then.’
There was only one other car in the car park when Steven arrived, a black Porsche Cayenne, which he assumed would belong to Phillip St Clair. The Honda looked like a toy beside it. The door to the building was locked so he rang the bell and waited for a voice from the grille beside it. Instead, St Clair came and opened the door personally. ‘Come on in. I’m just about to have some coffee. Will you join me?’
Steven thanked him. ‘Black, no sugar. Nice car,’ he said, looking back at the Cayenne.
‘Thanks, a 4x4 with the performance of a 911, what more could you ask? You’re a Porsche man too, aren’t you? In the garage?’
‘Bit of an accident,’ said Steven.
‘Sorry to hear that, not your fault, I hope. Insurance is a bit of a killer on these things.’
‘Not exactly,’ said Steven as St Clair went next door for the coffee.
‘Thank God you didn’t ask for a skinny, decaf latte or some such thing,’ laughed St Clair when he returned with two mugs bearing the company logo. ‘Coffee seems to have become an A level subject these days.’
‘Know what you mean.’
‘So, how can I help you?’
‘The Nichol vaccine,’ said Steven. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘What’s to say? It’s a brilliant piece of work from a brilliant scientist who tragically won’t see his work receive the acclaim it richly deserves. I understand they still haven’t got the bastard who ran him down.’
‘Was anyone else involved in the design?’
St Clair shook his head. ‘Not really. Alan had technical help but it was really all his baby. He snipped away at the genome of the TB bug until it was no longer infectious but still stimulated good levels of antibodies against TB — exactly what the doctor ordered, you might say.’
‘Absolutely, but I’m afraid I’m still not quite clear about the funding for the work,’ said Steven. ‘Vaccine design and production isn’t something you associate with small companies, no disrespect.’
‘None taken and you’re quite right but times have changed. Government needs all the help it can get these days and cash incentives were on offer to those who could come up with the goods, small or otherwise.’
‘Incentives?’ asked Steven.
‘If you were willing to take the risk and could find financial backers to support your confidence in your researchers and they came up trumps, the rewards for success were substantial — an initial seven-figure prize plus reimbursement of development costs, a further lump sum on completion of field trials and finally a government contract to supply the vaccine for general use.’
‘I see,’ said Steven. ‘But then you fell at the last hurdle and one hundred and eight children were injected with something that’s already caused one death with the possibility that it may still cause more?’
St Clair stopped smiling as if conceding that he had been insensitive in over-emphasising the positives. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘An unfortunate accident did occur, there’s no denying this but it was something beyond our control, a chance in a million, a problem in the manufacturing plant leading to contamination of the vials, something we worked day and night to help uncover, I have to say.’
‘How many were involved in that?’ asked Steven. ‘Alan Nichol and who else?’
‘Not Alan,’ said St Clair. ‘Alan died shortly before we discovered the source of the problem.’
‘I didn’t realise that,’ said Steven.
‘I had every other member of the scientific and technical staff drop whatever they were doing to work on it. The manufacturing company, Redmond Medical, had a team working round the clock and a government lab was also involved.’
‘Which one of you discovered the toxin?’
‘We did,’ said St Clair. ‘Traces of a cytotoxic agent were found in the injection vials. We discovered this by taking samples from the vials and injecting them into human cell cultures. When the cells started to die, the alarm bells started ringing. Naturally we informed both the DOH and Redmond Medical immediately and the plant was closed down.’
‘Does anyone know how the toxin got into the vials?’
‘Only that Redmond had been producing ampoules of these cytotoxic chemicals for a pharmaceutical company investigating combinations of these agents for anti-cancer properties. It’s pretty obvious there must have been cross-contamination at some stage but, as yet, we don’t know at which one.’
‘A worry,’ said Steven.
‘Tell me about it. Redmond is still at a standstill. The government has withdrawn their accreditation and we’ve had to use another company to start production again.’
‘Was Alan Nichol alive when kids started to fall ill?’
St Clair nodded. ‘Yes, it was Alan who drew our attention to it in the first place. He raised the alarm. He’d been keeping a close eye on the children’s health records.’
‘The green sticker monitor?’
‘Exactly. It wasn’t obvious to the rest of us at first but Alan saw a pattern emerge and hit the panic button.’
‘I think I may have asked you this before, but does the name Scott Haldane mean anything to you?’
St Clair appeared to give the question some thought before saying, ‘I do remember you asking but it meant nothing to me then and nothing now. Should it?’
‘He was a GP in Scotland who also suspected there was something wrong with the vaccine. I just wondered if he’d made contact with you or Alan Nichol at any point.’
‘Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘No matter,’ said Steven pleasantly, getting up to go. ‘Many thanks for your help.’
‘Not at all,’ said St Clair. ‘I’m glad I was able to talk openly to you this time. Living with secrets is not as easy as people might imagine.’
‘No,’ agreed Steven, thinking of Tally.
Steven drove into Cambridge proper and found a place to eat: he had skipped breakfast after a restless night. He parked the car and looked around, finally settling for coffee and croissants in a small cafe boasting Tudor beams and a frontage leading down to the river. A couple of punts moored at the water’s edge and nestling under a weeping willow set the scene for calm reflection on what he’d learned.
It was Alan Nichol himself who had raised the alarm over what was happening to the green sticker children but he was dead by the time three separate groups had set out to establish the source of the problem. It was the scientists at St Clair Genomics who had uncovered traces of the toxin in the vaccine vials and the problem had been ascribed to Redmond Medical, the company contracted to prepare injection vials of the Nichol vaccine. Redmond had been bottling toxic compounds for another company immediately before starting the vial run for St Clair so everything seemed to fit… except for Alan Nichol’s murder.
Steven ordered more coffee from a waitress who looked and sounded as if she belonged in a Jane Austen novel. She was doing a Saturday job, he concluded. She’d be back studying English Lit on Monday morning. He wondered if he could have been wrong about Nichol being murdered. If his death had been an accident, he wouldn’t be currently left trying to fit a square piece into a round hole.
Try as he might, Steven could not bring himself to believe that Nichol’s death had been accidental. He remained convinced that he had been murdered. The strange red car, parked at the head of Nichol’s street, had been just too much of a coincidence. This still left him looking for a motive. Nichol had died after raising the alarm about the health of the green sticker children but before the vial contamination had been discovered. The answer had to lie somewhere in that time frame. Nichol couldn’t have been killed to stop him talking about the possibility of contamination because it was common knowledge among the others in the lab. In fact, just about everyone at St Clair Genomics had been detailed to work on it. His death didn’t make sense unless… someone was lying about something. But what?
Steven paid the bill and left, choosing to walk by the river for a bit and feeling nostalgic for the days of his youth when he came across groups of students enjoying a sunny Saturday, free of lectures and all care it seemed as they laughed and chatted their way along the banks of the Cam. It made him wonder if he had already reached the age where he had become invisible to the young. The argument that he was only… twice their age — my God, was it really that much? — failed to provide reassurance.