The Gulf Conspiracy by Ken McClure

Sometimes I think that editing a paper is like juggling with one hand tied behind your back.’
    ‘ Do you know where in the Highlands he was going to?’ asked Steven.
    ‘ No, it’s his own place and somewhere he’s always regarded as his bolthole. It’s where he goes to escape the cares of the world or when he’s feeling put-upon. He’s never been keen on telling any of us where it is, presumably in case we arrive on his doorstep armed with fishing rods and cases of lager. It’s become a bit of a joke in the office. They talk about Martin going up to Balmoral. I think he inherited the place from his parents, nothing too grand, just a hut up in the hills I think.’
    ‘ He must have a mobile phone?’
    ‘ He’s not answering. I’ll give you the number if you like but he’s probably switched it off while he’s working. I don’t think the muse cares for ‘Fur Elise’ going off every ten minutes.’
    ‘ How about the man he went to see in Glasgow. Do you know anything about him?’
    ‘ No to that too, I’m afraid.’
    ‘ If he gets in contact will you tell him I have to speak to him?’ said Steven. ‘It’s important.’
    ‘ Of course, leave me your number.’
    Steven left his mobile number and rang off. He immediately rang Sci-Med to ask if they’d managed to get anything out of the Ministry of Defence.’
    ‘ Nothing yet,’ replied Rose Roberts. ‘I did mark it urgent but then . . .’
    ‘ I know,’ said Steven. ‘Keep at them, Rose.’
    Steven realised that he was hungry; he hadn’t eaten properly since breakfast time. There had just been no time for lunch although he’d managed to grab a couple of sandwiches at Jane Sebring’s place after the funeral. He found he had nothing in the flat in the way of the tinned or packet food he depended on - he’d never really got round to learning to cook - so he went out to The Jade Garden, his local Chinese take-away where he was a regular at least once a week and picked up some hot food. He came back and watched the news on television while he worked his way through lemon chicken and special fried rice.
    He learned that George W Bush seemed determined to extend his supposed war on terrorism by going to war with Iraq and Tony Blair still seemed solid in his support of US policy - as indeed he had been since the destruction of the twin towers - but convincing other countries of the justification of a new initiative against Saddam was proving problematical. Nothing was ever going to be quick or easy once the United Nations became involved, thought Steven. He recalled the adage of a camel being a horse designed by a committee. He turned off the TV as the news ended and put the Stan Getz album, Jazz Samba , on the stereo while he considered what he should do next with the Sebring investigation.
    If Sebring really had given Martin Hendry a story about the Gulf War and Hendry had gone to Glasgow with it, you didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out that there was a good chance the man was the activist, Angus Maclean. According to DCI Norris, Maclean worked in a Glasgow hospital as a lab technician.
    After wondering for a moment if it would be worth his while going up there to speak to Maclean he concluded that he had nothing to lose by doing so and maybe everything to gain. He would fly up to Glasgow in the morning but before setting off, he would call Norris in Leicester to get some more details about Maclean and his place of work.
     
    Steven’s flight into Glasgow touched down a little after ten and he took a taxi to the Princess Louise Hospital. As both the airport and the hospital lay out to the west of the city it only took fifteen minutes. He followed the signs to the microbiology laboratories through a maze of corridors and waited in line at the Reception counter while a nurse in front of him delivered a series of clinical specimens she’d brought up from one of the wards.
    ‘ Jeeez-O!’ said the young male technician behind the counter.