requested and even then, details about the child who had contracted tuberculosis were missing. ‘Sir John will explain,’ said Jean.
‘Her Majesty’s Government is only too well aware of the potential repercussions of revealing that a non-white immigrant child has exposed a number of British children to the scourge of tuberculosis,’ said Macmillan. ‘It has been decided that only a select few should have access to the child’s identity and whereabouts. A top level decision, I’m told.’
‘And we are not among that select few?’
Macmillan paused for a moment before saying, ‘I know it’s in your nature to dig in your heels and demand to know things. This is not a criticism; you’ve usually been right when you’ve smelled a rat but on this occasion I have to ask you formally if it is really necessary for you to know the identity of this child – if it is, I promise I will get it for you but first you have to assure me that it is.’
It was Steven’s turn to pause for thought. ‘No, it isn’t absolutely necessary,’ he admitted, although he added quickly, ‘at the moment.’
Later, Steven sat down in his favourite chair by the window in his apartment where he could see the river traffic pass by through a gap in the buildings opposite. A Sci-Med salary did not run to a riverside address. He had had to settle for one street back but it had everything he needed and afforded him views of the sky and the river. As he slumped back in the chair looking up at passing clouds, he wondered what Scott Haldane had been so upset about – not being given details of the child with TB? He doubted that. It could have no relevance. No, he concluded, he was still missing something here. Maybe he still hadn’t asked the right question.
Yet again, he looked down the list of children who had been green-stickered for follow-up, one hundred and eight from across the UK and all in the twelve-to thirteen-year-old age range. Was it something in the way they had been exposed to the danger that had alarmed Haldane? Maybe a lack of primary checks on immigrant pupils? Possibly something in the way the incident had been handled at Pinetops? Or afterwards? The continuing niggle that he was missing something made Steven decide to drive up to the Lake District in the morning.
SEVEN
After several hours of stop-go travel due to road works and the sheer volume of traffic, Steven finally found some space on the M6 and gunned the Porsche Boxster up to the legal limit. As he’d noticed so many times before, the further north you travelled, the lighter the traffic became. He had bought the Porsche as a replacement for his ageing MGF when it had finally become too expensive to maintain and its British manufacturer looked like joining it in the knackers’ yard. He knew that a Porsche might be considered an indulgence when he had so little time to drive it but he had compromised on his original plan to nuke the piggy bank completely and go for the 911 and settled instead for its little brother, the Boxster. Boys’ toys? Maybe, but there was no Mrs Dunbar to point this out.
Around two in the afternoon, the soporific boredom of the motorway gave way to the winding roads of the Lake District where the Porsche came into its own, sticking to the road like glue through the curves however hard he pushed it, not that he pushed it too hard, just enough to experience the exhilaration that driving a Porsche could bring.
He had deliberately come a bit further north on the motorway than had strictly been necessary just so that he could drive along the north shore of Ullswater and pass through Glenridding where he’d spent his childhood before heading on down to Windermere. His parents were both dead and he had no siblings so there was no reason for him to stop there but it was nice to flirt with old memories and feel nostalgia for an upbringing that had been idyllic. He coaxed the Porsche up through the Kirkstone Pass and paused at the top to
‘Her Majesty’s Government is only too well aware of the potential repercussions of revealing that a non-white immigrant child has exposed a number of British children to the scourge of tuberculosis,’ said Macmillan. ‘It has been decided that only a select few should have access to the child’s identity and whereabouts. A top level decision, I’m told.’
‘And we are not among that select few?’
Macmillan paused for a moment before saying, ‘I know it’s in your nature to dig in your heels and demand to know things. This is not a criticism; you’ve usually been right when you’ve smelled a rat but on this occasion I have to ask you formally if it is really necessary for you to know the identity of this child – if it is, I promise I will get it for you but first you have to assure me that it is.’
It was Steven’s turn to pause for thought. ‘No, it isn’t absolutely necessary,’ he admitted, although he added quickly, ‘at the moment.’
Later, Steven sat down in his favourite chair by the window in his apartment where he could see the river traffic pass by through a gap in the buildings opposite. A Sci-Med salary did not run to a riverside address. He had had to settle for one street back but it had everything he needed and afforded him views of the sky and the river. As he slumped back in the chair looking up at passing clouds, he wondered what Scott Haldane had been so upset about – not being given details of the child with TB? He doubted that. It could have no relevance. No, he concluded, he was still missing something here. Maybe he still hadn’t asked the right question.
Yet again, he looked down the list of children who had been green-stickered for follow-up, one hundred and eight from across the UK and all in the twelve-to thirteen-year-old age range. Was it something in the way they had been exposed to the danger that had alarmed Haldane? Maybe a lack of primary checks on immigrant pupils? Possibly something in the way the incident had been handled at Pinetops? Or afterwards? The continuing niggle that he was missing something made Steven decide to drive up to the Lake District in the morning.
SEVEN
After several hours of stop-go travel due to road works and the sheer volume of traffic, Steven finally found some space on the M6 and gunned the Porsche Boxster up to the legal limit. As he’d noticed so many times before, the further north you travelled, the lighter the traffic became. He had bought the Porsche as a replacement for his ageing MGF when it had finally become too expensive to maintain and its British manufacturer looked like joining it in the knackers’ yard. He knew that a Porsche might be considered an indulgence when he had so little time to drive it but he had compromised on his original plan to nuke the piggy bank completely and go for the 911 and settled instead for its little brother, the Boxster. Boys’ toys? Maybe, but there was no Mrs Dunbar to point this out.
Around two in the afternoon, the soporific boredom of the motorway gave way to the winding roads of the Lake District where the Porsche came into its own, sticking to the road like glue through the curves however hard he pushed it, not that he pushed it too hard, just enough to experience the exhilaration that driving a Porsche could bring.
He had deliberately come a bit further north on the motorway than had strictly been necessary just so that he could drive along the north shore of Ullswater and pass through Glenridding where he’d spent his childhood before heading on down to Windermere. His parents were both dead and he had no siblings so there was no reason for him to stop there but it was nice to flirt with old memories and feel nostalgia for an upbringing that had been idyllic. He coaxed the Porsche up through the Kirkstone Pass and paused at the top to
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