call for volunteer nurses, as I knew there would be. I think we can safely say that we are on top of things at the moment.’
‘Well done.’ He turned to Morely and asked, ‘How about contacts? Any problems there?’
‘All the friends and relatives we’ve seen seem to understand the gravity of the situation and are reconciled to staying indoors for the ten-day period. We’ve had no real opposition at all,’ said Morely. ‘I think the same goes for the community nurses?’
One of the nursing staff took her cue and agreed that this was the case.
‘Excellent,’ said Byars. ‘How about the academics? Any progress in establishing the source of the outbreak, Professor?’
‘Not yet,’ admitted Cane. ‘But we had one interesting piece of news this afternoon. Porton say that the Manchester virus is identical to the Heathrow one.’
SEVEN
Steven returned to his hotel with positive feelings about the meeting. He would have felt less happy with the news about the Manchester and Heathrow viruses being identical had it not been for his findings at Ann Danby’s flat. As it was, it just seemed to confirm that Vincent Bell was the link, something he should be able to establish beyond doubt next day. If he did, and if the medical teams in Manchester continued to keep tight control over the outbreak, there was a good chance that the whole affair might be consigned to history by the end of the following week.
The only loose end left would be how Humphrey Barclay had contracted the disease in the first place. It might not be relevant in a practical sense if the outbreak could be eradicated without knowing, Steven conceded, but he suspected that the question was going to niggle away at him for some time. If the answer lay in Africa, as it seemed it must, that was probably where it would remain. It would be yet another secret of the Dark Continent.
Steven flew down to London first thing in the morning and picked up a hired car from the Hertz desk at Heathrow. Traffic on the A2 was as bad as he expected, but he still managed to make Canterbury by lunchtime, and he left the car in one of the large car parks outside the city walls. He took a walk along the main thoroughfare in bright winter sunshine, looking for a street guide to tell him where Mulberry Lane was, but also because he wanted to take a look at the old city again.
It was a while since he’d been there and he had a soft spot for Canterbury, having spent many of the summer holidays of his youth working on an uncle’s fruit farm out in the Kent countryside. He saw the area as quintessentially English, different from the North he was more used to, England’s brain rather than its brawn. The cathedral’s huge presence still dominated the city and seemed to influence everything in it from the names of the narrow streets to the contents of its bookshops, the weight of its history almost tangibly forming a bridge between past and present. A chattering group of choristers from the cathedral school, unselfconscious in their cassocks, passed by and reminded Steven that Christmas was little more than a month away. They’d be singing carols soon.
Mulberry Lane, when he eventually found it, comprised a row of pretty little cottages backing on to the River Stour. It would not have looked out of place in a scene from The Wind in the Willows and he half expected Ratty and Mole to appear at any moment, arguing about nothing too important. He found the cottage he was looking for and walked up its meandering gravel path to knock on the heavy wooden door. After a short delay a stocky man with dyed auburn hair combed over a freckled, balding scalp opened the door and looked him up and down. He was wearing an apron with vintage cars on it and wiping his hands on a tea towel.
‘Mr Bell?’ asked Steven.
‘No, who wants him?’ asked the man. His voice had a lisp.
‘My name’s Dunbar. I’m an investigator with the Sci-Med Inspectorate. I’d like a word with
‘Well done.’ He turned to Morely and asked, ‘How about contacts? Any problems there?’
‘All the friends and relatives we’ve seen seem to understand the gravity of the situation and are reconciled to staying indoors for the ten-day period. We’ve had no real opposition at all,’ said Morely. ‘I think the same goes for the community nurses?’
One of the nursing staff took her cue and agreed that this was the case.
‘Excellent,’ said Byars. ‘How about the academics? Any progress in establishing the source of the outbreak, Professor?’
‘Not yet,’ admitted Cane. ‘But we had one interesting piece of news this afternoon. Porton say that the Manchester virus is identical to the Heathrow one.’
SEVEN
Steven returned to his hotel with positive feelings about the meeting. He would have felt less happy with the news about the Manchester and Heathrow viruses being identical had it not been for his findings at Ann Danby’s flat. As it was, it just seemed to confirm that Vincent Bell was the link, something he should be able to establish beyond doubt next day. If he did, and if the medical teams in Manchester continued to keep tight control over the outbreak, there was a good chance that the whole affair might be consigned to history by the end of the following week.
The only loose end left would be how Humphrey Barclay had contracted the disease in the first place. It might not be relevant in a practical sense if the outbreak could be eradicated without knowing, Steven conceded, but he suspected that the question was going to niggle away at him for some time. If the answer lay in Africa, as it seemed it must, that was probably where it would remain. It would be yet another secret of the Dark Continent.
Steven flew down to London first thing in the morning and picked up a hired car from the Hertz desk at Heathrow. Traffic on the A2 was as bad as he expected, but he still managed to make Canterbury by lunchtime, and he left the car in one of the large car parks outside the city walls. He took a walk along the main thoroughfare in bright winter sunshine, looking for a street guide to tell him where Mulberry Lane was, but also because he wanted to take a look at the old city again.
It was a while since he’d been there and he had a soft spot for Canterbury, having spent many of the summer holidays of his youth working on an uncle’s fruit farm out in the Kent countryside. He saw the area as quintessentially English, different from the North he was more used to, England’s brain rather than its brawn. The cathedral’s huge presence still dominated the city and seemed to influence everything in it from the names of the narrow streets to the contents of its bookshops, the weight of its history almost tangibly forming a bridge between past and present. A chattering group of choristers from the cathedral school, unselfconscious in their cassocks, passed by and reminded Steven that Christmas was little more than a month away. They’d be singing carols soon.
Mulberry Lane, when he eventually found it, comprised a row of pretty little cottages backing on to the River Stour. It would not have looked out of place in a scene from The Wind in the Willows and he half expected Ratty and Mole to appear at any moment, arguing about nothing too important. He found the cottage he was looking for and walked up its meandering gravel path to knock on the heavy wooden door. After a short delay a stocky man with dyed auburn hair combed over a freckled, balding scalp opened the door and looked him up and down. He was wearing an apron with vintage cars on it and wiping his hands on a tea towel.
‘Mr Bell?’ asked Steven.
‘No, who wants him?’ asked the man. His voice had a lisp.
‘My name’s Dunbar. I’m an investigator with the Sci-Med Inspectorate. I’d like a word with
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