‘C’mon. The hospital could get a locum in. Ask your boss about it. This would be a good time, right? Just after you’ve done him a favour.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘I’m serious. Talk to him tomorrow. You are going in tomorrow?’

‘Does the pope wear red socks?’

Three

Steven was back in London before one o’clock. He parked the Porsche in the underground car park at Marlborough Court and went upstairs to check that the flat was okay before setting off for the Home Office. He and Tally had decided that he should hold on to the property for a while when he moved to Leicester because the housing market was so dire, a decision that had proved fortuitous with his return to Sci-Med. It might well be the flat in Leicester they would be looking to sell if Tally managed to get a consultancy in the capital.

Jean Roberts, John Macmillan’s secretary welcomed him with her usual good humour and asked after Jenny.

‘She’s growing up far too fast,’ complained Steven. ‘Seems like only yesterday she was a baby.’

‘It’s frightening,’ agreed Jean. ‘My godson’s getting married in a few months and I still think of him as a schoolboy with grubby collars and scraped knees.’

John Macmillan, hearing the voices, emerged from his office and invited Steven through. ‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings about your friend. Must have put a damper on your weekend.’

‘You did the right thing,’ Steven assured him. ‘I think I will go to the funeral if that’s still all right with you?’

‘Of course. The computer’s been rather quiet for the past week or so.’

Sci-Med had a sophisticated computer system which gathered information about anything unusual happening in the world of science and medicine by scanning all newspapers and relevant magazines and journals for significant articles.

‘Mind you, it’s been picking up on a strange story about the vilification of researchers working on ME.’

‘What’s that all about?’ Steven asked.

‘Apparently sufferers are fed up with the suggestion that there’s a psychological element to their condition. They think it supports the yuppie flu argument and brands them as lazy, shiftless, work-shy malingerers. They’re particularly incensed that so much government funding is being poured into this aspect of research when they’d prefer the money to go into the hunt for the real cause of the problem as they see it. They’re sure it has a biological basis.’

‘I thought a virus was identified a couple of years ago?’ said Steven.

‘A false dawn, I’m afraid. It turned out to be a contamination problem. No one could ever reproduce the reporting team’s results.’

‘Messy.’

‘It’s messy all round. Researchers are saying that ME. sufferers would rather be thought to be suffering from a serious but unknown viral condition than have any suggestion of mental health problems attached to them. Needless to say, the mental health lobby are not too delighted about that. They claim it perpetuates the stigma attached to mental problems.’

‘So what form has the “vilification” been taking?’

‘Threatening letters to researchers, paint daubing, broken windows. There’s also an accusation doing the rounds that scientists would prefer not to find the virus responsible because that would put them all out of a job. They’re accused of being quite happy with the suggestion of a psychological factor because they know that’ll go on for ever and go nowhere.’

Steven permitted himself a small smile. He was no great fan of psychiatry. ‘Doesn’t sound like something we should get involved in,’ he said.

‘Agreed, but I’ll keep an eye on the situation.’

‘Any more from Paris?’

‘Details of the funeral arrangements came in,’ replied Macmillan. ‘Jean has them.’

Steven stopped by Jean’s desk on the way to his own office and accepted her offer to arrange flights for him. ‘It’s on Thursday afternoon,’ she said. ‘Do you want to stay over?’

Steven thought for a moment before agreeing that this might be the best plan. There would probably be people he’d want to speak to.

‘Fine, I’ll fix accommodation too.’

Steven smiled when he noticed the new nameplate on his office door. It said Dr Steven Dunbar, Principal Investigator. He had only recently agreed to have an office to himself. Previously he had spent as little time as possible in Whitehall, preferring instead to use the small Sci-Med library when he was there for any absolutely necessary paperwork and his own flat for going through files relating to any assignment he’d been given. He saw the allocation of a pleasant room and a fancy nameplate as part of Macmillan’s strategy to accustom him to permanency.