The Secret

Steven finished putting away the last breakfast plate and turned off the radio before going in search of his briefcase and the Prague meeting list. He brought back both and sat down at the kitchen table to enjoy the morning sunshine streaming in through the window. A glance at the his watch told him that it was too early to start phoning anyone in academia so he made himself an espresso and set about sorting the participants into new lists. The originals were in alphabetical order: he grouped them using different parameters, the first being nationality, the others based on whether they were scientists or medics and whether they were academics or aid workers, and finally sub grouped for the aid workers under the organisations they worked for. By the time he had entered the information into his laptop it was time to make the first phone call.

‘The what inspectorate?’ asked Clive Rollison at the University of Birmingham.

Steven repeated himself and explained briefly what Sci-Med did. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about the polio eradication meeting in Prague you attended.’

‘I’ve already explained the oversight to the travel grants committee...’

‘Nothing like that, doctor. A young woman fell to her death at the meeting.’

‘Yes, Simone Ricard. Shame; a nice woman.’

‘Were you anywhere near at the time?’

‘What is this? Are you suggesting I had something to do with her death?’

‘Good heavens no, I just wondered if you saw what happened.’

‘I was in the gallery at the time, as it happens, but I didn’t actually see it. There was some kind of kerfuffle about somebody losing a contact lens, then there was a scream and all hell broke loose; people were shouting and crying; several rushed downstairs to see if they could help but there was nothing anyone could do. Her neck was broken; I could see that from the angle she was lying at when I looked over the balustrade.’

‘How high was the balustrade?’

‘Not that high, to be honest. I don’t think they normally allow visitors up there and the floor was a bit uneven. I don’t think Health and Safety would have passed it here. Mind you...’

‘Quite. Were you anywhere near the kerfuffle you mentioned?’

‘Not really, about twenty metres away I guess. I was looking up at ceiling and then I heard the commotion and turned round. People were getting down on their hands and knees to look for a contact lens while others were saying, “Don’t move, you’ll stand on it.” There was nothing I could do so I went back to admiring the ceiling and then I heard the scream... and the thud.’

Steven decided not to call anyone else for the time being: he was convinced he was just going to hear variations on what he’d already been told. He changed from Mazarek’s list to the official meeting register. Simone and Guy Monfils were the only participants from Médecins Sans Frontières; there were five people from WHO, including Thomas Schultz the meeting organiser, three from Children First, the organisation Simone had been concerned about, several Americans concerned with funding — both government and charity sourced — and a range of aid workers from Pakistan and Afghanistan. In addition, there were government observers from Nigeria, Pakistan, Afghanistan and India as well as Tom North and Dan Hausman from the North lab in London.

Neither Celia Laing nor Clive Rollison knew who’d lost or claimed to have lost their contact lens but someone had to know. To have been a diversion, the incident would have had to happened close to where Simone was standing, so those nearest her at the time would be most likely to remember who had raised the alarm. Bill Andrews, the American charity administrator, had been nearby; he had been joking with her. He must know.

Steven was looking for contact details for Andrews when his phone rang: it was John Macmillan. ‘Where are you, Steven?’

‘Leicester. Have you heard back from Med Sans?’

‘That’s no longer relevant. I need you back here tomorrow morning. We’ve been summoned to a meeting.’

‘At their place?’

‘At the Foreign Office.’

Steven was taken completely by surprise. ‘Why... how...?’

‘I dare say we’ll find out tomorrow. What are you doing right now?’

Steven told him.

‘Better put your investigation on hold for the time being.’

Steven was sitting wondering what on Earth Macmillan had said to Médecins Sans Frontières to attract the attention of the Foreign Office when a text message came in from Tally. She apologised but said she’d have to work late. Steven returned the apology saying he’d been summoned back to London. He’d call when he knew more.

The next day Steven arrived at the Home Office just before nine o’clock and asked Jean Roberts, who was taking her coat off in the hall at the time, if she knew what was going on.

‘I’m afraid not,’ she replied. ‘To be honest, I think Sir John is mystified too. It was more of a directive than a request. The pair of you are required to attend at ten a.m. with no indication given of what the meeting’s about.’