Hot Zone (Major Crimes Unit Book 2) Page 3

  4

  Back in the makeshift office on maternity ward 1, Howard sat and listened to the experts once again. Currently, they were discussing the possibilities of what could have caused the outbreak of Ebola Reading. “It’s very much the same virus,” one of the doctors explained, pointing out a squiggly, knotted, worm-like creature on the projector screen. “The proteins are unaltered. The only changes seem to be within the binding cells, impacting the rate of infection on the host. If the virus has been tampered with, it has been tweaked in only a minor way, but even doing that much would take a genius-level knowledge of genetics.”

  “Is it possible that the virus changed on its own?” asked Howard.

  “Absolutely,” said Cotta. “Viruses mutate constantly to survive.”

  “Could it go airborne?”

  Cotta shook his head. “Don’t let the media fool you, Agent Hopkins. The Ebola Virus is too far removed from the ability to transmit that way. It would take millennia for an organism to evolve in such a way.”

  “But there’s a possibility that the virus is being modified manually? Is it possible to make it airborne through engineering?”

  Cotta shook his head again, even more adamantly. “It would be a profound achievement to even come close. If this is a case of genetic engineering, then I wholly suspect that this slight alteration is the sum total of whoever is responsible’s ability. More important is how the virus got started. We need to find out why so many ex-patients of this hospital have come down with a rare 3rd World disease.”

  Howard sat forward and put his elbows on the table. “You just said ex-patients. What do you mean?”

  Cotta looked at him and frowned. The man had a way of looking at the rest of the room like he were surrounded by children. “You don’t know? Almost every patient in quarantine has visited this hospital within the last month or so. The first patients came in the longest time ago, several weeks. The newest cases were in this hospital as recently as 6 days ago. That is why all of the cases are local to the town of Reading. It seems that Whiteknight is the commonality in all these cases.”

  Howard chewed at the inside of his cheek. This was sounding more and more like something deliberate. “Then the source of infection is the hospital itself,” he said.

  Cotta nodded. “So it would appear.”

  Dr Hart added, “We have checked the blood bank, intravenous medicines, water supply, the cafeteria. All have been cleared of the virus. All in-patients have been relocated to the Royal Berkshire. We will be closing A&E within the next few hours and redirecting ambulances there as well. Then medical forensics will scour Whiteknight from top to bottom.”

  Howard pushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. “You said this thing passes via infected bodily fluids. Is there an area in the hospital that all the patients would have visited? An area where they may have all passed through?”

  “We don’t know,” admitted Dr Hart. “There are many places where patients congregate, but the ones we have checked have been clear and there is one thing that doesn’t fit about it being the hospital itself that is causing the infection.”

  Howard frowned. “Oh?”

  “No employees of the hospital have been infected. Not a single one. Doctors, nurses, and porters are all healthy. It is only ex-patients who have been infected. If the reservoir was the cafeteria, for instance, then the infection rate would be the same amongst staff. There is nowhere that patients visit that staff do not.”

  “Which,” said Cotta, “makes it highly likely that it is medical supplies or equipment that is at fault.”

  “Does this hospital have a strain of Ebola on site?” asked Howard.

  Dr Hart shook her head. “Of course not. We have a pathology lab, but we use it only for testing patient samples. The nearest place that has Ebola on ice is probably Porton Down, and that’s military.”

  “So how do you think this thing started?” Howard wasn’t the expert here and he didn’t intend to act like one. He was getting lost in the possibilities.

  “We are checking the patient backgrounds,” said Cotta. “Usually these things start after a patient travels to a ‘hot zone,’ a place where natural reservoirs of the virus exist. One of the early patients, deceased now, has family in Sierra Leone. Possibly he was the one who brought the Ebola Virus into the UK.”

  Howard nodded, but there were things that still did not add up. “That doesn’t explain why this is a new strain, does it? Ebola Reading is different. People are dying in unnatural patterns. No doctors or nurses have been infected. Mother Nature is predictable, whereas man is quite the opposite. If this virus isn’t conforming to typical behaviours, then it seems highly likely that someone is behind this.”

  Dr Hart agreed. “I don’t doubt what you are saying, Agent Hopkins. The reason you are here is because there are certain elements of pre-meditation about this.”

  “We are not detectives,” snapped Cotta. “We are here to study and contain the virus. We are wasting time trying to help agent Hopkins with his investigations. We have already dwelled on it far too long.”

  Howard didn’t react. Cotta was making it more and more obvious that he resented MCU’s involvement. Howard could even understand why. He was there to snoop and pry, to ask question after question, casting an ever wider net until he found answers. Cotta was concerned with exact opposite methods, working in ever decreasing circles until he had the virus trapped, understood, and contained.

  “I would like nothing more than to get out of your way, Mr Cotta,” said Howard, “but you experts, here, are the only ones who can answer my questions.”

  “I agree,” said Cotta. “Which is why I will give you Dr Hart. Leave the rest of us in peace and direct your questions only to her from now on.”

  Howard looked at Dr Hart who seemed a little put out by her services being offered on her behalf but not upset or angry. She smiled at Howard and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Okay, I suppose that makes sense. Where would you like to begin?”

  “With the staff. I want to know who saw to these patients.”

  Dr Hart frowned. “You think it was a healthcare worker?”

  “I think somebody did this, somebody who knew what they were doing. A member of the public would be too ignorant of a virus like Ebola, not to mention incapable of getting a live strain of it. Anyone outside of the health industry would be terrified to be in the same room as Ebola Virus. No, I think whoever did this was somebody comfortable being around deadly diseases. I think a doctor did this.”

  Cotta chuckled. “You have your theory, Lieutenant Columbo, now go investigate it somewhere else.”

  Howard smiled. “I will, but only after I interview everybody in this room.”

  ***

  Of course, Cotta had been furious at the indignity of having Howard disrupt his work, even though he himself was exempt from questioning. Cotta was from the WHO and had not even been in the country at the time of the initial outbreak. Several other members of his task force were also of no interest, for they had been loaned out from other institutions. Only a handful of the doctors and experts present worked at Whiteknight hospital fulltime and Howard gained very little from them to help his investigation. They all seemed like well-adjusted individuals, full of compassion and distress at the number of people sick on their watch. Howard took as much info as he could from them before deciding to take his investigation elsewhere — much to the delight of Cotta.

  Dr Hart led him to a secure office that was piled with stacks and stacks of files and paperwork. “These are all of the patient records for the infected patients,” she said. “Cotta has had them all placed into a digital database, but we’ll have to do things the old fashioned way.”

  Howard moved over to the largest pile on the office’s cheap pine desk and picked up the top file. “Sometimes it’s easier to lay out the facts when you can hold them in your hands. Is there anything the patients have in common, other than having visited Whiteknight previously? They’re
all ex-patients, but what were they in for?”

  “Absolutely everything,” said Dr Hart, flapping her arms. “The first case was an old lady called Eleanor Drayton. She came in with a stomach bug but returned less than a week later with debilitating flu-like symptoms. We gave her a bed but didn’t realise the severity of her condition until she started coughing up blood. The next cases came nonstop for days, ranging from people staying in the cancer wards to a group of outpatients who had only come in for minor procedures. One young man, who has thankfully shown signs of recuperation, came into A&E to have his pinkie reattached after cutting it off with a hedge trimmer. He went to surgery. There is no commonality, no department they all went to.”

  “Maybe they didn’t go to the virus, maybe the virus came to them. Do doctors move around departments?”

  “Not really. Some of the more senior doctors and consultants may have wide ranging expertise and help other departments when they are busy.”

  “Second opinions, you mean?”

  Dr Hart nodded. “Or just picking up the slack for undermanned departments. Sometimes doctors may go on rounds, if they’re free. It’s something the directors of the trust promote in order to cut waiting times. If a heart surgeon is free, which is rare, granted, he might go down to A&E to deal with minor wounds, discharge those already seen to, or just fill in paperwork. It’s not a popular scheme, especially with the more specialised doctors, but it has helped us rise slightly above our peers, which comes in handy when those same heart surgeons and oncologists want government hand-outs for expensive new equipment.”

  Howard opened up the folder in his hand and glanced at it. “Let’s start at the beginning. Who dealt with Mrs Drayton?”

  “Let me see,” Dr Hart looked through the file for a few moments, checking over the squiggles and signatures that meant nothing to him. “Suzanne Mitchell was the attending nurse. Dr Chris Casey, the attending doctor. I know them well. Neither would have anything to do with this.”

  Howard said nothing, unwilling to rule anybody out.

  “Wait, what’s this?” Dr Hart pulled a handwritten page from the file and examined it. “It’s a letter of complaint about Dr Krenshaw. He’s an area consultant, one of the most senior doctors in the trust.”

  “Why did Mrs Drayton complain about him?”

  “The usual. He was rude to her, allegedly. Krenshaw can be quite abrupt with patients. He spent a decade in Africa, treating AIDS, malaria…”

  “Ebola?” Howard enquired.

  “I don’t know. He did a lot of humanitarian work, so I suppose he would have come up against it at some point. He is an epidemiologist with a PHD in infectious diseases.”

  Howard raised his eyebrow. “You mean the most qualified, most suspicious person in this hospital? Wow, you think you might have suggested his name earlier?”

  “Look, Agent Hopkins. These are my colleagues, people I trust, people who have dedicated their lives to healing. While everybody might scream out ‘guilty’ to you, to me they are friends. I suspect none of them, but I am helping you because I know you have an investigation to do. Dr Krenshaw is a humanitarian, above reproach.”

  Howard gave no reply. He was verging on anger for not being informed immediately of Dr Krenshaw’s suspect credentials immediately, but the longer the tense silence went on, the more he understood that Dr Hart and her colleagues were not conditioned to view each other with suspicion. They relied on one another too much.

  “Okay,” said Howard gently. “Where is Dr Krenshaw now? I need to speak with him.”

  “He isn’t here. He moves between hospitals in the trust.”

  Howard folded his arms and thought. Did that make the man more or less suspect? There had been no confirmed outbreaks at other hospitals, so perhaps Krenshaw wasn’t the source of the outbreak. There had also been no confirmed infections within the last few days — did that correspond with Krenshaw’s absence?

  “We need to cross-reference Krenshaw with the infected patients,” Howard said.

  Dr Hart exhaled and put her hands on her hips. “Okay, I’ll get started.”

  Howard got started too. He leafed through a stack of files and was frustrated to find a dozen different doctor signatures. It seemed that no member of staff was exclusive to the infected patients, so that was his leading theory shot.

  “I think I’ve found something,” said Dr Hart.

  Howard went over to the doctor where she sat cross-legged and barefoot on the floor. “What is it?”

  “I’ve cross-checked the patient’s original hospital visits — when they likely became infected — with the days Dr that Krenshaw was at Whiteknight. He was in the hospital the same times as every single patient infected with Ebola Virus. That might be true of other doctors, of course, but…”

  “It certainly makes Krenshaw a person of interest, and with his specialisation in infectious diseases, I have to speak to him right away. Where can I find him?”

  “I’ll be right back,” said Dr Hart, exiting suddenly and leaving her shoes behind.

  Howard tapped his foot, anxious to get going. Everything added up to the culprit being this epidemiologist, Krenshaw, and if it was him, then the man could be planning another biological attack right that very second.

  Dr Hart returned five minutes later, her lips thin, her nostrils flared. “I found out where Dr Krenshaw is,” she said. “He’s at Reading Children’s Hospital.”

  Howard headed towards the door. “We need to move.”

  5

  The door opened and Sarah readied herself. She was sitting on the bed, pretending to read a book she’d been given. Her heart was beating like a drum and she hoped the trepidation didn’t show on her face.

  It was Rat who finally entered, her most regular tormentor and the one she had expected to see. It was strange, but she had started to look forward to seeing his bucktoothed grin and dark, staring eyes. Rat’s was the only face she saw for days at a time and it was sickeningly welcome against the loneliness and isolation she’d had to endure. But tonight, Sarah intended it to be the last time she was forced to look upon Rat’s face with appreciation.

  Rat was carrying a tray of what looked like Chinese food and it smelt delicious. Her captors would often bring her takeaway and snack foods rather than anything homemade. That suggested they were, at the very least, within a town or village, maybe even a city. If she were to escape, there would be places to go, people to plead to for help. She wouldn’t need to get far, just out.

  “I read that one,” said Rat, pointing to her book. “The one where all the animals escape the zoo and attack people, yeah?”

  Sarah eyed the cover of the novel and shrugged. “Only just started reading it. We can start a book club when I finish. You can bring the biscuits.”

  Rat smirked. “You haven’t lost your wit, have you? Most people are morose by now.”

  “Most people don’t know what the word ‘morose’ means. You’re not as dumb as you look, which is pretty bloody dumb.”

  “As I’ve repeatedly told you, there’s more to me than meets the eye.”

  “There’s more teeth to you than meets the mouth.”

  That one seemed to hurt Rat a little. As much as he claimed indifference to her, he was starting to care. Stockholm syndrome worked both ways. As it was documented that hostages could start to enjoy the company of their captors, so too could captors begin to like the company of their wards. Rat was starting to think they were odd friends. She was about to wipe that foolish notion from his head.

  “Who is keeping me captive, Rat? Tell me or I’ll kill you.” She made one last attempt to prise a name out of Rat and to give him a chance to do the right thing.

  “Pope Francis,” he replied dryly.

  “Then you can tell the Pope that I gave you fair warning.”

  “Huh?”

  Sarah leapt off the bed, sliding the shiv out from beneath her pillow and swinging it towards Rat’s neck. His eyes opened wide as he realised what was happe
ning. She’d caught him too far off guard for him to avoid the blade swiping through the air towards him. He snatched out at her but was wrong-footed and couldn’t move fast enough.

  He was going to die.

  At the last moment, Sarah flinched and altered the direction of her swing. She buried the shiv deep in the hollow beneath Rat’s collarbone instead of her original target of his jugular. Much as she hated her captor, she couldn’t say for sure that he deserved to die. His screams of agony did enough to satiate her need for revenge, but she was forced to wrestle with the man as he gritted his teeth and tried to grab her throat. Sarah grunted and strained, trying to fight the man off, but even wounded he was stronger.

  “Bitch!”

  Sarah growled. “Say that again.”

  “Bitch.”

  Sarah loosed rat’s arm and grabbed the handle of the shiv, yanking it down like a lever. The wound opened up wider and Rat mewled like a kitten and slumped to the ground.

  The shiv was narrow and thin, so came away easy as Sarah pulled it back from Rat’s collarbone, leaving him to hiss and curse at her feebly. She stepped over him and headed to the unlocked door, the shiv dripping blood behind her. Before opening the door, she ran her hand over the blade and used the blood to cover her face. She would be up against dangerous men, and the best way to beat men in a fight was making them piss themselves before the first punch ever got thrown. A snarling woman covered in blood was enough to unnerve the bravest warrior.

  Sarah left the room and entered a corridor. Despite the homely adornments of her incarceration, she now found herself inside the utilitarian hallways of some kind of factory or office building. It was the type of place where miserable employees marched around from nine-till-five. Currently it lay deserted. That boded well, for it meant her escape might not yet have announced itself. Rat’s screams were loud, but they seemed to fade the further she went down the corridor. Around the next bend she was forced to stop. A tough-looking guy with a shaved brown pate was leaning up against the wall and taking drags on a cigar. Against the backdrop of his black combat fatigues, the civilised gesture seemed out of place. Sarah smeared some more blood from her hands onto her face and put her theory into action. She staggered around the corner, hiding the shiv behind her back while glancing around erratically and chattering her teeth. The blood was still wet on her face.