Next morning, unfortunately, he was not allowed to take his car to central London and had to use public transport. He left his house early, but Catherine was already in her office.
‘I am sorry I called you yesterday afternoon but I thought you wanted to hear the news from the Research Council.’
‘You did absolutely the right thing.’ Before he could reach his office, she called him back.
‘By the way Professor Blakemore asked for you to see him at ten.’
On his desk he checked the screen: apart from this unscheduled appointment the morning was free until his clinic started at two o’clock. Sharp at ten o’clock, he knocked on the Director’s door. Brushing formalities aside Blakemore had started even before he could sit down.
‘Bad news. Certainly a setback. The Council contacted me yesterday afternoon. Apparently they’ve run out of money. This informal communication may not be the last word from them, but I have my doubts. We have no guarantee that they would support your programme in their June meeting.’
Meddling in his colleagues’ professional life was not normally Blakemore’s personal style, but he followed and discreetly supervised the progress of each of his senior staff. He paused, and then asked:
‘Do you think that Dufresne might have played a role in the Council’s decision? Of course your project isn’t the only one being deferred, and they might genuinely be short of funds but they had assured us that this programme was a priority for them.’
Mark simply nodded his head in agreement, adding:
‘It’s too much of a coincidence.’ He felt that Blakemore had not put all his cards on the table and was holding back some information. Neither was he sure whether Blakemore’s question about Dufresne’s interference was a mere formality to gauge his opinion or an introduction to a new revelation. But he was not left in suspense for long since his boss answered his own question.
‘I don’t know whether he or one of his minions took the trouble to talk to the Council but he did telephone me this morning.’ Blakemore paused for effect, waiting for a response from Mark. This revelation was not a surprise: Mark was certain that Dufresne would try to exert further pressure on him through Blakemore. The only uncertainty was how the Director would react. Blakemore continued:
‘He was polite to the point of finely honed diplomatic smoothness. He took considerable care to avoid the impression that they wanted to interfere with our work in any way – indeed they would be able to provide considerable support. Directly from the Research and Development budget of Home Security. I must admit that he had done his homework and was amazingly well briefed about our research.’
Mark could not help interjecting: ‘Not surprising. By now Home Security must have scanned all our activities. As I am sure you know, they have access not only to our published work but they can also monitor our daily routines if they wish. They got a copy of the BBC documentary before its public screening. They probably intercepted our mail and bugged our conversations.’ Blakemore chose to ignore this outburst, leaving Mark uncertain whether his silence was a sign of agreement or the reverse.
‘Dufresne is very keen to get your approval to work on his cohort. He is convinced that everyone would benefit from this collaboration, not only us but above all the people under investigation and those who are already in prison. His persuasion was subtle and at this stage there were no threats. But I am under no illusion that our collaboration would make all the difference for you and for the Institute.’
The last sentence prompted Mark to ask the question that was unavoidable at some point during the meeting. ‘Do you think we should collaborate with them?’ Blakemore did not give his answer without consideration.
‘On balance, I think, we should. Of course, on the condition that the patients give their permission to your treatment.’
‘But they are not patients!’ Mark objected, without realising that he had raised his voice. ‘And even if they were, would their agreement be voluntary or obtained by coercion?’
Blakemore was in no mood to argue. He intended to draw the discussion to an end. ‘I appreciate that this is a difficult decision. You’ve got time to think it over but let me know what you intend to do by the end of the week. If in the meantime you wish to come to have another chat, don’t hesitate, just ring Gillian. Whatever decision you make we’ll try to assist you.’
Mark stood up. For a second he hesitated and then asked, ‘What would happen if I refused Dufresne’s offer?’ Blakemore was in no hurry to answer. Without looking up at Mark, he shuffled some files on his desk. Mark noticed with bemusement the nervous tic on his boss’s face.
‘I wouldn’t, if you want my advice. I’ve somewhat changed my view since we talked yesterday, having considered Dufresne’s offer very carefully. If you turn him down, we will have a serious problem in funding your research. If support from the Research Council isn’t forthcoming, as indeed might be the case, we don’t have a budget for your experimental programme. As you know, the costs involved are enormous – the Institute simply doesn’t have the resources.’ With every sentence Mark’s despair increased. Blakemore paused.
‘You can, of course, finish the preliminary screening, but after that cohort you have to stop until we obtain funds. It’s as simple as that.’ Blakemore stood up and walked towards him. Mark wanted to protest, but arguments had deserted him. They shook hands. ‘Thank you’ slipped out automatically and without looking back he left Blakemore’s office.
As he walked back to his office, he replayed his dialogue with Blakemore. His attitude did not come as a surprise, for in Blakemore’s position he might have had the same response. Putting the interests of the Institute as a whole before the career of a single colleague must be the right priority. Blakemore’s support for him was clearly limited: he stood behind him only insofar as it did not jeopardise his overall plans. He could not accuse Blakemore of being duplicitous, yet he resented the fact that his boss, in his consideration, seemed to have ignored the fact that Dufresne’s detainees and prisoners were not patients. They might have needed help but this they should have sought themselves and not have forced upon them.
Yet, despite his initial revulsion, Mark realised that he might not have a choice but to collaborate with Dufresne. Could he simply stand idly by while his whole research programme, the results of years of planning and preliminary work, was scuppered? Particularly now, after the first results were so promising. After all, he could help those people. Having left his card on Catherine’s desk, Mark had Dufresne’s private number and for a second he was tempted to call him.
In her office, Catherine was waiting for him with a message: ‘Dr Chadwick, while you were with Professor Blakemore, you had a call from Paddington Green Police Station. Chief Inspector Templeton, Robin Templeton, would like to talk to you. He said it was a minor issue. Could you go to the station at two this afternoon and ask for him at reception.’ Catherine looked puzzled but to reassure him she added: ‘He was very courteous. He didn’t volunteer what it was about and when I asked him he said that it was nothing serious. He gave his direct number.’
Perplexed by the news and wasting no time, Mark called the number. A recorded message informed him that Chief Inspector Templeton was not available until two o’clock in the afternoon. Suddenly a wave of anxiety gripped him. He went through possible reasons why the police might want to see him, with very little advance notice, in what was until a few years ago one of the high security stations in London. Could it be the Fiona Cartwright affair? Or, more likely, could it just be about last evening’s accident? Was it anything to do with Dufresne? Was he getting paranoid? He was also annoyed: yet another wasted afternoon.
He left the Institute a few minutes after one o’clock and resurfaced from the underground at Edgware Road with fifteen minutes to spare. After midday, the rain had stopped but the cold winds had not cleared the sky of a carpet of low-lying clouds. A further downfall was in waiting: ready to drop any minute. Paddington Green was deserted. Only a few people made their way hastily towards Marylebone Road: no one lingered on the paths. The benches, which in good weather would have been occupied by shop assistants and office workers snacking on sandwiches and pre-packed salads in plastic boxes, were now deserted and uninviting, covered with a film of slimy rainwater. Shaded by ancient plane trees, the marble statue of a long-forgotten actress looked forlornly at the stream of cars on the flyover.
Wandering around, Mark surveyed the Green. Once it must have been a tranquil island but a flyover built in the late 1960s had blighted it forever and now, high above, heavy traffic was rumbling towards Oxford and beyond. The Georgian houses, which had originally graced the Green, had long disappeared: only a couple of brick buildings survived, reminders of a glorious age of architecture in stark contrast with the drabness of the council estate to the north. The offending tower block of the police station, closing off the square to the east, dwarfed the neighbouring buildings in its malign shadow.
He walked through the churchyard and stopped in front of St Mary’s church, looking up at its simple main façade facing south. Unexpectedly its western door was open. For a second Mark hesitated and then entered. From a table by the door, he picked up a leaflet. The present church had been built at the end of the eighteenth century on the site of two previously demolished predecessors, much altered in the nineteenth century and restored to its original in the 1970s. He had passed this church so many times, yet had never given even a fleeting thought to its architecture or history. He could not suppress a smile, thinking of how many harassed drivers on the flyover would know that John Donne preached in the first church and William Hogarth was married in the second.
There was no one inside. Someone had forgotten to switch the lights on, but the gloom of the interior was lifted by shafts of grey light filtering through the windows. The air was stale: a mixture of dampness, the smoke of candles and the lingering smell of dying flowers. A sensation so familiar to churchgoers was a new experience for him.
He could not remember the last time he had visited a church, let alone taken part in a service. For him, his grandparents’ polite and restrained Anglicanism was a guide to decent behaviour and to a set of moral standards rather than a shining beacon on a path to unquestioning belief in a superior being. Unpredictably, Clarissa’s saying leapt to his mind about how the good old C of E, while hesitantly groping for God, had always and unfailingly managed to stray into a social minefield.
A self-declared and rather belligerent atheist for a first wife and, currently a Muslim partner were not an ideal schooling in search of a Christian God, even if he had ever wanted to find one. In his life religion was not an issue and God had never surfaced in his thoughts. Not until now.
In this church he was a sightseer to satisfy his curiosity rather than a believer who came to seek solace. Yet the tensions of the outside world fell away the minute he entered. The church was deserted. As he slowly walked towards the altar, he could see the outline of a figure bent over the pulpit. Hearing Mark’s footsteps, the man climbed down the few steps and walked towards him. He was in his early sixties with a mane of white hair. Wearing a thick tweed jacket, Mark spotted the dog collar peeping out beneath the loosely wrapped scarf.
‘Good afternoon,’ the man said, ‘can I help you?’ For a few seconds Mark was lost for words. He was taken by surprise, unaware of the priest’s presence. The other man must have seen him from the moment he entered the church, and Mark resented the fact that unknown to him someone had shared his solitude. Yet he sensed that the question posed had not been an automatic, polite expression of formality, and the man in the worn tweed jacket would try to assist anybody in need of help.
‘Thank you. I’ve just come in …’ he hesitated, unable to define the purpose of his visit since the idea that he might have come to pray did not occur to him, and then finishing the sentence ‘… to think.’ At the last second he had changed his mind, since he had wanted to say ‘because I had a few minutes to spare before an appointment’, but on an impulse which he could not explain even later, he had altered the second half of the sentence, but not just to be polite: clergymen were, after all, accustomed to visitors whose motives were sometimes far from religious. The priest’s response surprised him:
‘It’s a good way to start.’ For a second he contemplated the meaning of this short enigmatic phrase, but the priest did not elaborate any further. Mark remained silent. He looked at his watch. It was two minutes to two o’clock. I’ll be late, he thought and, saying goodbye to the priest, he hurried out of the church.
The rain had started: a fine drizzle, which by the time he reached the police station had turned into a heavy shower. In the downpour the solid block of the police station looked even more drab than usual. It was a familiar sight from speeding cars, yet standing on the steps leading up to the main entrance and facing the flyover he gained a new perspective looking at the concrete pylons supporting the elevated road. Until 2036 Paddington Green was the high security police station in central London: the port of entry for high profile criminals into the labyrinth of the English legal system. Terrorists, home grown and foreign, murderers and armed robbers had landed on its threshold.
Its reputation as a high security station had suffered a major setback on a rainy November afternoon in 2032. In the rush hour, when the flyover was choked with cars and traffic became nearly stationary, terrorists had fired a handheld rocket from a passing car into the building. No one was killed inside and the damage was limited to one floor. The attempt had been a desperate act, as investigations had later revealed, of protest against the arrest of a group of alleged terrorists. Before police cars could get anywhere near the terrorists’ car, they had blown themselves up. A film recovered from the flat of one of the terrorists had proved beyond reasonable doubt that the attempt to blow up the station had been a suicide mission: they must have known that in the dense traffic there was not the slightest chance of getting away. Apart from the driver and one of the passengers, four other people had died and a dozen more had been seriously injured. The police station had remained open while the damage to the building was being repaired, but the flyover was closed for two months, causing severe congestion in Marylebone Road and beyond.
One year after the State of Emergency had been declared a decision was made, within the framework of the reorganisation of the Metropolitan Police, to build a modern high security police station next to the already existing high security Belmarsh prison in east London. The move was most unpopular with lawyers who now had to trek to the Thames Estuary to visit their clients, but their vocal protests against the transfer had been ignored.
Immediately on entering, Mark was stopped and his identity checked. He was instructed to walk through a whole body scanner capable of detecting not only weapons and other metal objects but also explosives and drugs. At the reception a young police officer was on duty. Mark asked for Chief Inspector Robin Templeton. The duty officer screened the monitors:
‘Chief Inspector Templeton is still busy on another case but he will be with you soon. I’ll ask one of my colleagues to take you up to the interviewing room.’ He pressed a button and from the door behind his desk another police officer emerged.
‘Could you take Dr Chadwick up to interview room 35?’
Mark followed the officer to the lift. ‘This way,’ he said, pointing to the right as the lift door opened and they entered the corridor. They stopped in front of the last door. From the window at the end of the corridor he could see Paddington Green. In the rain, St Mary’s was sheltering under the umbrella of trees.
The interviewing room was a small windowless cube with whitewashed walls and a bank of ceiling lights. In the centre stood a table with two chairs, one on either side. A jug of water with two glasses had been placed in the middle of the tabletop. The officer pointed to the chair nearest to the door:
‘Please take a seat. Chief Inspector Templeton shouldn’t be long.’ The officer withdrew, closing the door behind him. Assured that he would not have long to wait, Mark sat down and surveyed the room. It did not require much time. Along one wall four additional chairs had been stacked. The lights were unremittingly bright. Four cameras mounted on the wall covered all aspects of the room. A glass panel ran the entire length of the wall opposite him. He could not see what lay behind it, but he was certain that this was the vantage point from which interrogations were witnessed, unseen.
He looked at his watch. It was two fifteen. There was nothing to do but wait. He stood up and walked around the table a couple of times and then he sat down again. He lifted the jug and poured water into one of the glasses. The water was lukewarm and tasted stale. He nearly spat it out but forced himself to swallow the first gulp, then replaced the glass on the tray. Hardly had he finished the move when a policewoman entered, bearing a tray with an identical jug and two glasses.
‘Sorry, sir. We forgot to change the water,’ she said breezily and was gone.
At two thirty the door opened and a stocky man in his early forties entered the room.
‘I am Robin Templeton. Sorry for being late but a previous interview took much longer than expected. They should have given you something to read.’ He shook Mark’s hand and sat down opposite him. He did not wait for Mark to introduce himself. Nor did he ask for any personal details: Templeton must have checked his file on the National Database.
‘You must be wondering why we asked you to come to see us.’
‘Yes, I certainly am.’
‘We would like to clear up a couple of loose ends concerning the accident you had last night.’
For a second Mark measured Templeton up as if he had not heard him and nearly cried out ‘What accident’, but he responded calmly:
‘You mean the so-called accident off Tottenham Court Road? Actually, it was an incident – I bumped into a car in what was practically stationary traffic. No one was hurt and neither car was damaged. The third party didn’t have any intention of making a claim, and in fact there weren’t any grounds for doing so.’
‘How do you know that the other driver didn’t report to us or to his insurance company?’
‘Of course I don’t know for sure, but we seemed to have parted on amicable terms.’
‘That’s hardly proof. He might have changed his mind. Anyway, people often say one thing and do something completely different.’ Even if he had previously had any doubt, at this point Mark realised that Templeton might have an agenda other than the accident.
‘By the way, why didn’t you report the accident to the police?’
‘I thought that there was no obligation to report the accident if neither party suffered injury and neither car was damaged.’
‘That was the law until recently, but we have introduced a “zero tolerance” on the road. According to the new legislation all accidents, irrespective of consequences, have to be reported to the police. Including those in which injury or damage doesn’t occur. Even if neither party has any intention of contacting their insurance company.’
Mark listened with increasing incredulity since this new legislation did not make sense. Amongst the mushrooming laws pushed through a compliant Parliament by the Government, this one might have escaped his attention. But confessing ignorance might not count as a mitigating circumstance. Templeton continued:
‘We also received complaints from other drivers concerning your conduct on Tottenham Court Road. They alleged that your aggressive manoeuvring to force your way into the filter lane immediately before the accident not only held up traffic, but was also liable to cause an accident. In our books this qualifies as dangerous driving.’
Mark wanted to ask him whether the other drivers really volunteered their complaints or whether they were contacted by the police, but he remained silent. Templeton, having now scored a point, relaxed. He pushed his chair back from the table and crossed his legs.
‘Do you deny these allegations?’ His tone had changed and the narrative had turned into questioning. Before Mark could respond, he continued: ‘Would you like to see the evidence?’ He pressed a key and on the right-hand side wall a film started to roll. In the traffic jam on Tottenham Court Road Mark recognised his car. From several cameras the images had been edited into a seamless flow: inching his way towards the filter lane in his attempt to escape to Howland Street, the obstruction his car had caused, the frenzied hooting of frustrated drivers and finally the collision of the two cars. Templeton froze the frame, capturing the moment Mark had begun to walk towards Morton and their encounter: two motionless figures in the light of a street lamp.
Mark watched the film with growing unease. He regretted the way he had forced his way into the filter lane but at the same time he was concerned about the malice Templeton had injected into the interview.
‘The evidence we have,’ Templeton said with hardly disguised satisfaction, ‘clearly shows that you were driving without due care and attention. Your aggressive behaviour caused the accident.’
‘I don’t think that my driving can be described as dangerous. The collision between the two cars did not result in any damage. The other driver agreed that there was no need for either of us to inform our respective insurance companies.’
‘Did he? How do you know that the other driver wasn’t going to report to his insurance company?’ Templeton asked again, more emphatically. ‘This morning we contacted Paul Morton to get a couple of pieces of missing information. Just in case. He firmly stated that you had caused the accident. In a more thorough examination of his car in daylight, he found his back bumper dented. It might have to be changed. He’s going to inform his insurer, so better if you do the same.’
Mark looked at Templeton with incredulity.
‘I am surprised. Why did he change his mind?’
‘Perhaps you should ask him that question. But I’m sure you agree that we should record this incident on your Personal Identity Database. We’ll only issue an informal warning and endorse your driving licence. That’s all. Before we do this we should record the events leading up to the accident. From the time you left the Institute.’
That his licence was going to be endorsed did not surprise him by now. Morton’s deserting his original stance had prepared the way for the forces of law and order to step in. But why would Morton have changed his story overnight? Mark could hardly disguise his annoyance and frustration.
‘I’ve nothing against running through the events of yesterday afternoon and evening. Although I’m sure you already know everything.’ He said it with a touch of irony that Templeton elected to ignore. To recall his visits and encounters could not have been easier: he did not need to stop in the story from the moment he left the Institute to cross into Ruskin Park to the moment he arrived home to be met by a worrying Yasmina. As he spoke, his words simultaneously appeared on the screen. He formed his sentences with a scientist’s precision as the computer allowed an uninterrupted flow. No corrections were inserted.
Templeton interjected only once: ‘How often do you visit your ex-wife?’ The question was impertinent and superfluous to the interview. ‘As often as I wish to see her,’ almost slipped out of his mouth, but he wanted to avoid a confrontation:
‘Not very often – I usually visit her with Yasmina, my partner. Last night I went to see her on my own to discuss a personal problem.’ Mark paused for Templeton to ask about the nature of his personal problem, but he did not take the bait and he finished without any further interruption.
‘You’ve been warned and your licence has been endorsed. Although this is going to be recorded on your Personal Identity Database,’ Templeton emphasised again, ‘there are no consequences for the time being. However, you should drive more carefully in the future to avoid any further traffic offences. You don’t want to be disqualified from driving, do you?’
This is the right note to end the interview, Mark thought, getting ready to leave. Templeton’s next move caught him completely unawares. The police officer casually looked at the screen in front of him again and then, fixing his stare on Mark, asked:
‘Do you know a woman who goes by the name of Julia Ames?’ Frozen to his chair, for a second Mark could not speak. Yes, he did know Julia Ames.
They had met at medical school. It was in the cafeteria of the swimming pool of the Students’ Union where Mark had got to know her. With her dark brown hair and deep-set brown eyes, sensual lips and well-proportioned swimmer’s body she was one of the most attractive girls around. They became friends and then lovers. For him, despite a handful of short-term sexual encounters, she was the first serious love affair and Mark was amazed to find out that Julia, at the age of nineteen, was still a virgin. They had been together for nearly a year when Julia became pregnant. Despite taking all the necessary precautions, they were not prepared for this complication. To make matters worse it all happened at a difficult time, just before examinations. Julia was shattered.
When Mark suggested that she have an abortion, she flatly refused. As a Catholic her religion meant more than ticking the right box in the census. The only alternative was to get married but at twenty-one, in the middle of his medical studies, Mark was unprepared for family life. First, he confided in Anthony who laughed at him for even considering marriage. Finally, he consulted James. His grandfather reassured him of his support in whatever he chose, even promising to release his share of his parents’ estate to help bring up the child. Yet, he also felt that Mark should not marry.
In the end Julia agreed to an abortion. She declined to accept the flowers Mark brought her after the operation. She skipped her exams and dropped out of medical school altogether. Their affair was over. Afterwards Mark felt guilty for a long time, but Julia Ames had disappeared from his life. Until today.
He pulled himself together: ‘Yes, I did know Julia Ames. She was my girlfriend many years ago when I was a medical student.’ He decided to attack, ‘What has she got to do with the accident you’re investigating?’
‘To tell you the truth – absolutely nothing,’ answered Templeton with disarming indifference. ‘By the way, do you want to know what Julia Ames had been doing until recently?’ Before waiting for a response, he answered his own question with barely concealed glee: ‘She was supervising casual workers who fill up supermarket shelves in Lancaster. Would you like to see her?’ And before Mark could say anything, the clip of a middle-aged woman, replenishing large boxes of washing powder on the shelves of a busy supermarket, started to roll. It can’t be, Mark thought. Yet in the worn bitter face he could just discern the ruins of Julia’s features.
‘Where is she now?’ asked Mark with barely concealed eagerness. Templeton took his time to answer. And when he did, he spoke with unnatural slowness, dragging out each word separately:
‘This … clip … was … made … in Lancaster … last … year.’ Mark was uncertain whether his adversary was playing for theatrical effect or was running out of breath at the beginning of an asthmatic attack.
‘Is she still there?’
‘No, she isn’t.’ Templeton was clearly not in a hurry to satisfy Mark’s increasing impatience.
‘Where is she now? Can’t you tell me straight away?’
‘She’s dead. She committed suicide.’ For a second Mark hoped that he had misunderstood Templeton. As the words finally sank in he felt sick.
‘How? How did she die?’
‘Does it matter? But if you want to know, she took a good handful of sleeping tablets and washed them down with a bottle of whisky. A clean way to go.’
Mark felt an irresistible urge to smash in Templeton’s face but he remained nailed to his chair. Templeton stood up.
‘Good afternoon, Dr Chadwick.’ They did not shake hands. ‘I’ll send someone to escort you out of the building. It won’t be long.’
After the officer had left the room, Mark remained standing: stunned, he could not easily regain his composure. He was devastated. He was unable to collect his thoughts: the confrontation with memories of Julia was as shocking as it was unexpected. He was completely powerless. Helplessness and shame only increased his rage. He felt humiliated. And guilty.
Mark was desperate to leave the suffocating room poisoned with Julia’s memory. It was a quarter past three; he could hardly believe that he had spent just over an hour in the interviewing room: it seemed infinitely longer. He had no doubt that apart from the cameras in the room, he was being watched from behind the glass screen. The same policeman who had ushered him in before the interview entered the room a couple of minutes later.
Leaving the police station, he became aware of the outside world: pedestrians hurrying to reach the safety of the pavement before the traffic lights changed to red, the flow of cars on the flyover, the maroon-tiled entry of the underground disgorging dishevelled passengers, the marionette figures in the glass office blocks, the lush displays of the Middle Eastern greengrocers. The church in Paddington Green beckoned and he experienced an inexplicable pull. For a second he hesitated but then he started off in the direction of Baker Street.