TUESDAY
Katie dreamed she was on the ice somewhere near the Weddell Sea. A huge crack snaked across in front of her and a gigantic iceberg began to separate itself from the land, with her on it. The gap between the two was widening and far below she could see churning water. In a moment the iceberg would be drifting out to sea. She had a second in which to decide whether to jump across the gap, and she gathered her strength and... she woke up, gasping.
For a few moments she thought she was still in the Antarctic, but the bed felt wrong, and the quality of the darkness. She had no idea where she was. She waited until a sense of her present whereabouts came to her. She was on the boat. Lyle was here too, sleeping in the room that was Chloe’s when the family lived on the boat in the summer.
She groped on the bedside table for her phone and checked the time: 6:15 am. She sighed. She wouldn’t go back to sleep now. Given how disrupted her sleep patterns were, she was surprised that she had slept this long. She got out of bed, put on her dressing gown, and padded into the galley. She made coffee and sat at the table with her hands wrapped around the warm mug.
Rachel and Daniel had said she could stay as long as she liked, and a week or two would be nice. But what then? What was she going to do with her life? The trip to Antarctica had been meant to give her a breathing space while she decided what to do next, but she was no further forward in that respect. Every month that passed made it less likely that she would get a research post. Up until a couple of years ago, she had led the peripatetic life of a medical researcher, living from one research grant to the next, following the money. Even before the whistle-blowing episode she had just about reached the end of her shelf-life – that point where a researcher becomes too expensive and is replaced by younger and cheaper people. It was time to be looking for a lectureship. Oh yeah, dream on! She thought of the other things researchers went on to do. She’d heard of one who’d qualified as a dentist and another as an accountant. There was medical journalism, or she could finish her medical training and become a GP.
But nothing really called out to her.
She heard the whoosh of the shower next door. Lyle must be up.
She pulled her laptop to her and booted it up. She Googled Debussy Point and found the lab. Scrolling down the list of people working there, she came across the director, Caspar Delaney. She’d heard of him. He was one of those scientists who are keen on public engagement. He’d been involved with some series or other on Radio 4. She scrutinized the thumbnail photo. He was in his early forties and prematurely grey – rather attractive in a low-key sort of way.
She sought out Gemma Braithwaite, who was the principal investigator on the project that Lyle had described. Her photo showed dark hair that sprang back from her forehead in a widow’s peak and high, arched eyebrows. There was a firmness about the set of her mouth, and she was looking into the camera in a way that was almost a challenge. Katie got the impression of someone who might well be a tricky customer.
And then the postdoc who was doing the actual day-to-day work on the project, Claudia Carter. With her mass of crinkly red hair and freckles, she looked awfully young, though she must be in her late twenties.
Katie went on browsing. Some interesting work was being done at Debussy Point. Malaria for one thing, specifically falciparum malaria, and it was very nasty, that. It was the worst form and could kill in a matter of days if it wasn’t found early and treated.
A thought struck her and she Googled “undercover in the workplace”. There were a lot of private investigators listed and she had just clicked on a link when Lyle came in fully dressed and yawning.
“Got to hit the road in half an hour or so,” he said. “Got a nine o’clock meeting in London. I’d kill for a cup of coffee.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary. There’s plenty in the pot.”
He poured himself a cup and glanced over her shoulder. “Katie, why are you looking at private investigators? I thought we’d settled this.”
“Lyle, think again, please,” she pleaded. “If you do decide to send someone in, would a company like this be able to supply someone who can do the work of a technician? Someone who’ll really understand what’s going on.”
“Why do you want to do this? Is it the money? Because if it is –”
“No, no, I’m fine for cash. I spent all those months on the ice with absolutely nothing to spend it on. I’ve got nearly a year’s worth of salary saved up.”
How could she explain the restlessness she felt, her need for a new challenge? The thought of any kind of ordinary job, of being accountable to someone, was intolerable after the responsibility of being the only medic on the Wilson base. Of course as a technician she’d still be answerable to someone, but she wouldn’t just be a technician; it would be an adventure.
Lyle took a sip of coffee and considered.
“But Katie, is it even feasible that someone at Debussy Point wouldn’t recognize you? It’s a small world in medical research.”
“Not that small. I’ve never worked on infectious diseases. And I’ve checked online. I’ve never even met anyone who’s working at Debussy Point.”
“There was a lot of press coverage about what happened in Antarctica. Your photo was plastered all over the internet.”
She shrugged. “An old photo. And it’s not as if I stand out from the crowd. Miss Average, that’s me. A new haircut, maybe a dye-job, glasses perhaps: that’s all it’d take. And think about it, Lyle. This would be so much simpler than getting a firm of private investigators involved. Your company could simply offer to fund a technician and recommend me.”
Lyle was silent.
To give him more time to think it over, she said, “Look, why don’t you tell me a bit more about the research.”
“OK. Well, we were talking last night about it being only a matter of time before there’s another flu pandemic. Transmission is a key factor in how serious that is going to be. So I’m funding research into that; more specifically the mechanism that allows a virus to jump the species barrier. Claudia’s working on a genetically modified strain of avian flu, adding mutations to the virus to find out if they make it more or less transmissible to a human cell-line. She’s starting to get some very interesting results.”
“Sounds promising.”
“Yeah...”
She caught something in his tone, and swivelled round in her chair to look at him.
He was pouring himself another cup of coffee. He looked up. “What?” he said.
“Come on, Lyle. This is about more than the mystery of the missing technicians, surely. Those results. I think the word you used yesterday was ‘excellent’?”
“They’re good, very good.”
“Could they perhaps be... too good?”
“Claudia’s got an excellent track record.”
“You’re not answering my question.”
“I know, I know. Alright then, her results are good, but they’re not perfect. She’s been having some success in generating mammalian cells infected with an avian flu virus, but there’s a way to go before we’re clear about the mechanism. The closest I can get to it is this: if I was faking results, I’d be careful not to make them seem too good to be true. These are exactly the kind of thing I’d produce.”
“Phew.” Katie let out her breath. “You’re a hard man to please, Lyle. Not much to go on, is there? Don’t you think you might be getting a bit paranoid?”
Lyle shrugged.
She thought about it. “On the other hand,” she began, intending to say that it wouldn’t be the first time he’d had doubts about a piece of medical research and been proved right. She was interrupted by the ping of an incoming text on Lyle’s iPhone. He glanced at it and she saw him grimace.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Another technician’s leaving, darn it. She handed in her notice yesterday.”