A Suitable Vengeance

“A form of chemotherapy? What exactly does it do?”


“Inhibits protein synthesis in cancer cells,” Malverd said. “Our hope is that it’ll prevent replication of oncogenes, the genes that cause cancer in the first place.” He nodded at the graph and pointed to the red line that descended it steeply, a sharp diagonal that indicated the percentage of inhibited tumour growth versus the time after the drug had been administered. “As you can see, it looks like a promising treatment. The results in mice have been quite extraordinary.”

“So it’s not been used on human subjects?”

“We’re years away from that. The toxicology studies have only just begun. You know the sort of thing. What amount constitutes a safe dosage? What are its biological effects?”

“Side effects?”

“Certainly. We’d be looking closely for those.”

“If there are no side effects, if there’s nothing to prove oncozyme a danger, what happens then?”

“Then we market the drug.”

“At some considerable profit, I should guess,” St. James noted.

“For a fortune,” Malverd replied. “It’s a breakthrough drug. No doubt about it. In fact, I should guess that oncozyme’s the story this Cambrey was writing. But as to its being a potential cause for his murder”—he paused meaningfully—“I don’t see how.”

St. James thought he did. It would have taken the form of a random piece of knowledge, a source of concern, or an idea passed on by someone with access to inside information. He asked, “What’s the relationship between Islington-London and Islington-Penzance?”

“Penzance is one of our research facilities. We have them scattered round the country.”

“Their purpose? More testing?”

Malverd shook his head. “The drugs are created at the research labs in the first place.” He leaned back in his chair. “Each lab generally works in a separate area of disease control. We’ve one on Parkinson’s, another on Huntington’s chorea, a new one dealing with AIDS. We’ve even a lab working on the common cold, believe it or not.” He smiled.

“And Penzance?”

“One of our three cancer locations.”

“Did Penzance produce oncozyme, by any chance?”

Malverd looked meditatively at the graph again. “No. Our Bury lab in Suffolk was responsible for oncozyme.”

“And you’ve said they don’t test the drugs at these facilities?”

“Not the sort of extensive testing we do here. The initial testing, of course. They do that. Otherwise, they’d hardly know what they’ve developed, would they?”

“Would it be safe to assume that someone at one of these associate labs would have access to results? Not only that local lab’s results but London’s results as well.”

“Of course.”

“And he or she might recognise an inconsistency? Perhaps some detail glossed over in the rush to market a new product?”

Malverd’s benign expression altered. He thrust out his chin and pulled it back as if adjusting his spinal cord. “That’s hardly likely, Mr. St. James. This is a place of medicine, not a science fiction novel.” He got to his feet. “I must get back to my own lab, now. Until we’ve a new man to take over Twenty-Five, I’m in a bit of a frazzle. I’m sure you understand.”

St. James followed him out of the office. Malverd handed the secretary both of the engagement diaries and said, “They were in order, Mrs. Courtney. I do congratulate you on that.”

She responded coldly as she took the diaries from him. “Mr. Brooke kept everything in order, Mr. Malverd.”

St. James heard the name with a rush of surprise. “Mr. Brooke?” he asked. It couldn’t be possible.

Malverd proved that it was. He led him back into the lab. “Justin Brooke,” he said. “Senior biochemist in charge of this lot. Bloody fool was killed last weekend in an accident in Cornwall. I thought at first that’s why you’d come.”





CHAPTER 22