An Air That Kills

By Christine Poulson

'Poulson is currently unrivalled as a writer of scientific mysteries combining elements of both the thriller and the whodunnit.' Morning Star

The atmosphere in the lab is toxic.

It is only a matter of time before there is a flu pandemic with the potential to kill billions.

Or so wealthy entrepreneur Lyle Lynstrum believes. That is why he is funding research into transgenics - the mechanism by which viruses can jump the species barrier - at a high security lab on a tidal island off the North Devon coast.

A suspiciously rapid turnover of staff has him worried. He sends in scientist Katie Flanagan as an undercover lab technician. Something is clearly very wrong, but before Katie can get to the bottom of what is going on, a colleague is struck down by a mysterious illness.

Has the safety of the facility been compromised, allowing a deadly virus to escape? Katie begins to suspect that the scientists are as deadly as the diseases - and that her cover has been blown.

Then the island is cut off by high seas and a terrifying game of cat-and-mouse begins...

'Nobody writes medical mysteries with more authority than Christine Poulson.'

PETER LOVESEY, author of Killing with Confetti

'A thrilling, thought-provoking read. A real page-turner.'

KATE ELLIS, author of The Mechanical Devil

'The stakes are high, the suspects are many and the solution is satisfying. I loved it.'

CATRIONA McPHERSON, author of Strangers at the Gate

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lion Fiction
• Release date: Nov 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781782642848

Christine Poulson

Before Christine Poulson turned to writing crime novels, she was an academic with a PhD in History of Art and had published widely on nineteenth century art and literature. Her Cassandra James mysteries are set in Cambridge, UK. She is the author of Deep Water, Cold, Cold Heart, and An Air That Kills. Her short stories, published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, CWA anthologies, and elsewhere, have been short-listed for a Derringer, the Margery Allingham Prize, and the CWA Short Story Dagger.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

NEWSPAPER REPORT

Disturbing news has emerged from the Democratic Republic of Congo of an outbreak of a haemorrhagic virus similar to Ebola. Authorities were first alerted by two British medical researchers working in the field who came upon a village where the virus had taken hold and had already infected the entire population. Reports indicated that the virus is highly contagious, and mortality rates are almost 90 per cent. The researchers have since been quarantined, and it is not yet known if they have contracted the disease. Unconfirmed reports say that their interpreter did contract the disease and has since died.

The outbreak has occurred in the south-east of the country and efforts to contain the disease are being hampered by the danger of attacks by armed groups. According to a spokesman from the World Health Organization, Civil unrest, community resistance and the geographic spread of the disease are combining to create a perfect storm over the next few weeks and months.

Scientists are working round the clock to learn more about the virus and develop a vaccine, but a breakthrough could be many months, perhaps years, away. The virus – as yet unnamed – has marked similarities to Ebola and the Marburg virus, but appears to be a separate species. It is possible that the virus crossed from monkey to human through the consumption of bush meat, common in that part of the world.

Medical teams from Doctors Without Borders have established field hospitals, providing nursing care and quarantining all who have come into contact with the disease in an attempt to halt its spread. Meanwhile the death toll is over a hundred and is expected to rise.

TWO YEARS LATER

CHAPTER 1

MONDAY

DEBUSSY POINT

It was night, and down in the basement the mosquitoes were stirring. The covered trays were ranged on tiers of shelves and contained mosquitoes in every stage from eggs to pupae to maturity. Their ancestors had not lived in the wild for hundreds and hundreds of generations. Yet still the mosquitoes followed the same circadian rhythms as their cousins in Africa – active when the sun began to go down, resting during the day. The humidity and light in the room were controlled to mimic the cycle of the tropical day, half day and half night, with brief sunsets and dawns. Over the years, researchers and technicians had come and gone, but here the mosquitoes remained in their endless cycle of birth and death.

At night the only sound was the hum of the humidifier and every two hours the heavy steps of the security guard as he patrolled the corridor, pausing to check from the panel beside the door that the humidity and temperature were both at the correct level.

But tonight was different. It was around 1:30 a.m. – ten minutes after a visit from the security guard – that a second, lighter set of footsteps approached the insectary and someone appeared at the door, carrying an insulated box.

It was too risky to put on the light. That would show up on the central computer system and trigger an alarm. A torch would have to do. The beam settled on the shelves of plastic cages with mesh covers containing fully grown mosquitoes. One was selected and taken to the work surface, and an empty sterilized container was placed alongside it. From the equipment cupboard a pooter was taken, a suction device consisting of a clear glass tube covered at the mouth end by very fine netting. The other end was attached to a flexible plastic hose. The pooter was inserted through the mesh of the mosquito cage. It was easy enough to select a female and gently suck her into the pooter, partially blocking the end of the hose with a finger. Some people used a cotton-wool stopper, but what was the point when none of the mosquitoes in the insectary were infected? It was perfectly safe and the constant gentle suction kept the insect hovering in the tube. The torch threw up crazy shadows on the wall and gave a demonic cast to the face so intent on the work.

The next step was to insert the end of the hose through the mesh of the second, smaller cage and blow gently. The mosquito was wafted down into the cage, the hose pulled out of the mesh, and, voila, there it was: one perfect little insect all ready for the next stage of tonight’s work. The procedure was repeated until the cage contained five female mosquitoes. For research purposes more would usually be collected, but for tonight’s mission these would suffice. They wouldn’t be missed.

Time now to pick up the cage, put it in the insulated bag, switch off the torch, and open the door to the corridor. A pause for a moment on the threshold to listen and let the silence settle. Then a short walk along the corridor to the door to the containment level three lab.

The CCTV camera, fixed to the wall outside, was out of action, so even if someone did come down the corridor – very unlikely at this time of night – they wouldn’t know that there was anyone inside. Even if a check was made later, no one would be surprised that it hadn’t been working. It was always on the blink. And, in any case, the key card used to gain access belonged to someone else – a stroke of genius, that! – and so did the code.

The door to the first of three rooms seemed to take forever to swing slowly shut with a pneumatic sigh. That outer door had to shut before the second door into an ante-room could open, and it would be the same on the way out. Once inside the ante-room, a blue disposable lab gown was donned and paper bootees pulled on over shoes, then another code had to be punched into a pad to gain access to the secure lab.

Off to one side of the lab stood the incubator. It was just over a fortnight since a cage of uninfected mosquitoes had been brought into the Category 3 lab. At the same time, the parasite had arrived in infected blood in a vacuum flask at thirty-seven degrees, body temperature. Using a Perspex glove box – a sealed cabinet with rubber gloves that allowed the safe release of the insects – the mosquitoes had been introduced into a jar and given the warm, infected blood to feed on. After they’d been allowed to engorge, the jar had gone into the incubator cabinet. The mosquitoes had to be three days old before they would feed and it took around fourteen days for them to be infected.

The incubator was opened, the jar removed and held up to the light. There was no question of sucking up these little monsters by mouth or of working outside a glove box. Most if not all of them would be carrying falciparum malaria, the most deadly form of the disease – indeed, the most deadly parasite that affects humankind. Every year many hundreds of thousands of people die after being bitten by mosquitoes exactly like these. That was why they had to be contained in the security of a Category 3 lab.

The jar was taken over to the glove box and placed inside. A second empty jar was added, and lastly the cage with its five uninfected mosquitoes. A mechanical pooter was reached for now. It was safer than sucking them up the old-school way, though in unpractised hands it was easy for the insects to be damaged. But these particular hands – clad in a pair of surgical gloves to provide a second layer of protection – were not unpractised. Slowly, carefully, the five mosquitoes were transferred from the infected jar to the empty jar. Their place was taken by the uninfected mosquitoes from the insectary.

Now all that remained was to take the larger jar of mosquitoes out of the glove box and replace it in the incubator. It still contained fifty mosquitoes as listed on the label, but now five of them – indistinguishable from their relatives – were definitely free from falciparum malaria. In the other unlabelled jar, there now rested five insects from the infected jar. The infection rate was never a hundred per cent, so it was necessary to take five. It was virtually certain that some – with luck all of them – would be carrying the parasite. Yes, five should be enough, but even if it wasn’t, there were plenty more where they came from. There was always another night.

The clock on the wall indicated that it was twenty minutes until the security guard was due to make his next round. It was time to leave, time to put the jar in the insulated bag, time to pause for a moment on the threshold to check that all was just as it had been; that there were no signs of this clandestine visit. A sharp intake of breath – the cage brought from the insectary was still there on the counter. That had to go back to where it came from.

Out in the ante-room the paper robe and booties were thrust into the waste bag. Then through the door into the entry room. The door closed with frustrating slowness and the wait was irksome. But then a quick glance out into the corridor to make sure that no one was about and a swift walk back to the insectary. Replacing the cage, there was some hesitation – old habits die hard – because, really, it ought to be sterilized after use. But there was no time for that.

Again, a swift look round. Nothing out of place. Time to turn the light off and get out of there.

By the time the security guard appeared, yawning, on his next round, the thief, along with the deadly cargo, had vanished into the night.

CHAPTER 2

MONDAY

ELY

It was eleven months almost to the day since the last time Katie had got off the train at Ely and crossed over to the towpath by the river. She had left the UK last February, before the beginning of spring, and now she was returning in early January of the following year. While she had been in Antarctica, the summer had passed and now it was winter again. She had left the Edward Wilson base, far out on the Antarctic plateau, seven weeks ago in mid-November, as soon as the first plane had flown in. She had travelled home in easy stages, spending time in Australia and Thailand. There at least she had basked in the warmth of the sun. And she had taken the opportunity to visit her brother, who was living and working in Shanghai. It had been wonderful to see her young nephews again. But still, however long she lived, there would always be one less summer in her life.

On arriving back in the UK she had gone straight to York to spend Christmas and the New Year with her mother. Now she was paying a visit that she had been looking forward to for months.

Even now on a grey day, when the towers of Ely Cathedral were indistinct in the mist, everything looked so vivid – the grass, the weeping willows and the brightly painted boats – almost painfully so, after the world of black and white that she had inhabited for nine months. And the smells... There are no smells on the Antarctic plateau. Was that a hint of wood-smoke in the air? And the loudness of everything, the rattle of her case trundling beside her – the sensory overload was almost too much, just as it had been in Thailand and Australia. She’d been warned that it might take a long time to wear off.

As she turned a bend in the path, a figure came into view, at once familiar and strange. It was Rachel, walking with the slow, deliberate tread of a heavily pregnant woman. Her face lit up when she saw Katie.

They embraced awkwardly. Katie had to lean forward to get her arms round her friend.

Oh, Katie, Rachel said. I meant to meet you off the train, but I laid down for a little nap and before I knew it, it was three o’clock. I’m sleeping so badly at the moment.

Katie held her friend at arm’s length and looked into her face. You look well, though.

I’m fine. Just that I can’t get comfortable and I need to pee all the time.

They turned and began to walk slowly on. Rachel said, You’re staying on the boat. Hope that’s OK? We’re still halfway through getting the third bedroom ready for the baby.

That’ll be lovely. Just like old times.

They drew level with Rachel and Daniel’s boat. The Matilda Jane, a sixty-five-foot Dutch barge, was moored not far from their house on Quayside and had been Katie’s home the winter before last when she had been working in a lab on the outskirts of Ely.

Rachel produced a set of keys from her pocket. She hesitated, just for a moment, and Katie put out a hand to support her as she stepped up onto the boat.

Down in the saloon the wood-burning stove had been lit and it was deliciously warm. It had been Rachel’s boat, which she had meticulously restored when she was single, and she had lived on it before she had married Daniel. She had not gone for the chintzy folksy look that a lot of boat-owners favoured. She liked clean lines and modern design. The seating area was furnished with a black leather sofa and matching chairs.

Let’s have some tea, she said. There’s milk in the fridge.

Katie smiled. Of course there was. Rachel was always so well organized. You sit down. I’ll do it.

Rachel shrugged off her coat and sank onto the sofa with a sigh. It’s supposed to be another three weeks, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the Bean came early.

Over the long months of isolation in Antarctica, Katie had followed the course of Rachel’s pregnancy via email and the occasional session on Skype. The Bean was a nickname that had been thought up by Rachel’s daughter Chloe, and it had stuck.

Katie put the kettle on and turned to look at Rachel.

The Bean kicks for England. Sometimes wonder if I’ve got a future world-cup footballer in here. She was sitting with a hand on her belly and the tenderness on her face made Katie’s heart turn over.

That was when it hit her – a sense of being on the outside looking in, a yearning not just for a baby, but for everything that Rachel had: her settled place in the world, her marriage to Daniel, not without its difficulties but solid all the same, and adorable little Chloe – and her work, too. Rachel was a woodworker specializing in restoration, a fulfilling occupation. Even her faith seemed to give her an anchor in the world that Katie felt she lacked.

Whereas Katie... Would she ever have a child? She was younger than Rachel, who was in her early forties, but all the same, she would be thirty-six soon. There was time; of course there was. But just how much time for someone who wasn’t even in a settled relationship? Or possibly not even in a relationship at all. She had met someone out on the ice, but what might come of it, she didn’t know.

The next moment she was chiding herself, because she knew that Rachel was often taxed to the limit of her strength. Six-year-old Chloe had a serious genetic disorder, Diamond Blackfan Anaemia (DBA), which meant that her body could not make red blood cells. The precious baby that Rachel was carrying offered the hope of a cure for Chloe if he or she should happen to be a match. But the chances were only one in four and they didn’t know yet. Rachel and Daniel had refused pre-natal testing. It carried a risk of miscarriage, and what was the point? Rachel wouldn’t have countenanced having a termination, and Katie understood that. The chances of Rachel conceiving a second child had been vanishingly small, so even if she and Daniel hadn’t had ethical objections. This was almost a miracle pregnancy and it wouldn’t happen again. All they could do was wait and hope.

Katie? Katie?

Katie came to herself. What? Yes?

You were miles away. The kettle’s boiled.

Oh, sorry!

She made the tea and settled down beside Rachel on the sofa.

There’s something I want to ask you, Rachel said. And you must absolutely feel free to say no. And I know it’s rather late in the day, but it wasn’t something I wanted to ask in an email or on Skype, so –

Rachel! Just spit it out!

OK. Will you be my birthing partner?

Katie hadn’t been expecting that. For a few moments she couldn’t speak.

Rachel misinterpreted her silence. Like I said, you mustn’t feel you have to –

No, no! Katie interrupted. You just took me by surprise. I hadn’t thought – yes, of course! She took Rachel’s hand, squeezed it and felt an answering squeeze. Oh, wow! I’m just really touched. This is so cool. A thought occurred to her. What about Daniel? He’s OK with that?

To be honest, I think he was relieved when I suggested it. After last time. He’ll be around, of course, but – honestly – I suspect you’ll be supporting him as much as me; maybe more.

Katie nodded her understanding. When Chloe was born, Rachel had suffered a post-partum haemorrhage after a caesarean section and had nearly died. Daniel had been in the operating theatre and had been so traumatized by the experience that he hadn’t wanted Rachel to get pregnant again.

Rachel went on. It makes sense, too, because it means he can take care of Chloe. As you know, we don’t have any in-laws handy. I’ve got friends who’d step in, but it’s nicer for Chloe to have her dad.

I’m so flattered.

I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have by my side. I was wondering – you don’t have to have any medical experience to be a birthing partner, but I’m guessing that when you were doing your medical degree –

Yes, I did a spell on obstetrics.

After her medical degree Katie had chosen the path of research and had never finally qualified. At least her medical background meant that whatever happened she felt confident of coping. In any case Rachel would receive special attention, given the complications of her first delivery, and Katie would only be there in a supporting role. And the local maternity hospital had an excellent reputation. Thinking of that, she said, They’ll take good care of you at the Rosie.

I know.

Are you having a C-section again?

I hope not. They said I could try for a normal delivery, and that it might even be less risky than another C-section.

They sat quietly together. Katie was conscious of what a huge event lay ahead of Rachel, with so much resting on it, and guessed that Rachel was thinking the same.

Then Rachel looked at her watch. Is that the time? I’ll need to leave in a few minutes to collect Chloe. Katie? She seemed about to say something else, but hesitated.

Mmm?

Are you alright?

I’m fine. Why do you ask?

You seem different somehow.

How do you mean?

Well, for one thing, you keep stopping in the middle of what you’re doing and gazing off into the distance.

Do I? I didn’t realize.

After what happened in Antarctica...

Yes, after what had happened in Antarctica. Two people had died on the base and it had been a life-or-death struggle for the rest of them to survive. That would change anyone, but she wouldn’t say that she had been traumatized by it. Something about the way they had all had to work together, their closeness and reliance on each other, had helped them to come through relatively unscathed. Or had it? Perhaps there would be repercussions after all that would make themselves felt long after the events.

It must have had an impact, she admitted. But I think in any case it would be difficult adjusting to the outside world after being in Antarctica. I’m sleeping really badly. I still haven’t got back into a proper routine – and it’s not just the jet lag. It’s having lived through a night that went on for six months.

Rachel hoisted herself off the sofa. Well, if you need to talk, I’m here. You know that. Come over at about six and we’ll have supper.

Can I cook for you?

No, no. Daniel’s cooking tonight. But thanks.

Rachel put her coat on and they went together up the stairs to the wheelhouse. Katie helped her off the boat and they embraced.

Rachel said, I’m so glad you said yes. We can talk about it more later.

Katie wrapped her arms round herself against the cold and watched Rachel make her way down the towpath under the weeping willows, a stalwart figure. At the bend in the path, Rachel turned and waved. Katie waved back, then went back down into the warmth of the saloon.

She poured herself another cup of tea and sat down to think.

Katie had first met Rachel when she was doing research into a therapy for DBA. She had made some headway, but a cure was still a long way off. As a result of her work, she knew a great deal about the disease and she was very conscious that there was something they hadn’t talked about: the risk that the new baby would also have DBA. Katie wasn’t sure if it was because Rachel didn’t want to or because she wasn’t aware of it. Yet, that seemed unlikely. When she became pregnant, she and Daniel would surely have been offered genetic counselling.

The boat rocked in the wake of a passing cruiser and Katie came to herself. She had drifted off into a kind of fugue again. And this time it must have lasted perhaps quarter of an hour – her cup of tea was stone cold.

There was a name for this: winter-over syndrome. It was likely that it was to some degree hormonal, due to the lack of sunlight in a six-month Antarctic winter, and possibly psychological, too, the effect of being cooped up with a small group of people in a confined space, cut off completely for months on end, with vast expanses of ice stretching out for hundreds of miles in all directions. Katie’s mum had remarked on it, too. Katie would find herself drifting away, her voice trailing off in mid-sentence. She knew there was a vagueness and absent-mindedness in her thinking that hadn’t been there before. But