Simon headed down Gordon Street.

‘Detective -’

‘Mate, call me Bob, fer fuck’s sake -’

‘Bob – Detective – Bob -’

Bob Sanderson laughed. ‘If you get anything on these blood tests do tell – maybe your sleuthing skills will prove a bit better than ours.’

‘Bob, you make it sound like you…don’t exactly trust him?’

The line was silent. Simon repeated his question. The DCI replied slowly, ‘Not sure I do. There’s just something…well, evasive, likesay. Check it out.’

The call concluded, the journalist pushed through the battered, paint-peeling door. He took the lift to the top floor where an old, old guy in a tweed jacket, with a wattly neck and yellowy eyes, was waiting to greet him. The man looked barely half a social class above a tramp. Yet, as Simon’s research had told him, this man Fazackerly had been – once – amongst the best geneticists of his generation.

Fazackerly fixed his eyes on his visitor. The scientist’s yellow-toothed smile was lordly yet repulsive, like a monitor lizard grinning after a large meal of diseased goat.

‘Mister Quinn from the Daily Telegraph. Do come in, and excuse the mess. I’m still moving my ancillary documents. Two months later!’

Fazackerly opened a glass door and guided his guest through the main lab of the GenoMap project, as was. Evidence of the project’s closure was all around. Much of the machinery had already been dismantled, there were big half-sealed crates sitting in the dusty silence, with fridge-freezer sized machines inside, waiting to be shipped.

The old professor pointed at a couple of the bigger pieces of equipment, and listed their names and functions: the thermocycler for rapid segmentation, the vast lab microwave for sterilization and histology, the DNA sequencers for analyzing fluorochromes. Simon scribbled the strange words and purposes in his notebook; it felt like he was taking dictation in Latin.

Then Fazackerly invited the journalist into a back office, closed the door, and sat down at a desk. Simon sat opposite in a steel chair. A black and white photo of a Victorian-looking man lay flat and dusty on the desk.

Fazackerly nodded in its direction. ‘Just taken it down off the wall. It’s Galton.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Francis Galton, bit of a hero. The founder of eugenics. Did some excellent work in Namibia.’

The scientist took up the framed photo and slid it into a cardboard box at his side; the box also contained three empty bottles of whisky.

‘Well, Mister Quinn, I imagine you have some questions, like your police friend?’

‘Yes.’

‘To speed things up, what say I give you a little background?’

‘OK.’

Fazackerly began to waffle: about human genetics and the genome project and the problems of funding pure research. Dutifully, Simon scribbled.

But the journalist was beginning to sense what the Scotland Yard detective had been implying: Fazackerly was evasive, filling the air with mellifluous but distracting verbiage, as if aiming to decoy.

He needed to hurry the dialogue along.

‘Professor Fazackerly. Why exactly was the GenoMap project closed down?’

The interviewee sniffed the air.

‘Because we quite ran out of money, I’m afraid. Genomics is an expensive business.’

‘So there was no…political element?’

A flash of the yellow teeth.

‘Well…’

Silence.

‘Professor Fazackerly. I know you’re a busy guy. I’ll come clean.’ Simon stared directly at the professor. ‘I’ve been doing my Googling. GenoMap was set up mainly with private funding from corporations to continue the work that was begun by the Human Diversity Genome Project at Stanford University. Yes?’

‘Yes…’

‘Were you closed for the same reason as the Stanford project?’

For the first time the scientist appeared uncomfortable.

‘Mister Quinn. Please remember. I’m just a retired biologist.’

‘What coaxed you out of retirement?’

‘I think GenoMap is a grand idea: we are, or rather we were, aiming to map the differences between different human races…and if we manage that then it could be of momentous benefit.’

‘How?’

‘Medicines. There are, for instance, new medicines available for people of African descent in the United States for their particular problems with hypertension. And so forth. At GenoMap we were hoping especially for some insights into Tay Sachs disease, which seems to be especially common with people of Ashkenazi Jewish origin…’

‘But there were political objections, right?’

An expressive sigh.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I suspect you know as well as I do, Mister Quinn. For some people the very idea of there being significant ethnic differences at all is quite anathematic. Many thinkers and politicians like to assert all racial differences are illusory, a social construct. A fable. A chimera. And certainly it’s a point of view.’

‘One you don’t agree with?’

‘No. I think young black men can sprint faster than young white men – on average. That’s quite a fundamental racial and genetic difference. Of course you’re not meant to say these things…’ He chuckled mirthlessly. ‘But I don’t especially care anyhow. I am too old!’

‘Fair enough. But a younger scientist?’

Fazackerly adopted a shrewd expression.

‘For a young scholar, yes, it is different: it could be seen as career-suicide, getting into this kind of thing. It is very controversial. Koreans are better at chess than Aborigines and so forth! Eugenics died as a science after the Second World War, for obvious reasons. And it has proved very hard to revive the study of racial differences. The HDGP at Stanford was a start, but the politicians got it closed. After that many decided to avoid the field of human genetic diversity altogether. And of course, there are the endless lawsuits, as well…’

‘The biopiracy?’

‘You have done your homework.’ Fazackerly’s expression was almost wistful. ‘Yes. You see, during our research we aimed to analyze the DNA from isolated tribes and races, like Melanesians, and Andaman islanders.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, like rare Amazonian plants, rare races of men might have uniquely beneficial genes. If we found an isolated Congolese tribe that is genetically resistant to malaria we could then have a shortcut to a genetically-based malaria vaccine.’

Simon wrote in his pad.

‘Yet the tribesmen objected. And sued. Because it’s their DNA?’

‘Quite so. But then again, the hunter-gatherers of the Kakoveld have not done all the expensive research.’ Fazackerly shrugged, impatiently. ‘Anyhow some Australian native groups sued us for biopiracy, and that put the poison cherry on the already rather inedible cake for our main patrons. The Greeler Foundation, Kellerman Namcorp, and so on. They pulled the plug. And that was the end of GenoMap.’

Fazackerly gazed out of the window.

‘Such a shame for the staff. We had some great people here. A fiendishly clever girl from Kyoto University. And a quite outstanding Chinese Canadian. And of course…’

They looked at each other. The journalist said:

‘Angus Nairn.’

‘Young Angus Nairn. Perhaps the best young geneticist in Europe. He had already published some quite startling papers.’

‘But…then he disappeared?’

‘After we were closed down. Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘You have no idea where he’s gone, or why? Or where?’

‘No.’ Fazackerly shrugged. ‘I did wonder if he may have ended his life, like a good Socratic. The figures for suicide in young men are quite alarming. Personally I suspect he was too…ambitious…to throw himself off Tower Bridge.’ The yellow smile was notably sad. ‘It is an authentic mystery. I am sorry. I cannot help.’

‘But what about the connection with these…murders? You said on the phone you’d read my articles. So you know this. Angus Nairn was testing Basques just before he disappeared.’