Free The Lazarus Strain by Ken McClure

responsible.’
    ‘I really hope so,’ said Ryman. ‘And when they do . . . they should melt the key.’
    Steven thanked her and turned to leave. As he got to the door, Ryman said, ‘G’night John-boy.’
    Steven smiled and turned. ‘G’night Elizabeth.’
    ‘I wish,’ said Ryman, already back at work inside the chest cavity.
     
    Steven walked slowly back to the car, giving the light breeze that had sprung up time to eliminate any traces of the PM room that might be clinging to his hair and clothes. He hated the smells associated with pathology including that of the bloody awful air freshener they all tended to use. Even after all these years the sickly sweet smell of formaldehyde brought back images of cadavers stored in tanks of the stuff for medical students to hone their skills on.
    ‘And so farewell, Norfolk . . .’ he murmured as he started heading south, thinking about what he would tell John Macmillan in his report. No cause for alarm; the apparent secrecy surrounding Devon’s work had just been routine bureaucracy. Devon had been working on nothing more sinister than an influenza vaccine . . . unless of course . . . Nick Cleary knew different.
    ‘Damnation,’ said Steven as the lingering doubt about Cleary came back to haunt him. He tried arguing himself out of the sinister possibility that the animals had been infected with something more dangerous by considering the member of the public who’d been bitten by one of the animals but who had been released from hospital and was safely back home. He was absolutely fine . . . wasn’t he? This last doubt pushed Steven over some inner threshold. He turned the car through 180 degrees at the next roundabout and started heading back into Norfolk. He was on his way to Holt. He had to see for himself.
    It was just after seven when Steven slowed the car and came to a halt in the main street of Holt where he rummaged through his briefcase on the passenger seat until he found the page from the file with the Elwoods’ address on it. ‘Bramley Cottage, Holt,’ he muttered out loud. He’d have to ask. It occurred to him that he could kill two birds with one stone by getting directions at the local chip shop while he picked up something to eat. He was starving: he hadn’t eaten since breakfast time.
    ‘Yes mate, take the third on your right and go straight up the hill. There’s a narrow opening on your left – just opposite the end of speed limit sign. Bramley is the second cottage along it. There are only three.’
    Steven thanked the man and returned to the car to eat his fish and chips. They tasted good and he wolfed them down in no time at all, using a handful of moist tissues from the glove box to clean his hands and face when he’d finished and hoping that he wouldn’t smell too much when he got to the Elwoods’ cottage.
    Bramley cottage was in darkness when he finally drew up outside it and he thought he saw disappointment on the horizon. He went through the motions however, and walked up the winding path to knock on the door with the heavy brass knocker which, he could see in the light coming from the neighbouring bungalow, was fashioned in the shape of a frog. As he expected, there was no answer but he tried again just to make sure: they might be very early bedders. There was no answer to the second knock but it did however alert the neighbours to his presence and one – a small woman wearing overly large glasses and carpet slippers fashioned as furry rabbits, came out to say, ‘I’m afraid the Elwoods are not at home. David’s been taken ill.’
    Steven looked blankly at the woman. ‘David’s been taken ill’ was the last thing he wanted to hear. He wanted to be told that David was down the pub or out playing bingo. He wanted to be told that David had made a complete recovery and was enjoying life to the full. He did not want to hear that David had been taken ill.
    ‘Did you hear me? I said David’s been taken ill,’ repeated the woman,