Peak Plague Mystery Read online

  Copyright © 2020 S. A. Fearn

  Cover design and photography by Cactus Images, Derby DE24 8BF

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This novel is the work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or localities are purely coincidental.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 978 1838598 389

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE: REBECCA’S TALE

  CHAPTER TWO: DALE SCHOOL

  CHAPTER THREE: VIOLATION OF REBECCA’S REST

  CHAPTER FOUR: HIGH PEAK

  CHAPTER FIVE: INSPECTOR RUMCORN

  CHAPTER SIX: ISOLATION

  CHAPTER SEVEN: THE VILLAGE

  CHAPTER EIGHT: PATTLE COTTAGE

  CHAPTER NINE: UNIVERSITY

  CHAPTER TEN: CIVIL WAR

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE OLD SCHOOL HOUSE

  CHAPTER TWELVE: HARRY LAMBERT’S TALE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: AUNTIE ANNIE’S LETTERS

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: VLADIMIR’S PENITENT JOURNEY

  AFTERWORD

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Dr Bence Kovac slowly pushed open the door. The warmth of the room washed over him as he entered. A small, twelve-year-old girl lay sprawled on an iron-framed bed in a corner of the room. She was asleep and that pleased him. Her black, shoulder-length hair looked unkempt and a deep memory stirred. The image of his beautiful loving wife fused in his mind. She had now long gone, and he was pierced by a pain as though someone had punched him. He tried desperately to clear his head. He was after all doing this for his Lidya, but not just for her. This was for all humanity and he alone would save thousands of lives. He firmly believed his work would one day be known worldwide.

  Bence stood at the side of the bed and intently watched the rhythm of the child’s breathing. It was not laboured; the girl looked peaceful. He glanced down at the record chart in his hand: Patient 1607. He couldn’t remember her name, perhaps Jane or Jill. It didn’t matter. She was recovering and recovering well. The bacterial disease had initially concerned him, but he had remained confident his cure contained the necessary virus to eat this bug. It had, after all, worked well in his lab. He looked up and out of the window at the cloudy sky and reflected on the money this new mix would earn him, and more importantly, how he could invest it in his real quest. He had made a vow and it was one that he would not break.

  The girl stirred, naturally taking in a deeper breath before a long exhale. Bence turned and slipped out the door.

  ONE

  REBECCA’S TALE

  SATURDAY 24 APRIL 2010

  Rebecca Johnson walked out of High Peak School, down the access road and turned left up the hill towards St Peter’s Church. She practically skipped as she went, breathing in the scent of spring daffodils and the witch hazel that floated on the morning breeze. A low, dry-stone wall separated the footpath from a dense wood that now blocked any sight of her school. She wore a striking, pale blue coat with a neat collar and large matching buttons: a genuine sixties garment that had once belonged to her aunt.

  At the peak of the hill stood a little parish church, its grounds bathed in sunlight, that prompted a moment’s review. She watched an elderly lady she sometimes spoke to disappear inside. After a brief pause, she descended the other side into High Peak village. Just three outlets gave homage to a community centre: a butcher combined baker, a newsagent, and in between, a post office.

  ‘Good morning, Aunt Lilly,’ Rebecca said, as she entered the shop.

  ‘Ah, Rebecca. You got my note then?’ replied the elderly lady, appearing from a back room. With sagging cheeks and aged lines below the eyes, Lilly’s face conveyed a constant expression of sadness.

  ‘Yes of course. I like sorting the books,’ Rebecca lied.

  ‘You’ve a good heart, my girl,’ said Lilly, opening an integral door to a security screen and pushing a box through with her foot. ‘I can’t bend like I used to. I’ll probably give these up when you leave.’

  ‘Oh, don’t say that. The villagers come here to sort through them,’ replied Rebecca.

  ‘Yes, but they don’t buy anything.’

  Rebecca looked at the shelf. ‘But more than half have gone.’

  ‘Well, not by your classmates, I do know that,’ said Lilly, her eyebrows lifting.

  ‘Admit it. You wouldn’t want them in here anyway.’

  ‘Weird school that one,’ said Lilly, under her breath.

  ‘Not really,’ said Rebecca defensively.

  ‘Only one year of students… it’s not natural.’

  ‘It has other years.’

  ‘They’re miles away, other side of Derby, and only a handful of children to a class.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I like most.’

  ‘I can’t see how it balances the books with so few pupils.’

  Rebecca exhaled, wondering whether there was much point in once again going over how the Academy supported itself.

  ‘I’ve told you, the Academy rents out the health centre and then there’s the activity centre. Loads of people use these facilities.’

  ‘No one around here does. Anyway, how’s Annie? Has she written lately?’ asked Lilly, closing the door and returning to the counter.

  ‘She’s fine. Sends her love. She asked me to let you know that Burt Braithwaite died last week.’

  ‘Really? The mechanic from Chesterfield? He was a charmer he was. Did alright for himself in the end. Had a big car sales place.’ Lilly looked out, focusing somewhere beyond Rebecca. ‘I remember Annie and I meeting him at Palais de Dance one night in Chesterfield.’ Lilly turned back slightly, looking more directly at Rebecca. ‘I thought he died years ago.’

  ‘Well, apparently not. The funeral’s next week.’

  ‘My Alfie didn’t like him. Thought he had eyes for me, but we knew it was Annie he fancied all right. What did he die of?’ asked Lilly.

  ‘Pneumonia I think,’ replied Rebecca.

  ‘Don’t know what the world’s coming to.’

  The sound of the doorbell pinged, breaking the conversation, as a tall wiry gentleman of advancing years entered the shop. Rebecca recognised him instantly.

  ‘Hello, Dr Kovac. I’ve been expecting you,’ said Lilly.

  ‘I believe there’s a parcel, special delivery,’ he replied.

  Rebecca watched him from the corner as he marginaly leaned forward, placing his hands on the counter.

  ‘Yes, came early this morning,’ said Lilly and disappeared into a back room, which then left an unnatural silence. Rebecca busied herself working through the box of books, sticking price labels on the covers and placing them on the shelf in alphabetical order. She chanced a further inquisitiv
e sideways glance at the man. He was looking directly at her so she immediately returned to the job at hand.

  ‘Here we go, Doctor.’ Lilly clicked a release bolt and slid a section of screen upwards, allowing passage of the parcel.

  Rebecca watched him again as he took the package, feeling he intimated a special regard for whatever lay within. He turned with intent to leave.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll need a signature for that,’ said Lilly.

  ‘Oh yes. Yes, of course,’ he replied hurriedly, signing a slip and departing with no further communication.

  ‘He gives me the creeps,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘Don’t be daft. Shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, Rebecca.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with the way he looks.’

  ‘Old Mrs Ascot swears by him. Gave her some special treatment for an infection on her leg after her op last year,’ Lilly explained. ‘Brilliant, she says. Cleared it within a week. She’d been on and off antibiotics for months.’

  Rebecca pondered the information, but remained silent.

  ‘And you want to be careful what you say up at that school. Dr Kovac’s sibling is a well-respected teacher there,’ announced Lilly.

  In a small, three-bed detached house on the outskirts of the remote High Peak village, deep within Derbyshire’s national park, a tall man with profoundly pointed features and eyebrows that defied logic sat heavily ensconced in his favourite chair. He reviewed a note, a note sent with a parcel:

  Enclosed 2010/11 potential epidemic bacterial strain, centre originated Carcassonne. Package to be returned no later than July.

  ‘They’re being demanding,’ Bence said to himself, straightening his back. He tore at the brown paper, staring at the thick metal box and then reflecting on the bacteria within. For those in society who were old or with existing disorders, such as asthma and emphysema, this cell could be deadly.

  Bence scribbled on the note VO21. Within his vast collection, he had a virus that showed a fondness for this newly sent bug, which was more than fortunate because locating such a molecule was the most difficult part of his therapy. His mind focused on being back in the laboratory with purpose; to study, investigate, deduce and conclude, and he felt a surge of warmth.

  FRIDAY 17 MARCH 1989

  Vladimir Orbelin sat quietly. Not one part of his body was allowed exposure; droplets formed on the inside of his mask. He looked down with immense sadness at his sleeping wife. It was some small comfort. Maybe she had no awareness, no knowledge of the imminent inevitability. She had known, yes, just some few days previously, but that was different. Then there had been a slim hope, but better than nothing. ‘No one should suffer like this,’ he said to himself as he slipped a small cylindrical tube of plastic containing a tiny element of sharp steel back into the folds of his sealed suit.

  Lidya stirred, her eyes struggling to open. She stared into his eyes through the clear shield. She looked frail. Her hair, that he remembered being full-bodied, lay wispy and unkempt. The skin around her eyes had sunk and shone white with a tinge of purple. No words were spoken, yet he knew what they were saying. Goodbye, my darling. Lidya involuntarily inhaled and on release of that last gasp her spirit lifted and she was gone. A pain, greater than any he had ever known, shot through him. He wanted to rip off all the garments separating them and embrace her, hold her close, feel her skin.

  The image of his son filled his mind: his one and only descendent. All that stopped him at that moment from taking his own life was the vision of his boy, for whom he was now solely responsible. Looking at his wife he made a vow. He wouldn’t stop until he held in his power the ability to snuff out this variation of bacterium known by millions as the ‘Black Death’. His gloved hand held her delicate fingers tightly.

  ‘Vladimir,’ said Nikolaz, a similarly clothed physician.

  ‘Five more minutes,’ replied Vladimir. He knew exactly what they would do. They would use bleach on his Lidya, killing any potential loitering bacteria. The thought repulsed him.

  ‘I apologise, but I’ve been instructed to advise you that Mikhail wants to see you in his office,’ said Nikolaz.

  ‘Surely he can wait,’ replied Vladimir.

  ‘They’re nervous, my friend. You’ve found a deadly bacterium,’ said Nikolaz, placing his hand on Vladimir’s shoulder.

  ‘They have my report,’ rebutted Vladimir.

  ‘If there is anything else I can do, you know where I am,’ Nikolaz replied, his tone ending the conversation.

  Vladimir looked at the colleague who had also been his friend. They had laughed about life and intimately discussed work. Now he realised things had changed. He gently released Lidya’s hand and walked out, brushing past Nikolaz with no apology. The hard grey floors and white clinical walls of the secured treatment centre offered no warmth as his ID pass buzzed the metal doors along his journey. He would tell Mikhail what he thought of his lack of compassion. He paused barely a moment outside the research centre’s head office before entering without knocking.

  Mikhail Nozadze, an elderly man, sat upright, initially startled at the intrusion. Sliding some papers together on his ornate wooden desk, he leant forward intertwining plump fingers. He tried to show a kinder face to Vladimir but it didn’t fool the receiver.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Vladimir. I want to be the first to offer my condolences.’

  Vladimir’s tall slender frame and milky blue eyes elicited no communication.

  ‘Please have a seat,’ said Mikhail.

  Vladimir swept the chair back from the table and sat waiting with crossed legs.

  ‘Would you like a drink? Coffee? Or perhaps something a little stronger?’ asked Mikhail.

  ‘No thank you,’ Vladimir snapped and he watched Mikhail look to the side, avoiding his gaze.

  ‘It is with regret that we must have a chat, Vladimir, but sadly I need to close out some issues in respect of the mutated strain of the plague Yersinia pestis: your YPX1.’

  ‘You have my report,’ replied Vladimir.

  ‘Yes, but understandably it’s not your normal full account, which saddens me on this occasion to reflect on such lack of… content. I suggest you take some time off and review the document,’ said Mikhail.

  ‘The report outlines all the details about the mutated strain. Which parts do you not feel fulfil the brief?’ asked Vladimir.

  ‘I’m sure you know already.’

  ‘Humour me.’

  ‘You’re one of our best bacteriologists, but it is apparent that you’re deliberately holding back information. Your account neglects to accurately describe the location. We are aware you have been south east of Diyarbakir in Turkey, but we need specifics.’

  ‘I contained the outbreak locally. We were fortunate that the casualties remained at two.’ Vladimir paused, realising that this was now incorrect and willing himself to keep control, he continued. ‘Three … and as long as we monitor from a distance, there is nothing to suggest a major incident.’

  ‘Don’t play games, Vladimir, for your sake.’

  ‘My team and I took hundreds of samples of decaying matter from the area, which I’m certain will contain the killer virus that will devour the parasite. I need time to work with the substances.’

  ‘You have avoided my question, Vladimir, and thus my problem.’

  ‘The precise location is sacred. We don’t want the area swamped with scientists looking for the same virus we’re seeking. They could inadvertently spread the disease. It remains vital the area is safe from that. I’ll find the cure, Mikhail.’

  ‘Vladimir, I worry you don’t appreciate the severity of your actions should the West get hold of this deadly disease and find a solution. It would be catastrophic and you will be held personally responsible. Failure is not an option.’

  Vladimir looked hard at the old man. ‘I’m a doctor, not a military man.’

  Mikhail replied, ‘Vladimir you’re a clever man, but sometimes incredibly naïve.’

  THURSDA
Y 29 APRIL 2010

  Rebecca entered the dining hall too late. It had been a long day and she had missed the main evening meal. The shutters of the serving hatch were down. Her stomach ached with emptiness as she walked along the corridor to the main kitchen. The door was open just a fraction, which allowed the narrowest view of any occupant within. Rebecca slowed, hesitated and observed, but didn’t enter or make her presence known. Isolated images of a tweed jacket and grey hair flitted across the gap; she leaned forward and glimpsed snippets of movement, covered hands manipulating food.

  She retreated rapidly through the dining hall and up the stairs, all thoughts focused on getting to the girls’ dormitory. At the top of the second landing she ran directly into Brian Lambert, the PE teacher.

  ‘S-sorry, sir,’ Rebecca said between gasps.

  ‘Rebecca, you need to be more careful. Run around outside, not on the staircases.’ He paused. ‘Is everything alright?’

  ‘Yes, sir, sorry.’

  Moments later she watched through her window as the familiar intruder, complete with satchel, left the adjacent school building just as she had often noticed, just as she had known he would tonight. But tonight things felt different.

  Later that same evening, Rebecca re-entered the dining hall. The stained wooden floor and half-oak panelled walls had lost their warmth due to the bright light from the more modern LED bulbs suspended from traditionally styled lamps. The hall was now packed with students and teachers grouped around the various tables. The hum from voices telling teenage tales interspersed with spasmodic laughter gave her a weird sense of exclusion. She spotted Martin Holloway, a tall boy with blonde hair and a round face – a person with whom she always felt comfortable. He sat in a corner surrounded by classmates, enjoying the supper items of cakes and biscuits. Rebecca noted he was consuming the food she had earlier witnessed being touched by the intruder. She closed her eyes, willing the knot in her stomach to pass and almost sprinted from the dining hall, not stopping until she was outside and breathing the cooler air.

  ‘What now?’ she mused. Should she warn Martin? Doubt niggled at her. Perhaps she was mistaken. Perhaps there was some innocent explanation. She should go to a teacher, but how could she broach such a concern? The teachers would say she was making things up, trying to get attention, and they’d want to know who she’d seen. Rebecca thought about her mother. She hadn’t lived with her for years, so why she should be reflecting on her now she didn’t know. Then the vision of Aunt Annie came to her. Thinking of her always brought a sense of peace that took the edge off the night. Annie was old, her grandfather’s sister; she couldn’t worry her.