Wildcard by Ken McClure Read Free Book Online Page B

suggested the interviewer.
    ‘Quite so.’
    ‘But surely it can only be a matter of time until one of these viruses slips through the net and threatens us all?’
    ‘I think the way the authorities dealt with the problem at Heathrow demonstrates that we can have confidence in the defences currently in place,’ said Rosen.
    ‘Maybe you should talk to Fred Cummings,’ said Steven under his breath. He watched the rest of the news, then switched off the set. He decided to pack his bag for his trip up to Scotland tomorrow. He made a mental note to buy presents for Jenny and Sue’s children after he’d talked with Macmillan in the morning.

FOUR
     
     

Manchester, England
    Miss Warren looked at the luminous numerals on her bedside clock: it was 2.35 a.m. She tried once more to get to sleep by turning on her side and pressing one ear to the pillow while holding the bedcovers to her other but it was no use; the music was too loud. She didn’t know what it was (it was Bruce Springsteen’s ‘The River’) but it had been playing non-stop for the last two hours. She looked up at the ceiling and sighed, feeling more puzzled than annoyed because this was all most unusual; in fact, it had never happened before. It was just not the sort of thing one expected at the Palmer Court flats.
    When the music started she had assumed that her upstairs neighbour, Ann Danby, must be having a party. That in itself would be unusual, but maybe it was a special occasion, a birthday, perhaps, or job promotion? But as time went on Miss Warren came to realise that there was no sound of people in the flat above, no clinking of glasses, no party chatter, no intermittent gales of laughter, just that loud, unremitting music.
    Although younger than most of the other residents in the flats – somewhere in her mid-thirties, she would guess – Miss Danby had always seemed to fit in so perfectly at Palmer Court. She dressed well, had an executive job – although Miss Warren didn’t know exactly what – and was always polite and courteous when they met in the hall. More than that, she was usually the first to pay her resident’s fees for grass-cutting and lift maintenance and could always be relied upon to turn up at meetings of the residents’ association – which was more than could be said for some of the others.
    Miss Warren decided that she couldn’t stand the noise any more: she would have to go upstairs and have a word. She got out of bed, put on her slippers and dressing gown, fastening the belt with a firm tug and a large bow. She stopped to glance at herself in the hall mirror and primped her hair before opening the front door and padding along the landing to the doors leading to the fire-escape stairs. She almost turned tail when she heard voices and concluded that perhaps there was a party after all and the guests were now leaving, but then she recognised a man’s voice, that of George Dale, Miss Danby’s neighbour.
    Miss Warren climbed the stairs and pushed open the landing door. George and Lucy Dale turned round. They wore matching dressing gowns in navy with green piping.
    ‘Whatever’s going on?’ she asked.
    ‘She won’t answer the door,’ replied Lucy Dale. ‘George has been knocking for the past five minutes. The noise is driving us mad.’
    ‘It’s not like Miss Danby at all,’ said Miss Warren. ‘Can you see anything through the letterbox?’
    George knelt down with some difficulty, holding his right knee and lowering himself gently. ‘Bedroom light’s on,’ he said. ‘God, I feel like a peeping Tom … No sign of movement, though. Miss Danby! Are you there?’
    There was still no response after several tries.
    ‘She hasn’t been well, you know,’ said Lucy. ‘She told me she thought she had flu coming on when I spoke to her the other day.’
    ‘Do you think we should call the police?’ asked Miss Warren.
    Lucy looked doubtful. ‘I don’t like the idea of that,’ she said. ‘Policemen clomping their