His mind flashed back to the horrific scene in the Arctic hut on Svalbard, to the living corpse on the sofa, his face distorted with pustules, the blood and black vomit down his chest. No way. He wasn’t going out like that. And what of his colleague Sheila Mackenzie? They had given her the best care possible at the Royal Free, but it had turned out to be nothing more than palliative – she had died anyway; nastily, he’d heard. And so much for the clean bill of health they’d given him. This virus must be more agile than they realized: it was clearly capable of hiding itself and lying dormant before re-emerging to ravage its host. No, his time was up, there was no way of ducking it, so now he was going to take control. Chris Coppinger was also a decent man and he knew that if he turned up at A & E he’d infect everyone he came into contact with: doctors, patients, porters and nurses. And he didn’t want that on his conscience.

He knew what he had to do.

He parked up beside the road, took out his phone, his hands shaking slightly, and dialled the number of an old friend who worked at the Marsden in London. They had both studied biochemistry at university, then gone their separate ways, Chris into atmospheric chemistry, his friend Mike into oncology medicine. Mike answered on the second ring.

‘Chris! Good, I heard you were back. You jammy bugger, you dodged a bullet there, didn’t you? Poor old Sheila Mackenzie, though. What a way to go, eh? Let’s hope they sort this virus out before we all get put into lockdown again. I don’t think my marriage could take it!’ He broke off to laugh, part of the gallows humour that surfaces at the sharp end of the medical profession. Chris Coppinger waited for him to finish. He decided he would spare him the full truth, just tell him what needed to be known.

‘Listen, Mike …’

‘Yes. Lunch. Is that what you were going to say? Because we’re long overdue. There’s a new place down the Fulham Road you’ll love—’

‘No. Listen. This virus … It’s … it’s even more dangerous than they thought. It hides itself. It’s not showing up on any of the tests. So, look, I need you to speak to the crisis team at the Royal Free and also to the National Institute for Health Protection. Joint Biosecurity Centre will need to know about this. Tell them they need to double-screen – no, triple-screen – everyone who might have come into contact with it.’

His friend at the Marsden laughed, but this time it was a nervous laugh. ‘What are you saying exactly, Chris? And shouldn’t you be making these calls?’

‘Yes, Mike, I should, but I’m afraid I have to be somewhere right now. I’m sorry, I have to run.’