I turn back, trying to find out what had changed. It takes a little while to piece it together, but it seems likely that the human trial had not delivered the results they’d been expecting. With their finances in such a perilous state the failure of FAA673 seems to have given a significant mauling to DH Biotech’s bottom line. But in the end I’m not sure what any of this means. I’m just about to give up when I notice a mention of legal action buried deep in the index of a board meeting several years ago. But when I flip to the relevant part of the minutes there’s no mention of it at all, at least that I can see. I flip back and check the page reference again; it is there in the index, but not in the document itself. I do what anyone does in this situation, turn to Google. I try ‘DH Biotech Legal Action’ and get no results. A little disclaimer at the bottom of the screen tells me that pursuant to some obscure EU regulation some results may have been removed due to privacy issues. Hmmm.

I go back to the stack of papers. The minutes were from the first meeting after the trial, so I try to delve into that. The trial itself had been scheduled to happen at the AMC in a private ward. There were to be twelve volunteers, and the trial was going to be double-blind, meaning half of them would be getting FAA673 and half a placebo, but crucially the staff administering the two wouldn’t know which was which either. The compound had a half-life of just six hours, so the patients would be monitored for twenty-four, then allowed to leave. But that’s where things end. Because I can’t find anything else on the trial. Surely there’d be notes on the results, something to say why the drug didn’t work? The company had its financial future pegged to the outcome, so I’d expect to at least see something.

They’re headquartered in Den Haag, but I don’t feel like the drive right now, so I pick up the phone. I start at the bottom, and after working my way up through increasing layers of bureaucracy, I’m once again listening to a ringtone, waiting for someone to pick up.

‘Joost Beltmann.’

His voice is light, a tenor I’d guess, but confident. I explain what I’m after.

‘How did you get this number?’

‘It’s taken me quite a while, no one seemed able to help, and I’ve been passed around from –’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m afraid I’m unable to help either. Not sure why you got put through to me; it’s not my department at all.’

I feel like I’m going to crush the phone in my hand.