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pharmaceuticals, it had a massive baby-food division, a worldwide chain of fertility clinics and a group of prestigious private hospitals. Bendix Schere had been one of the first pharmaceutical companies to invest heavily in genetics research and was the largest single provider of research funds for genetics in the country.
    For the past thirty years Dick Bannerman had refused to go to the pharmaceutical industry for funding, because he was passionately against the whole concept of patenting. Knowledge should be shared, he believed, and it was a principle he rigidly adhered to at Bannerman Genetics Research sited on the campus of Berkshire University. His funding came partly from the university, partly – and very sporadically – from the government, and even more sporadically from a handful of charitable organizations – in particular those supporting research into genetic-linked diseases, such as the Imperial Cancer Research Foundation, the Cystic Fibrosis Trust, and the Parkinson’s Foundation.
    But with the constant expense of keeping up to date in technology, combined with the increasing desire of funders to see a return on their investment beyond pure research results, the pressure in keeping the labs running, with their staff oftwenty, was taking its toll. Whenever Monty thought about the breakthroughs her father had made despite all the handicaps, she wondered how much more he could achieve with better funding. Sir Neil Rorke might just be the answer. ‘I’ve never heard anything good about Bendix Schere,’ Dick Bannerman said.
    â€˜What have you heard that’s bad?’
    He pushed a toothpick into the side of his mouth and bit on it. ‘Nothing specific. They’re obsessively secretive.’
    â€˜So’s the whole pharmaceutical industry.’
    â€˜Rorke’s not going to offer any funding without wanting his pound of flesh.’
    â€˜Patents aren’t that terrible, Daddy – and they don’t last for ever. Seventeen years in the UK – that’s not long.’
    He looked at her with his head slanted. ‘Seventeen years will see me out.’
    â€˜I hope not.’
    â€˜Well – you’ll be pushing me round in a wheelchair, and I’ll be gaga.’
    â€˜And still scratching around for funding.’
    The remark silenced him, and she knew the barb had struck home.
    He was getting tired of the fight for money; and he knew that time was running out on him. They’d had a letter from Berkshire University telling them, with regret, that their funding was going to be halved for the next three years; it had added that with Dr Bannerman’s recent achievements in genetics there should be little difficulty finding funding from the commercial sector. The government had been making similar hints. He was going to have to go cap in hand to the pharmaceutical industry one day, and right now he was riding high. The timing had never been better.
    â€˜You have nothing to lose by meeting Sir Neil,’ Monty said. ‘If you don’t like what he says, then fine.’
    â€˜Yup, OK, fine, we’ll meet, see what’s what. Will you come too – help assess him? Maybe you can charm some loot out of him.’
    â€˜Sure I’ll come. Whenever I’ve seen him on television he always looks very friendly.’
    Dick Bannerman removed the toothpick and twisted it in his fingers, examining the tip. ‘Cobras always smile before they strike.’

4
    Berkshire
,
England.
October
,
1993
    On Tuesday nights Anna Sterling’s husband Mark went to rugger practice, followed by a drinking session then a curry with the guys. Monty Bannerman and Anna usually had supper together or went to a film.
    They had been meeting up like that, weekly, for as long as Monty could remember. Anna was her oldest friend, and she was also one of her few remaining pals who did not have children. Monty was aware that was probably the main reason