The Rosie Project (Don Tillman #1)(45)

She did not return my call.

‘These things happen,’ said Claudia over the third coffee meeting in four weeks. ‘You get involved with a woman, it doesn’t work out …’

So that was it. I had, in my own way, become ‘involved’ with Rosie.

‘What should I do?’

‘It’s not easy,’ said Claudia, ‘but anyone will give you the same advice. Move on. Something else will turn up.’

Claudia’s logic, built on sound theoretical foundations and drawing on substantial professional experience, was obviously superior to my own irrational feelings. But as I reflected on it, I realised that her advice, and indeed the discipline of psychology itself, embodied the results of research on normal humans. I am well aware that I have some unusual characteristics. Was it possible that Claudia’s advice was not appropriate for me?

I decided on a compromise course of action. I would continue the Wife Project. If (and only if) there was further time available, I would use it for the Father Project, proceeding alone. If I could present Rosie with the solution, perhaps we could become friends again.

Based on the Bianca Disaster I revised the questionnaire, adding more stringent criteria. I included questions on dancing, racquet sports and bridge to eliminate candidates who would require me to gain competence in useless activities, and increased the difficulty of the mathematics, physics and genetics problems. Option (c) moderately would be the only acceptable answer to the alcohol question. I organised for the responses to go directly to Gene, who was obviously engaging in the well-established research practice of making secondary use of the data. He could advise me if anyone met my criteria. Exactly.

In the absence of Wife Project candidates, I thought hard about the best way to get DNA samples for the Father Project.

The answer came to me as I was boning a quail. The candidates were doctors who would presumably be willing to contribute to genetics research. I just needed a plausible excuse to ask for their DNA. Thanks to the preparation I had done for the Asperger’s lecture, I had one.

I pulled out my list of eleven names. Two were confirmed dead, leaving nine, seven of whom were living overseas, which explained their absence at the reunion. But two had local phone numbers. One was the head of the Medical Research Institute at my own university. I rang it first.

‘Professor Lefebvre’s office,’ said a woman’s voice.

‘It’s Professor Tillman from the Department of Genetics. I’d like to invite Professor Lefebvre to participate in a research project.’

‘Professor Lefebvre is on sabbatical in the US. He’ll be back in two weeks.’

‘Excellent. The project is Presence of Genetic Markers for Autism in High-Achieving Individuals. I require him to complete a questionnaire and provide a DNA sample.’

Two days later, I had succeeded in locating all nine living candidates and posted them questionnaires, created from the Asperger’s research papers, and cheek scrapers. The questionnaires were irrelevant, but were needed to make the research appear legitimate. My covering letter made clear my credentials as a professor of genetics at a prestigious university. In the meantime, I needed to find relatives of the two dead doctors.

I found an obituary for Dr Gerhard von Deyn, a victim of a heart attack, on the internet. It mentioned his daughter, a medical student at the time of his death. I had no trouble tracking down Dr Brigitte von Deyn and she was happy to participate in the survey. Simple.

Geoffrey Case was a much more difficult challenge. He had died a year after graduating. I had long ago noted his basic details from the reunion website. He had not married and had no (known) children.

Meanwhile the DNA samples trickled back. Two doctors, both in New York, declined to participate. Why would medical practitioners not participate in an important study? Did they have something to hide? Such as an illegitimate daughter in the same city that the request came from? It occurred to me that, if they suspected my motives, they could send a friend’s DNA. At least refusal was better than cheating.

Seven candidates, including Dr von Deyn, Jr, returned samples. None of them was Rosie’s father or half-sister. Professor Simon Lefebvre returned from his sabbatical and wanted to meet me in person.

‘I’m here to collect a package from Professor Lefebvre,’ I said to the receptionist at the city hospital where he was based, hoping to avoid an actual meeting and interrogation. I was unsuccessful. She buzzed the phone, announced my name, and Professor Lefebvre appeared. He was, I assumed, approximately fifty-four years old. I had met many fifty-four-year-olds in the past thirteen weeks. He was carrying a large envelope, presumably containing the questionnaire, which was destined for the recycling bin, and his DNA.

As he reached me, I tried to take the envelope, but he extended his other hand to shake mine. It was awkward, but the net result was that we shook hands and he retained the envelope.

‘Simon Lefebvre,’ he said. ‘So, what are you really after?’

This was totally unexpected. Why should he question my motives?

‘Your DNA,’ I said. ‘And the questionnaire. For a major research study. Critical.’ I was feeling stressed and my voice doubtless reflected it.

‘I’m sure it is.’ Simon laughed. ‘And you randomly select the head of medical research as a subject?’

‘We were looking for high achievers.’

‘What’s Charlie after this time?’