“I’m off to Addenbrooke’s,” I said.
“But you’re not meeting until midday, boss. It’s only ten.”
“Should you be listening to other people’s conversations?”
“I thought that’s exactly what you did in this line of work.” I showed him my middle finger and headed out.
The Ford Focus was still there and I watched the occupants in my mirror as I reversed onto the road. I pulled out parallel to their car but pretended not to notice them. Heading in the direction they were parked, just to make it easy for them, I drove down to the roundabout then turned round and headed back the way we’d come. They were right behind me, not even leaving a car or two between us. Amateur hour, unless they wanted me to know they were there, but judging by their feigned disinterest when parked on my road I’d say they just didn’t have a clue; they certainly weren’t trained in surveillance. I had no idea who these guys were or what they wanted but right now wasn’t the time to find out. My priority was to meet Aurora without taking them with me.
I headed slowly to Densley’s garage, making sure I didn’t lose them, and backed into his forecourt. The Ford Focus parked in a residential parking space on the street.
Densley obviously wasn’t pleased to see me.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“With the car? Nothing. I need a favour.”
He looked relieved. “What is it?”
“I’ve got unwanted company and need to borrow one of your guys.” I explained what I had in mind and Densley called one of his men in. I handed him my car keys and stepped onto the street where I stood for a second before walking off. I could hear the Focus start up and crawl along behind me as I turned left at the next junction. It was a dead end. For cars that is. There was a gap at the end with bollards, a gap wide enough for bicycles and pedestrians. I walked through it and stopped the other side long enough to hear the car door open and close. I risked a glance to see the smaller, top-heavy Mediterranean-looking guy coming through the bollards, looking at the ground. I decided he would be Ben. The blond driver of the Focus, now called Bill, would be desperately trying to do a three-point turn, but if things went to plan Densley’s recovery truck would be blocking his way for a few minutes. I walked on and turned a corner to see Densley’s man walking towards me, my car parked further along. He grinned as he passed and I nodded discreetly. Getting into my unlocked car I found the keys in the ignition as agreed. In the wing mirror I could see the guy following me react in panic. He got out his phone and stabbed some buttons, putting it to his ear. Starting the engine I slowly pulled out. I couldn’t resist sticking my hand out of the window and waving jauntily as I set off for Addenbrooke’s. Sometimes my job can be fun.
11
CAMBRIDGE COULD BE SAID TO CONSIST OF TWO WORLDS: THE university, and the rest of the town. The two really don’t interact much, except where some of the latter service the former. Plumbers, cleaners, cooks, gardeners, child-minders, electricians and the like, who keep the university grounds looking tiptop, the hot water running, the meals served on time, the drains unblocked, the beds made. They also take care of the domestic arrangements of academics to allow them to inhabit their ivory towers unencumbered by the mundanities of running a home. It is a co-dependent relationship in which both parties couldn’t really exist without the other but do so with an underlying resentment hidden by smiles and money. My father had served these people as a butler at Morley College and I was one of those who occasionally (and reluctantly) made their living from the tribulations of those who worked among the hallowed spires – spires that were being increasingly undermined by the continued erection of architecturally challenged blocks of tall apartments that mysteriously made it through the council’s planning committee.
There is, however, a third Cambridge world that straddles both town and gown, serving and employing both: the large complex on the south of the city that I now drove into – Addenbrooke’s Hospital, or, to give it its proper title, Cambridge University Hospitals. It was now big enough that its chief executive was more a mayor than CEO of this sprawling mini-city, complete with its own power source and network of roads and buildings. Given it was a teaching hospital and linked to the university, many of its consultants were also university professors and, according to Kamal, begrudged the fact that Addenbrooke’s was a general hospital that provided the local population with mundane medical care that got in the way of being a cutting-edge medical research facility.
I parked in one of the staff car parks using a cloned parking pass acquired through one of Kamal’s flatmates who used to work here. Parking in the visitors’ car park was exorbitant, and although I could reclaim it as an expense, it was paperwork that I could do without.
The concourse in Addenbrooke’s main building reinforced the feeling of a small city. There was a food court complete with all the fast food chains you could find on any high street (surely a reason for many of the admissions?), as well as a bank, travel agent, dry cleaner, newsagent, hairdresser and solicitor. If you worked here and lived on site you need never leave.
After a long wait I saw Aurora, wearing jeans and an oversized T-shirt, standing next to my basketball-playing friend, now dressed in scrubs. Was he a surgeon? Up close his staff badge told me he was a theatre orderly, and that his name was Joshua. This time he shook hands with me and we looked for a table in a quieter part of the food court, Aurora like a small child walking between us. I was disappointed that she didn’t have the briefcase with her, but perhaps it was with Dolores somewhere in the hospital.
“I’ll be over there,” Joshua said to Aurora, pointing to a sandwich bar. Of course you will, I thought. Aurora and I sat down. The place was starting to get busy with both hospital workers and visitors, as well as the odd patient in pyjamas wheeling a drip around, putting people off their lunch.
“You speak with Mr Bill?” she asked, straight to business.
“Yes I did. He’s happy to give you the passport but he wants to see you.” She started to knead her hands together.
“Why?”
“He wants you to do the exchange in person. He, they, want to talk to you.”
Judging by her reaction I might as well have suggested that she had to sleep with him in return for her passport. It occurred to me that maybe she already had, willingly or not. She could have been cajoled into it or worse, forced. It might explain why she’d left and her aversion to going back there.
“Is there any reason meeting them would be a problem?”
She shook her head but her hands said otherwise. I had an urge to put my hands on hers, to reassure her and keep them still, but Joshua was looking at us as he took ownership of a newly created foot-long sub and I doubted he would take kindly to physical contact on my part.
“He talked about giving you redundancy pay.” Actually he’d called it compensation at first, which on reflection was an odd word to use in this context. Compensation for what? But Aurora just looked perplexed.
“He wants to give you money,” I explained. She visibly perked up at the mention of money.
“How much?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Three hundred and sixty-nine pounds.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “That’s a very specific amount.”
“That is cheapest ticket for Manila.” She wiped her palms together. “I have no money.”
“Right. What if I organise a meeting with Bill Galbraith and negotiate a package?”
She reverted to her confused look.
“I mean you would get your passport and at the very least the cost of the ticket to Manila, maybe even some more?”
“I have no money to pay you.”
“You don’t have to pay me. I’m being paid to return the briefcase, so as long as that happens then everyone is happy.” Joshua wandered over and sat at the next table. He was already halfway through his sub and his chin glistened with some green relish. I could have pointed to my own chin so he would get the hint
but he might not understand and it could get awkward. Instead I turned back to Aurora.
“Look, I don’t know what happened between you and the Galbraiths, but if you want to leave, and frankly I don’t blame you, then maybe I can help you. But you need to give me something, Aurora.”
She frowned. “The briefcase?”
“No, no. It was an expression. You have to help me to help you.”
“How?”
“Do you want to tell me what happened, at the Galbraiths’? Why did you leave?”
She looked at me like a rabbit in headlights, unable to speak.
“Was it Mr Galbraith?” I persisted. “Mrs Galbraith?”
She looked round wildly, and had forgotten to breathe. Joshua suddenly appeared beside her. He spoke to her gently in Tagalog, his hand on her shoulder.
“Is she OK?” I asked him.
“She’ll be fine, she gets panic attacks. Are you done here?”
“I guess so.”
They stood up and she looked at me.
“I go to the house,” she said, then pointed at me. “If you go to house.”
“Of course I’ll go with you. I’ll speak to Mr Galbraith and arrange it. How can I contact you?”
She had a whispered conversation with Joshua and he came over.
“I’ll give you my mobile number,” he said.
* * *
I bought a sandwich to go and headed to the main entrance where I came across Kamal in his dark blue porter’s uniform pushing an elderly lady in a wheelchair. He was bent over, talking to her as they trundled along. She seemed amused at something he was saying. He spotted me and stopped.
“Aha, here’s a friend of mine. Dorothy, this is George.” She smiled at me, her eyes clear and bright. She stuck out her hand and I took it, her grip unexpectedly firm.
“Nice to meet you, George.”
“Dorothy.” I pointed to Kamal. “Is he looking after you?”
“He’s taking me to lunch,” she said.
“Just you watch out, Dorothy, he’s got a reputation.”
“Maybe I’m the one with the reputation,” she said, winking. We all laughed. Kamal leant towards her.
“I just need to have a quick chat with George here, Dorothy. He’s a private detective and working on a big case which I’m helping him with.”
“Right you are,” she said, rolling her lovely eyes at me to let me know that she was humouring him. We stepped aside although Kamal kept one hand on the wheelchair, as if worried Dorothy might decide to make a break for it.
“I’ve been asking around about our good-looking friend,” Kamal said to me.
“And?”
“In a nutshell, his senior registrar does most of his surgery ’cause he’s away filming and the consensus is that his TV career is more important to him than his work here.”
“Any gossip about his personal life?”
“Curiously nothing. I mean he’s a looker and there are no shortage of women in this place who wouldn’t have a go, married or not, but there’s not a hint of it. You’d expect at least some speculation.”
“Perhaps he’s gay,” Dorothy said, looking at us like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Kamal and I stared at her. Clear eyes, a firm handshake and perfect hearing; what exactly was wrong with the old bird? Kamal turned to me and shrugged.
“Maybe she’s right.”
“Maybe he’s just happily married,” I said.
For some reason the three of us found that funny.
12
TO MY RELIEF THERE WAS NO FORD FOCUS PARKED ON THE street when I got back to the office. The first thing that sprung to mind as to why I would merit such attention was some grudge from a previous case, an errant husband perhaps. Of course it could also be related to my finding Aurora – maybe Bill Galbraith was keeping tabs on me. Although to be honest the idea that someone of his social standing would know people like those two seemed unlikely.
Upstairs, Sandra was eating some leftovers from a Tupperware pot. Something fish-based, judging by the smell. I ought to have rules about smelly food in the office, just in case a client comes in. Her mouth full, she raised her eyebrows at me in greeting as I put my hospital-bought lunch down on my desk. Jason’s report was sitting there, neatly presented in a plastic folder, the name of the target printed on the front. He’d compiled all the information he’d gleaned going through their social media and other online activity, what Jason called their “digital footprint”. It’s surprising what information people give away online. You can build up quite a picture from a variety of sources. Of course some people are canny, and only reveal what they want to reveal. I remember some philosopher saying that we erect a statue of ourselves in our head, and spend all our time trying to live up to that image – an accurate definition of the sort of narcissism that appears to make up a lot of Facebook, it seems to me. Jason had set up fake Facebook and LinkedIn accounts so we could connect with them and check their professional profiles. Sometimes, if we were given a password (by a suspicious/disgruntled partner) and had an email address, we could log on to a variety of websites (people use the same email and password for everything), like Amazon and eBay, just to see what sort of items they were buying or browsing. Even looking at someone’s Netflix account gives you a window into their personality. It’s scary stuff and I’m glad that I avoid taking part in all that shit.
I read through the report while eating my sandwich. The interesting thing about this particular target was that he’d gone quiet online after applying for a job at the software company that had hired us to look into him. He’d been prolific before, posting something several times a day, but then he’d gone off the radar. This led Jason to dig a little deeper and he discovered an old post on a Reddit subreddit (whatever that was) – one used by coders to exchange code and tips – by someone using the same username and avatar that the target had used on another social media platform. In the post he’d been unable to resist boasting about who he was working for on contract, which happened to be the main rival company to the one who’d hired us. This wasn’t an issue in itself; except when I double-checked his CV he’d omitted it for some reason.
I made a call to the company and agreed to come up to the Science Park later that afternoon, as they needed to make a quick decision as to whether to hire or not. I then tried to call Galbraith but the mobile he’d called me from was switched off and his medical secretary confirmed that he was away. I told her to ask him to call me if he checked in.
“You asked me to find out about foreign domestics?” Sandra said.
“Ah yes, I’d nearly forgotten about that.”
“You are still interested?” she asked, a little edge to her voice.
“Yes, of course.” I sat up and gave her my full attention.
She consulted a piece of paper on her desk. “Well, I spoke to a charity based in London that deals with foreign domestic workers. It’s a thing, apparently, bringing in domestics from abroad. They come in under something called…” – she glanced at the sheet – “… the Overseas Domestic Worker visa, which basically ties them to their employer; they can’t work for anyone else. There are high rates of physical abuse and a lot of them say they’re not allowed to leave the house and don’t get any time off. Often they have to sleep in the kitchen or share with the kids. Most of them are on less than fifty pounds a week.”
“Modern-day slavery, then.”
“Pretty much. Do you think this Filipino woman is one of those?”
“It’s possible. They have her passport.”
“Really? Yes, that’s common with this type of worker. The employer holds onto the passport so they can’t leave. She might not even know she was on such a visa and it might have expired. How long has she been in the country?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to help her?”
“First you tell me I’m an easy touch for women in distress, now you want me to help her?”
“I don’t see the co
ntradiction.”
“Never mind. I’m trying to get her passport back, and some money so she can go home. Beyond that…” I shrugged, not having really thought any of it through – I didn’t know whether she’d be able to travel if she was here illegally, if she was. I stood up and stretched.
“I’m going to grab a coffee from Antonio’s then head over to the Science Park with this,” I said, picking up Jason’s report. “Jason’s done a fine job. Ask him to do a digital footprint report on the Galbraiths, will you?”
She raised her eyebrows. “But they’re the clients.”
I smiled. “I thought you wanted me to help the maid?”
“OK, I’ll tell him. Why don’t I prepare an invoice for the Science Park job for you to take? That way it’s done and delivered.” That right there is how Sandra kept this business afloat. Or maybe she just needed to make sure she got paid each month.
* * *
After two rejuvenating coffees and a perusal of the Cambridge Argus (still nothing on Linda’s dead kid), I drove to the Science Park, delivered a verbal report to the director of human resources and gave them the invoice that Sandra had prepared. The company decided they wouldn’t give him the job, “just in case”.
As I waited in the right-hand lane at the traffic lights to exit the Science Park I spotted the distinctive KR15 TIN number plate on the silver Range Rover as it headed out of town towards the A14. Being in the wrong lane to follow her I pulled into the left lane, just as a shiny Merc approached the lights, and ignored the horn-blowing and hand-waving that this generated behind me. My car was old and battered and hopefully gave the impression that I didn’t give a toss, so the sort of respectable person driving a nice Merc was likely to stay within the safe comfort of their car. I was wrong. A bald, pugilistic-looking fellow in an expensive suit emerged from the driver’s door and headed my way. He didn’t look like he wanted to talk about the weather. Luckily the lights changed so I didn’t have to hang about to find out.
I could see Kristina’s car waiting at the lights on the roundabout that leads onto the A14. I was three cars behind her as the lights changed. The Merc was two behind me. Apparently he was the sort of driver whose road rage got the better of him; he wasn’t going to let it go. I followed the Range Rover onto the roundabout and we went all the way round and back onto the road we’d just come off. Had she spotted me? No, she was turning off into the grounds of a new hotel, part of a cheap chain that springs up on major routes to provide rest to the weary traveller, a Premier Lodge or Travel Inn or some such thing. She drove into the car park and I followed, as did the bloody Merc driver. Rather than park and risk a confrontation I did a slow circle round the car park, watching Kristina, dressed in a trouser suit and large sunglasses, enter the hotel carrying nothing but a large shoulder bag, the sort that had a silk scarf tied to it as a style statement. I had to do three loops of the car park before the Merc driver, hooting furiously, finally decided to call it a day in his pursuit of justice. I hoped he didn’t give himself a heart attack while driving, if only because he might cause an accident and kill some poor innocent.
The Surgeon's Case Page 6