The City Dealer

by Neil Rowland

  Yet this guy, this supra-high-worth-individual, was interfacing with the City to conduct his affairs; as he needed the services of bankers, brokers, lawyers and advisors, while the wealth and influence of this new elite was shaping the world’s destiny, as the masters of The New Light Age.

  Clive had returned to the village the long way. He sat in the capsule of her pink 911 4S, ignoring the eager faces of the car’s controls, thinking things over for a moment.

  The sun beat down like a bruised heart, with an insect orchestra at an equal pitch, playing havoc with the A/C. After an elapse he provoked the engine again and snarled away, leaving a small puff of smoke hanging in the dead air.

  Pitt had learnt from the gardener that Septimus planned to visit his daughter that very day. But Clive didn’t know where the hospital was and assumed that it would be a private establishment anyway. He didn’t expect the place to have an accident and emergency division; and he wasn’t going to invite himself to another Winchurch tea party either.

  Facing uncertain options, other than to remain a scarce commodity, he decided to return to London to await Pixie’s return, to get her risky progress report. If Pitt didn’t have the location, she might have prised the information from her boss. They already planned to visit the hospital together. Any prying was likely to be dangerous, after Pitt had made himself known again. But he couldn’t assume that she had succeeded, or even that she was a free woman.

  But then Pitt had some luck when, after getting lost for a while in the lanes and roads, he flashed past an unexpected mansion to the side. His primitive brain registered recognisable shapes, flashing to the side. Then the recent brain was able to form the syllables of Septimus Winchurch as if painted across the air. Surely his tired mind was beginning to suffer hallucinations! Pitt turned around, filled his lungs with fresh gas and drove back past to investigate.

  Sure enough, his senses were not deceiving him, this was the hospital named in honour of his previous boss. As he cruised by he was able to read the entrance board clearly, which stated the legend of The Sir Septimus Winchurch ZNT Research Hospital . Quite a mouthful; quite a lot to swallow. The building complex had been the original Imperial British Pharmaceuticals research centre, as well as being a private hospital. The fabric here had fallen into disrepair after decades of disuse. Newly acquired by the financier for his ZNT clients, the building had obviously received investment, been restored and improved, was newly equipped and operational. Why had the place received a cash injection when the group’s old properties had been almost derelict? Pitt would have advised them to sell the land and capitalise on remaining assets, as part of reconsolidation and rationalisation of the group. He couldn’t guess the type of research conducted at the establishment now, or how it was being administered, or the type of ‘patients’ that were admitted.

  Why was a hedge fund like ZNT, with a registered HQ in Geneva, prepared to invest money into a research hospital in southern England? Why not stick to the treasure of intellectual property that they had acquired? They profited hugely from patents and products, without putting money into bricks and mortar or getting involved in actual medicine. What was their thinking?

  Even looking from the fence, he observed new fabric, modifications; a complete transformation of the site. The shell of an old industrial unit and medical test centre had been recently upgraded into a contemporary high-tech centre. Clive was surprised by the investment strategy. He had assumed that the acquisition of BIP was related to asset stripping and resale.

  Clive wanted to know their areas of research or innovation. Was the place a five star clinic for the hyper rich? A ritzy hotel-hospital offering state of the art cures, amidst the leafy privacy of the English countryside? Then what sort of diseases, illnesses or maladies did they treat? Winchurch himself was an outspoken public critic of public health, so it was unlikely that NHS patients were treated. Clive was confident that Emmy must be registered as a patient and be staying there. They had taken him to this hospital in the recent past, he assumed, following a beating in the toilets of a football stadium. They caught up with him after they had disturbed him hacking into the firm’s computer systems. He couldn’t remember anything about those experiences, but he might owe his freedom - his present precarious liberty - to an escape from the institution. Clive didn’t believe that the new hospital had been established to benefit ‘ordinary patients’, so to speak, or even the NHS (of which the financier was an outspoken and public critic). He might unwittingly be making their task of finding him easier. Maybe they intended to put him back into a secure unit.

  Yet there was a definite prestige attached to this project for Sep. The idea of putting his name to the hospital - acting as its benefactor or sponsor - would very much appeal to the egotistic philanthropist, as glucose to a wasp.

  Emmy was stashed away in a safe ward, as hidden from danger and the media eye as his own recent memory. She wasn’t staying here for rest and recovery. Pitt didn’t believe any such idea. Why not allow her to go off on another backpacking adventure around Asia or South America? Why file her away in this Las Vegas style hospital? Sep didn’t want to attract any media or police investigation into the crime, that heinous attack. He rightly feared that prying questions would eventually centre on the deal. The deal was in the background, even if the financier sought to deny that. He feared that the press would show its good campaigning face, rather than its ugly ruthless side. And his new found allies at ZNT, snapping up BIP, as well as several seats on the Winchurch Brothers’ board, would also want to avoid media exposure. The aim was to protect his family and professional reputation at all costs, and Sep would be desperate to keep his secret; he bizarrely regarded the rape of his own daughter as a shameful and dangerous secret.

  Winchurch would argue that he was doing the child some good. He wouldn’t wish to deliberately harm her. His aim was to help her to be happy and successful in life. He wanted the whole family to be proud of Esmeralda, maybe in the mould of a Pixie Wright, as everybody at the firm knew. His paternal devotion took a misguided form perhaps, when he talking about employing her, after she’d been moulded through education. Unfortunately the expensive Swiss finishing schools had been judged anachronistic and mostly closed. But while Sep pushed her towards the LSE or even to Maastricht, the girl was more inclined towards social sciences, according to Pixie. He was terrified of producing a social worker, or even a socialist teacher, even though that was better than a type of hippie drop-out, Occupy character.

  Pitt felt he had been incarcerated. He had no specific recollection of any treatment or programme, or interior impressions of the hospital or staff. They moved to plug the leaks, when they began to feel his presence around their systems. They wanted to eliminate ‘Lucifer’ before shock and embarrassment turned to actual disaster, and the key facts of the BIP flotation began to stick to the media wall.

  Even for Clive, when he moved down to London, Sep posed as his benefactor, even surrogate father or older brother; rescuing him from the narrow prospects of that gloomy old mill town, as the financier regarded it. Initially he attempted to forgive Pitt’s capital sins, as it were, when the young man first turned against him. Forgiveness of misconduct, obscurity for the miscreant, was the banker’s effective response. Sep wanted to avoid any such messy scandal in the City and the financial world beyond, that posed terminal, hard-to-predict risks for his historic family company. He would go to great lengths to protect the reputation of his ancestors, as well as his family’s future and inheritance. Pitt’s arguments were a snake bite.

  33

  Once again Clive left the car behind - glinting in a concealed spot - so he might explore on foot. He froze in his tracks at the sight of a security post, complete with barber’s pole and uniformed guard. To avoid a direct encounter he cut away to the side, across the grounds, taking care to negotiate electrified fences. He didn’t try any experimental touches, as he noticed the carcass of a
horse nearby.

  It was a no-brainer that security officers would be patrolling the site. So he had to remain vigilant and as concealed as possible. For a well-heeled young investment banker in the middle of a field this was quite difficult. Any feeling of personal security was as elusive as a cool breeze in these parts. The grounds of the hospital were extensive, somewhat wild in places, which allowed him to move about; at least as soon as he kangaroo-kicked over that charged wire.

  At the back of the main building he found an orchard and a garden. As he pushed through tall dry grass he saw a crowd of people, about twenty of them, assembled there. Even from that distance he could see they were a variegated crowd. Light music wafted on the air, as if surfing heat waves. The soporific patients were set out on cane furniture, taking shade under stiff canvas and enjoying rounds of cool drinks. They were attended by men and women in green uniforms - nurses? - as well as by occasional white coated figures. The assemblage formed a serene if unsettling picture, as he noticed that only staff were mobile or able to communicate; the ‘patients’ were catatonic or sedated.

  Clive understood that his sudden appearance would have a startling effect. The doctors would be surprised to see him again perhaps. His dress sense would stand out too, even if he breached Winchurch Brothers’ dress code; which was traditional down to the black socks; even a pair of smudged spectacles would draw a reprimand. His shoe leather survived, but his trousers and shirt were in stained strips (despite some shop creases). His rag of thick blonde hair was up in a mess - and not that cute ‘just out of bed’ look either. No wonder Mr Chippendon had felt relaxed with him. Pitt didn’t quite blend into the City jungle any more. They had definitely subjected him to a bit of a ragging, trying to put him back into his place.

  Nevertheless he strode across the grounds, that coarse brown pampas grass, aiming towards the central hospital building. If not for his costume they would take him as another patient; a mental patient most likely, with his wild hair and manic expression. Yet could he really describe the inmates as “patients”? Taking Emmy and himself as examples? However, one person’s brilliant thought could be an insane notion to somebody else.

  He was an impetuous, bold, maybe recklessly self-convinced character. A feeling of injustice put a tight fire in his chest, provoked brief blackouts and formed hot and cold sensations. Yet he was anxious about approaching the staff and patients directly. It was a potential minefield of nervous detection, which could lead to his incarceration. He was daunted by the slim odds of encountering Emmy here. Thus for all his fixated energy, Pitt knew it would be difficult to interview her and even more difficult to approach the truth.

  As he sidled along an ivy covered wall, he bumped in to a white coated figure. The guy came towards him, moving rapidly, absent minded, when he collided into Pitt. The doctor’s face went through many shocked emotional reactions. Until Clive sensed the danger, lifted the guy up by his lapels and plugged him. The doctor was projected backward on to the ground. He wouldn’t have suffered too badly if not for the edge of a paving stone. The medic groaned and rolled about and shortly dropped into unconsciousness.

  Clive was hampered because the white coat was too small for him. Sleeves drew tightly up his arms, he couldn’t do up the buttons. His appearance was even more alarming; he resembled a lunatic in charge of the asylum. Yet it was a credible disguise, he calculated, which could give him access to wards; he didn’t have any other options. Pitt lifted the guy up, dragged him along and pushed him into an opened waste bin, ensuring the lid was wedged shut afterwards.

  Fifty metres ahead he noticed a wicker gate that lead into the orchard. Pitt reached this feature, unfastened a mechanism and secured it again, in the genteel fashion of a caring white-coated medic. But he was disconcerted to hear the dim moans of his victim in the rubbish bin - the true medic. Strains of musak piped and drifted eerily around the trunks of fruit trees. He convinced himself that any groans of misery would pass unnoticed on the atmosphere; or merely blend into the other vocal complaints.

  Pitt strolled watchfully under and between limbs of apple, cherry and pear trees. He progressed with hands professionally behind his back (if only to keep the XS coat in place). He inspected that cosmopolitan group of patients. These people were extremely varied he noted, in terms of ethnicity and nationality. The unfortunates were scattered under the branches, enjoying any cool thread or movement of air. They whiled away the endless hot hours in a narcotic daze. Despite the white coat he adroitly avoided members of staff.

  Unable to find a suitably reassuring word for these people Clive moved on a pace. He could only hope to recognise Emmy by his memory of her photograph; the luminous close up portrait. But despite a number of circles around the orchard he couldn’t find her among this group. Maybe she didn’t want to mix with the others, due either to her treatment or to her temperament. No doubt she would rebel against her loss of control, and the idea of being incarcerated. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself and so decided to leave them all in peace.

  Pitt left that curiously global collection of souls. Even if there had been a chance to speak, many of them were probably not native or fluent English speakers. He couldn’t speak other languages, like Pixie, unfortunately. Why did the medical company wish to gather them together? Business has become entirely globalised, so why not the medical industry - was this their thinking? Only the nomination of a corporate HQ linked them to any specific place.

  A set of large French windows was opened, allowing air to circulate around a recreation and television room within. Clive slipped inside and headed across the wooden boarded room, pushed through swinging doors and emerged into a regular hospital corridor. Pitt struggled to adjust to a radical change in temperature and lighting. The rooms along the corridor varied; some were private wards or rooms, he supposed. With a quick investigation he realised that other doors led into laboratories, or anyway rooms that contained much equipment, including imaging brain scanners. There were many of these iconic machines. The facilities came as a surprise. He understood that the focus of research was on human beings. He’d presumed a focus on the development of drugs. British Imperial Pharmaceuticals had produced numerous leading brands of medical products. All these copyrights were now owned by ZNT.

  Shortly a young guy in a grey coat, a porter, rushed towards him in the corridor, in a panic. “Can you get over to B Ward doc? It’s Protocol C. There’s a chinky lady throwing a fit down there...screaming, throwing up; you name it! She’s been jacketed as well. I’ve been told to get some help... and there’s nobody around the place!”

  “All right, so what’s the matter with her?” Pitt tossed back.

  “Just part of her programme, doc. She doesn’t bloody like it though, that’s all. I don’t ask any questions. Should you give her a jab up the fucking arse?”

  “No, no, don’t give her any more jabs!”

  “They need you over there...” the porter read off a name badge on Clive’s bursting white coat. “Doctor McGregor!”

  “No, not now mate. I’m taking a break. Why don’t you find another doctor outside?” Pitt began to move off furtively.

  “What’s the fucking matter? Nice life for some of us, isn’t it, eh doc?” he protested.

  “I can get over to B Ward...as soon as I deliver a message to Emmy Winchurch. Can you remind me where to find her room? What number is she in?”

  “You’re going to have to move quickly, Dr McGregor. Patient 305 is throwing a bloody fit, refusing to take anything orally, shouting at us...in her own language...it’s a slaughter house. They’ve got a tube down her throat, necklace and wristlets, the lot...but she still won’t fucking quieten down... not for all the tea in China.”

  “I promise to get over there when I can. I’ll even give her another jab, if they want. Just tell me where to find Esmeralda Winchurch. I’ve got a message from her father.”

  “25
0’s in C Ward, B43. Beg your pardon Doctor, but don’t bloody hang around, will you?”

  “Go and find yourself another doctor,” Pitt suggested.

  “Fuck off,” he called back.

  Pitt was grateful to see the panicked employee depart - sucked into the vortex of a long corridor. What sort of hospital presented this carnival of horrors? Or was it merely a harrowing image of a disturbed patient? Clive was no psychiatrist, despite his bursting white coat, but he doubted the second prognosis.

  To find Emmy’s room by those internal numbers and codes was difficult. Any calmer member of staff would spot him as an imposter. He couldn’t afford to stand about and scratch his head. But it was while he paced ahead, shoving through sets of fire doors, that Pitt got a nasty shock, as he recognised the shape, the approaching form of Sir Septimus Winchurch.

  Unknown to Clive of course, the financier had already arrived at the institution with Pixie Wright. The pair were being guided to the girl’s room by a senior doctor and support staff. At this stage Clive didn’t know that Pixie was also with the party. Fortunately his old boss was separated by layers of glass and timber. The financier was yet too distant and absorbed in conversation to be aware of uninvited guests. Yet his approach - or their potential reunion - felt distressingly imminent.

  Pitt was frozen in amazement for a while, wondering what to do. Sep bore down on him, eating up the corridors with insufferable under-sized jauntiness.

  Clive’s wherewithal returned and, instinctively, he tried to hide. He slipped into a further side room, out of view, to allow that hostile visiting party to go safely by. Through the last inch of an opening, clicking the door shut behind him, Pitt stole a glimpse of Winchurch. He took an instant image of the financier’s darting, skipping gait. Luckily Sep was preoccupied with the occasion.