by Ken McClure
Gordon Field, the hospital manager, also had a bit of a shady past, having had some involvement with a dodgy PR company before reinventing himself in health care administration. Not much to go on, thought Steven, although Field, as far as he knew, was still alive… somewhere. A big plus in this investigation.
Carlisle, French, Freeman, Schreiber, Field… as fine a body of people as you could ever hope to meet, thought Steven. And the only thing on their mind had been the improvement of health services in the north-east. Not.
Charlie Malloy’s ‘discreet’ inquiry into Carlisle’s suicide had not come up with anything new either. The pathologist had been in no doubt that he’d died of a broken neck, sustained after falling a fair distance with a noose around his neck. How he had managed to get up high enough to achieve a drop of a ‘fair distance’ was not something that could now be investigated. People often managed feats of considerable strength under conditions of extreme stress, Malloy pointed out.
‘There was one thing that came up, though,’ he added. ‘The suicide note he left behind was typed — or rather printed. The signature was his but the letter hadn’t come from either of the two printers in Markham House. Not much, but something to bear in mind, I suppose.’
‘Thanks, Charlie. I appreciate it.’
While Steven hadn’t made much progress in the recent weeks, John Macmillan had. He’d been home now for four days and was reportedly in good spirits, although still very tired after the trauma of major surgery. His wife had noticed no worrying loss of mental faculty as yet, but it was still early days, and the mere fact that he recognised her was considered encouraging.
The national vaccine production agreement had also progressed. A quick government decision had been made on the tenders submitted and a manufacturer chosen. Merryman Pharmaceuticals, a company sited in the Midlands, would be tasked with providing the nation’s vaccine supplies. Steven felt a small twinge when he read this as it meant that his old company, Ultramed, must have failed in their bid. His regret was to turn to irritation, however, when Lionel Montague phoned him personally to complain.
‘Merryman must have known what our bid was,’ Montague fumed. ‘We pared our tender to the very bone and they still undercut us. We were even prepared to make a loss in the first year in order to get the contract.’
‘Maybe they did the same. Why are you telling me this, Lionel?’ said Steven. ‘I don’t know what your bid was, and I don’t know anything about the contract.’
‘You work for the government, and this is some kind of government stitch-up. They must have favoured the Merryman bid.’
‘Frankly, Lionel, that’s ridiculous. I don’t know the first thing about government contracts, but why would they do that? I’m sure they don’t care who makes the vaccines as long as they do it well and come up with them as quickly and as cheaply as possible. They’ve obviously given the contract to Merryman because they came up with the best package.’
‘You’ll never convince me of that.’
‘Then I won’t even try.’
‘I’m not going to let it rest here.’
Montague hung up, leaving Steven looking at the phone. ‘Thank you and good night, Mr Angry,’ he murmured.
On Friday afternoon he called Jean Roberts to say that he was planning to be away for a long weekend. He was driving up to Leicester that evening and then going on up to Scotland to see his daughter, leaving on Saturday morning. He’d come back on Monday.
‘A long drive,’ said Jean. ‘Is there anything you’d like me to do?’
‘The journalist who died up north, Jim Kincaid. Do you think you could see if he has any relatives still alive?’
‘Will do. Anything else?’
‘The manager at College Hospital — Gordon Field. Can you check if he’s still in that line of work — or even alive, for that matter?’
‘I’ll give it a go.’
‘Thanks, Jean. Now I understand why John thought… thinks so much of you.’
Jean laughed. ‘I didn’t realise he did.’
‘It’ll be the Scottish genes in him,’ said Steven. ‘Saying anything nice is a sign of weakness.’
As he put down the phone, Steven reflected on what Jean had said about the long drive. She was right. Tally was working this weekend, so she couldn’t come up to Scotland with him. It was time to get the Porsche back on the road. He called Stan Silver at the mews garage who said to give him a couple of hours.
‘I take it this means you’re back in the service of the nation?’ said Silver, who was working on the front brakes of a Saab convertible, spanner in hand, when Steven parked the Honda and walked towards him.
‘For the time being. My ex-boss has just had brain surgery, and I’m back holding the fort.’
‘Noble causes follow you around like a puppy, Steven,’ said Silver, lifting a brake caliper clear of the disc.
Steven didn’t respond. They’d known each other a long time. He valued the fact that Silver always said what was on his mind without considering first. Sometimes it didn’t make for easy listening.
‘She’s all gassed up and ready to go,’ he said now, nodding to where the Boxster was sitting.
‘We have to settle up first.’
‘Nothing to settle, mate. Band of brothers and all that.’
Steven nodded and smiled. ‘Thanks, Stan. I owe you.’
‘Try to look after it. Any plans for taking your motor across fields and through rivers like you usually end up doing, and I’d stick with the Honda if I were you.’
‘No such plans, Stan. Church on Sundays and running Tally to her French class.’
Steven started the Porsche and revelled in the sound. He took a last look at the staid, comfortable and utterly dependable Honda before smiling and spinning the wheels of the Boxster as he took off. He looked back to see Silver laughing and waving in the rear-view mirror.
***
‘I got the Porsche back,’ said Steven, not long after he’d arrived at Tally’s place. It was weighing on his mind.
‘I thought you might,’ said Tally, who had her back to him at the time, preparing dinner.
‘And?’ he asked tentatively.
Tally turned her head and smiled. ‘And nothing. It suits you.’
‘Have I told you lately that I love you?’
‘Not nearly enough.’
Steven put his arms round her waist from behind and kissed her on the side of her neck. ‘I love you, Tally Simmons.’
‘Of course you do. You’re hungry, and then you’ll want sex.’
‘Why do I get the feeling I can’t win?’
‘Because you can’t. Open the wine, will you?’
He told her about the call from Lionel Montague.
‘Silly man. Why call you?’
‘I guess he needed someone working for the government to yell at. What d’you know about Merryman?’
‘A perfectly reputable company. I see their name on quite a lot of things — more than I do Ultramed’s, if I’m honest.’
Steven nodded. ‘I guess he was just pissed off over losing the contract. It was such a big deal for him.’
‘And presumably for Merryman too,’ said Tally. ‘As long as someone starts making vaccines soon; that’s all I care about.’
The conversation moved on to Steven’s investigation and how he felt it was grinding to a halt. ‘I mean, I think John was right. There was something very fishy about the Northern Health Scheme and the forces behind Carlisle, but I can’t see how to make a twenty-year leap into anything that could be happening now.’
‘Well, the way things are going, you’ll be able to talk it over with John himself soon,’ said Tally.
‘You’re right,’ agreed Steven, finding something to smile about. ‘Against all the odds… So what’s been happening in your life?’
‘Apart from the usual skirmishes with them upstairs over money, not a lot. Although my sisters and I have decided on a home for Mum. She seemed to like it well enough,
and it checks out as being well staffed, clean and comfortable. I still feel guilty, though. It’s an act of betrayal…’
‘Don’t,’ Steven soothed. ‘You’re doing the right thing. If we win the lottery we’ll move to a place in the country and have her come and live with us. This is only temporary.’
‘Idiot.’
TWELVE
Edinburgh, Friday 30 April 2010
At eleven p.m. a large Citroen Picasso drew into one of the car parking bays surrounding Charlotte Square. The driver, a middle-aged Asian man, got out and slid the passenger door back. ‘Ready?’ he asked the two younger men in the back.
‘Ready,’ they replied in quiet, tense voices.
‘Welcome to Edinburgh. This way.’
The older man led them across a busy street and paused at the west end of George Street, one of the broad thoroughfares in Edinburgh’s New Town that ran west-east, parallel to Princes Street. By day it showed a respectable Georgian facade to the world. On a Friday night it was a street full of light and noise. It was the time when the cafe bars and clubs, located on the ground and basement floors of buildings with banks and offices above them, came into their own. Business ruled the daytime, pleasure the evening. Their doors were so continually being opened and closed that the inside ambience spilled onto the street. On the street itself, laughter, yells and screams rent the night air as groups of people moved like multicellular organisms seeking ever-new sources of sustenance and entertainment.
‘Western society,’ said the older man. ‘Come see. Observe.’
The three men joined the throng on the streets, pausing only to allow drunks to stagger across their path or people walking backwards and sideways to do the same. One girl stumbled and fell as she exited a doorway. She rolled over onto her back, her legs spread, her underwear showing under the briefest of skirts as she laughed hysterically. Her two friends seemed too drunk to help her up but joined in the laughter. The three men skirted round the trio, only to come to a halt again when confronted with a group of youths arguing with a policeman.
‘Your last chance,’ the constable warned. ‘You either leave the street now or you’re bloody nicked.’
‘Fuck that, we’ve no’ done nothin’!’ argued one, struggling against his companions as they tried to pull him away.
‘You’ve annoyed me. Now, I’m going to count to three…’
The youths started to move off and the Asian men continued on their way. A hen party dressed as nurses came towards them, strung out across the pavement, singing loudly but out of tune. The imminent collision was averted by a group of businessmen emerging from one of the cafe bars. They wore suits and carried briefcases but were clearly drunk, having probably been in the bar since the end of the business day. They broke into raucous laughter at the sight of the ‘nurses’ and started making lewd comments.
It was more their accents than the comments that antagonised the girls. ‘In your dreams, tosser,’ said one.
‘I’ve seen better talent come out of a skip,’ added another.
The bride, wearing L plates on her front and back, brought her knee up sharply into the groin of one man silly enough to get too close.
‘Fucking cow,’ gasped the man, collapsing to the ground.
‘Whoops,’ said one of the bridesmaids, stepping on his fingers as she passed.
The Asians, who had moved off the pavement to stand between two parked cars, remained unnoticed observers in the night until, after another hundred metres or so, a drunken youth who had been urinating unsteadily in a doorway turned and saw them. ‘Looks like the Pakis have arrived,’ he announced to his waiting friends.
‘What do they fucking want?’ slurred one, who sported a trail of vomit down the front of his V-neck pullover. ‘Don’t bloody drink, do they?’
‘After our birds, I reckon. Can’t see what their bloody own look like under these bleedin’ blankets they put over their heads, can they?’
The Asian men did not respond but continued their walk.
‘That’s right, pal, get back to your corner shop.’
‘Poppadom, poppadom,’ chanted another.
The crowds began to thin and the noise faded as the men left the revellers behind. The older man stopped and turned. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘do you think that is the way Allah intended us to live?’
‘No,’ agreed the younger pair vehemently, one still shaking with suppressed anger at having to ignore the taunts of the youths they’d passed. ‘Disgusting,’ said the other, shaking his head, clearly affected by what he’d witnessed.
‘You have been chosen to sweep the filth away, my brothers, clean society of such depravity, bring truth and light to the darkness, spread morality and the rule of law — a law that cannot be flouted because it is his law. Allah is great.’
The younger men echoed his words before being led through quieter streets and alleyways back to the car. They drove to a small, detached bungalow in a quiet suburban street in Corstorphine, three miles west of the city centre, where they took care not to disturb the neighbours when closing the car doors.
In a room at the back of the house the older man sat down and indicated that the other two should do the same. ‘You are young. I took you there tonight to show you,’ he said. ‘Just in case you had any doubts. You were both born in this country but you did not fall prey to the evil you saw tonight. Your faith has kept you pure. Your brothers have always been with you. And now I must ask you. Are you ready to take your place in the fight?’
Both younger men agreed that they were, although they sounded nervous and a little uncertain.
‘It is a great honour to be chosen,’ they were reminded.
‘Only two of us are here in Edinburgh. There were eight when we started out,’ said one.
‘Evil is all over this land. Your brothers will act at the same time but not in the same place.’
‘What must we do?’
‘Read your Koran. Your training will begin the day after tomorrow.
Similar tours for another six young Asian men, illustrating the UK at play, were drawing to a close in Manchester, London and Liverpool.
On Saturday morning, Steven bade Tally a fond farewell as she left for work.
‘Are you going to stop over on your way back?’ she asked.
‘You bet. Why don’t we go out to dinner?’
‘A reason to live,’ she teased. ‘See you Sunday. Give my love to Jenny. Tell her I’ll see her soon.’
Steven tidied up and had a last cup of coffee before setting out for Scotland. He was about two hours into the journey when the phone rang, and he moved over to the inside lane, slowing down to hear the call through the car speakers on Bluetooth. It was Jean Roberts.
‘It’s Saturday, Jean,’ he joked. ‘Your day off.’
‘Yes, well, I found out last night that James Kincaid, the journalist you asked about, does have a relative. He has a married sister living in Newcastle. I thought, as you were up in Scotland this weekend, you might like to stop off there on the way back.’
‘Good thinking, Jean. I’m obliged,’ said Steven, already starting to do mental calculations about his return journey on Sunday if he were to include Newcastle in his itinerary. ‘I’m on the motorway right now. Could you email or text me the address and I’ll pick it up later?’
‘Consider it done.’
‘Daddy, you’ve got Tarty back,’ exclaimed Jenny when she saw that Steven was driving the Porsche again. The name was derived from the adjective her aunt Sue had used when she’d first seen the Boxster. ‘A bit tarty, isn’t it, Steven?’ For some reason the name had stuck. ‘I like Tarty,’ enthused Jenny. ‘I mean I liked Tin Drawers too’ — Sue’s name for the Honda, which she regarded as more staid — ‘but I think I like Tarty better.’
Neither Jenny nor her cousins Mary and Peter understood the connotations of the names, which made them all the more amusing for the grown-ups, whose only fear was that the children would come out with them in public. It hadn’t
happened yet.
‘It’s ages since I saw you, Daddy.’ Jenny took Steven’s hand on the way into the house and announced, ‘He’s brought Tarty with him.’
‘So I see,’ said Sue, trying to keep a straight face as she came over to embrace Steven. ‘Richard’s in the study, catching up on paperwork. He’ll be down in a minute. The market’s been picking up a bit.’ Richard was a lawyer in Dumfries, specialising in property work.
‘And how has her behaviour been, Aunty Sue?’
‘Excellent.’
Jenny beamed.
‘And her school work?
‘Excellent too. Her teacher is very pleased, as to our amazement were Peter’s and Mary’s teachers too.’ Sue tousled Peter’s hair. ‘It was parents’ night last Tuesday.’
Steven swallowed and quickly smiled to conceal the momentary frisson of regret. ‘In that case, why don’t I take these three star pupils to the cinema in Dumfries this evening? We could catch the early performance and be home by… ten o’clock?’
The children’s eyes widened with excitement at the prospect of being up late, and enthusiastic appeals were made to Sue, who took her time coming to a decision.
‘After all, it isn’t a school night…’ prompted Steven.
‘Are you sure you’re not too tired after such a long drive?’
‘No, but now the bad news. I’m afraid I’ll have to leave early tomorrow morning, so we won’t be able to go to the swimming pool this time.’
It had become traditional that Steven took the children to Dumfries swimming pool when he came up for the weekend, and then treated them to a pizza and ice-cream lunch. ‘I could make it up to you tonight with popcorn and ice-cream…’
This attracted loud approval.
‘Oh well, I suppose,’ agreed Sue as Richard came into the room asking what all the noise had been about.
‘Good show,’ he said, smiling at Sue when she told him. ‘Let’s go down the pub. It’s been ages.’