'That's just not true, Mr Weston,' Brian Mackie exclaimed. 'You've
seen her since then.' He lifted his briefcase on to his lap, opened it and
took out a folder. 'Two weeks ago you removed a growth from her leg
at St Martha's Private Clinic in the Grange; a procedure for which
those premises are not authorised, incidentally. These are your notes,
and the biopsy report, which confirmed that your former wife was
suffering from a malignant melanoma.'
'Where the hell did you get those?' Weston demanded angrily.
'Those are confidential.'
'Not in the context of an inquiry into a suspicious death, they ain't,'
Martin retorted.
'Suspicious death?'
'Extremely,' Mackie went on. 'I have here also, a copy of our
postmortem report, which comments on the procedure you performed, and says that secondary tumours were developing rapidly. If you read
it, you'll see that your ex-wife's death was caused by a massive
overdose of diamorphine. Does that surprise you?'
Nolan Weston looked at him impassively. 'It saddens me. Superintendent,
but no, to be frank it does not surprise me.'
Andy Martin held up a hand. 'Perhaps at this stage, sir, you would
like to consider legal representation. It might be better if this interview
continued on a more formal basis.'
52
'No, no, no,' exclaimed the surgeon. 'Let's carry on. I want to hear
where this is going.'
'Let's go back to my first question, then,' said Mackie. 'When did
you last see Mrs Weston alive?'
'The last time I saw her at all, officer, was when I discharged her
from St Martha's. I had a very difficult conversation with her about
the biopsy report, and I offered to refer her case at once to Mr
Simmers, a consultant colleague of mine. She refused to let me do
that. She said that she wanted to go home for a couple of weeks to
think things through and put her affairs in order.
'I agreed to that on condition that if she experienced any growing
discomfort she would contact me.'
'Have you spoken to her since?'
'I phoned her a couple of times of an evening, just to see that she was
all right. I spoke to her last on Monday. She said that everything was as
it had been, and she said that I would hear from her on Thursday.' His
head dropped briefly. 'I understand what she meant now.'
'Where were you on Wednesday night, sir? Specifically, between
midnight and two am?'
'I was at home, in bed, with my wife.'
'And she will confirm that?'
'If necessary. She is extremely pregnant. She kept me awake most
of the night. But why do you ask me this?'
Martin shifted in his uncomfortable chair. 'Because someone helped
Mrs Weston end her life. Professor. She was injected, and a plastic
bag was secured over her head.'
'She couldn't have done it herself?'
'No way. Whoever did it took away the syringe and the roll of the
black tape which was used to secure the bag. She had help; no doubt
about it.'
'This man she saw from time to time? Futcher, the ad-man. Was it
him?'
'No. We don't think so.' There was a pause, as Weston looked from
one detective to the other.
'Why were you so secretive about treating your former wife,
Professor?' asked Mackie.
'Because I didn't want my present wife to find out about it,' came
the retort, sharply.
'Couldn't you have referred her to someone else from the very
start?'
'Gay didn't want that. She asked me to do the procedure; and I
always did what she asked.'
'Including divorcing her?'
53
Averting his eyes once more, Weston nodded.
'Tell us about your relationship with her, please,' said the Head of
CID.
The man across the desk laughed, softly. 'How long do you have?'
He leaned back in his seat, until his shoulders and the back of his
head were touching the partition wall behind him. 'Gaynor and I were
married for twelve years,' he began, 'and throughout that time we
were extremely happy ... or so I thought. Then, on our twelfth
anniversary, she told me she was leaving me; just like that.
'She told me that there were things that she wanted to do with her
life, and that she simply could not achieve them within the confines
of marriage. There was no discussion; she just moved out, to a small
flat in Barnton. A year later we were divorced by mutual consent. We
had joint custody of Raymond, but it was agreed that he should live
with me during the school term.
'During our separation and immediately after our divorce we didn't
see much of each other; nothing at all, in fact, if Ray wasn't the
reason. I heard about her, of course; heard how her consultancy career
was going from strength to strength. Raymond would mention the
odd name too; men's names, gentlemen callers, I suppose you'd say.
'Almost all of my life was work at that period; but not quite all. I
formed a relationship with Avril, my second wife - at that time she
was my secretary at the University - and five years ago, we married.
To my surprise, Gaynor didn't like that at all. She didn't speak to me
for a year. Then out of the blue, I had a call from her asking me to
bring Ray out to Oldbarns, to which she had just moved, for supper.
'I did that, and we had a good time together; it was like being a
family unit again, almost. This became a weekly event, until one time
whenRay had flu. I called her to tell her this, but she asked me if I'd
like to come anyway, on my own.'
Weston looked at the two detectives. 'You have to remember, I'd
never stopped loving her. So I went out there, for dinner, on the
excuse that we had to discuss Ray's schooling. Our relationship
changed that night: I found myself having an affair with my ex-wife.'
'Did she regret the divorce?' asked Martin.
'No. Not for one minute. The thing about Gay, you see, was her
craving for danger; yet conversely, she didn't like to feel threatened.
Futcher, the ad-man, he was married too, like me. There was that
element of risk of exposure, but safety too in that the involvement
was purely physical.'
'What about you? You still loved her.'
'Yes, and she loved me. But we had defined our relationship long
before.'
54
'So there was you, and there was Futcher,' Mackie intervened.
'Was there anyone else?'
A shadow seemed to pass across Nolan Weston's face. 'There may
have been,' he replied. 'She told me once that Futcher and I weren't
the only arrows in her quiver. Her phrase, not mine. But she never
mentioned a name.'
'Might your son have known?' asked the superintendent.
'It's possible. I'll ask him, but not tonight. He's still in shock, poor
lad; as are we all, to an extent.'
'It's important, sir. If you can't, we may have to interview him
ourselves.'
'No, leave him to me, please. I'll have a talk with him tomorrow
morning.'
'Fair enough,' Martin agreed, 'but no later. When did he get home?'
<
br /> 'Last night. He has a car up in Aberdeen, but I felt happier going
up to collect him myself, rather than let him make such a long drive in
an emotional state.'
'You must have been fairly emotional yourself. Professor.'
'I'm a surgeon, Mr Martin. I was emotional two weeks ago, when
I realised that Gay was going to die. Yesterday I felt an element of
relief that she. Ray and I had been spared the weeks and months of
torment which we had all faced.'
'You didn't give her the diamorphine did you. Professor?' the Head
of CID asked quietly.
'No sir, I did not. To be frank with you, had she asked me for it, I
think I would have done. But she didn't.'
'Just as well, then,' said Martin rising slowly to his feet. 'Thank
you, Professor, for your help. Brian, give Mr Weston your number, so
that he can call you directly once he's spoken to his son.' The
superintendent's hand had already left his breast pocket, a business
card held between the first two fingers.
Nolan Weston walked his visitors to the top of the stairs. The two
policemen made their way silently down to the ground floor, through
the reception area, which was much busier than it had been earlier,
and outside into the cold grey afternoon.
'What did you think of him?' said Mackie, as the glass doors
closed behind them.
Martin stared at him, blankly, a shocked expression on his face.
'What is it, Andy?' the superintendent asked.
'You didn't see them then?'
'Who? Where?'
'In there just now, in the waiting area. They had their backs to us,
but I'd know them anywhere: Neil and Olive Mcllhenney.'
55
16
'So far, Inspector, there have been seventeen sightings of this man
Hawkins across Europe.' Skinner glanced at the report on his desk.
'Every one of them has been checked out, and at the end of every one
there's been a wild goose.
'Fake Hawkinses have been seen in Germany, France, Poland, Italy,
Switzerland, England and Spain. Oh, sorry, I forgot Luxembourg.
These have all been registered in the past twenty-four hours. The
Polish contact turned out to be a tall blonde transsexual, who just
happened to have a limp.' He smiled. 'I guess we'll hear about a right
... few more before we fasten onto the right man - if we ever do.'
'It's not like you to sound pessimistic, sir,' McGuire remarked.
'Realistic, Mario; I'd rather you said realistic. This bloke is a
professional, just like us. Let me ask you something. If you wanted to
go undercover for any purpose, how easy d'you think it would be for
us to find you? Yes, even us, your close colleagues?'
The swarthy detective laughed. 'You mean if I decided to do a
runner from the wife? How scarce could I make myself?
'I suppose I'd do the obvious things. I'd dye my hair and eyebrows
another colour, as far away from black as possible .. . maybe red like
Maggie. I'd wear glasses, dark wherever I could, to cut down the
chance of eye contact with someone who might know me or might
have seen a picture. I'd try to do something with my teeth; dye them
too, perhaps, to make them less white and sparkly.' He paused,
thinking. 'Yes, and I'd try to do something about my mannerisms as
well; to eliminate recognisable things like, for example, the way I
smile.
'My ace card, though, would be to speak Italian everywhere I
went.'
Skinner nodded. 'Right. Now I don't think that all of those things
put together would fool Maggie, or me, or Mr Martin or Neil: not the
people closest to you. But someone else, even in the force, they'd
have trouble.'
'How many languages does Hawkins speak?' asked McGuire,
suddenly.
56
'Hey,' the DCC responded, 'that's a good question. I'll get on to
London and ask them. Maybe we're looking for a German, or an
Italian.'
'Not an Italian, boss. Even if he dyed his hair black, like mine, it
wouldn't work. His features are wrong.'
'I'll take your word for it. Anyway, it all leads into the point I was
going to make. You and I, we're amateurs in the anonymity business.
Hawkins is a pro. His life depends on it. If you can come up with a
few simple dodges on the spur of the moment, he's going to pull
something really special out of the hat. All that artwork in the
envelopes I handed out yesterday, Mario; probably none of it's worth
a damn.
'We're blind, my friend, stone blind. As coppers we're used to
events and people we can come to grips with, and we've got all sorts
of toys to help us look for them. But in this task we're an extension of
the intelligence community; groping about in the dark trying to catch
a puff of smoke in our hands.
'That's the way it is in their world. They deal in rumour and
suggestion, not substance; they stand sightless in some damn great
gallery, picking up each and every whisper, analysing them, giving
them form and putting them together until the jigsaw picture is
complete; or at least recognisable.'
Skinner leaned back in his chair. 'So, inspector, what murmurings
have you been picking up around your patch?'
McGuire shook his head. 'So far, boss, the silence has been
deafening.'
57
17
Neil Mcllhenney stared out of the only window in the small consulting
room. It looked on to a car park, in which every space seemed to be
occupied. 'I never realised' he whispered, to himself.
'What?' said Olive sharply, beside him.
'Sorry love,' he replied. 'I was thinking out loud. The car parks
here; there are so many of them, and they're all full. I never realised
that there were so many sick people.'
'You just concentrate on this one!' The strain in her voice tore at his
heart; he reached across and took her hand, feeling the pressure as she
squeezed his.
'Sure, love, sure.'
They had been in the clinic for just over two hours. In that time,
Olive had been weighed, examined by a thin-faced girl who had
introduced herself as Dr Berry, Mr Simmers' registrar, and sent for a
scan. A few minutes before they had been called back into the
consulting room.
They looked over their shoulders, simultaneously, as the door
opened. A tall, well-built, fair-haired, round-faced man strode into the
room, wearing a white coat and with the tool of his trade, a
stethoscope, hanging from his neck. 'Good afternoon,' he said. 'I'm
Mr Simmers, your consultant. Sorry to have kept you waiting; I'm
afraid that the first consultation always seems to take for ever. That's
because there are so many things we have to do.'
He sat, not behind his desk, but on it, and looked directly at Olive.
At once Neil was struck by the gentleness of his eyes and by the
calmness of his expression. From out of nowhere, an inexplicable
feeling of relief swept over him.
'The first thing I have to ask you, Mrs Mcllhenney, is this. Do you
understand what is happening to you?'
'Yes,
' she replied; the word was clipped, but controlled.
'That's good. In these situations we can't afford to prevaricate. You
have an incurable disease, Mrs Mcllhenney; we can't avoid that fact.
You have a carcinoma of the right lung in the second stage of
development. Now I use the word incurable because that in clinical
58
terms is what it is. However it is not untreatable; there are ways of
attacking your tumour, and the secondary growth.
'Surgery isn't an option here, not with the metastasis in the
lymphatic system. But we do have the options of chemotherapy or
radiation therapy or a mixture of both. There is a chance that if you
react favourably, your cancer can be driven into remission, possibly
indefinitely. Looking at your X-Ray, and on the basis of Dr Berry's
examination, I would propose that we start you on a course of
chemotherapy. Radiation might have a part to play later, depending on
the rate of progress, but not just yet.'
For the first time, the consultant looked at Neil, then back to Olive.
His gentle blue eyes were unblinking. 'I'm not going to play anything
down here. These treatments are aggressive, and the side-effects .. .
at least initially .. . will be unpleasant. You'll experience a day or two
of fairly violent sickness, but we'll do what we can to control that,
using steroids.
'However . . .' He paused. 'However; there is a further alternative
which I have to put to you, and that is that we simply give you
palliative treatments and concentrate on keeping you as well and as
comfortable as possible, for as long as possible. The choice has to be
yours.'
To her complete surprise, she smiled at him. 'You mean I can give
up?' she asked. Then, without waiting for a reply, she looked sideways
at Neil, raising her eyebrows very slightly. He gave the briefest of
nods.
Olive Mcllhenney turned back to the consultant. 'As my husband
would say, if I didn't have him so well trained,' she said, 'bugger that
for a game of soldiers.
'When do we start the treatment?'
59
18
'Neil doesn't have the problem, Andy. It's Olive who's in bother.'
'Cancer?'
'Look, don't ask me about it, man. The big fella asked me for help
and I got Sarah involved. If he wants to tell anyone about what's
happening, he will. But until he does say something, you and Mackie
forget about seeing them. Okay?'
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