Gallery Whispers

by Quintin Jardine

  to keep his backbone stiff. Mr Joseph will do time in Scotland for

  cutting Mags, that's for bloody certain.'

  Skinner rose to leave. 'How about the Weston investigation? With

  Joseph eliminated, it's dead in the water, is it not?'

  Mackie smiled. 'Maybe not. I've had a report from that new

  orthopaedic hospital out in Dalkeith. The Head Pharmacist there wants

  to talk to me. And she wouldn't tell me why, over the phone. The boy

  Steele and I are going to see her this afternoon.'

  107

  32

  The job was relatively simple; in most cases all that McGuire and

  Neville were required to do was to take one look at a subject, to

  confirm his presence at the event, and to eliminate him from the list.

  However it had to be done discreetly, without anyone being aware

  that they were under surveillance. The two officers had learned very

  quickly that they could work most effectively by ignoring those parts

  of the conference which all delegates attended. The University

  organisers had split their guests into eight smaller groups, and given

  them a programme of detailed study and discussion of eight key

  topics.

  It was a simple matter for the detectives to cover one seminar room

  each, and wait for their subjects to come to them.

  Karen Neville sat at her desk at the entrance to Room G, as

  discussion group Seven began to file in. She wore a badge which

  identified her as a member of the conference staff, and had before her

  a list of the members of the group. Beside some of the names she had

  placed a tiny, innocuous blue dot.

  Smiling, she checked each delegate's pass as they reached her, and

  put a tick against their name on the list. There were thirty-one people

  in group Seven, which, for a reason best known to the organisers,

  contained twenty of the female attendees. Neville was accustomed to

  women sticking together at police events, but somehow, she had not

  expected economists to behave in the same way. Nonetheless, she

  checked each lady's badge as carefully as the rest.

  Looking at the line, she wondered, for the third time that week,

  whether there was an international uniform for academics. Not one of

  them was dressed in anything resembling a formal manner. Most of

  the women wore trousers, several with shapeless cardigans. Only a

  minority of the men wore ties, and one or two were unshaven.

  Of the eleven men, six were from EU countries and therefore not

  on her landing card list. Every one was over fifty, and overweight. Of

  the other five, two were Sri Lankan, one was a dour-looking,

  bespectacled Australian in a wheelchair, another was a twenty-sevenyear-old

  American from North Carolina, too young to be a disguised

  108

  Hawkins, and the last was .. . not there, she realised. She looked at

  her list: Wayne Ventnor, the incongruous chemical engineer, had not

  checked in for the discussion.

  As the group settled down and the event chairperson stepped up to

  the podium, the sergeant counted heads once more; sure enough,

  there were only thirty delegates present.

  As Neville slipped out of the room, she made a mental list of

  possible reasons for the man's absence; illness, alcohol and boredom

  were the top three. She walked along the curving corridor, heading

  clockwise towards Room E, where McGuire was stationed.

  She had gone barely twenty yards when she reached, on her right, a

  makeshift refreshment buffet. It was staffed by two white-coated ladies,

  standing guard over a tall metal um, a large tea-pot and a range of

  biscuits, but it had only one customer, a big, long-legged, brown-

  haired, bearded man. He was seated in a low chair, a coffee before him

  on a low table, and he was reading a copy of the Independent, through

  gold-framed glasses. Instinctively she checked her stride and turned

  into the cafe area; affecting diffidence, she shuffled up to the man and

  leaned over him, peering at the laminated badge which was clipped to

  the jacket of his navy-blue suit. It read, 'W Ventnor, Australia.'

  The man blinked and looked up from his newspaper, not into her

  face, if that had been his intention, but at her bosom which was

  directly in his eyeline as she bent over towards him.

  'I'm sorry,' she began, smiling. 'I was just checking that you are

  Mr Ventnor; I'm Karen, from the conference staff. It's my job to know

  where everyone is, and your name wasn't ticked off from my list.'

  His eyes reached hers, at last; his sudden smile was dazzling.

  'Secret police, eh?' he said, in a broad Aussie drawl.

  She chuckled, covering her inward gulp. 'Hardly. Freelance

  conference organiser, in fact. The University hires my firm to help

  with the administration of events like this.'

  'How have I missed you up to now?' he asked, turning up the grin

  one more notch.

  'I've been around, I promise; it must just be that our paths haven't

  crossed.'

  'Well, now that they have, Karen, can I buy you a coffee?' He

  nodded at the empty cup on the table. 'It's passable, I promise.'

  'That would be nice,' she said.

  As he pushed himself to his feet, and headed for the buffet table, a

  chill ran through her; he walked with a distinct limp on his right side.

  One of the helpful ladies at the counter, pleased to have customers,

  insisted on bringing his purchases to the table on a tray. As she placed

  coffee and a KitKat before each of them, Neville smiled at him again,

  109

  trying to keep a twinkle in her eyes, rather than the naked excitement

  she felt.

  'So why are you playing hookey?' she asked. 'Have you crossed

  your boredom threshold as far as sub-national economies are concerned?'

  'I crossed it as soon as I walked into this place,' the man replied.

  His hair was a very light brown, she noticed, with fair highlights, and

  his beard was very definitely not false. As he reached out to pick up

  his coffee, she was struck by the thickness of his wrists. 'I'm no

  economist.'

  'I didn't think so.'

  He looked back at her, a little too quickly for her comfort. Careful,

  Karen, she told herself.

  'Why's that then?'

  'Because you're wearing a suit,' she said. 'In fact, you're the only

  smartly dressed man in this building.'

  He laughed, an easy, relaxed confident sound. 'They are a scruffy

  shower of bastards, aren't they.'

  'So what are you doing here?' she made the question sound as light

  and inconsequential as she could.

  'I'm a minder, of sorts.' For a second or two, she was puzzled, wondering whether their surveillance was being duplicated by another

  agency. 'Did you see Dennis? Dennis Crombie, the guy in the

  wheelchair?'

  She nodded. 'Yes, I've just checked him in.'

  'Well I'm looking after him. That's why I'm here. I work for

  Blaydon Oil on an offshore oil rig, and I'm on a long leave. Dennis is

  an old mate, so when he told me that he was planning to come to this

  conference, I offered to tag along as his helper.'

  'But why are you registered as a delegate?' she aske
d, out of genuine

  curiosity, as she broke a finger from her KitKat.

  'There's no other category of visitor. We were told that with the

  Minister being here, there would be security; Dennis reckoned that it

  would be easiest if I registered just like everyone else. He needs me

  close by him, most of the time, you see.'

  'You must be quite a friend, to sit through this sort of event for

  him.'

  Ventnor smiled again. 'I've never seen Scotland,' he said. 'I've

  always wanted to visit the original Perth.'

  'You're hardly going to see much of it, given the conference

  programme.'

  'Ah, but we're staying on for a couple of months, afterwards. Dennis

  wants to do some research here, after the conference. That'll give me

  110

  the chance to spend the odd day sightseeing.'

  'Let me know if you need a guide,' she said. It burst from her

  unchecked; without a thought.

  'Hey,' grinned Ventnor, 'that's damn white of you. I'll take you up

  on that.' he paused. 'Say, what are you doing tonight? Dennis turns in

  around nine. Maybe I could buy you a pizza and you could tell me

  about Edinburgh?'

  'I shouldn't fraternise with the punters,' she began. 'But what the

  Hell! Where do you want to meet?'

  'You tell me. It's your city.'

  'Giuliano's, opposite the Playhouse theatre. Just take a taxi, if you

  don't know it. I'll book a table for nine fifteen.' She rose from the

  table. 'I'll see you there. Right now, though, I have to find my

  colleague.'

  Ill

  33

  'He really does have perfect teeth,' she thought. 'Even after all the

  rough-houses he must have been in his time, they're still straight and

  shining.'

  McGuire's mouth hung open as he stared at her across his desk.

  'No,' he gasped. 'She didn't really say that, Mario. You just imagined

  it, son, with all the strain you've been under in the last twenty-four

  hours. She didn't tell you that she's found a Hawkins suspect and

  made a date with him.

  'No, of course she bloody didn't.' His mouth came together in a

  grim line.

  'Oh yes she bloody did,' said Karen Neville, quietly but defiantly.

  'Then what the hell were you thinking about, sergeant? Or didn't

  thought come into it. Weren't you listening when I told you how

  dangerous Michael Hawkins is?'

  'Yes! Now you listen to me, please, inspector. I said that I thought

  at first that this could have been Hawkins, especially when I saw the

  limp. But now I know that it isn't. I've run checks already with the

  University of Western Australia. Wayne Ventnor did graduate from

  there fifteen years ago. I've also checked with Blaydon Oil; they do

  have a senior production engineer named Wayne Ventnor, and he is on

  long leave just now. He's recovering from an on-board accident, in

  fact. He broke his right ankle in a fall.'

  'Fine,' McGuire shot back. 'But you didn't know all that when you

  made the date with the guy? You could have been putting your lovely

  blonde head on the block. If this had been Hawkins, did it ever occur

  to you that he might have checked up on you too? Suppose he did, and

  found out that you weren't a freelance conference organiser?' He

  shook his head. 'Jesus,' he hissed. 'It doesn't bear thinking about.'

  'I could have handled him. Hawkins likes the ladies. Remember

  the CIA plant? He didn't rumble her, did he?'

  'Karen, when CIA operatives are placed it's done carefully, with

  cover stories that stand up to investigation. You've spun this Ventnor

  man a yarn: now you've got to stick to it. You can't turn around and

  tell him you're really a copper, or you've blown our operation.' He

  112

  grunted. 'The best thing you can do is stand the guy up.'

  She glared back at him. 'But I don't want to stand him up. Now

  I've checked him out there's no reason why I should.'

  'I could order you.'

  'Could you? Are you sure about that?'

  Suddenly his eyes were like ice. 'Karen,' he whispered. 'This is

  Special Branch. I could have you locked up for twenty-four hours if I

  wanted.' And then his gaze softened again. 'But I won't. Just watch

  the pillow talk, that's all.'

  'Pillow talk?' The retort burst from her, indignantly. 'What sort of

  a woman do you think I am?'

  He leaned back in his chair as if he was recoiling from her attack.

  'Okay, okay. I'm sorry. I didn't mean that literally. It's just that in this

  section you can never forget who, or what you are; and you can't

  forget the nature of your work. I can't even tell Maggie about the

  Hawkins operation. Andy Martin can't tell Alex.'

  'I heard Alex had chucked him,' said Karen, quietly. 'A friend of

  mine lives in the same street at Haymarket. She told me she saw her

  moving out at the weekend.'

  McGuire's eyes widened. 'Is that so? Well here's some more serious

  advice. If you bump into him, don't you go commiserating with him.

  Mr Martin doesn't like his business on the bulletin board.'

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  34

  Legend has it that there is in Newcastle a hospital ward which is

  largely populated by drinkers of a famous local ale. By the same

  token it is said that Edinburgh's orthopaedic hospital provision exists

  mainly to patch together the victims of motorcycle accidents.

  Neither fable stands up to close examination. In particular, the East

  of Scotland's reputation for excellence in reconstructive surgery is

  founded on decades of exceptional work with patients, many of them

  children, suffering from congenital or degenerative conditions.

  Dalkeith Orthopaedic Centre had been open for less than a year,

  Detective Sergeant Steve Steele learned from the plaque on the wall

  of its main entrance. He vaguely remembered the wrangling which

  had preceded the decision of the previous government to commit

  funds to the project, public and surgical opinion having been at odds

  over the construction of a specialist unit in times of financial shortage.

  Eventually, the Ministers of the day had given the nod to the

  electors, mollifying the medics by providing the new hospital through

  a private finance initiative.

  'What exactly is a PFI, sir?' Steele asked Mackie as they stepped

  through the main entrance to the centre, passing into a welcoming

  reception hall, well appointed both with furniture and potted palms.

  'The only thing I know about it is that someone makes a buck out

  of it, long-term,' the detective superintendent answered, dryly.

  He stepped up to the reception point and introduced himself, and

  his colleague. 'We have an appointment with Miss Berry, the Head

  Pharmacist.'

  The young man behind the desk gave him a cool, appraising look,

  then pointed towards the busy waiting area. 'If you'll take a seat,

  gentlemen; I'm sure she'll be with you when she can.' Something

  about his tone needled Mackie. He suspected that the receptionist had

  had other meetings with police officers.

  'I don't want a seat,' he said, quietly. 'I've got plenty of seats. You

  ju
st tell her we're here.'

  The detectives stood by the desk, watching the youth as he pushed

  a button on his telephone console and spoke quietly into its

  114

  microphone. 'Your two-thirty appointment, Miss Berry,' he said. They

  heard a bright voice answer. 'I'll be right there.'

  'Do you think this bloke was going to jerk us about, sir?' Steele

  asked, loudly enough to be heard on the other side of the desk.

  'It happens, Stevie,' said Mackie. 'It's an occupational hazard. Damn

  silly, though, for we coppers never forget.' He leaned towards the

  young man. 'Bloody elephants, we are.'

  They had been waiting for less than two minutes when the chief

  pharmacist bustled round a corner. She was a pleasant round-faced

  woman in her late thirties, with close-cropped auburn tinted hair and

  big round spectacles. She looked at the two men, then settled on the

  older. 'Mr Mackie?' she asked, looking up at him with a hand

  outstretched. 'I'm Margie Berry.'

  He shook it. 'That's right; this is DS Steele.' He smiled. 'You

  picked us out right away.'

  The little woman grinned back at him, tugging the lapels of her

  white coat. 'Nothing odd about that. You two can stand unaided. Most

  people come in here on crutches.'

  The superintendent looked across at the waiting area, and saw that

  the patients clutched an assortment of sticks, Zimmer frames and

  other supports.

  'Come along to my department,' said the pharmacist, 'and I'll tell

  you why I asked to see you.' They followed her round the corner from

  which she had come, down a long corridor and through a door at the

  end. The hospital pharmacy was smaller than Mackie had expected.

  Margie Berry appeared to have two assistants: a man and a woman,

  each in their twenties, were working at desks, and a third was vacant.

  There was no room for. anyone else.

  'Bill, Jenny,' she called out as she swept into the room. 'Take your

  teabreaks now, please.'

  'Okay Marge,' the man answered, with a grin. 'We'll get out so you

  can play your game.'

  Mackie looked at the door as it closed on the two assistants. 'So

  they don't know what this is about either?'

  'Hell, no. That wouldn't have been fair, either on them or on the

  person involved.'

  'So,' said the superintendent, 'you've found a discrepancy in your