‘It’s strange. It was as if – and this might be my imagination – it was as if he was daring me to say what really happened. Just a feeling, yeah? Nothing I could put my finger on.’
‘Would you say it was as if he knew what had really happened? I mean exactly what had happened. And who was involved?’
He stares into the middle distance for a few moments. He appears to be looking at the traffic. He sways slightly. I think all the Scotch is catching up with him.
‘I don’t – yeah. Yeah. If that turned out to be the case, I wouldn’t be surprised, you know?’
‘Have you got a name for this gentleman?’
‘Funnily enough, yes. I saw his badge. His name was Footitt. It’s an unusual name. I remembered it because of the cricketer, yeah?’
I shake my head.
‘Mark Footitt? Surrey? No? Left-arm fast-medium bowler? No?’
‘OK. Well, that’s something. I’ll check him out. Have you got anything else interesting to tell me?’
A millisecond’s pause before he answers.
‘That’s it. Listen, mate. If anything happens like you finding out who these bastards are, will you let me have a go at them?’
‘I can’t guarantee anything. I may call you again, if that’s OK.’
‘Sure, mate. Thanks. I think.’
‘And one more thing. Is it easy to find out where you live?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘They must have got your address from somewhere. I take it the gym doesn’t hand it out over the phone.’
He looks a little rattled at this. ‘I didn’t – I didn’t think of that. No. It wouldn’t be easy to find out where I lived. Over-eager fans and stuff, you know? The press. I guess I’m a sort of celebrity and you have to keep some things private. I’ve always kept a lid on that sort of thing.’
‘Sure you have.’
Once we’re outside the gym I carefully shake his hand and turn back towards Shepherd’s Bush.
On a whim, I give the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital a call. I just hope I can hear them over all the traffic noise and drills that they seem to favour around these parts.
‘Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. Can I help you?’
‘Could you put me through to orthopaedics, please?’
‘One moment, please.’
I’m really annoyed about forgetting about that woman in the pub. I think about going back, but it’s probably too late.
‘Orthopaedics.’
‘Oh, hi. My uncle’s just had surgery for a broken arm. He’s being looked after by Dr Footitt, the consultant. I wonder if…’
‘There’s no Dr Footitt in orthopaedics. There’s a Mr Fincham. Is that the name you want?’
‘No. It was definitely Footitt. Would you mind checking, just to be sure? I want to buy him a tie.’
‘Hold on, please.’
I’m going to have to get back to my flat at some point to process all the stuff that Jamie Baldwin told me. There’s quite a lot there that doesn’t make sense.
‘I’m sorry, sir. You must have got the wrong name. There’s a consultant in psychiatry called Dr Footitt. If it’s orthopaedics, it must be Mr Fincham. He’s the only name there that’s even remotely similar to Footitt.’
‘OK. Thanks very much for your help.’
I click off. Now what would a consultant psychiatrist be doing having a friendly, if rather spooky chat with someone with a badly fractured arm?
Annalise. She works there. Wrong department, but you never know.
‘Hey. It’s Daniel. Are you busy? I thought we could meet up for a romantic coffee which you can buy as you’re a wealthy NHS doctor. I may even request a slice of red velvet cake.’
She sounds nervous and unsure. ‘You’re still speaking to me after the other night? I was afraid you’d think I was weird. I’ve read about women like me.’
‘Not at all. To be honest, it made you far more interesting.’
‘Really? That’s hot. Do you want to do something tonight?’
‘I’ve got a lot on today, but we can do something tomorrow, maybe.’ I’ll have to see if I can squeeze in Anouk tonight, so to speak. ‘Look – I’m in Shepherd’s Bush. I can get a cab and be with you in about fifteen to twenty minutes.’
‘Text me when you get into reception.’
‘Will do.’
It takes less than fifteen minutes to get to Fulham Road. I text Annalise a few minutes before I arrive and she’s waiting for me near one of the reception desks. She looks very smart in a khaki and navy wrap dress, a big leather belt around her waist and a hospital ID tag on a blue ribbon around her neck. I think about her the other night and get a surge of adrenalin.
‘Do you want to get something in here or go outside?’ I ask.
‘Outside.’
We cross over Fulham Road and find a small Italian café. We sit down at a window table with our coffees. She rubs her foot up the side of my leg.
‘I’ve been thinking about the other night almost without a break. It’s been very frustrating.’
‘I’m sure. Listen…’
‘I’ll bet all your other girlfriends are really conventional, aren’t they?’
‘Usually girl-next-door types.’
‘I knew it.’
‘Listen, Annalise. Something has come up on a job I’m working on and it concerns this hospital. I just need to run something past you.’
‘If it’s confidential, I won’t be able to…’
‘Nothing like that. At least I don’t think so. A male patient was admitted here about three months ago. Severe fractures to both bones in the forearm. Brought to A&E, then two operations to insert pins, metal plates and all the rest of it. That would have been Trauma and Orthopaedics, yes?’
‘Yes. What happened?’
‘He was hit twice on the arm with a heavy iron bar.’
She licks her lips. Her eyes meet mine. ‘And this is a case you’re working on?’
‘This is a side issue. At least it is so far.’
She leans forwards, her foot still against my leg. Her voice is suddenly husky and excited. ‘Wow. Who would do such a thing?’
‘Your coffee’s getting cold, tiger.’
She wrinkles her nose at me and spoons the froth off her cappuccino into her mouth. ‘So what’s the problem?’
‘This man is in a side ward here, recovering after the second operation. A consultant comes in to have a chat with him. A very friendly chat. Asked him how he was feeling, looked at his notes and his X-rays…’
‘Nothing unusual about that. It was probably the orthopaedic surgeon who operated on him.’
‘This was a psychiatric consultant.’
‘What? Was it someone the patient knew personally?’
‘No.’
‘Well, that’s ridiculous. There’s no way on earth that a psychiatric consultant would have any reason to see someone recovering from a couple of operations like that. Was this guy manic or crazed when he came in?’
‘Just in a bit of pain. He’d had a morphine jab on the way here in the ambulance. I think that helped with things.’
She shakes her head. ‘It would never happen. Consultants don’t go around giving pep talks to other doctors’ patients, particularly when it’s not even their field. You wouldn’t even know about the case, d’you know what I mean? Besides, we have enough to do without doing things like that. And even if we did, it would be seen as unprofessional and not very polite. Are you sure that the arm was the only thing wrong with him?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘The only people who might be expected to visit him would be nurses, orthopaedic staff, pain management staff and possibly whoever dealt with him when he came into A&E, but even that would be unlikely. They might pop in when they were passing as a friendly gesture to see how things turned out, but…’
‘That’s what I thought. The only official aftercare was with a physiotherapist. This guy is seeing a cognitive psychotherapist now,
but not one connected with your hospital.’
‘Well, the physiotherapy would have been sorted out later, just before he was being discharged. Once again, no psychiatric consultant would have been involved. I mean, I’m a cardiologist. It would be rather like me looking in on another doctor’s patient who’d just had an op for an ingrowing toenail. Do you know this consultant’s name? This psychiatrist?’
‘Footitt.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Oh, him.’
‘You know him?’
‘Not personally. I know who he is and I’ve heard things about him. An arrogant public school shit. No one can understand how he got to be a consultant. His colleagues think he’s hopeless. I’ve heard people say that he’s had a lot of cock-ups professionally, various accusations of incompetence that were never proven or followed up and there was the thing about the blood. Just a rumour.’
‘What thing?’
‘Can I see your hand? Your right hand?’
She takes my hand gently in hers and runs her fingers over it. There’s a small cut on the centre knuckle of my middle finger which is just starting to heal. I notice the hairs on my forearm are standing up. I drink some coffee.
‘Is this from when you knocked that guy’s teeth out?’
‘What was the thing about the blood?’
‘Oh, it was just a rumour. You know how we have blood in hospitals for transfusions and so on? The blood that’s supplied by the public? Donors? People like you and me? It wasn’t in this hospital, but apparently Footitt had been selling industrial amounts of this blood to private clinics over, like, years.’
‘Isn’t that extremely illegal?’
‘It’s getting struck off illegal. It’s going to prison illegal. But somehow he got away with it. As I say, it’s a rumour, but, you know…’
‘How long has he been a consultant?’
“Oh, I don’t know. Two or three years? I can find out, if you want.’
‘Don’t worry. Was he made a consultant after these rumours started?’
‘Oh, yes. Those rumours go back about ten years at least. There was also some gossip about him assaulting one of the nurses in some other hospital, but I don’t know if that’s true or not. Lost his temper after a failed groping and hit her in the face. Something like that. If it was true, nothing came of it. Rumours like that, you somehow want them to be true, you know what I mean? It would be great if they were, but you feel they’re just urban myths.’
She lets go of my hand and looks at her watch.
‘I’ve got to get back.’
‘Sure. Is there a chart for the staff in each department? D’you know what I mean? With photographs of all the doctors? I want to see what Footitt looks like.’
‘You can do that by looking at the hospital website, but there’s a thing on the wall by Psychiatric Assessment. Lower ground floor. There are five psychiatrists, a psychiatric nurse, two secretaries and a receptionist. I think that’s it.’
‘What’s Psychiatric Assessment?’
‘A pretty small department, really. They have a room up by A&E, as well. If someone comes in acting strangely, they’ll be called to that room to assess them. I never deal with them. I can take you down there if you like.’
‘Don’t worry about that. Come on. Let’s go.’
We cross over the road and head back into the hospital. I tell her to go in first as I don’t think it’s a good idea that she’s seen with me. I promise I’ll call.
Once she’s disappeared, I go into the gift shop and take a look around. Eventually I decide on a vanilla and apple scented candle in a glass jar. I take the lift down to the lower ground, as I can’t find the stairs. Some detective.
Luckily, the solitary psychiatric receptionist is busy with an angry couple, so I’m able to get a good look at the staff photographs on a nearby wall. And there he is: Dr Barnaby Footitt, consultant psychiatrist, student mountaineer, namesake of famous cricketer, flogger of donated blood and sinister hospital visitor.
He’s smiling in the photograph. Good teeth. He’s got male pattern baldness, dyed black hair, dead straight black eyebrows and humourless pale green eyes. I imprint that image on my brain and wait my turn at the reception desk.
The angry couple go off to be angry somewhere else and I’m alone with the receptionist. I don’t know what the fuss was about, but I give her a sympathetic roll of my eyes to get her on my side. I don’t actually know what I’m going to say. If Footitt suddenly appears I’ll have to change my plan and my story. I can only hope he’s off visiting someone who’s had a recent hip replacement or an appendectomy.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
I give her a big smile. ‘I hope so, sweetheart. I was wondering if Dr Footitt was around. My old dad came into A&E in a very bad state last week and Dr Footitt was very kind and understanding towards him. I wanted to give him a little something.’ I hold up the scented candle. She looks at it and frowns slightly, as if I’ve made a terrible choice of gift.
‘I don’t know exactly where he is at the moment, but I know he’s got a busy day today,’ she says, as if she gives a toss. ‘The only thing I can suggest is that you try and catch him after his shift finishes. Or you can give that to me and I’ll make sure he gets it.’
‘Um – what time does he finish?’
‘He’s on until nine tonight. He usually checks in here just before he leaves to have a quick look at what he has on the next day. But you better not be late, dear. He always leaves on the dot and not a minute after.’
‘OK. Well, look. I’ll hang on to this and pop in later. Besides, it’ll give me a chance to wrap it. So if I come down here at about ten to nine, I’ll probably run into him. See if I can give it to him before he runs out and gets a cab home.’
She laughs. ‘Dr Footitt getting a cab? That’ll be the day. He’s got a flash sports car. Very proud of it. You can always hear the engine if you’re walking along and he’s on his way to the car park.’
‘What’s he got?’
‘A Ferrari of some sort.’
‘Oh, they’re great cars. What colour?’
‘Red.’
‘Lovely. I expect he’s got his own personal parking space, has he?’
‘Same as all the other doctors. Just a space with his name on the wall in the main car park next door. But I’ll tell you one thing: if I had a car like that I wouldn’t park it in there. You never know what might happen. People scratching it out of spite, for example. It happened to one of the other doctors.’
‘What did he have?’
‘A lovely old Bentley. Someone used their keys on it. Big three-foot scratch down the side.’
I shake my head sadly, like I give a fuck. ‘It’s a crime, isn’t it, really. OK, well thanks for your help, love. I’ll come back later.’
She gives me a saucy smile. ‘My pleasure.’
I get back up to the ground floor, dump the candle in a bin and go outside. The car park is on the right. Unfortunately, it’s packed solid with vehicles and it takes me at least ten minutes before I find a staff parking area.
The Ferrari is easy to spot. It’s a bright red 458 Italia. These are fast. I can only guess, but I would think it does 0 – 60 in about three seconds. There’s not much he can do with that sort of engine power in central London, but it’s something I’ll have to keep in mind. I take a look inside, memorise the registration and go back out into the real world.
I look at my watch. It’s exactly four o’ clock. I give Anouk a call. She seems really pleased to hear from me.
‘So how’s the tatt?’
‘Oh my God, I can’t walk. It’s when my thighs rub together. It feels really awkward. She put Clingfilm over it. It’s like a patch. She said to take it off really carefully and wash the whole area in this antibacterial soap she gave me. It’s a liquid. I’m going to do that in a few minutes. It feels very tender.’
‘I’m going to be working later on tonight. Why don’t you get a cab over to my place at about six? I�
�ll make us something to eat. Then you can show me what it looks like.’
‘I’d like that. But you’ll have to be careful with me.’
I remember those firm, heavy thighs and fabulous breasts. ‘I can’t guarantee that.’
‘You are evil.’
‘You don’t know the half of it. See you later.’
There’s a stationery shop right next door to the café where Annalise and I had coffee. I buy an office wall calendar, which they’ve knocked seventy-five per cent off because it’s August. The girl rolls it up for me and slides an elastic band around it. Our hands touch briefly as she hands it to me.
Then I go and hire a motorbike.
22
MR X
I decide upon a red and black Ducati Multistrada 1200 S. Fast and sleek with powerful acceleration in low and high gears: just what I was looking for. When I get back to Covent Garden, I park it outside a busy restaurant in Tavistock Street. There are enough tables with a street view to discourage any potential thieves; having it pinched would be a real inconvenience.
I was slightly concerned about the colour and design making it a little too conspicuous, but most of the bikes I passed on my way back were just as flash. They didn’t charge me for the helmet rental, which was a very cool-looking Shark Evo-One in gloss black.
When I get inside the flat, the first thing I do is to unroll the wall calendar and put it on the kitchen table with a couple of mugs placed on either side to help flatten it out. I find an unused A4 pad of cartridge paper and a pen and place them next to the calendar. I load the Siemens coffee maker with Mocha Djimmah beans, hit ‘play’ and go and take a shower.
When I come back out, I make myself a coffee and sit at the table with a towel wrapped around my waist. I think I look pretty cool. I pick the pen up and wave it over the cartridge pad. There are a few things I want to get down on paper before they drift out of my brain into the land of forgotten thoughts.
According to Mr Sheng, the last time he saw Rikki would have been on the seventeenth of August. That was the last time anyone saw him, as far as I can tell. He said Rikki had been missing for three whole days when I spoke to him yesterday.
The last time Lee Ch’iu saw Rikki was on the ninth of August. He was quite specific about that. He said that Rikki had mentioned that he’d been getting hassle. This hassle started happening shortly after a meeting with Mr Sheng and stopped him feeling good about the consequences of that meeting.
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