“How did you –?”
“I’m a journalist.”
“Oh,” Lindsey said as realisation dawned. “I told Miranda.”
“I never reveal my sources.”
“No, he had nothing to do with it,” Lindsey said emphatically.
“So what’s he like? How did you hook up with him?”
“Niall,” Lindsey said with a degree of indignation, “is that any of your business?”
“Technically no,” he agreed, “but as your first boyfriend I think I have some rights in that area.”
“Oh really? I take it you’re being ironic.”
“Probably. I usually am. You just never noticed when we were young.”
“I could take great pleasure in hitting you,” Lindsey said.
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Niall responded. “Hugo may be injured but there’s nothing wrong with his bite, and trust me it’s a lot worse than his bark.”
“John is a really lovely man,” Lindsey said.
“Good,” Niall said.
“People think he’s an ogre but he’s as soft as a squidgy lemon underneath.”
Niall wondered how the British Association for the Blind’s Director of Finance would take to being likened to a squidgy lemon.
“And he was drawn to you because you saw through his Shrek persona into his squidgy interior,” he suggested.
“Oh Niall!”
“Sorry.”
“We’re good for each other,” Lindsey said.
“Great. What’s he like?”
“Nice. Clever. Funny.”
Niall could see that he was getting nowhere and wondered what had led him to believe that he would ever have found anything out from Lindsey. Determined, as he invariably was, to rush in where it would have been wise to fear to tread, he threw out,
“So he’s not involved in the grand conspiracy, then?”
“What conspiracy?” Lindsey asked, sounding genuinely at a loss.
“I hear the word conspiracy as I pass the door, and why am I not remotely surprised to look in and see Niall Burnet, conspiracy theorist extraordinaire?”
Niall stiffened and turned his head in the direction of the voice. Vivien Loosemore! Well, he had known there was a chance, probably deep down hoped that he might bump into her. She had prevented him pressing Lindsey on her involvement in whatever was going on, but Lindsey was no actor. She would have been sounding guilty long ago if her boyfriend had dragged her into anything illegal. Now he had to turn the tables and get something positive from this unexpected opportunity.
“Nothing quite so much fun as a good conspiracy theory,” he said, trying his hardest to sound affable.
“Mary told me you were coming to interview her,” Loosemore said. “I warned her to be careful what she said.”
“She’s lovely,” Niall said.
“And who are you writing this piece for?” Loosemore probed.
“I’m freelance at the minute,” Niall said. “So first of all I’m just going to write it. But it’s a brilliant cause and I really hope I manage to sell it.”
“Simon put you on to it, I suppose,” Vivien Loosemore reflected.
“It’s been wonderful for him,” Niall said. He wondered if there was anything more to Vivien Loosemore’s persistent questioning than her natural wariness around him. He had hoped to get her to relax some of that wariness, but he saw now that that was a vain hope. Time for another throw of the dice. “But actually what I’m working on is a series of articles about different VI charities – you know, comparing Victory and BAB and Guide Dogs and the other smaller charities. I was talking to Gordon yesterday.”
“Gordon?” Niall knew at once from the tone that he had scored a hit with the first name off the list that Miranda had found and tried to memorise. “Who’s Gordon? I don’t think I know Gordon.”
“You must know him,” Niall said. “I thought everybody did. He works with Adrian. You must know him. He mentioned your name.”
“I think we should have a conversation about this article of yours, Niall,” she said, a tremor in her voice.
“Great,” Niall said. “All grist to the mill.”
“Let’s go to my office.”
“Just like old times,” Niall said, getting to his feet.
“If you’ve finished with Lindsey, that is.”
“I can always come back,” Niall said. “I know how busy you are.”
Vivien Loosemore said nothing as she guided Niall down what seemed to be two corridors at right angles to each other, up a flight of stairs and through a door at the top. His senses on full alert, Niall was confident he would be able to find his way back down, in the event that Vivien was not in a mood to accompany him.
As soon as they were inside the office and she had closed the door behind them, she began.
“I don’t know what you have found out, Niall, I don’t know how you have found it out, but I beg you to think of the broader picture before you go public with any of it. You yourself said that this is a brilliant cause. You must see that it is doing wonders for Simon. And BAB does good work. Provides vital services for thousands of people in need. Don’t let what is really just idle silliness jeopardise all that.”
“You call it idle silliness?” Niall asked.
“I know it’s sordid. I can imagine your delight at discovering my involvement in it and how you must be salivating at the prospect of taking me down, but there is so much more at stake.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“I owed Daniel for some things that he did for me. Several quite big things. He wanted a location and he wanted discretion. I gave him those things. He can be very persuasive.”
“You let your house become the centre of criminal activity.”
“I don’t think it is strictly criminal.”
Niall snorted.
“What do you know exactly?” Vivien Loosemore asked, belatedly.
“That’s for me to know, and you to wonder about,” Niall said. “But I suggest that if you want me even to consider not going public with it you don’t tell your buddy Daniel anything about our little conversation here, and let him go on about his normal happy business. God, I wonder if you even realise the enormity of what you’re involved in. Somebody’s dead, for God’s sake.”
“You surely don’t think his death had anything to do with –”
“What do you think?” Niall interrupted. “Yes I do think. He had a crisis of conscience. He couldn’t live with himself. You obviously can.”
“Niall I may be a weak and feeble conniver, but I am not a doer. I promise you that.”
“You disgust me,” Niall said.
“Sometimes I disgust myself,” Vivien Loosemore admitted.
“Only sometimes?”
She did not reply. Niall tried frantically to think of a question that would tell him more without revealing how little he actually knew. She had told him Daniel was behind it. She had told him her house was the headquarters for the ‘discreet’ operation. But she had described it as sordid and silly and not strictly criminal, which suggested to him that Sullivan – intelligently – had not admitted Loosemore to the inner circle of those who really knew what was going on. In which case she quite probably didn’t know very much more and he should quit while he was ahead.
“So when’s the next meeting?” he asked.
“It hasn’t been arranged,” she replied.
“I might want to know, when it is,” he said.
“Why?” Vivien Loosemore asked. “What can you possibly hope to gain?”
“Just remember that I’m out there, and I may be blind but I’ll be watching you. And I won’t be stepping off any more pavements in front of BMWs.”
“No – well I’m glad to hear that. For your dog’s sake if not your own.”
Her lack of reaction told Niall that she had not been involved in that particular aspect of the operation.
“I’ll see you around,” Niall said, turni
ng to leave. “Lindsey’s got my number.”
“I’ll show you down.”
“No need. I’m not half as helpless as I look.”
“Oh I know that, Niall,” Vivien Loosemore said as he walked to the door. He put his left hand on to the wall and trailed to the head of the stairs. He was half way down when his phone rang. He half expected Loosemore or Daniel Sullivan, but it was a girl’s voice.
“Hello?”
“Hello. Niall Burnet?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Rebecca. Rebecca Blackford. Do you remember me?”
“The tears in the pub. How could I forget?”
“Thanks for the reminder. Look, I really need to talk to you about something. Can we meet?”
“Surely. When?”
“As soon as possible.”
“OK. I’m in Regent’s Park. Where are you?”
“I’m sitting in a Caffe Nero at Notting Hill Gate.”
“Right. Drink lots of coffee. I’ll get a cab and meet you there.”
“Niall – can it be just you?”
“It’ll be just me and Hugo. He won’t talk. Probably won’t listen. This is all very intriguing.”
“You’ll see why.”
“And you just went and had coffee with her?”
“Yes. Is it a crime?”
“On your own.”
“No. Hugo was there. And half the population of London was in Caffe Nero.”
“And why exactly did she want to see you?” Miranda asked. “To help her through her grief?”
“No,” Niall said, wondering why he was feeling guilty. “She’s involved in this, Miranda, whether you like it or not, and it was actually you that roped her in, if you recall. I don’t remember being incredibly enthusiastic when you invited her to join us at the pub.”
“Until you found out that her brother was the eye donor.”
“Which we still don’t actually know. Why are we fighting?”
“I don’t see why you couldn’t have called me,” Miranda said. “We could’ve all met together.”
Niall realised that to reveal Rebecca’s request for it to be ‘just him’ at this juncture would be unhelpful.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “She said ‘as soon as possible’ and I went.”
They were sitting in Faith’s front room, alone in the house because Faith was at work. It was late afternoon, but the days were grudgingly starting to lengthen and, there being not a cloud in the sky, it was still light. Niall had reported his meetings with Lindsey and Vivien Loosemore, and Miranda had been delighted that her list of names had been the catalyst that had caused the Loosemore melt-down. But she had bridled instantly when Niall had mentioned Rebecca’s phone call. Now he wondered whether he could possibly begin to explain what their meeting had been about, and yet he had to, because the implications for their own investigation were significant. He would leave out the fact that he had heard the tremor in Rebecca’s voice as she had started to talk about it, that he had sat beside her on a Caffe Nero sofa and put his arm around her, that she had physically shaken throughout their conversation and that he had tried to soothe her and be understanding. He would stick to the facts, which in themselves were incredible enough to challenge Miranda’s powers of belief. It had been one of those extraordinary, serendipitous moments: Gordon and Adrian had opened a door on an unknown world, and then Rebecca had come along almost at the same time to shine a light on that world and reveal it to be nothing that he had anticipated. He had tried to picture it as she described it: Loosemore the hostess, the bawd; Daniel Sullivan lolling Roman-style on a sofa being fed sweetmeats by this Penny from Wales, while other men, including the unfortunate Damian Clarke, indulged in similar pleasures. Sordid indeed, as Loosemore had said. But was that the reason Damian Clarke had taken his own life? Rebecca seemed to think so, and was now carrying the weight of his death on her shoulders along with her disgust at herself, and the still-fresh grief for her brother. Poor girl. Would a man – even a married man – take his own life because he had been invited to some sordid soiree and had a not entirely satisfactory sexual experience with a girl he had never met, either before or since? Admittedly, the guy was obviously of a sensitive disposition, but all the same... It was a bit extreme. Perhaps he had confessed all to his wife, and she had reacted badly, and had threatened to leave him and take the kids. In which case, as far as the transplant conspiracy went, it was a dead end. The whole ‘Number 17’ business was a red herring. They were really back to square one.
“You know what we have to do,” Miranda said, when he had told her.
“Go back to the drawing board,” Niall said.
“No. Think. Sullivan wants to see me in my underwear, right?”
“And the rest,” Niall said darkly.
“We need to get information out of him, yes?”
“Yes.”
“So we get this Penny to fix it up for me to go to one of these Roman evenings and let Sullivan think he is going to seduce me.”
“No,” Niall said.
“It’s perfect,” Miranda said.
“What makes you think he’d tell you anything, even after he raped you?”
“Well –”
“No, Miranda,” Niall said emphatically. “No. I won’t let you.”
“Why not?”
“The whole thing’s vile.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“You think I can’t deal with vile?”
“I’m not sure you realise how vile vile is.”
“Because I’m a poor little blind girl.”
“You’re not blind.”
“But that’s how you’re treating me.”
“So take me through it then,” Niall said, trying to be calm and rational. “It gets fixed up. Daniel gets excited. You feed him in your underwear. He carries you off to the bedroom. Then you say ‘Before we have sex I want you to tell me about my eyes.’ At which point he’s so desperate he tells you the whole story, while at the same moment deciding that you can’t leave the house alive. Don’t forget the hit and run.”
“You could be outside.”
“Fat lot of help I’d be.”
“Thanks.”
The atmosphere lightened.
“Perhaps it needs some refinement,” Miranda acknowledged. “But it IS a plan. Let’s not rule it out.”
At that moment the house phone rang and Miranda answered it.
“Hello Miranda. It’s Faith.”
“Hello,” Miranda said, surprised.
“I hoped one of you would be in.”
“We both are.”
“There’s going to be a press conference here in an hour. At least, ‘a statement’ is going to be read out,” Faith said. “I think you and Niall should be here.”
“At Moorfields?”
“Yes, at Moorfields.”
“OK,” Miranda said. “We’d better get moving.”
It wasn’t quite a scrum. There were plenty of journalists and photographers, but plenty of empty seats too. The eye transplant had drifted off the front pages long ago, due in part to the fragile state of Miranda’s health, but also to her failure to take up the gauntlet of celebrity that had been offered by the agent her father had hired on her behalf.
Matthew Long was there, and he immediately gravitated towards Niall and Miranda.
“What’s this about?” she asked him.
“I don’t know. They just sent a release saying an important statement was going to be made about the transplant which ‘would shed light on recent events’.”
“They’re rattled,” Niall said.
“About what?” Matt asked.
“How did you ever get to be a journalist?” was Niall’s response.
At that point three men entered the room: Jamal Daghash, Daniel Sullivan, and Duncan Clark. Looking around her at the other people in the room, Miranda was surprised to see her father slipping in quietly at the back.
The three men sat at
a table which had been arranged for the purpose and it was Duncan Clark who addressed the assembly.
“Good evening. Thank you for coming. I apologise for the lateness of the hour and the short notice you received of this meeting. There was a case for putting it off until tomorrow morning, but tomorrow being Saturday there was a lack of enthusiasm for that, and there were those among us who were very keen, for many reasons, to share this information as soon as possible, before rumours emerged from other sources. I am Duncan Clark, a senior consultant surgeon of this hospital; my colleague Jamal Daghash will be known to many of you already as the pioneer behind the recent and much-publicised eye transplant operation. I notice that the recipient of the new eyes, Miss Leman, is amongst the audience. I apologise in advance to her for what she is about to hear.”
Cameras flashed and clicked as Miranda’s presence was noted.
“I’m going to ask Daniel Sullivan,” Clark continued, “of the British Association for the Blind, to read a statement that he has prepared. As it is Friday evening, and we all have homes to go to, we are not proposing to take questions afterwards. If you want to follow up on anything that you hear now, please call our offices on Monday morning.”
Clark stopped at that point. Niall was intrigued by his tone, which was that of a man who was there against his will, going through the motions for something of which he entirely disapproved.
“You are all aware,” Daniel Sullivan began, reading his prepared statement, “that, with funding support from the British Association for the Blind, a pioneering eye transplant operation took place in this hospital in November of last year, conducted by Jamal Daghash. You may or may not also be aware that, on two occasions since that operation, Miss Susannah Leman had to return to hospital with complications in her recuperation process which suggested that her body was rejecting the eyes. On each of these occasions, once she was safely under observation in hospital her condition improved, and the cause of the hiatus in her recovery proved something of a mystery. It was Duncan Clark who solved that mystery, and in the light of subsequent events, we feel it is important to share the solution with you. Observing his patient, Mr. Clark realised that the only possible cause for these relapses was sabotage of the medication which was designed to ensure that the body did not reject the new eyes. There were very few people in a position to do this. Susannah Leman herself was the most likely suspect, but after numerous interviews with her he concluded that she was not compromising her own convalescence. It was then that he arrived at a painful truth. The man who was ensuring that the medication did not work was the very man whose job it was to see that it did: Dr. Damian Clarke. As you will know, Damian Clarke took his own life a little over a week ago. This was following a confrontation with Duncan, who threatened to expose him. We believe that Damian Clarke was a sick man. He seems to have been one of those doctors for whom holding the power of life and death, or sight versus no sight, was too much to bear. He did not truly believe in this operation, either in its viability or its validity. He allegedly held strong beliefs that blindness was a punishment enacted by God, and that to ‘open the eyes of the blind’ was a job for God and not man. Consequently, acting alone and in secret, and entirely without the knowledge of Jamal Daghash, who placed implicit trust in him, Damian Clarke determined to prevent the long-term success of the operation. When confronted with his actions he said nothing and remained unrepentant. However, we can only assume that, on reflection, he saw the enormity of what he was doing, and its implications for his career. Realising that the game was up he chose what he felt was an appropriate course, rather than face the awful consequences of his actions. There was nothing that Moorfields Eye Hospital could have done that they did not do to protect patients from Damian Clarke. All proper checks were carried out when he was appointed. There was nothing in his past record to reveal the mental condition under which he laboured. There is also no evidence that any other patients have suffered as a result of being treated by Damian Clarke. With his passing it is to be hoped that Miss Leman will make a complete and permanent recovery, and lead a full life with her new eyes. We very much hope that this particular chapter can be closed with as little pain as possible to all concerned parties.”
Eyes of the Blind Page 26