by Ken McClure
His mobile phone rang. It was the matron at The Beeches in Helensburgh.
‘Dr Dunbar, I thought that, being a friend, you’d like to be told that Mrs Barnes died peacefully at three o’clock this morning. I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you for telling me,’ sighed Dunbar. ‘I appreciate it, and thank you for all you did for her. Did her son manage to come and see her before she died?’
‘No, he stayed away. Perhaps you’d like details of the funeral arrangements?’
Dunbar said he would. He wrote them down.
Ingrid came in after lunch to check if he had any work for her. When he said no, she smiled her superior little smile and said, ‘You know, I don’t think you’re an accountant at all.’ She sat on a corner of the desk and rested both hands on one knee.
Dunbar felt himself go cold. He tried to appear calm as he asked, ‘What do you imagine I am, then?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Some kind of detective perhaps?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘You pulled my personnel file.’
Dunbar was painfully aware that she was watching his reaction. ‘Did I?’ he said.
‘All personnel files record date and time of last access. It’s a data-protection measure. The last request for access to my file came from the computer in this office.’
‘I think it’s you who are the detective,’ said Dunbar with a smile that he hoped looked relaxed. ‘You’re quite right. I did access your file. I wanted to know a bit more about you.’
‘Why?’
‘When I asked you about some clinical tests on a transplant patient, you seemed to know all about them. I was curious. Having a computer beside me made it possible to satisfy my curiosity.’
‘And what did you discover?’
‘That you’re really a trained nurse,’ replied Dunbar. It was a gamble. He had simply told the truth.
‘I was,’ agreed Ingrid.
‘Then we’re two of a kind,’ said Dunbar. ‘I’m a doctor who doesn’t work as a doctor, and you’re a nurse who doesn’t work as a nurse.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ said Ingrid. ‘Quite a coincidence, really.’
She left the room and Dunbar let out his breath in uneasy relief. It was short-lived. Almost immediately, he started to wonder how many of the other files he’d accessed had some kind of tag on them. He thought back. He’d been careful not to make any inquiries about either Lisa or Sheila Barnes on the hospital computer system, so that was all right. He’d certainly never tried to access anything at all about the dead children; that really would have been a giveaway. A lot of the information he’d used was on the disks originally supplied; there had been no need to access the mainframe so, again, no one would have been able to follow what he was doing unless… How did Ingrid know he’d pulled her file? To check the access record on it, she’d have had to examine her own file. Why had she done that? Or was there some other way she could have found out?
He was aware of the blood pounding in his ears as he started to check the back of the computer monitor. Please God, he was wrong but… There were a power-supply cable, a networking cable for connection to the mainframe and for access to printers — and a third cable. He stared at this third cable and felt his pulse rate rise. He couldn’t be sure, but a good guess said that this thin grey cable was supplying an auxiliary monitor. Someone was watching everything he brought up on screen.
The thought of it made him feel vulnerable until he thought it through calmly and came to the conclusion that he was still relatively safe. He’d played the role of a nosy accountant quite conscientiously, particularly at the beginning when he had constantly sought facts and figures to compile seemingly endless tables of income and expenditure. He had, of course, asked Ingrid to get him bits of information from time to time: estimated costs of transplants, a list of free referrals from the NHS, and more recently about the funding link with Omega patients.
So why had she let the cat out of the bag about his pulling her file? Had she been instructed to do it to see what his reaction would be? Had someone else been upset by something he’d asked about? He had the uncomfortable feeling that that might be the case. He suspected he’d come a little too close to something he wasn’t supposed to know about. It was all the more uncomfortable because he didn’t know what it was.
‘How is she, Doctor?’ Sandy asked as he and Kate were shown into Ross’s office for an update on Amanda’s condition.
‘All is not gloom,’ said Ross with a smile. ‘We’re now making considerable progress with Amanda.’
‘How so?’
‘I could give you the technical details but I suggest that you go up and see for yourselves,’ said Ross conspiratorially.
‘All right, we will,’ said Sandy, and without further ado a nurse took them up to Amanda’s room.
Amanda was sitting up in bed when they entered. She seemed alert and clear-eyed, and her smile when they walked in all but wiped out the despondency of the last few days and did more to raise their spirits than anything else that had happened in a long time. Sandy felt a lump come to his throat as he watched Kate hug Amanda and look up at him over the child’s shoulder.
‘You’re looking wonderful,’ she said to Amanda, holding her tightly. ‘You must be feeling better. Are you?’
‘I’m fed up,’ complained Amanda, but she said it in such a normal voice — so different from the tired whimper they had been used to in the past weeks — that Kate and Sandy burst out laughing.
‘Fed up?’ asked Kate, seeing the puzzled look that came to Amanda’s eyes and not wanting to hurt her feelings.
‘They won’t let me out of bed to play with the doll’s house,’ said Amanda.
‘Maybe tomorrow,’ said the nurse.
‘That’s what grown-ups always say,’ complained Amanda, to more laughter.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Sandy said to the nurse. ‘She’s looking so well today.’
‘The doctors have been making progress with the tissue-degradation problem and now they seem to have got the dialysis just right,’ she replied. ‘Much better than anyone dared hope. Everyone is very pleased with her. She’s quite a star.’
Sandy took over from Kate and hugged his daughter. ‘It’s just so good to see my little princess looking and feeling like her old self.’
The nurse went out and the three of them continued to chat happily about anything and everything. Amanda demanded to know how Sandy was getting on with the doll’s house he’d promised her. He assured her that plans for it had been drawn up and construction was under way.
‘With lights,’ she reminded him.
‘In every room,’ said Sandy.
As time went by, Kate noticed that Sandy had gone quiet. He seemed lost in thought.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked as Amanda leafed her way through a colouring-book to find an elephant she wanted to show them.
He shrugged and said, ‘I don’t know. I suppose I’d started to think this might not happen. I was on the verge of giving up hope and now…’
‘Let’s not analyse anything too deeply. Let’s just be thankful,’ said Kate softly.
He nodded and put his hand on hers.
‘What are you two whispering about?’ demanded Amanda.
‘Nothing,’ said Kate.
‘Didn’t look like nothing to me,’ said Amanda.
‘Oh really, young lady,’ said Kate. ‘In that case we were discussing which one of us was going to tickle your tummy first!’ She made a mock attack on Amanda, who broke into a fit of giggles. Sandy grinned broadly at the sound. No symphony could have sounded sweeter.
Later, as she and Sandy walked to the car, Kate asked, ‘What do you think?’
‘Same as you. Bloody marvellous.’
‘You don’t think it’s just one of these remissions you hear about, when patients suddenly seem to get better but it’s only a temporary thing?’
Sandy shook his head. ‘No. Cancer patients
get those. Amanda doesn’t have cancer. I really think it must be the improved dialysis set-up they have here. Now that they’ve got it right, it must have cleaned her blood better than the other machines, got rid of more toxins. That’s what’s making her more alert and energetic.’
‘She was just like she used to be,’ said Kate.
He agreed, adding, ‘Better dialysis means more time between sessions; that’ll give them more time to work on stabilizing her. They won’t be struggling to keep her alive all the time and then, if they succeed in stabilizing her, there’ll be more time for a kidney to become available.’
He put his arm round Kate’s shoulders and gave her a hug. ‘A good day,’ he said. ‘Let’s eat out this evening?’
Kate nodded and returned the hug.
When he got back to his hotel, Dunbar found a message from Sci-Med waiting for him. He was instructed to meet a man named James Douglas in a pub called the Crane in Salamander Street at eight o’clock. There was also an apology for the lack of information about James Ross’s interests in Geneva. They’d had difficulties in obtaining it at the outset and, having assumed that it wouldn’t be relevant to the Glasgow inquiry, they hadn’t pursued it further. They’d try again.
Dunbar decided to leave the car in the hotel car park and take a taxi to the Crane. That way he wouldn’t have problems with parking and he wouldn’t have to bother finding out where Salamander Street was. As he climbed into the cab, he gave the name of the pub to the driver and asked, ‘Do you know it?’
‘Aye. Do you?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Dunbar.
‘If you turn up at the Crane in a taxi you’re gonna stick out like a sair thumb. They’ll figure you as a DHS snooper. You’re no’, are you?’
‘Nothing like that.’
‘It’s nane o’ ma business like, but if you want some advice, pal, you’ll get oot the motor a couple o’ streets away and walk the rest.’
‘Thanks for the warning.’
‘Nae problem. Shame aboot the accent. Still, there’s nothin’ you can do aboot that.’
‘True.’
‘Mind you-’
‘I know,’ interrupted Dunbar. ‘I could keep my mouth shut.’
‘An oldie but a goldie,’ laughed the driver.
The cab stopped in an area where street lights seemed an alien concept.
‘Place is dyin’,’ said the driver. ‘Bulldozers will be comin’ in at the end o’ the year.’
Dunbar thanked him, gave him the six pounds for the fare and added four more.
‘Cheers. Your place is along there on the left. You canny miss it.’
The cab did an about-turns and clattered off, leaving Dunbar to think how quiet it was. He was in a street with high tenement buildings on either side and yet he could have heard a pin drop. No voices, no radio or television sounds, no dogs barking, no cooking smells, only the smell of diesel exhaust left on the air by the cab. There were no lights in the buildings, either. They were empty black stone monuments, harbouring nothing but the ghosts of families past. Something flitted across the pavement in front of him and disappeared into the dark mouth of one of the closes. He wanted to believe it was a cat but knew otherwise. He quickened his pace.
He was beginning to have doubts about a pub existing in this area at all when he saw light spill out on to the road a hundred yards ahead. As he drew nearer, he could hear male laughter. The Crane was the only inhabited property in the street. Its unimposing exterior suggested it had not always been a pub. It had the flat frontage of a double-windowed shop with clear glass windows. Behind the glass, thick darkgreen curtains, heavy with years of accumulated grime, hung from two round brass rails three-quarters of the way up. Above the curtain line Dunbar could see only the ceiling, which seemed to have been varnished with nicotine.
He had to stoop to get through the door and was surprised to find that there were three steps down to the floor of the bar. He paused at the top for a moment to look around the room. Several customers turned to look at him. Not knowing how to recognize and make contact with Douglas, he thought he’d better just wait, so went to the bar and ordered a pint of lager. The barman complied without comment and placed the glass in front of him. He took the fiver and brought the change.
‘Before you ask, I don’t know.’
‘Don’t know what?’ asked Dunbar.
The barman leaned one elbow on the counter and said, ‘Listen, pal, there’s mair chance o’ the Queen Mother comin’ in here than me pickin’ up passing trade. You have a reason for comin’ here and it’s no’ that piss yer drinkin’. You’re after information. I’m just tellin’ you in advance, ye’ll no be gettin’ it frae me. Straight?’
‘Straight,’ agreed Dunbar.
‘That’s no way to speak to a pal o’ mine, Harry,’ said a local voice behind Dunbar. He turned and saw a slim, wiry man dressed in black jeans, a dark polo-neck sweater and soft leather jacket. He had close-cropped ginger hair and looked as if he might have been a useful lightweight boxer.
‘How you doin’, Steve?’ the man asked Dunbar.
‘Just fine… Jimmy,’ replied Dunbar.
‘Sorry aboot that, Jimmy,’ said the barman. ‘Nae offence, pal,’ he said to Dunbar.
‘None taken.’
‘Fancy a seat?’ asked Douglas.
He led the way to a bench seat with the stuffing protruding in several places. They put down their drinks on a table that was awash with beer slops.
‘Why here?’ asked Dunbar as an adjacent door opened and the smell of urine wafted out.
‘I had to be sure you weren’t followed. You weren’t.’
‘I came by cab.’
‘I know. You gave the driver a generous tip.’
Dunbar didn’t inquire how he knew. ‘Why all the precautions?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know who you are or what you’re into. The people who employ me don’t tell me things like that. They figure I don’t need to know. It’s all done through intermediaries so the customers can pretend they know nothing at all about it if things go wrong. I have to treat everyone the same. You could be the most wanted man in Europe, for all I know.’
‘What do you know?’ asked Dunbar.
‘You’d like to gain access to a place where the door might be locked. I’ve to get you inside and then out again.’
‘It’s a research lab. They work on animals. It’s at a place called Vane Farm, three miles north of the city on the Lomond Road.’
Douglas had brought out a notebook and was jotting information down. ‘What are you after?’
‘Information about what they’re doing. I think it’ll be in computer files in the building.’
‘University or private?’
‘Private.’
‘A pity. Probably means they’ve got proper security. Know anything about that?’
Dunbar told him what he’d learned from last year’s research budget records.
‘How about internal lay-out?’
‘Nothing.’
‘How much time have we got?’
‘Time enough. It’s more important that no one knows I’ve been there,’ said Dunbar.
Douglas pursed his lips and said, ‘In and out with no trace? That could be a bit more difficult.’
‘It’s important.’
‘I’ll take a look at the place and get back to you.’
‘When?’
‘I’ll do a full recce, day and night. Come here again the day after tomorrow. Same time.’
Dunbar left the Crane and found his way back to a main road, from where he took a cab to Lisa’s place. She looked more relaxed than he’d ever seen her.
‘How was your day?’ he asked.
‘Excellent.’
‘Do anything in particular?’
‘I walked for miles,’ said Lisa, ‘in any direction I fancied. I just walked and walked because I didn’t need to be here. I was free to do as I pleased, and it felt wonderful.’
/> ‘Good,’ said Dunbar.
‘And you?’
Dunbar told her about his plans to get into Vane Farm and take a look at Ross’s research findings.
‘You’re going for it then?’
‘It could put an end to all the speculation,’ said Dunbar. ‘Any evidence of animal parts being put into patients at Medic Ecosse and the police can act immediately.’
‘When?’ asked Lisa.
‘In a few days. I’m not going to do it alone.’
‘You will be careful, won’t you?’ she said softly.
‘Of course.’
‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Lisa as Dunbar fell silent.
‘Tomorrow.’
‘What happens tomorrow?’
‘A funeral.’
The following morning Dunbar set off for the Clyde-coast town of Irvine where Sheila Barnes had been brought up. She had asked to be buried there in the graveyard of St Andrew’s Church where she and her husband Cyril had been married twenty-six years before. That was the one saving grace about being told you’d got a terminal illness, thought Dunbar. It gave you time to put your affairs in order and make arrangements, something most people put off until it was too late.
There was nothing pretty about St Andrew’s. It had a cold, austere look with iron railings surrounding it instead of low walls or hedging. Even the churchyard seemed unnecessarily bleak, lacking as it did trees and shrubbery to break up the lines of tombstones which stretched for more than two hundred yards behind the building. But it had obviously meant something special to Sheila, and that was all that mattered. As he’d heard some churchman say recently on the radio, ‘Churches aren’t about buildings, they’re about people.’
As he entered the building, Dunbar noted that the sky was darkening ominously. He hoped the rain would hold off until after the interment. Earth turning to mud did little to enhance a burial ceremony. Not wishing to intrude on family and friends, he sat down near the back of the section to the right of the main aisle. He noted with some pleasure that the church was nearly three-quarters full. He had liked Sheila Barnes; even in the debilitated state in which he’d known her, she’d struck him as a woman of fine character. It seemed fitting that she be mourned by many. Cyril wasn’t present but that was no surprise; he must be close to death himself.
