‘Up to what sort of something?’ Slider asked.
‘His old game of ringing,’ McLaren admitted. ‘All right, that’s no use to us. But they’ve got word from their snouts that there’s something else going on. They think he could be dealing in stolen goods, or else smuggling – cigarettes is big in that part of the world. Things going in and out his yard in the boots of cars. It’s the perfect set-up for moving gear around – nobody goes to his yard on foot, do they? And nobody questions motors going in and out. Handy for the motorway, but out of the way enough—’
‘But they don’t have anything specific on him?’ Slider interrupted. ‘Presumably not, or they’d have moved by now.’
‘They want us to give them anything we get,’ McLaren said. ‘They’re assembling a dossier. They liked the number plate thing but want hard evidence on it. And,’ he added with an attempt at brightness, ‘they weren’t surprised when I suggested he might be shifting guns as well. He’s got some right tasty friends, and they said that would fit in with their profile of him.’
Slider sighed. ‘Has Fathom come up with anything?’
‘No. Firearms department don’t know him. But then they wouldn’t, if he was any good. But Stanmore’s gonna open a new line of enquiry. If he’s into firearms, they can get extra men on the case. It’ll go multi.’
‘Stop trying to soften my heart.’
‘One thing,’ McLaren offered, as if as a consolation prize, ‘when I showed them the picture of our suspect, Mick Lonergan – he’s the DS – said he was sure he’d seen him somewhere before, but he couldn’t place him.’
‘Hallelujah,’ Slider said.
‘He looked through his files, his most recent cases, but he couldn’t work out why he knows him, but he’s definitely ringing a bell,’ McLaren went on doggedly. ‘So he’s taken copies and he’s gonna put it round his snouts. We could still get a tickle, guv. He definitely sparked something – I could see in his face.’
‘All right,’ Slider said. ‘We’ll just have to hope. For now, though, it looks as though Embry’s a dead end. Keep in touch with Stanmore over it.’
‘Yeah, guv, will do. They’re really going for him – say he’s a blot on the landscape.’
‘Well, they can put more into it than we could,’ Slider said. But where do we look next, he wondered. Leads were all running out.
‘Guv,’ said Mackay from his desk as Slider passed through the CID room on his way back from the loo. ‘I’ve been wondering – do you think Stanmore could be Stansted?’
‘Too hilly,’ Atherton answered for him across the room. ‘You’d never find enough flat land for a runway.’
‘Have manners,’ Connolly rebuked him. ‘Let the man speak, willya?’
Mackay ploughed on patiently. ‘The Aude female said Rogers said he worked in a hospital in Stansted. I’m wondering if she misheard, or misremembered.’
‘Not the sharpest tool in the box, I understand,’ Atherton said. ‘Could be the next Mrs McLaren?’
‘Well, if she’d never heard of Stanmore – but everyone knows Stansted,’ Mackay offered. ‘Because of the airport.’
‘It’s a thought,’ Slider said. ‘Have you any other reason for supposing it?’
‘Well, guv, I keep looking as hospitals, in between other stuff, because it got me that there was no hospital in Stansted. I kept widening the search, and when I got to Stanmore I thought about the names sounding similar. And there are two hospitals there. There’s the Royal National Orthopaedic—’
‘Except that Rogers wasn’t an orthodpod,’ Atherton said.
‘We don’t know what he was,’ Hollis said, drifting up. ‘If he was a drugs rep he could have been visiting any hospital.’
‘But Rogers told Aude he was a consultant at a hospital.’
‘Sure God, he was trying to get the ride offa your woman,’ Connolly said with a bit of a gust. ‘He’ll tell her what’ll go down best. Consultant’s going to get him into her pants quicker than rep.’
‘But then why pick on Stanmore?’ Atherton said. ‘If he was going to lie he could have made it any hospital. Why not one she might have heard of, Bart’s or Thomas’s or Hammersmith Hospital?’
‘The point is,’ Mackay said loudly, trying to get the attention back, ‘like I said there are two hospitals in Stanmore, the Royal National Orthopaedic, and the Cloisterwood Hospital. That’s a private one. And it’s having a fund-raising Gala Day next month, with a garden party in the afternoon and a dinner and dance in the evening.’
Slider was there. ‘Aude said Rogers was going to take her to a big promotional party at his hospital.’
‘Yeah, guv.’
‘Well done. You could be on to something.’
Connolly was already clattering full speed at her own computer, calling up the hospital’s site. ‘Cloisterwood Private Hospital. It does cosmetic procedures—’
‘Plastic surgery to you and me,’ Hollis said.
‘Rogers was a plastic surgeon,’ Fathom said excitedly, trying to look over Connolly’s shoulder.
‘Until the GMC said he couldn’t touch patients any more,’ Atherton reminded him.
Connolly went on reading. ‘And it does gender reassignment.’
‘You what?’ said Fathom.
‘Saving Ryan’s Privates,’ Atherton clarified.
‘Sex change. Wouldn’t you like to go for that, Jez?’ Connolly said with a sweet smile. ‘They turn your lad inside out and stuff it up inside—’
Fathom went pale. ‘Shut up! That’s nothing to joke about!’
She went on reading from the screen. ‘And they do transplants. Kidney, corneal.’ She looked up. ‘Is that a bit of a strange combination, would you think? Plastic, sex-swap and transplants? As in, “Hello, I’m Doctor Death, the eye, nose and bladder man.”’
‘It’s a private hospital,’ Slider said, ‘and they’re all things that people are willing to pay big money for.’
‘Especially foreigners from countries where the culture is less laissez-faire,’ said Atherton. ‘Imagine being an Iranian wanting a sex-swap-op.’
‘You’d hop on a plane and bop along to the sex-swap-op-shop,’ Connolly said, still clattering.
‘Or countries where the very rich have scads of money, but the medical facilities aren’t so advanced,’ Atherton concluded. ‘Plenty of those.’
‘Here’s the staff,’ Connolly went on. ‘“Our illustrious consultants.” Smiling pictures – Janey Mackeroni, aren’t they the sinister crew? I wouldn’t let them take out a splinter. And . . . no David Rogers,’ she concluded, having scrolled to the end.
‘But there is – go back,’ Slider ordered. ‘There is one name we know. There, look. Director of Surgery, Sir Bernard Webber.’
‘Rogers’s pal,’ said Hollis.
‘And benefactor,’ said Atherton. ‘Which perhaps explained why the Cloisterwood leapt to mind when he was spinning a line to Ceecee St Clair.’
‘Maybe he did work there,’ said Hollis, ‘just not as a consultant. They don’t list all the staff. Maybe he was working in a lab or the mortuary.’
‘Or parking cars,’ Fathom offered.
Connolly rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, they’d pay him highly for that, you gom!’
‘He could have been their PR man,’ Atherton said. ‘Didn’t someone say he took rich foreigners to that club? Showing them the hospitality. Maybe he was reeling in the customers. That would pay well.’
‘That would fit in better with the Rogers we know about,’ Slider said. ‘Being charming, wearing nice suits, wining and dining and beguiling the punters.’ He looked around at his crew, who had all picked up amazingly in the last five minutes. ‘All roads lead to Stanmore. Our murderer went there after the shooting. The number plates came from there.’
‘Not quite all roads,’ Atherton said. ‘What about Suffolk?’
‘What about it?’ Mackay objected. ‘We’ve only got that bint’s word for it he went there. And it was probably just a leisure thing
anyway.’
‘One red herring at a time,’ Slider said. ‘We have to find out if Rogers did have a connection with Cloisterwood first.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Find out if Sir Bernard Webber is there today, and tell him I want to come over and see him. And –’ to Connolly – ‘see what else there is about him on the Internet. Let me have a few facts under my belt before I go.’
‘Here, sir,’ Connolly said, placing a printed sheet in front of him. ‘All I’ve been able to get so far. Age fifty-six. On his second wife. Two kids from first marriage grown up and gone away. Lives in a gin palace in Letchmore Heath.’
‘How do you know it’s a gin palace?’
‘I looked it up on Goggle-at-my-house – aka Google Earth. Called The Boydens. Gak! I hate people who call their houses The something. Massive modern place. Private cinema, indoor swimming pool, tennis courts. Ugly as a dog’s arse. Sure it looks like a golf hotel in Antrim.’
‘You’ve a cutting tongue on you, Detective Constable. Go on.’
‘He’s consulting rooms in Harley Street, present position Director of Surgery, Cloisterwood Hospital, as we know. Hobbies, golf – there’s a surprise. Fishing – and another. And flying – has his own light aircraft at Elstree Aerodrome. Other positions, Deputy Director of Standards, General Medical Council; Member of the Health Service Advisory Group; Member of the Pharmaceutical Oversight Board. Jayzus, you’d think they’d want to get rid of pharmaceutical oversights, not have a board for them! Quite the political player, too. He’s been Special Adviser to the Department of Health – that musta been a bit of a jolly: did an eighteen-month fact-finding tour of China, the Middle East, the Sub-Continent – what’s that when it’s at home?’
‘India and Pakistan.’
‘Oh, right – and South America. Nice work if you can get it. He’s also been Cabinet Special Adviser on Care Implementation, and Deputy Chair, Select Committee on GP remuneration. On the GMC website under his interests it’s listed he’s a member of the Labour Party, but we might have guessed that – he got his knighthood in 2003 for helping to shove through the new GP contract.’ She looked up at Slider. ‘You’d want to watch yourself, guv, tangling with that class of a player. He’s friends in high places.’
‘I eat people with friends in high places for breakfast,’ Slider assured her. He held out his hand. ‘Can I have that?’
‘Work away,’ she said, handing it over. ‘If you get into trouble, you can write a cry for help on the back and turn it into a paper aeroplane.’
‘Or fashion it into a pistol and frighten my way out?’
She considered. ‘Forget that,’ she concluded. ‘Just do a legger.’
THIRTEEN
Bedside Manor
This part of Middlesex was simply lovely: gentle inclines, rich rolling pastures, fine mature trees, old hedgerows and wide verges. In the grounds of the Cloisterwood Hospital there was a prettily-shaped small lake, reed-fringed, from which skeins of ducks rose with joyful clamour. It looked like an eighteenth-century landed gentleman’s idea of the Garden of Eden.
Part of the hospital building – the part you first came upon down the long drive – was a white-stuccoed early Victorian house of large windows, tall chimneys and gracious aspect, presumably the country residence of the original owner of this artful landscape. The modern, functional buildings that had been added to turn it into a hospital had been politely tucked away at the back, as was the car park, which was full of BMWs, Mercedes and Audis, not to mention a generous sprinkling of Rollers and Bentleys. In the corner a discreet notice pointed the way to the staff car park, and Slider, feeling his common old car would look less out of place there, modestly followed it. Ah, this was better. Minis and Micros and Meganes, Golfs, Fiestas and Focuses, and even a couple of MPVs, together with a fair and reasonable degree of scruffiness and dilapidation, allowed him to park with more confidence.
Webber’s office was in the old building, and he was shown into it by a slight, pretty girl in a lavender uniform dress and told that Sir Bernard would be with him very shortly. Slider anticipated a power-wait, but in fact it was only two or three minutes, barely time to take himself to the window and look out over the parkland to the lake, before the door opened behind him and a voice said, ‘Nice view, isn’t it? Even lovelier when the chestnuts come into bloom.’
Slider turned. Given Webber’s eminence, status, and connections, Slider had been quite prepared to dislike him. He had expected cold briskness, arrogance, finger-drumming impatience with Slider’s inferiority and the waste of valuable time he represented. But the Webber approaching him across the room was perfectly relaxed and smiling, holding out his hand with such an air of cordiality that Slider shook it without even a momentary shrinking.
‘One of the perks of my position here,’ Webber went on, joining Slider at the window. ‘I got to choose my own office. I’ve worked in so many modern buildings – and of course no one wants to house the medical side of things in old buildings. But an office like this was always my dream. We had to adapt the house to a certain extent, but I think we did it tactfully – don’t you? You see how we matched the mouldings and cornice – that’s actually a false wall there. And the door is a copy.’
While obediently looking at the things that were being pointed out, Slider was getting a look at Webber himself. He was a little taller than Slider, but not a tall man; fifty-six, as Slider knew, but well preserved, with only a little tell-tale thickening of the body to betray him. His hair was thick and wavy, brown sprinkled so attractively with silver it might have been deliberate. His face was firm-fleshed, authoritative and genial, and, if not exactly handsome, near enough to it to be deemed so with the aid of his fine clothes and immaculate toilette. The eyes, crinkled often in smiles, were a faded blue and very clear, as if their owner were a clean-living outdoorsman. With the natural-looking, light tan of the skin and the capable hands, it made Slider think of him at the helm of a racing yacht.
But the best thing of all was the voice, deep, warm and with a perfect accent – clean English but not over-posh – inspiring absolute confidence. It was the sort of voice you wanted to hear on a 747 saying, ‘This is the captain speaking.’
Architecture was one of Slider’s interests, and he was happy to allow Webber to tell him a little about the history of the house in the few minutes before the door opened and another slim, pretty girl in the same uniform came in with a tray.
‘Ah, tea,’ Webber said with an air of rubbing his hands. ‘I took the chance that you would have a cup with me. Unless you would prefer coffee?’
‘Tea is fine, thank you.’
Webber led the way to an armchairs-and-coffee-table configuration to one side of the room, where the girl was laying it out and pouring for them. Georgian silver teapot, fine china, and there was a plate of shortbread as well. Slider sipped his tea: it was good.
Webber, looking at him for his reaction, said, ‘Kenya. I alternate with Darjeeling, but you’ve caught me on my Kenya day. I take my afternoon cup quite seriously, you see. It’s the only way to treat the king of beverages.’
Slider put down his cup and smiled politely, suddenly wondering why all this charm was being expended on a lowly policeman. As if he had heard the thought, Webber let the smile go in favour of a serious look, and said, ‘Well, I’m sure you’re a busy man, and I know I am, so perhaps we should get on with it. Would you like to tell me why you’ve come to see me?’
Given that Slider was from Shepherd’s Bush, Webber must have known the subject for debate, but he said, ‘I’m looking into the death of David Rogers. I believe he was a friend of yours.’
Webber looked sad, but not heartbroken. ‘Poor David! It’s a shocking business. Yes, we were friends and colleagues some years ago. I was a mentor of sorts to him in the early days, and we worked together at one time, but we’ve rather drifted apart in recent years.’
‘Why would that be?’ Slider asked.
‘Why did we drift apart? What an odd question! Wh
y does it ever happen? The human condition is fluid, friendships form and break, lives go off in opposite directions. One wakes up one day and finds oneself in a different place with different people.’
Slider cut through this happy horseshit. ‘Was it because of the trouble he got into? The scandal over a patient?’
Webber looked put out by the bluntness. ‘Not directly. I didn’t drop him, you know. In fact, I did everything I could to help him.’
‘You represented him with the GMC,’ Slider suggested.
‘Not precisely that, but I used my influence there. Otherwise the outcome could have been much worse for him.’
‘Why would you do that?’ Slider asked. ‘Why protect a doctor who molests a patient? Surely there are ethical considerations which must override friendship?’
Webber blinked and put down his teacup. ‘That’s very blunt. If not a touch hostile.’
‘I didn’t mean to be hostile,’ Slider said. ‘I’m trying to understand the situation.’
‘Well, I don’t see what it has to do with David’s death, but I’ll tell you: David vehemently denied any wrongdoing, and at the time I wasn’t convinced that the woman hadn’t made a mistake. She was only half awake, and may have misunderstood what David was doing, or she may have exaggerated, or even made it up entirely, to get attention. I have to tell you there are a lot of women like that – or perhaps I don’t have to.’ He looked enquiring. ‘I imagine policemen meet them as well.’
‘I understand you got him a job afterwards.’
The washed-blue eyes sharpened. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Someone who was a friend of his at the time.’
‘Who?’
Slider didn’t answer that. ‘Did you, in fact, get David Rogers a job?’ he insisted.
Webber seemed reluctant to admit to this act of kindness. ‘I – again, I used such influence as I had to promote his chances of obtaining a position. It couldn’t be directly in medicine, but there was a pharmaceutical company looking for someone on the PR side – someone who understood how doctors think, who could advise on advertising and promotional campaigns. David had all the right qualifications: he was young, personable, intelligent. Sadly, however, he didn’t stick at it. I think he was there about a year or eighteen months before he left. I don’t know what he did after that. I lost contact with him entirely. I’ve no idea what he’s been doing in recent years.’
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