by Ken McClure
Next morning, Steven slept late before spending a long time in the shower and downing three cups of strong coffee before he even started to consider the day ahead. It eventually began with a call to Jean Roberts and a request that she make him appointments at St Raphael’s and with Sir Laurence Samson.
‘How insistent should I be?’ asked Jean.
‘Start nicely and move towards doing it at a police station if they’d prefer.’
Remind me not to steal your toys,’ said Jean.
‘Sorry, Jean. Bad night.’
Steven had his appointment with the hospital secretary at St Raphael’s at two p.m. He arrived a few minutes early and was invited to wait in a room with a view. There was no need to avail himself of one of the upmarket magazines — a wide choice and all current editions — while he could look out through a large picture window at the garden and enjoy the scent of the spring flowers that filled four vases in the room. Beethoven’s ‘Pastoral’ Symphony was playing almost imperceptibly from a hidden speaker system in the room. The level was exactly right. He suspected that the level of everything in this hospital was exactly right.
‘Mr Sneddon will see you now, doctor,’ said a smiling girl in an immaculate white dress. She showed Steven to an office where a man in a Savile Row suit greeted him as if he’d been looking forward to his visit for weeks. He waved away Steven’s ID card, saying, ‘I’m sure you have every right to be here, doctor. How can we help?’
‘I need information, Mr Sneddon. I need to know all about the operation that Dr John Motram acted as an adviser on some weeks ago.’
‘Would you have a more exact date?’ asked Sneddon, opening up a desk diary.
Not entirely convinced by Sneddon’s apparent lack of recall, Steven said shortly, ‘The eighth of March.’
‘Ah, here we are,’ said Sneddon, adjusting the frameless glasses on his nose. ‘Oh, of course, I remember now. Dr Motram was here to screen a potential donor for a marrow transplant operation. The patient was suffering from advanced leukaemia…’
‘Yes, I know that,’ said Steven.
‘Then what?’ asked Sneddon, looking puzzled.
‘I want to know who the donor was, who the patient was and the outcome of the operation.’
Sneddon did a good impression of a man shocked out of his skin. ‘I’m sorry,’ he began, with an excellent stutter. ‘We can’t possibly divulge such information. It’s absolutely out of the question.’
Steven did a very good impression of a man who wasn’t at all surprised. ‘Mr Sneddon, I have the full backing of the Home Office in making my inquiries. I need that information.’
‘Doctor, this hospital… this establishment… this business exists on an absolutely fundamental code of total confidentiality. That is more important than our consultants, our nurses, our operating theatres, our recovery rooms. Without it, we simply couldn’t survive.’
‘I have the right to demand answers to my questions,’ said Steven.
The good nature in Sneddon’s eyes was replaced by blue ice. ‘I don’t think you have,’ he said. ‘Unless you are pursuing a murder inquiry, I don’t think I have to tell you anything.’
Steven silently acknowledged that he was right and took a moment to consider how he was going to proceed. He hadn’t expected Sneddon to tell him anything: he was here on a cage-rattling exercise. ‘Dr Motram is currently a very sick man,’ he said.
‘Yes, I heard,’ said Sneddon, putting care and concern into his voice with consummate ease. ‘Some kind of nervous breakdown, I heard. Poor chap.’
‘No, it wasn’t a nervous breakdown,’ said Steven. ‘He was poisoned and his condition is in some way connected with his involvement in the operation he was advising on.’
Sneddon did ‘taken aback’ very well. ‘You cannot be serious,’ he said.
‘I am,’ said Steven flatly.
‘But he was in the process of unearthing a centuries-old tomb,’ protested Sneddon. ‘There were suggestions of Black Death, I understand. How can there possibly be a connection between that and what he was doing here?’
Steven ignored the question. ‘The donor Dr Motram saw here was a serving Royal Marine who has since died.’
‘Oh, that was just a silly case of mistaken identity,’ exclaimed Sneddon, as if relieved to be clearing up an old misunderstanding. ‘Sir Laurence explained that to Dr Motram.’
‘Dr Motram didn’t believe him,’ said Steven, getting to his feet. ‘Neither do I.’
Sneddon lost his aplomb and seemed distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Well, that’s something you’ll have to take up with Sir Laurence,’ he said, starting to move some papers around on his desk like a TV newsreader at the end of a bulletin.
‘On my way,’ said Steven pleasantly. He left, feeling well satisfied with the cage-rattling he’d done. He would have bet his eye teeth that Sneddon was already on the phone to Samson.
His appointment with Sir Laurence wasn’t until four p.m. so he picked up a sandwich and a soft drink and took a leisurely walk down to the park, where he shared his lunch with some ducks. It was therapeutic to interact with simple creatures who had no agenda but to survive. They had no convoluted notions of confidentiality and honour, didn’t know what hypocrisy and lying were, or cheating and double-dealing. The irony that struck him was that despite the multiple layers present in human sociology, the underlying driving forces were really just as simple as those of the ducks. It might be important to remember that when you started rattling cages… If you get in my way, I’ll push you out of the road…
It was impossible for Steven not to acknowledge that he was in the very heart of the medical establishment as he sat waiting in Sir Laurence Samson’s premises in Harley Street, but the rebel inside him couldn’t help but reflect that there had been a time when the practitioners in this famous street really didn’t know that much about medicine at all. But, as with witch doctors in darkest Africa, the mystique had survived.
‘Dr Dunbar, I’m a few minutes late. I do apologise.’
Steven smiled at Samson. ‘No need, Sir Laurence. Mr Sneddon has probably told you what it’s all about.’
A look of irritation appeared in Samson’s eyes, but only for a second. ‘No, should he have done?’
Steven told him what he wanted to know and got the same response he’d got from Sneddon. He made his final gambit. ‘Dr John Motram may die and a young marine has already met an untimely death — two young marines, in fact, although the second needn’t concern you for the moment.’ Steven looked for surprise in Samson’s eyes and found it. He continued, ‘There is a limit to how long you’re going to get away with playing the confidentiality card before what you’re doing simply becomes obstruction in a very serious criminal investigation.’
The look on Samson’s face told Steven his cage had been well and truly rattled. ‘Thank you for your time, Sir Laurence.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘You’ve been busy,’ said Macmillan when Steven called him.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘The phone’s been red hot with calls from people who’d rather you stopped what you’ve been doing.’
‘Anyone interesting?’
‘People in high places. But…’
‘But what?’
‘I don’t know — I should be used to this sort of thing by now, but there’s something different about it this time: I can’t quite put my finger on it. Usually I can work out the primary source of any flak that’s flying, but not this time.’
‘Maybe I’ve upset everyone equally,’ suggested Steven, tongue in cheek.
Macmillan permitted himself a laugh before he said, ‘Seriously, watch your back.’
‘Will do.’
‘How’s Dr Simmons, by the way?’
‘I’m sure she’s fine.’
‘Oh… I didn’t realise.’
‘Some other time, John.’
‘Right… Are you still intent on heading off to sunny climes?’
; ‘I’ve been in touch with my old pals in Hereford. They’ve been given a job to do in the Sangin Valley in the north of Helmand Province — that’s where 45 Commando have been operating. I’ve arranged to fly out with them; they’ll kit me out and provide me with a vehicle. After that, they’ll go their way and I’ll go mine. I plan to start at the field hospital where Michael Kelly was reportedly treated before he was transferred to Camp Bastion.’
‘You do realise we could do all this through official channels,’ suggested Macmillan.
‘I prefer my way,’ said Steven. ‘Official channels can leak, and from what you’ve said about some folks in officialdom not being too happy, I’d rather not be a sitting target. The Regiment doesn’t advertise its travel arrangements.
‘And after you’ve checked out the field hospital?’
‘I’ll play it by ear. My Sci-Med ID should get me most of the answers I’m looking for unless there’s some really big cover-up going on. If that should turn out to be the case, I’ll let you know.’
‘Don’t forget your satellite phone.’
‘Packed and ready.’
‘Take care, Steven.’
Being back at the Hereford base of the SAS was like a trip down memory lane for Steven. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to call on old friends since he’d joined Sci-Med, but the last time had been over three years ago. No longer being an active member of the Regiment meant, of course, that he was excluded from team briefings, and he knew better than to enquire about their mission. Likewise, he did not divulge the nature of his own assignment, but there was still a bond that members past and present shared and valued. As one ex-comrade had put it, you really don’t know what being alive feels like until you’re bloody nearly not. Sharing that experience was the basis of a special relationship. Steven took particular pleasure in learning from one young soldier, recruited from 2 Para — the same route that he himself had followed — that his reputation had preceded him and he was still well thought of in Hereford.
The flight out to Afghanistan followed a familiar pattern for Steven. For the first hour or so everyone on board was running on the adrenalin of anticipation, and good-humoured banter made sure there was lots of laughter around, but after that things started to quieten down, eventually to such an extent that John Donne’s assertion was proved wrong — at least in the short term — and every man on board the aircraft became an island.
Steven was no exception: he became lost in his thoughts. He glanced at his watch and knew that Jenny would be at school, perhaps painting one of the animal pictures she liked to present him with when he went up to see her, possibly arguing with one of the other children over the colouring. Red elephants and green tigers were no strangers to Jenny’s world. ‘Just because you haven’t seen them doesn’t mean they’re not there,’ she would assert. Bossy little madam.
Tally would be on duty at the hospital, doing her best to restore sick children to good health, perhaps doing her morning ward rounds, reading charts, getting lab reports, discussing cases with colleagues and the nursing staff. He wondered if she was still angry with him or whether the passage of a few days had caused her to mellow and perhaps reconsider. Was there any way back for him? The idea of making up with Tally was, for him at that particular moment, a vision of paradise. Paradise lost? Please God, no.
When he closed his eyes, he could see them holidaying together in the Highlands of Scotland, in a cottage with no one else around, entirely lost in each other’s company with no desire to be anywhere else on earth. Time would stand still and… Steven suddenly realised that Tally didn’t know where he was right now. If she did… what was that word journalists used but no one else did?… incandescent, that was it. That’s what she’d be. He closed his eyes again and tried to catch up on some sleep.
As he waved farewell to his travel companions and watched their Land Rovers move off into the desert, Steven felt a momentary pang of regret that he wasn’t going with them. Not that he missed that awful feeling in the stomach when heading off into a dangerous unknown, but he did miss the camaraderie. They were off to take on the Taleban, and when their vehicles faded from sight he would be off to visit 179 Field Hospital where Michael Kelly had reportedly been taken after his wounds had become infected.
Steven checked the map and set a start point on his satnav. The hospital was only forty kilometres away but the ground was rough. He checked fuel and oil levels for a second time and took comfort from patting the plentiful supplies of drinking water he had with him in the Land Rover. He hoped he wouldn’t need the automatic rifle and ammunition he’d also been given.
He paused for a final few moments to take in the scene around him before setting off. It wasn’t the first time he’d been in Afghanistan: he’d been here with a Special Forces team on a ‘fact-finding’ mission a few years after the Russians had given up the struggle against the mujahideen and withdrawn from what would generally come to be thought of as their Vietnam. The talc-like sand and jagged-toothed mountains held memories, not all of them good.
Steven was a civilian now, but one well versed in the ways of the military. He had no trouble at all convincing the sentries at 179 Field Hospital that he had a right to be there. His request to be taken to see the commanding officer, Major Tom Lewis (TA), was acted upon without question.
Lewis, a stocky man in his mid-to-late forties with a complexion that was obviously ill at ease with the sun in his current surroundings, looked at Steven’s ID at some length before confessing with a smile, ‘Doesn’t mean a lot, I’m afraid, doctor. Where’s your base exactly?’
‘The Home Office.’
‘Bit out of your way, aren’t you?’ said Lewis, looking surprised.
‘I could say the same about you,’ said Steven.
‘Fair point,’ Lewis conceded with a smile. ‘I’m an orthopaedic surgeon at Cardiff General in the real world.’
‘Life’s rich pattern.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘Does the name Michael Kelly mean anything to you?’
‘Certainly does. We all read the papers.’
‘I understand he was brought here to your hospital?’
Lewis nodded. ‘Marine Michael Kelly was brought here in a field ambulance. He was suffering from a wound infection. It was actually quite advanced by the time we saw him.’
‘Advanced?’ Steven repeated. ‘Where had he been before?’
‘That wasn’t clear,’ said Lewis. ‘I was informed that Marine Kelly had been slightly wounded by shrapnel but had brushed off his injuries as being insignificant at the time. Unfortunately they turned septic and he was forced to stop ignoring the condition and seek medical help. That’s when he was brought in here, but he must have been in considerable pain for some time before.’
‘Didn’t that strike you as odd?’
Lewis gave a slight shrug. ‘I suppose I was more concerned with his condition at the time.’
‘Didn’t you ask him about it?’
‘He was heavily sedated.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘After a brief examination, I decided that he needed a more sophisticated medical environment than our tent village here if he was to have any chance of recovery, so I ordered him taken on to Camp Bastion.’
‘I see,’ said Steven thoughtfully. ‘Did you examine Kelly personally?’
Lewis nodded. ‘I did.’
‘About these shrapnel wounds… where had he been hit?’
Lewis took a deep breath. ‘Difficult to say really, the infection had made such a mess of his flesh, but it looked to me as if the epicentre was round about his mid region, upper thighs spreading across lower stomach.’
Steven thanked Lewis for his help and asked for an estimate of how long it would take him to drive to Camp Bastion.
‘You’ll be there before nightfall.’
Steven was awestruck by the sheer size of Camp Bastion. It seemed to stretch for miles, a huge artificial home for a very large military c
ommunity, with proper buildings for a medical facility. He was given a tour of the hospital by its commanding officer, Lientement Colonel James McCready, a Scotsman who was obviously proud of what he and his colleagues had achieved in the desert. ‘We can do most things here,’ he said, ‘outside plastic surgery. What’s your specialty, doctor?’
‘Field medicine,’ replied Steven, something that caused McCready to raise his eyebrows.
‘So you were military?’ he said.
Steven nodded. ‘For a good few years.’
‘So this must all be familiar to you?’
‘Not really,’ said Steven, feeling slightly awkward. He was getting into a conversation he’d rather not have been in. ‘I didn’t actually serve with any medical unit…’
‘Then what, might I ask?’
‘2 Para and SAS.’
‘Ah. Then you will have seen the odd cut thumb.’ To Steven’s relief, McCready seemed happy to leave things at that. ‘What exactly about Marine Kelly did you want to know?’
‘I understand he was admitted here?’
‘He was,’ said McCready. ‘He was suffering from infected shrapnel wounds. 179 Field Hospital referred him to us. We admitted him and did our best to stabilise him. We put him on antibiotics but, despite our best efforts, he died two days later.’
‘Why?’
The bluntness of the question caused McCready to exaggerate surprise. ‘Because it happens, doctor. His infection didn’t respond to treatment. It proved resistant to every antibiotic we tried.’
‘Do you know what the infection was?’
‘We have an excellent lab here,’ replied McCready with some pride. ‘It was a Staphylococcus aureus infection. Marine Kelly died from MRSA.’
‘It may seem irrelevant, colonel, but can you tell me anything about the wounds that led to the infection?’
‘Not really,’ replied McCready. ‘I was told they were very slight and he neglected — for whatever reason — to have them seen to right away. Unfortunately, he paid the price.’
Steven nodded. Outwardly, he remained calm and thoughtful but inside his head all hell had been let loose. Michael Kelly had died in Afghanistan, but not as the result of any shrapnel wounds. He’d died of an MRSA infection after being the donor in a bone marrow transplant in London. The bone marrow would have been extracted through wide-bore needles from his hip bones; the ‘shrapnel wounds’ were needle puncture marks which had turned septic. Instead of being treated in London, he had been flown all the way back to Afghanistan to die, complete with a phoney story about having been wounded in action.
