“Good thinking. So?”
“Loosemore was at Victory HQ this morning.”
“Right.”
“Being given the royal tour.”
“OK.”
“It was just some stuff she said.”
“Right.”
“Well I need to talk to you about it.”
“And we’re talking.”
“Not on the phone.”
“OK. Your local. This evening. All the staff know you and love you. We’ll ask them to spot anyone who might be watching us. Oh, and Miranda will be there, of course.”
“Is she out, then?” Simon asked.
“On her way now.”
“And you’ve told her everything and she hasn’t kicked you in the balls and told you to fuck off?”
“No.”
“Remarkable.”
Damian Clarke sat in Paul’s coffee shop on Marylebone station awaiting the train to Beaconsfield. He was struggling to eat a chocolate and almond croissant decorously and staring morosely at his smartphone, as if hoping it would speak to him.
In his head he was re-living the interview he had undergone that afternoon in Duncan Clark’s office, the moment when the nightmare that his life had already become had reached its absolute nadir. And now, in the light of that, he wondered why on earth he had ever been tempted to step from the path of a successful and developing career; a career he had now thrown into total jeopardy, imperilling the security of his wife and young children, all of whom looked up to him as the model of perfect husband- and fatherhood. Who would sympathise with him if he said it had been for the money? Everybody knew doctors were well-paid. And yet it had been. That was precisely what he had been unable to resist. The chance to pay off their loans, the chance to improve their quality of life, buy Theresa and the children nice presents, book up surprise treats.
Was that a selfish motive? When it had been his family’s happiness he had been thinking of rather than his own? He had never pictured himself as someone who would or could find themselves involved in criminal activity. Was what he had done actually a crime?
The very ambiguity of that, of course, had been what they had played on. That, and the fact that it was virtually undetectable, that there would be no finger of blame, that it would all just be regarded as desperately sad, that the ‘subject’ would, in the end, be no worse off than she or he had been at the beginning.
Yes, those had all seemed good arguments, well supported by large amounts of cash and the promise of other ‘perks’ which hadn’t quite turned out as he expected.
But then none of it had.
The ‘virtually undetectable’ had been detected by the evil genius that was Duncan Clark. The anonymous ‘subject’ had become a real person and he saw how Jamal Daghash’s successful operation had changed and was changing her life. He had been losing heart and conviction for weeks, but they wouldn’t let him go. Of course they wouldn’t. He was their puppet now for the rest of his life.
And he had walked into this situation with his eyes wide open. An intelligent, educated man. In the process destroying everything that was precious and valuable in his life: the trust of his wife, the happiness of his children. For money.
He had sent emails. He had left text and voice messages. But all was silent in the ether.
He heard his train announced and got slowly to his feet. His hands were sticky and he had icing sugar down his front. These things seemed trivial, though, now.
“If what I have just suggested to you is true,” he could still hear Duncan Clark saying, “your career in the medical profession is over. I shall see to that. If it is not true, you need to be able to convince me – utterly – that such is the case.”
He had opened his mouth to answer, although he really had no idea what it was that he was going to say.
“No,” Clark had gone on. “I don’t want to hear your protestations and aggrieved denials now. Aggrieved denials count for nothing with me. Bring me some evidence tomorrow if you intend to disprove what I’ve said to you. Or not if you mean to acknowledge it.”
With those words still ringing in his ears Damian Clarke boarded the train that would rush him back to the bosom of his family.
Niall and Miranda took a taxi to Chiswick. Niall was still far too suspicious of Faith to let her know what his plans were, so just announced that the two of them were going for a drink, which she seemed to find plausible. In the taxi Miranda tried to get him to examine the evidence against Faith, because, as she put it, ‘it would be really helpful if we could – what is it they say? – eliminate her from the enquiry.’
“But we can’t,” was Niall’s response.
“Why?”
“Because she lives at Number 17.”
“And what do you actually know about Number 17 that is connected directly with my operation?” Miranda asked.
Niall tried to remember.
“Daniel Sullivan,” he said.
“How?”
“Sent emails about meetings at Number 17, was in on the ground floor of your operation – I even heard him speaking on the radio about it before I met you – and has pursued you ever since.”
“Have you checked to see whether he lives at Number 17?”
“No.”
“Might that be a good idea?”
“Wouldn’t he have just said ‘The meeting’s on at my place,’ or ‘Meeting’s on tonight. See you later,’?”
“Or ‘See you at Faith’s’.”
“Not if they didn’t all know Faith.”
“Let’s try to put your theory together,” Miranda said patiently. “A group of people including Daniel Sullivan plot something –”
“Skulduggery,” Niall interposed.
“- around my operation – ”
“Duncan Clark’s involved.”
“Duncan Clark?”
“d.clark@moorfieldsd. Was told that the meeting at Number 17 was on.”
“Duncan Clark hates me but he’s done a decent job of getting my sight back.”
“And what about the fact, going back to Faith,” Niall said, “that she offered to let you convalesce at her house? Where she could keep an eye on you.”
“So why did she ask you down as well? She knew you were interested in the transplant.”
“To keep an eye on me. They needed to keep an eye on both of us. And Simon and Lindsey. Hence Victory.”
“And meanwhile no more meetings. They must’ve found a new venue.”
“Perhaps they don’t need to meet now.”
“But to get back to your theory,” Miranda said patiently. “Whatever their plot is, they find you talking to this Lindsey and decide that you both need to be neutralised.”
“Yes,” Niall said, starting to sound doubtful. Self-doubt was bad enough, but this was decidedly worse.
“So the ‘plot’ – whatever it is/was – is serious enough for them to try and remove human obstacles.”
“Yes.”
“So what can it possibly be?” Miranda asked. “I mean, OK, your first idea about some dodgy financial dealings, maybe the odd bung or whatever they call it from my father to Daniel Sullivan. I can believe my father would do that. He thinks money is the answer to everything. But why would they need to have secret meetings at a mysterious location, well, at Faith’s house, in fact? Wouldn’t it be better if they didn’t meet? But then, as you said before, if they were prepared to knock you down then the whole thing must be on a much bigger scale, but what? I mean, what could it possibly be? We don’t know how my donor died but I cannot believe they found a perfect pair of eyes and then set about murdering their owner. That really isn’t believable, Niall.”
“No,” he conceded.
“So,” Miranda went on, “what IS the theory?”
“I don’t know,” Niall admitted after a brief pause. “I don’t know and it bugs me. Because I do know that there is something going on. Something that seriously shouldn’t be; and they think that I either know it already o
r am very close to finding it out. Maybe Simon will have the missing piece.”
“Maybe,” Miranda said.
The taxi deposited them outside Simon’s pub of choice and Miranda led Niall inside, apologising for her incompetence as a guide as she failed to relay information about steps and obstacles.
“How will I know if he’s here?” she asked.
“Look for a sad blind bloke with several pint glasses in front of him. Most of them empty.”
“Can’t we ask at the bar?”
“It’s an option.”
Miranda led Niall to the bar and, after asking the question, they were led to Simon’s table.
“Hey,” Niall said. “Simon, meet Miranda.”
“Hello,” Miranda said.
“Hi,” Simon responded. The barman offered to sort out their drinks for them and Niall persuaded Miranda to try a vodka and cranberry juice.
“Got to start somewhere,” he said.
“So?” he asked, once the drinks had come.
“I just happened to be at Victory HQ when Loosemore’s royal visit took place,” Simon said, refreshingly without preamble, Niall thought. “‘Our patron is here. You must meet our patron’,” Simon impersonated in an awe-struck, breathless voice. “She made a bee-line for me actually. Asked me how I was liking the job, how good it felt to have a job and be doing something useful, which she managed to make sound like a bit of a threat. And then straight out she asked me whether I was in touch with you and whether you were still in London. ‘Such a shame he didn’t stay in Telford,’ she said. ‘Do you know what this crazy notion he has is?’ She was really probing. I said I hadn’t seen you since just after Christmas and that I didn’t know what you were up to. But she’s rattled, mate. Big time. It was like the old days at school when we broke into her office and found that bottle of Scotch. She is totally panicking that whatever her secret IS, you’ve found it out.”
“They all think I know what’s going on, and I fucking don’t,” Niall said. “Why don’t I? What the fuck is the matter with my brain?”
“Nothing’s the matter with your brain,” Miranda said quickly. “It’s a jigsaw and you’re missing a key piece. That’s all.”
“You’ve changed your tune,” Niall said drily.
“There’s more,” Simon said, drinking beer.
“Yes?”
“She spent ages with Lindsey. In fact Lindsey showed her around.”
“Is Lindsey mixed up in this?” Niall asked, semi-rhetorically.
“She wouldn’t be my choice,” Simon reflected. “But neither would Loosemore. Anyway, Loosemore’s got an office there now.”
“An office at Victory?”
“Yeah. I thought that was a bit weird. I mean, she’s only the patron.”
“Maybe BAB have asked her to clear her desk,” Niall suggested. “What I wouldn’t give to go through her office like we did at school.”
“Yeah,” Simon mused. “I was thinking the same.”
“You guys are crazy,” Miranda said, not without admiration.
“Miranda is a bloody celebrity and I’m a marked man,” Niall said. “I don’t think we’re going to be able to walk in incognito.”
“I could say I’d heard about the charity because your friend worked for them and I wanted to lend my name and face to their efforts,” Miranda suggested.
“Genius,” Simon said appreciatively.
“They’ll know what we’re doing,” Niall said.
“Mate,” Simon said, “they know we’re doing stuff. They’re watching you. They probably know you’re here now.”
“Not if Faith is their guard,” Niall said. “It seems to me,” he went on, “that going in through the front door is fraught with difficulty. You’d need to phone up, make an appointment, which would telegraph the fact that you were coming. Why would I be with you? And it might be that Loosemore is there sitting in her office the whole time. We need to get in at a time that we know she’s out.”
“So what are you suggesting?” Miranda asked.
“We break in. When we know the office is shut. Maybe I’ll call Lindsey. Try and get some info about the layout of the place – ”
“It’ll be alarmed,” Miranda interrupted. “We’ll be breaking the law. It’s different when it’s a couple of schoolboys getting into the Head’s study.”
“You’re not much help,” Niall said. All three were silent.
“We have to get into that office,” Niall went on eventually.
“Let me try it,” Miranda said. “My way. On my own. Or maybe with Simon. If it doesn’t work you can still break in.”
“How would you know what you were looking for?”
“How would you?”
“What do you reckon?” Niall asked Simon.
“Worth a shout,” Simon opined.
“I don’t need to make an appointment,” Miranda went on. “I can just turn up. If I catch them unawares so much the better. At least I can find out where her office is if nothing else so that when you two do your breaking and entering you’ll have some idea where you’re going.”
“Yeah,” Niall said doubtfully.
“I know you’ve got no faith in me,” Miranda said.
“It’s not that,” Niall responded defensively.
“Yes, it is.”
“Your eyesight’s fragile,” Niall said. “You’re convalescing. You don’t need excitements and extra stress.”
“I won’t let it stress me out,” Miranda countered. “Why should it? I won’t be doing anything illegal.”
“OK,” Niall conceded. “And when you do go I’ll go to Moorfields and try to see Duncan Clark. That’ll keep Faith’s eyes focused on me instead of you.”
“You can’t just roll up and expect a consultant to see you,” Miranda said.
“I’ll think of something. Perhaps I’ll get Faith to set it up.”
Miranda’s phone rang.
“This is a mobile free pub,” Simon muttered.
“Who’s going to be calling you?” Niall said, intrigued.
“I have a life,” Miranda said mysteriously, smiling. “I’ll take it outside,” she added, noticing the glares from other patrons.
“She fancies you,” Simon said when Miranda had gone out.
“Maybe,” Niall conceded.
“But then she hasn’t known many men,” Simon added.
“Miranda?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Rebecca.”
“Hi.”
“I went to Moorfields. You’re not there.”
“Oops. No. Sorry,” Miranda said. “They let me out. I forgot to tell you.”
“I should’ve called first. Oh well. Best laid plans.”
“I’m in a pub in Chiswick with some friends,” Miranda said. “Niall’s here. The man you gave your number to. You could come and join us if you’re anywhere nearby.”
“Is it anywhere near a tube station?”
“I’ll have to ask. Let me go back in and find out and call you back. I promise I will.”
They said a brief goodbye and Miranda went back inside. Her suggestion of Rebecca joining them was not greeted with instant enthusiasm, but in the end, “seeing as how you’ve already made the offer,” as Niall grudgingly put it, they conceded and Simon gave Miranda the necessary instructions, which she duly relayed to Rebecca.
Forty-five minutes later, physically shaking with trepidation, Rebecca walked into the pub. This was not how she had planned it. This would not have been how she would have wanted it. All the way in the train she had cursed her own impatience that hadn’t let her make an excuse and make an arrangement for another day; when the two of them could have been alone and in full daylight she could have confirmed or denied the belief that Miranda was sporting Joe’s eyes. How would she possibly know in the umbered ambience of a pub? Admittedly it wouldn’t be odd if the two of them went to the loo together, where the lights would be brighter, but suddenly the whole thing struck her as cruel and in bad
taste. She could have passed the pub and not gone in. But curiosity got the better of her.
She recognised Niall and, after buying herself an apple and mango J2O (because the last thing she needed was alcohol), she walked over to the table, happy at least that the option to stand anonymously at the bar and compose herself had been presented by the fact that Niall – the only one of the three she had met – could not see her. Blindness had its uses, she reflected cruelly.
“Hello. Miranda. I’m Rebecca.” She tried to sound calm, but her voice came out pinched and trembling.
“Hello, Rebecca.” The eyes looked up at her. She looked into them.
“Are you OK?” Niall asked. “You sound rough.”
Rebecca burst into tears.
Juliette Warwick answered her doorbell and was astonished to see John Holthouse, BAB Director of Finance, on her doorstep.
“Sorry to call on you at this time of night,” he said. “Could I possibly come in?”
“Yes,” she said guardedly. “Can I get you something?”
“No thanks,” Holthouse said. “If we could just sit somewhere and talk.”
Juliette showed him into the sitting room.
“Take your pick,” she said, indicating the range of seats on offer.
John Holthouse sat in an armchair. Juliette sat on the sofa. There was an uncomfortable silence. In all her years with the Association Juliette had encountered John Holthouse no more than four or five times. He was a shadowy figure who seemed to remain almost entirely behind closed doors. It was extraordinary that he was in her house. It was extraordinary that he had even known where it was.
“I’m here as a friend,” he began.
“I barely know you,” Juliette interposed.
“I know. But if the DG had come it would not have been as a friend,” Holthouse said.
“What’s going on?” Juliette asked. John Holthouse sighed. He looked around the room, apparently for inspiration.
“This is really very awkward,” he said. “I understand your partner left you recently.”
“If it’s any of your business,” Juliette snapped aggressively. “Oh God,” she went on, “this isn’t something she’s stirred up, is it?” She hadn’t imagined that Katrina would be vindictive, but then perhaps she had never really known her.
Eyes of the Blind Page 22
