“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Why? Are you jealous?”
There was an infinitesimal pause.
“I think you’re playing with fire,” Niall said. “I hate the thought of him getting his hands on you.”
“He won’t get his hands on me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I don’t think he’ll rape me,” Miranda said. “It wouldn’t suit his ego.”
“You’ve had sight for a month and suddenly you’re an expert.”
“Something like that,” Miranda said mischievously.
“Why is it that everything we think of seems to involve you doing something and me not?” Niall asked.
“You have rather got everyone looking at you,” Miranda said. “You’re drawing the fire while I go under the radar. Or whatever.”
“Good teamwork,” Niall said, somewhat tongue-in-cheek.
“We are a good team,” Miranda said, and then panicked as she realised she had almost certainly overstepped the mark. “At least I think so,” she said.
“You’re right,” Niall said. “We are.”
“You’ve been incredibly good for me,” Miranda said.
“Don’t embarrass me again,” Niall said.
“No, OK.” Silence descended. “Is there anything or anyone else?” Miranda said at last, in order to break it.
“Who told me to cross the road?” Niall said, after a moment’s thought.
“I thought you thought it was Sullivan.”
“No,” Niall said. “I never thought that. He might’ve been driving the car although I think that’s too high profile for him. No, I’m blind, remember. I’ve got an ear for voices. I’d’ve known if it was him and he’d’ve known that I’d’ve known.”
“So he probably got someone to do it we’ve never heard of.”
“You can’t just go up to anybody in the street and say, ‘See this blind bloke? When you see my car coming just tell him it’s clear to cross, would you?’”
“No. True,” Miranda conceded. “But it comes back again to the fact that Daniel Sullivan’s got the information we need.”
“I think you actually want to go out with him again,” Niall said grumpily. Miranda was glad he couldn’t see how her face lit up at even this slight evidence of jealousy.
John Holthouse accepted the cup of tea Lindsey offered him. She did make a good cup of tea. When he asked himself the question as to what it was that kept him in this relationship with a much younger woman he usually concluded that it was her uncomplicated wholesomeness, the fact that she attached importance to things like making a cup of tea the way he liked it. He was not seduced by glamour in the same way that his friend Daniel was. He played the game but he was more of a pipe and slippers man at heart. He had never had much success with women, as a boy or an adult, which probably had more than he realised to do with the fact that he regarded conversation as a competitive sport, though he himself attributed it to the fact that he was ‘a man’s man’. Coming across Lindsey in his late forties had been unexpected on both sides, and had certainly provided him with a security upon which he had thrived.
People said he was ruthless in his work, and that was true. You didn’t get to run the finances of one of the country’s wealthiest charities by allowing yourself to be swayed by pity and emotional manipulation. He had revolutionised the way grants and subsidies were given out since he had been brought in to BAB, over a decade ago now, with the brief to put their finances – which were in a surprisingly parlous state when he came on board – on a secure footing. He had impressed the chairman and the Director General with his essential concept of only giving out money if you think it will make you a return – an obvious principle in business that somehow a charity had managed entirely to overlook. And the ‘heroic failure transplant scheme’ had been the greatest golden egg in his nest. He had sensed its emotional potential from the first. When the application had first arrived on his desk he had done some research of his own, had even spoken with Duncan Clark on the telephone, who had been adamant that the whole idea of an eye transplant was a deluded fantasy. Feeling that it might not matter, he gave a small grant and spent a lot more on publicising the fact, on getting BAB synonymous with Jamal Daghash’s pioneering work. He considered it seedcorn, that he was scattering to see if it would grow. Very quickly it became apparent that his instinct had been correct. The transplant was a donation machine that paid out every time you put a penny in the slot. He agreed to up the funding, hoping to bring the research to the point of an operation. And then Daniel Sullivan had made his fatal remark. ‘But John, we don’t want to cure blindness. We don’t want to be able to give everyone perfectly good eyes. We’d all be out of a job.’ It wasn’t so much the remark itself, because he had no great fears on that score, and he had already been assured that it could never succeed. But when he looked back he dated his conception of the ‘heroic failure’ scheme to that moment. The transplant research was a money-spinner so long as it continued. It needed to remain in the public eye, in as high profile a position as possible, without ever actually achieving the complete success that would make it old news. Heart transplants were two a penny now. He was sure raising money for them these days must be a nightmare. And whereas sabotaging a heart transplant was a matter of life and death, ensuring the failure of an impossible eye operation was not. Yes, it played with the emotions of the principals for a while – it encouraged the patient and the surgeon to hope for something – but ultimately it left everyone exactly where they started. And BAB significantly wealthier. Of course, his employers could never know, so he would have to pay himself the bonus they would have paid him had they been able to.
“You’re very quiet tonight,” Lindsey said, sitting down beside him.
“Sorry. Miles away,” Holthouse said.
“I realise that. I’ve already asked you twice if you wanted the news on.”
“Sorry. Of course. Put it on.”
“We’ve missed everything except the local bit.”
“Put that on. We’ll get the weather forecast.”
Lindsey put the television on in time to see a picture of Damian Clarke accompanying a brief report on how the doctor who had been involved with the recent eye transplant operation had been found dead in his car.
Matthew Long’s phone rang.
“Don’t answer it,” Amelia said.
“It’s work.”
“It’s always bloody work.”
“You never seem to do any bloody work.”
He answered.
“I hope you’re where I think you are,” his editor began. Matthew doubted it.
“And that would be...?” he asked.
“That’s not encouraging,” the editor said. “On the scene would be good. On the way I could just about accept. I’ve just heard that your eye transplant doctor’s committed suicide and I’m wondering why I didn’t hear it from you.”
“I’m working the girl, not the doctor,” Matthew said, instinctively going on the defensive, his mind working overtime.
“Matthew,” said his editor. “There is something going on here. Maybe there’s a connection. Maybe there’s not. You’re on the inside. You met the man. Get to the bottom of it.” He rang off.
“I have to speak to your sister,” Matthew said. “Now. Her doctor’s committed suicide.”
“Who? The Arab?” Amelia asked.
“I don’t know,” Matthew said as realisation dawned. “Could be him or the tall one.”
“Perhaps he couldn’t face the fact that the transplant is obviously failing because she keeps having to go back to hospital,” Amelia offered.
“That’s what I have to find out,” Matthew said.
“Seems to have been a total disaster one way and another,” Amelia observed.
Rebecca had hoped that her night of shame at Cardew Crescent was something she could consign to the dustbin of history and never have to be reminded of ever again. She had been makin
g a good job of it until now. But there, before her astonished gaze, was a picture of ‘Richard’, who had shared all her embarrassment, and she was being told that he had been found dead in his car. The police might argue that her ‘knowledge’ of him constituted evidence pertinent to their inquiry. To make things worse, it turned out that he was Miranda Leman’s eye doctor, and suddenly Niall’s ‘something dodgy’ about Joe’s death and the transplant loomed in front of her like a wounded animal on a benighted road. The thought of telling anyone about that evening brought bile into her throat, but what if it was all a part of the picture? Maybe Fate had put her there for a reason and she owed it to Joe to face the worst.
SEVENTEEN
Roderick Leman had never beaten John Holthouse at squash. Sometimes he wondered why he continued to put himself through the experience, but he supposed that in some way it was good for him, physically. Though it led to regular and inevitable humiliation it had to be better than lifting weights or pounding on a running machine and going nowhere. Yet the competitor in him was far from satisfied. There was no pleasure in inevitably, relentlessly losing. He thundered after the ball, he chased down every shot, he exhorted himself to ‘come on’ after every rally, he occasionally won the odd point and even, once in a blue moon, took the lead temporarily, but the end result was always the same.
The two men sat panting outside the court watching the next two players knocking up, lacking the energy or the impetus to return to the changing room.
“What the Hell is going on John?” Leman asked.
“I take it you mean with Damian Clarke,” John Holthouse said.
“Yes. Karin told me when I got back. It’s terrible.”
“I’m assuming the man had personal problems nobody knew anything about,” Holthouse said.
“Nothing to do with my daughter or the transplant then?” Leman said.
“Why on earth should it be?” Holthouse inquired. “Unless he attempted to take advantage of her, got disgusted at himself and had a fit of remorse.”
“I hope he didn’t,” Roderick Leman said darkly.
“Whatever it was,” Holthouse went on, “it can’t possibly have had anything to do with you. Damian Clarke had no idea how much money you put into the kitty in order to get Susannah the operation, and even if he had done that is hardly a motive for terminating ones existence.”
“It’s a coincidence,” Leman said. “Perhaps that odious Burnet was harassing him.”
“You need to stop feeling guilty,” Holthouse said. “Somebody was going to get the operation. Why not Susannah? Think of it as private medicine.”
Leman continued to look uncomfortable.
“I doubt we’ll ever hear any more about it,” Holthouse added. “His family will be left to pick up the pieces and the world will move on. It’s the nature of things.”
“And meanwhile my daughter has lost the doctor who was overseeing the medication that was underpinning the lasting success of her operation,” Leman observed.
“I’m sure there are others equally well qualified,” John Holthouse said. “Damian Clarke didn’t seem to be making a particularly good fist of it. You have to face the possibility, Roderick, that it may not work in the long term.”
“And meanwhile I’ve lost the daughter I had and acquired some changeling,” Roderick Leman said.
“People don’t change,” Holthouse said, surprising himself with his own philosophy, “they just reveal different facets of themselves in different circumstances. The person they were is always there.”
“Maybe,” Roderick said.
“Try getting to know her better,” Holthouse said. “She’s your flesh and blood. You may find she’s a chip off the old block.”
For answer, Roderick Leman stood up and walked off in the direction of the showers.
On the pretext of writing a freelance article about the new charity’s work and aims, Niall got his entree into Victory. The woman he spoke to on the phone seemed so pathetically grateful for any publicity that she didn’t ask any awkward questions. The almost truth that he was a blind journalist now working freelance having left a job on Radio Salop had been more than sufficient. Having grudgingly accepted that Lindsey was more or less the only line of enquiry he was in a position to pursue, Niall had set it up at the earliest opportunity, and had then insisted on making the journey unassisted, but taking Hugo, who was still very much convalescing and not officially working, for company.
“Hugo has a way of breaking down barriers,” he had said.
And so Hugo, out of harness and therefore in theory with licence to behave as inappropriately and as much like any normal dog as possible, delightedly took his place at Niall’s side as the taxi pulled up outside Faith’s house. Niall had decided, on this special occasion, to give Geoff Jefferies a call and see if he was available.
“Thought you might like to see how Hugo’s getting on,” Niall had said.
“Be there in twenty minutes,” the taxi driver had said, and had been true to his word.
“Now this is a normal fare,” Niall checked as Geoff helped him into the back of the cab. “No special treatment just because Hugo is now a megastar.”
“Whatever you say, guv,” Jefferies said. Hugo, still heavily bandaged, hobbled in to sit at Niall’s feet.
“The A team’s back in business, eh, Hugo?” Niall said to him.
Their journey to Victory was uneventful, and Geoff Jefferies guided Niall as far as the door.
“Thanks a lot,” Niall said.
“Any time,” Geoff said. “Really glad you called. Do it again. Think of me as a mate. Good to see you up on your feet again too,” he added to Hugo, messing the top of his head.
“Right Hugo,” Niall said when Geoff had gone. “If we meet that fierce disapproving woman that Miranda talked about your job is to charm her. Got it?”
Hugo wagged his tail, and Niall called Lindsey.
“Hi,” he said when she answered. “I’m outside the door of Victory. How do I get in and where do I go?”
“I’ll come down,” Lindsey said, and a minute later she was escorting the two of them upstairs to the Victory ‘engine room’, as she described it.
“You’re going to talk to Mary, I think,” she went on when they were sitting in the fundraisers’ office and Hugo was soaking up attention.
“Whoever,” Niall said. “I was hoping to get a chance to chat to you too.”
“Wow! Privilege,” Lindsey said. “About anything in particular?”
“Does it have to be?”
“No. It just usually is.”
“I don’t know,” Niall said. “And here’s me trying to be friendly and helping to do your job for you by getting you some publicity.”
“Sorry,” Lindsey said.
Mary, one of Victory’s founders and the mother of a blind son, turned out to be excellent company and Niall thoroughly enjoyed the hour he spent interviewing her. He found himself determined actually to write the article and to try and sell it. He felt she deserved it.
“One last question,” he said as they were finishing.
“Yes?” Mary said.
“Whose idea was it to get Vivien Loosemore as patron?”
“Odd question,” Mary said.
“Maybe,” Niall conceded.
“Or it would be,” she went on, smiling, “if Lindsey hadn’t told me about the history between the two of you.”
“So will you tell me?” Niall asked.
“Hers,” Mary said. “She volunteered. Phoned up one day and offered her services.”
“And you accepted on the spot?”
“Niall,” Mary said indulgently. “She might not quite be the Duchess of Cambridge but she does have a lot of contacts and kudos in the blind world. We needed a patron. She seemed a good fit.”
“OK,” Niall said. “You didn’t think it was odd, someone phoning up and volunteering to be your patron?”
“I didn’t think about it much,” Mary said. “And she said she
wanted to roll her sleeves up and give us some of her time too. Seemed too good an offer to turn down. And now that was many more than one last question, young man, and I have another appointment.”
“Thanks a lot,” Niall said.
“Just make us sound fabulous in your article,” Mary said.
“I intend to,” Niall said truthfully. Mary returned him to the fundraisers office, where he refused offers of coffee, tea, chocolate and water and settled down for the real purpose of his visit.
“So how’s life treating you?” he asked Lindsey.
“Good,” she said.
“Better than when we were standing outside the Citizens Advice Bureau in Harrow.”
“Much better.”
“Victory was a real turn-up for the book for you,” Niall observed.
“And for Simon,” Lindsey said quickly.
“Yeah,” Niall agreed. “How did that happen?”
“I did put in a word,” Lindsey said. “But don’t ever tell him.”
“Of course not,” Niall said.
“They were looking for computer geeks with a human side, and I thought Simon would be perfect.”
“You were right,” Niall admitted. “Did it ever strike you as odd that BAB were pushing you to resign over an issue to do with dealing with a client and they then fully supported you in getting a job here where you’d be dealing with clients all the time?”
“Not old, vulnerable clients,” Lindsey said quickly.
“Just rich ones.”
“Are you trying to insult me as usual?” Lindsey asked, but fairly good-naturedly.
“No,” Niall said. “I’m just curious. I was there, remember. Through that meeting with Warwick and the legal woman. It’s like they were happy to pass the problem on to someone else, so long as you agreed to go quietly.”
“Honestly, Niall,” Lindsey said. “I’m a ‘problem’, am I? I think they saw that I didn’t really deserve what was coming to me, so if I was prepared to resign they would be prepared to help me.”
“Your boyfriend instrumental in it all, I guess.”
“No. Why?”
“BAB Director of Finance. Impressive.”
Eyes of the Blind Page 25
