It had never occurred to Doctor Roger Sherman that a landlord would be concerned with safeguarding a brand. Not until a landlord’s veto blocked the invitation Doctor Sherman had received to join a Harley Street medical practice. Doctor Sherman was well thought of: respected by colleagues and trusted by patients. But his run-in with the British Medical Council had resulted in that high regard counting for nothing. His suspension meant he was no longer Harley Street material.
At the core of the suspension were specious accusations by a former patient. A patient with mental health issues. A patient whose records had been mislaid.
The missing paperwork had been crucial, and its absence made the suspension unavoidable. Throughout various tiers of the medical profession, Doctor Sherman’s talents were unquestioned—they saw him as a casualty of poor filing—but the media had felt differently about his credibility: A revamp had resulted in someone else filling his position on a daytime television sofa each month. His weekly radio phone-in feature had been rested. His magazine advice column hadn’t been a good fit with the owner’s fresh vision. And newspapers had just stopped asking him to comment on stories.
‘Another voice advocating integration of orthodox and complementary medicine silenced.’ There was a bitterness in Sherman’s voice; he hadn’t meant to sound so sour. He noticed a few glances and raised eyebrows from the dozen or so pensioners gently stretching their velour-tracksuited limbs nearby. He must have also been louder than he’d intended to be.
Sherman noted that most of the park’s morning regulars were assembled. In addition to the old dears swinging their bat wings, there were the two (wobbly) middle-aged women and their (toy boy) personal trainer who had staked claim to the area around their usual tree. Thick straps attached one woman to a suitably sturdy branch while she performed pull-ups, and the other woman puffed away at angled push-ups on a nearby creaking picnic bench. Meanwhile, the usual contingent of dog-walkers and pram-pushers were patrolling the park’s perimeter, and most of the regular readers were on their favourite benches with their current hardbacks (this was St John’s Wood, e-book readers were so Islington, or worse Clapham; and besides, with an e-book no one could see which Man Booker nominee you were reading). Part outdoor gym, part alfresco library, St John’s Wood Church Gardens had seemed a pleasant place for Sherman to spend his suspension-enforced free time, and then, post-suspension, somewhere to fill the depressingly long gaps between appointments with the half-handful of clients he’d held onto. But as Sherman looked at the familiar faces (and body parts), he realised he’d been spending too much time there. Familiar strangers were still strangers. And merely filling time was a waste of time.
The woman from the magazine coughed. He blinked his attention back to her.
‘Why are you such a passionate campaigner for alternative medicine?’ she asked. ‘When I interviewed a member of the British Medical Council about alternative treatments I was asked: if I were to break a bone, would I be happy with a hug and a scented candle? The establishment doesn’t seem to share your views.’
Sherman sighed. When he’d realised he’d misheard the name of the magazine and he’d actually agreed to an interview with Stealth magazine, he should have checked what kind of publication it was. But he hadn’t. He’d been too keen to rekindle his past profile. He’d been so eager to touch that life again that he hadn’t even questioned what they’d meant by his interview being their Mulder of the Month. But now that he was sitting with the hack Stealth had sent, he felt uncomfortable. Not quite shame, but something in the same Venn diagram. He could get up and walk away. But what else was he going to do? He had no patients to see. So Sherman said, ‘X-ray, setting and immobilisation are the cornerstones of treating a fracture, but it is worth remembering that touch is a primary conduit for basic positive emotions. A hug won’t make a bone heal any faster, but it will make the patient feel better. Maybe all doctors should be prescribing hugs.’
In for a penny, Sherman thought; he flashed a daytime-telly-sofa smile. ‘Let me give you an example of an integrated approach. Say you came to me complaining of migraines. Would you want me to merely manage the pain, doing nothing more than sending you off with a prescription for painkillers? Or would you prefer I eased your symptoms and took the time to identify the cause of your pain, helping you make the changes that would eliminate the pain without the need for chemical intervention?’
The hack shrugged. ‘Eh, the second one.’
‘Right. And every good orthodox-minded doctor would do that too. So why not extend that approach? Say you came to me suffering from depression. The responsible approach would be to do more than just pump you full of antidepressants. Also tackling the source of the depression through some form of counselling would be the way to go. Agreed?’
The hack nodded.
‘Now, most antidepressants work by chemically varying levels of the mood altering neurotransmitter serotonin. However, some prescription drugs inhibit reuptake. In other words, you have to keep taking the drugs because your body won’t make the serotonin it needs. An alternative approach could be to prescribe a course of plant-based serotonin supplements. These would boost serotonin levels, but because they’re a natural supplement, not a drug that modifies your body chemistry, when the dosage of supplement tablets is reduced, the body is more likely to step in and produce serotonin itself. Of course if that didn’t work, the big gun antidepressants would still be there, but we would have at least given your body, in conjunction with the counselling, a chance to fix itself without exposing you to the risk of side effects associated with many conventional antidepressant treatments. That’s an integrated approach.
‘I’m not advocating ditching the incredible medicines, tools and methodologies of orthodox medicine, it just seems foolish not to add to that arsenal by applying the integration of appropriate alternative and complementary therapies.’
‘So why is there resistance from the established medical profession to do that?’
Sherman shrugged. ‘Short-sightedness, elitism, lack of imagination ... I don’t know. You’ll need to ask them.’
Paperbacks were useful items on stakeouts: they provided instant camouflage in a variety of situations; they could be positioned towards a subject, masking observation; and—if the need were to arise—when rolled up, they made a handy close-quarters weapon. Kai Degen flicked another paperback page and listened as the journalist quizzed the doctor about conspiracy theories involving multinational pharmaceuticals out to squash alternative practitioners because natural remedies couldn’t be patented.
‘Where’s the profit in something patients could grow in their gardens, greenhouses and allotments?’ she suggested.
The doctor brushed the theories aside. He’d discarded his earlier bitter tone, and he was reasoned, and he was considered, and he was fair ... and he was wrong.
He’d learn how wrong soon.
Degen ran through how it would happen: When the interview with the journalist ended, the doctor would sit in the park for a while before heading to his regular lunchtime café, On Toast. It was an upmarket take on a greasy spoon joint—a wide selection of toppings on a choice of toasted breads—and the doctor’s usual was finely chopped sushi-grade tuna tossed in sesame oil on ciabatta with wasabi mayo. Afterwards, the doctor would return to the small apartment he’d kept after the bitter divorce sparked by the doctor’s suspension. Degen would already be there, sitting at the breakfast bar.
After calming the doctor’s spluttering outrage, Degen would explain how a large multinational company with a hugely profitable pharmaceutical division had engineered the disappearance of paperwork relating to a former patient, a patient who had received secret payments after making complaints to the British Medical Council. Degen would point out that various other divisions of the multinational were key advertisers of a number of TV, radio, magazine and newspaper brands, some of which the doctor was very familiar with.
The doctor would be incredulous. Then Degen would pas
s him a folder. Inside would be the mislaid paperwork. After a few slack-jawed moments, the doctor would ask how Degen came into possession of the missing papers. Degen would shrug, making some cryptic comment about being persuasive.
‘Why would they do this?’ the doctor would demand.
And Degen would open the laptop on the breakfast bar and click through images of newspaper articles in which the doctor had been critical of how pharmaceutical companies test new drugs. Then Degen would play a video clip of a TV interview the doctor had given:
‘Here’s a little known fact, drug companies can conduct as many trials as they like, but they’re not obliged to publish the results of all of them. They can be very selective. Drugs aren’t tested on children, we just guess a lower dose will be fine. Drugs aren’t tested on older people, who are quite often taking a cocktail of medication, but there’s no obligation to test a new drug in combination with others. Then there’s the escalating cost of new drugs. Pharmaceuticals claim they need to cover their Research and Development costs, but about a third of drugs being marketed by the largest drug companies can be traced back to work done by universities or small biotech companies. In addition, large pharmaceutical companies spend between two and three times more on marketing and administration than they do on R & D. Claiming Research and Development pushes up drug prices is, at best, disingenuous.’
Degen would freeze the impassioned doctor in mid-roll and say, ‘Someone thought you had too large a profile to be that mouthy.’
There would be anger. There would be hope that the returned papers could repair the damage to the doctor’s life. There would be the realisation they would not.
And then Degen would make an offer of a new life with fresh challenges. Degen would explain he was putting together a team. And the team needed a medic.
27. RELOCATION
3 years, 6 months ago
‘Ever shot anyone?’
‘No.’
‘Think you could?’
‘Depends.’
‘Fair enough.’
There had been no hello or any other preamble. It wasn’t the greeting Roger Sherman had been expecting. Luggage at his feet, Sherman stood outside his new home’s main gate. On the other side of the wrought iron, Sherman’s inquisitor—thickset, bearded, inscrutable—looked him up and down, then slid the gate five feet to the side. ‘Better come in.’ Despite the abruptness, the gatekeeper’s voice had an almost musical cadence. Scottish. Highlander, maybe an islander, thought Sherman as he picked up his holdall and pulled his suitcase inside.
A loud clank behind.
‘Viktoria will show you to your room.’ The gatekeeper marched past Sherman, a loud crunch marking each rapid bootfall on the gravel driveway that swept round in front of the house.
Nice to meet you too, thought Sherman.
The property was a massive three-storey house overlooking Lake Ohrid. Above the stone clad ground floor, the exterior gleamed with fresh white paint, and a wide wooden balcony wrapped itself around the top floor; Sherman guessed the balcony views were stunning. Every ground floor window had been fitted with sets of white bars, each with decorative curls that folded over the sills. There were no bars on the middle floor windows, but their ledges all sported security spikes.
Sherman took a couple of steps towards the house. The wheels on his suitcase churned into gravel. He sighed, picked up the suitcase and shuffled towards the double-doored entrance.
As Sherman reached the doorway a short, middle-aged woman appeared.
‘I Viktoria. I housekeeper. You need help?’
Before he could respond, Viktoria relieved him of the holdall. She turned towards a wide, slate-effect tiled staircase to the left of a similarly tiled reception area.
‘Come.’
Sherman followed, his case trundling beside him.
They passed an open door, and Sherman peeked inside. In a corner, next to a patio door (glass door open, security grille pulled across) was an upright piano, and at the keyboard sat the gatekeeper. Sherman gave an acknowledging nod, which was met with the furrowed brow of someone deep in thought.
Sherman reached the stairs and began heaving his case upwards. Below, the piano began a gentle version of the Toreador Song. Viktoria chuckled, then hummed along: dum dum de-dum dum dum-de-dum deedum. Sherman guessed he’d just been assigned a theme tune.
At least it wasn’t Chopin’s Funeral March.
With his bags dumped on the floor of the room he’d been shown to, Sherman stood at the window. The views of Ohrid, both the lake and the UNESCO-lauded city, were indeed stunning. Below the ramparts of the ancient hilltop fortress, the terracotta roofs of the World Heritage Site curled round the edge of the lake, the clear blue water stretching out towards Albania.
‘A lot of people will tell you the best weapon for a rookie is a revolver. They’ll say a revolver is less complicated, more reliable and easier to shoot.’
What?
Sherman turned. The gatekeeper/pianist stood in the doorway, a handgun balanced in each palm.
‘Revolvers are fine, but the idea they work every time is a myth perpetuated by people who’ve never had their weapon lock up because of some crap under the ejector, or had a trigger return-spring break on them. Plus the long pull on a double-action trigger pisses all over accuracy. Having said that, the recoil on this Ruger LCR isn’t too bad. And the concealed hammer means it won’t snag when you draw it. Only a five-round cylinder though.
‘However, I recommend a semi-automatic. Kai’s a big fan of everything Glock, but I’d say this Sig Sauer P229 would be better for you. Once you’ve broken in a Sig it’s as comfortable as an old pair of shoes. It’s heavier than a Glock, but that makes the recoil easier to handle. And unlike a Glock it’s double-action/single-action. Double-action, there’s a ten pound trigger pull, but pull back the slide or cock manually and you’re looking at a four-point-four pound trigger pull. Means the gun should move around in your hand less, give you a chance of hitting what you’re aiming at. Also the Sig’s de-cocking lever makes it drop safe. Reduces the chance of anyone losing toes. Plus the magazine holds thirteen 9mm rounds.’
Both handguns were held towards Sherman. ‘Up to you though. Which one takes your fancy?’
Sherman stared at each weapon. Degen had told Sherman that accepting his offer would require Sherman to become familiar with firearms: ‘If you want to play in the band, you’ve got to learn the songs,’ Degen had said.
Sherman looked up. ‘So which one is the revolver?’ he asked.
Eyes narrowed. ‘Are you taking the piss?’
Sherman shrugged. ‘You started it.’
The gatekeeper/pianist/gun-expert grinned. ‘Welcome to Macedonia doctor.’ He pushed the guns into his belt and stepped forward, offering his hand. ‘Scott Macrae. Part of my job is to make sure you know how to shoot, but mostly I’m here to make sure you never have to. Basically, I free the women you’re here to treat.’
Sherman’s chest swelled as a rush of excitement swept through him. He was actually doing this: taking part in a vigilante war on human trafficking. He imagined his older self supping real ale at his local in St John’s Wood, telling tales of their mission to locate, liberate, medicate and repatriate. He almost felt giddy. Then guilty. He was there to save lives, but he knew it was inevitable other lives would be taken. The image in his head changed to his older self quietly contemplating his beer, unwilling to share his dark experiences.
Macrae clamped a hand on Sherman’s shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine,’ he said.
Sherman opened his eyes and stretched. The journey from London had included stopovers at Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport and Belgrade’s Nikola Tesla Airport, and he’d arrived at the Lake Ohrid house tired. Gentle hazing complete, Macrae had left him to unpack, but Sherman had flopped onto his bed and been asleep within a minute.
Sherman rolled off the bed, opened the glass door to the balcony and heard the piano again; this time the melody was unfamiliar, but q
uite beautiful.
He made his way down to the ground floor; he found Macrae once again sitting at the upright piano.
‘That’s a pretty tune,’ Sherman said.
‘Not finished yet, but thanks.’
‘You wrote that?’
Macrae lifted his hands from the keys. ‘That so hard to believe?’
‘Sorry, it’s just …’ Sherman dismissed the words incongruous and anomalous, and he said, ‘um, unexpected.’
A raised eyebrow from Macrae.
Sherman attempted to appease it with, ‘What with you being, you know, ex ... whatever it was you were.’
Macrae snorted. And resumed playing.
Sherman waved at the upright. ‘You ever think of doing something involving music, instead of ... this line of work?’
Macrae switched to a deliberate, plonky rendition of Chopsticks. ‘Actually, after the army I quite fancied being a music teacher.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ The plonking stopped abruptly. ‘Turned out not to be the life for me.’ He hit a few brooding bass notes, then lowered the lid over the keys.
Subject closed.
‘So, let me tell you about this place,’ Macrae said. ‘It was built by a developer as a small hotel, but we’ve adapted it a little. There are ten bedrooms for your patients on the middle floor. And as you’ve seen, the top floor is taken up by a self-contained four bedroom apartment, with one bedroom for you, one for me, one for Viktoria and one for Doctor Schönbächler. She arrives tomorrow. My team are billeted elsewhere, not too far away.
‘On this floor, there’s a fairly large kitchen, and a dining room, and this is one of two lounges for use by the guests, and there’s another lounge for the nurses to take breaks in. By the way, you and Doctor Schönbächler will start interviewing candidates for nursing staff next week. The ground floor also includes two fully kitted out examination rooms, an office for you and Doctor Schönbächler to share, and in the basement there’s a storage room where we’ll keep medical supplies, fresh clothing for the women, ammunition, that kind of stuff.’
The Hunting Command (Grey Areas Triptych Book 1) Page 17
