Nine of Wands

by Mark Hayden

  The director came straight to the point. ‘I’ve agreed to a meeting so we can put an end to this. Why on earth should we talk to you without an order from the high court?’

  ‘Because this way we can avoid an enquiry into your security, or lack of it.’

  She frowned. ‘This patient was your responsibility. You said she wasn’t under formal arrest, and that you’d have someone to keep an eye on her. I’m not even sure that any crime has been committed.’

  ‘Other than Miss Morgan being drugged.’

  ‘Which is regrettable, but not down to us. Miss Morgan failed to search the patient and then allowed the patient access to her drink. If you find Irina, you can arrest her for assault or whatever.’

  It was time to up the ante. I lifted my case on to my lap and made sure the director could see the front. Dad bought it for me when I first got my wings, and it’s a Victorian adjutant’s case, battle scarred and made of high quality leather that’s been oiled and cherished for over a hundred and forty years. As well as the imposing crossed sabres on the front, Dad added a gold-tooled RAF insignia. People are always impressed when they see it, and inclined to take the piece of paper I pulled out more seriously as a result.

  ‘I agree with what you say,’ I acknowledged. ‘However, that leaves out your failure to maintain CCTV properly, your failure to check the credentials of the ambulance crew and failure to discharge your patient correctly. What if the patient was a vulnerable adult? Those are the sort of questions a CQC enquiry would ask.’

  The director didn’t take this in her stride, but neither did she cave in. ‘We would be prepared to co-operate fully. We don’t believe that your team would be so happy to do that. All my attempts to find out which agency you really work for have been stonewalled.’

  I didn’t care for the woman, but she’d earned my respect. She’d called my bluff perfectly. There was one issue that I could push, though. ‘Then show me the paperwork.’

  That got her on the defensive. The Master (assuming it was him) had handed over a blank piece of paper, Enscribed to resemble authorised paperwork from the Oak Tree clinic in London. I pushed home the advantage. ‘There wouldn’t need to be a full CQC enquiry for that. I could just raise it with your head office. So far we haven’t told them that you handed over a patient without any authority whatsoever.’

  I let that sink in for half a second before getting out the (metaphorical) carrot. ‘There’s another reason you should help us find her. Until we do, you won’t be able to give her the bill.’

  The director visibly stiffened, and even the surgeon showed an interest for the first time.

  ‘This booking was made by the Home Office. The bill is your responsibility.’

  I took out a blank CD. ‘We recorded the conversation. Our officer very clearly states that the booking was on behalf of Miss Ispahbudhan and that she would settle the bill. I believe the amount was around £28,000.’ I turned to Saffron. ‘Could you afford to lose that, Lieutenant Hawkins?’

  ‘No, sir, I couldn’t.’

  I turned back to the director. ‘If you co-operate, and if we find her, you can get her to settle the bill. And the co-operation will be completely off the record.’

  ‘You don’t have a hidden recorder? Nothing like that?’

  ‘I don’t. That’s not how we work.’

  She looked at the surgeon. ‘Are you happy to talk?’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘What was your diagnosis? What procedures did you do? What are the indications for recovery? What further treatment, including drugs, will Miss Ispahbudhan require in the short term? Verbal answers are all we need.’

  He rubbed his chin. Did he want to cause a stink or just get back to work and forget all about it? After all, surgeons get quite proprietary about their patients.

  They also like to show off. ‘Do you know much about orthopaedic surgery?’

  I don’t like doing this, but sometimes it saves a lot of time. I rolled up my left trouser leg and let him have a good look at the scars. I couldn’t believe what happened next. The man actually reached over and took my leg in his hands. Waaay too much. I gritted my teeth and let him have a good feel.

  ‘Where was this done?’

  ‘Queen Elizabeth’s, Birmingham.’ I added the name of the surgeon, too.

  He let my leg go. ‘You were lucky. You got one of the best, there. Shame about the post-op care.’

  ‘It was badly infected during rehab.’

  ‘You’ve got good definition in your calf muscles. Don’t lose it.’

  He wiped his hands on a handkerchief and looked over my shoulder, accessing his mental case notes. ‘The trauma to the patient’s knee was horrific. I wouldn’t like to meet the person who did that on a dark night. Not only was there a comminuted fracture of the patella, the ACL was snapped clean off.’

  Saffron couldn’t help herself. ‘Mina did all that?’

  I gave her a hard stare. ‘Go on, doctor.’

  ‘We had no choice. We had to open the knee right up. It took all day to knock it back into shape. She was barely fit to be moved along the corridor, never mind transported off site. She was on a lot of painkillers, obviously, as well as VTE drugs.’

  ‘VTE?’

  ‘Venous thromboembolism. Deep vein thrombosis to the layman. Her pregnancy was a complicating factor. She wasn’t high risk, but she should be taking them for at least a week. And by now she really, really needs an MRI scan and X-Rays. If something has gone wrong with the operation, we only have a short window to correct it.’ He looked at the director. ‘And that’s not all. Any consultant would also need to see the pre-operative scan results.’

  That sounded promising. ‘They weren’t taken with her notes?’ I asked.

  The director shook her head. ‘Online only. No paper copies, and before you ask, our online security is better than most banks.’

  I gave her a sceptical look.

  ‘Seriously. Supposing the league’s top striker comes in here after a match, every newspaper and betting website, to say nothing of their rivals, is going to want to know the prognosis. Believe me, Mr Clarke, hacking by newspapers has not stopped, it’s just been outsourced.’

  I turned back to the surgeon. ‘Try to imagine you’re a humble private GP.’

  He gave a self-deprecating wave of the hand. ‘Whether it’s me or a GP, we’re all doctors.’ The director gave him a sideways look and rolled her eyes. I’m surprised this man’s ego fitted into a normal operating theatre.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said with a grateful smile. ‘If someone came to you with a patient with those needs, a demand for total discretion and an unlimited supply of money, how would you arrange her treatment?’

  He laughed. ‘I would find an NHS registrar who has just got married and needs the money. Then I would book her into one of the little private clinics under a false name to get the MRI done. So long as they have a doctor’s certificate authorising the procedure, they won’t ask any questions.’

  ‘Would this imaginary registrar not want her pre-op scans?’

  ‘Yes, if they wanted to do the job properly. Money would trump that.’

  ‘And are these clinics regulated?’

  He leaned over the director, invading her personal space and taking a pen and notepad without asking. He wrote something down and handed it over. ‘That website brokers scans at all the private facilities. Ignore the Oak Tree ones and other big players.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He stood up, regardless of whether I’d finished. ‘I’ll give you a tip: don’t ring them up. They’ll never co-operate. Send someone round and ask to see their radiological logs. No facility in the UK would dare operate without proper logging. The computers won’t let them. Those logs will tell you what was scanned.’ Something passed over his face for a moment. ‘If you do find her, look after her. I’d hate to see all my work go to waste.’

  We parked round the corner from the hospital and sauntered over Great Ouse
bridge to Linford Park so that I could give Scout a run around and we could plan our next move.

  ‘Are all orthopaedic surgeons like that?’ said Saffron. ‘If some total stranger felt my leg up like he did, I’d kick them in the bollocks.’

  ‘You know the old joke about the difference between God and a surgeon?’

  She shook her head. ‘That joke must be so old I’ve never heard it.’

  ‘God knows he’s not a surgeon. They all have a bit of that in them.’

  ‘Now I know why you got changed in the other room at Whitchurch. I’d keep those scars hidden, too. I’m surprised you didn’t show him a picture of Mina and threaten him with her.’

  ‘I was saving that as a last resort. How do you reckon we should proceed?’

  Most of the local schools had broken up for the summer holidays. The play area in Linford Park was teeming with unleashed energy. It was too noisy and too busy for us, and there was no way I could let Scout roam around there, so we headed into the formal park area and found a shady tree to lean against. When no one was looking, I slipped Scout’s lead and let him explore.

  ‘Let me check out that website first,’ said Saffron. I handed her the surgeon’s note and lit a cigarette while I waited. ‘There’s about forty in England,’ she concluded. ‘How much support will we get from the police?’

  ‘We don’t have much good will left. This would be our last shot if we asked them to help.’

  She stared at her phone for a few seconds. ‘Is that where we are? I always thought Milton Keynes was much closer to London than that.’ She looked at me. ‘We should have asked the surgeon what the furthest distance she could travel was.’

  ‘We should. Her surgery was more complex than mine, if smaller scale. I could have coped with a couple of hours, max. It was the early hours of the morning. They could get a long way in two hours with no traffic. Assuming they avoid Hampshire because that’s where the forge was, and Cambridge because that’s where the Master’s base is, where does that leave?’

  She shrugged me a big peasant shrug. ‘I haven’t a clue. You’d have to explain it all to me.’

  ‘You’re right, and we haven’t got time for a geography lesson. Lend me your phone.’

  I studied the interactive map for a minute. ‘Here’s the plan. We get Eddie and Oscar to cover the ones in London. That leaves one for Rick and one for old Piers Weatherill. You and I can cover the other five.’

  ‘Good. Where do we start?’

  I heard Scout bark from down the track and looked up. He was standing at a safe distance from some sort of Rottweiler and making a fool of himself. The huge fighting dog looked disdainfully at Scout and moved on, pulling its owner behind it. I nearly jumped when I saw the woman’s jet black hair and painfully thin frame. Then she lifted her head, and the resemblance disappeared. It wasn’t who I thought it was, but the illusion made me think. There may be love involved in this, but that’s only a part. I put Saffron’s phone down for a second and called Lloyd Flint. When he’d answered my question, I knew where we were going.

  Myfanwy and I have been teaching Scout to follow whistle commands. I gave the come here signal (a descending fifth) and heard the answering bark. ‘We’re starting in a place called Tettenhall, just west of Wolverhampton,’ I told Saffron.

  We stood up as Scout bounded back. I clipped him back on the lead. ‘It’s a two hour drive, but it feels right. After all, Bertie did say that Staffordshire was the wild west of magick.’

  ‘Wolverhampton,’ said Saffron. ‘Another place I’ve never been.’

  ‘It’s got a very good all-weather racecourse. Can you ring the Boss? Manic Mutt doesn’t like it if I use the phone when he’s on the lead.’

  ‘No problem. That’s the trouble with dogs – they rule your life.’

  27 — Bedside Manor

  Hannah wanted us to turn round and go to Coventry and Evesham before heading to Tettenhall, and that was the real reason I’d got Saffron to ring her. It’s much easier to flannel via a third party. The Boss didn’t make it a direct order, so we sailed up the M1 while the rest of the team jumped into action. By the time we passed Wolverhampton Racecourse, three clinics had already been eliminated from our enquiries.

  ‘Reminds me a bit of Cheltenham,’ I said as we drove out of town towards the suburb/village of Tettenhall. Saffron had been giving me potted nuggets about it ever since she’d finished with the Constable. If I said that Tettenhall was almost unique in having two village greens, that gives you some idea of the place.

  ‘How on earth does this remind you of Cheltenham?’ she said.

  ‘Big houses set back on the road to somewhere else. Do you want to handle the receptionist?’

  ‘Only if it’s a man and he’s really hot. Or old. You’re much scarier on first encounter than I’ll ever be. Of course, once we get to know you, you’re even scarier.’

  ‘Ha ha. How long to become Sammi?’

  She groaned. ‘Do I have to? In this heat?’

  ‘Yes, you do. You’re going to scope the reception out and look for anyone keeping watch. Now find somewhere nice for a sandwich that has somewhere for you to get changed.’

  ‘The Two Greens.’

  ‘That’s a place? As well as a claim to fame?’

  ‘Turn left, just there.’

  The old coaching road from London to Holyhead runs through Tettenhall. We left the (upper) green area and followed it out of the village. The Mercia Wholistic Clinic was about a mile down the road.

  ‘Drive past and drop me up the road,’ said Saffron/Sammi. ‘I need to get in character. And bring up a few personal deflectors.’

  ‘No problem. What are you going to do?’

  ‘Walk in, look around. If anyone asks, I’m waiting for my sister, who wants to book an appointment. Then I’ll walk out and stand by the door. I’ll text you from there.’

  That was a well-worked plan, and I told her so. Then I added, ‘Whatever you do, don’t attempt the local accent.’

  ‘’Oo do you fink I aam? Leave it out and drop us ’ere.’

  I drove a bit further and parked in a pub car park. It didn’t look nearly as nice as the Two Greens. I got the All Clear text a few minutes later.

  You couldn’t miss “Sammi” as you approached the clinic. She was standing next to the main door in such a way that any visitor would have to enter her personal space to get past, and any watchers would be drawn to look at her. She was staring at her phone and twirling her hair as I limped up to the door. She wasn’t actually chewing gum, but she was moving her lips in a way that suggested she was having trouble reading the long words on the screen in front of her. Without acknowledging my presence, she moved a few inches to one side when the automatic door opened for me.

  The reception area was decorated in soothing pastels and adorned with a mixture of impressionist prints and special offers. The Mercia seemed to think that “Wholistic” meant performing cosmetic surgery on the Whole person. Until today I had no idea that there were three different potential operations to correct bunions, and that was just the first option for better looking feet.

  I took a roundabout route to the reception desk to give Saffron time to saunter in behind me while the receptionist’s attention was focused on the approaching 6’ 4” (nearly) bald man. I put on an especially serious face and leaned over the desk. I laid down a business card and flashed my ID. ‘Conrad Clarke, National Security. Have you seen this woman? She has a foreign accent.’

  Before the receptionist could take up my card, I covered it with a photograph of Irina. She took one look at the picture and her eyes flashed to one of the corridors leading off the reception area. Bingo.

  ‘I need to see the manager. Immediately, and if they’re on holiday, I need to see the most senior person on site.’

  You’ve met Mina. You know I don’t like playing on racial stereotypes without good reason. The receptionist was white, so I added Irina’s foreign accent to go with her picture as an eastern woman.
Couple that with the words “National Security” and you’ll know why the receptionist picked up the photograph and said, ‘I’ll take you straight through.’

  When her back was turned for one second, I pointed my arm down the relevant corridor. Saffron nodded and turned to face one of the posters.

  We walked through a small admin area which was clearly not designed for prospective clients. No doubt the expensive consulting rooms are elsewhere. At the end was an open door to a small office for the Chief Executive and Clinical Director. Judging by the single desk, they were clearly one and the same person, in the shape of a man with gelled hair and a healthy tan.

  The receptionist stopped in the doorway and looked at my card before speaking. ‘This is Squadron Leader Clarke. He’s come about Miss Soraya and he says it’s a matter of national security.’ She put my card and the photograph on the director’s desk and stepped out.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ said the director. ‘Shut the door behind you. What’s going on?’

  I shut the door and flipped over Irina’s picture. ‘This is her real name and details. Where is she and what treatment is she receiving right now?’ In the tiny gap after I’d finished speaking, before he could bring up his guard, I showed him my ID badge.

  ‘What do you want her for?’

  ‘She’s under arrest. She escaped from a secure medical facility on Thursday night.’

  ‘Not on her own, she didn’t. She’s in a bad way.’

  I said nothing. It worked.

  ‘She had an MRI this morning. There’s a surgeon coming to see her in half an hour. I checked the MRI results myself, just to be sure, and it’s not good.’

  I nodded sagely. ‘Is it the comminuted fracture or the ACL?’

  He looked surprised. ‘The ACL. She’ll need to go under the knife again, and the sooner the better. Won’t be here, though.’