‘I do understand,’ she said. She accepted an India rubber from him and stowed it in the pocket of her maternity dress. ‘You seem to be thinking on your feet,’ she added.
‘Thank you. I’m learning from you. The last column is blank. It was intended to hold the later history of the donors. Kristmeier is still hoping to hear back from his contact. If he calls me, I’ll get a note to you somehow.’
‘He phoned me,’ Honey said. ‘I have all the information, or as much as he would give me. There’s one offbeat one that nobody wants to talk about and I’m hoping that there’s a reason for it. Word should reach me during the meeting.’
‘Then I think that’s as far as we can go.’
‘You’ve done very well,’ Honey said. ‘You’re wasted in Traffic. Thank you. Whatever happens, I won’t drop you or your friend in it.’ She touched the back of his hand. She was aware of another mild stomach-ache. Surely she couldn’t really be developing an ulcer? Perhaps a touch of indigestion. The moment passed.
‘It’s me that owes you thanks.’ Dodson’s usually reliable grammar was slipping under pressure of emotion. ‘I’ll tell you something, Inspector, about yesterday. I owe you. I can go back to clay pigeons now, knowing that it isn’t an end in itself but it’s practice for something real.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t explain the attraction. It’s not the thrill of killing something. I’ve shot rats in a barn before now and it didn’t mean a thing. A big gamebird coming fast, that’s something else. You look at it and you know that it’s good meat. So you say to it, “I want you”. And you swing through quickly and pull the trigger and if you’ve got it right it turns over in the air and comes down with a meaty thump. And then . . . then I watched your dog pick it up and come back looking so proud and happy that . . . I don’t have the words for it.’
‘You’re not doing badly,’ Honey said, smiling. ‘If you’re really keen, I could maybe fix you up with a keeper, helping him out and acting as a beater. That usually gets you a day or two at the pheasants at the end of the season—’
She was interrupted by the appearance of Mrs Marrack, the retired former woman sergeant who acted as secretary and receptionist for the ACC (Crime). She had a bulldog face and a reputation for ferocity. It was said that when she first arrived in the ranks of the uniformed branch there had soon been a measurable drop in the Edinburgh crime figures, largely because many of the criminals had moved back to Glasgow. It was further said that police attack dogs cowered away from her and that, when the day of her retirement arrived, she had obtained her present post simply because nobody had dared to turn her down.
‘You’re here, Inspector Laird?’ she snapped. ‘They’re waiting for you.’
Honey looked at her watch. ‘It isn’t eleven yet. I’m not late.’
‘That doesn’t prevent them waiting for you. Come.’
Honey grabbed the pages that Dodson pushed towards her and followed at heel. Mrs Marrack walked like a marching guardsman. Her grooming was so rigidly disciplined that she made Honey feel that her own careful toilet was slovenly. Honey expected her ulcer to flare again but it remained dormant. Her mind was too busy turning over the available facts to take in her surroundings, but eventually a door was opened, Mrs Marrack announced her name and she found herself in an austere room, but she was aware of walking onto a softer carpet. Mrs Marrack took her coat from her and hung it up with a consideration that had become almost motherly. Honey left Dodson’s paper in the pocket.
‘May I leave my mobile phone with you?’ she asked. ‘There may be a message for me.’
Mrs Marrack nodded and left the room, carrying Honey’s mobile with care.
There were three men in the room. The two men on the far side of the big desk remained seated but Mr Blackhouse, whose back had been towards her and who would usually be the last person to think of offering courtesy to a subordinate, stood and, at a nod from across the desk, even held her chair for her.
Honey’s encounters with Mr Holland, the ACC(Crime), had been limited to his presence during a promotion interview and later a duty dance following a staff dinner. His was not, at first glance, a threatening figure. He was rather small for a profession that still tends to favour the burly and he had a face that in repose was almost kindly. It was looking serious now, but he had the reputation of being fair and working by the book.
He introduced his depute, who Honey had not previously met. Mr Vosp was still in his thirties, substantially younger than his chief, lean and hawk-faced with a head of thin, prematurely greying hair. His eyes were hooded and his face seemed to be set in an almost permanent sneer. He was looking at her in a way that she found hard to interpret but she could be sure that it was not friendly. Honey knew immediately that if there were to be trouble he would be the source of it.
Mr Holland spoke first. ‘This is not a formal disciplinary hearing but a preliminary, fact-gathering meeting. Disciplinary hearings may follow. You understand?’
‘I understand,’ Honey said.
‘The discussion is being recorded and a copy of the tape will be available to you. I should tell you first that Mr Blackhouse has already been interviewed. He accepts that he instructed you to investigate your neighbour, Dr McGordon, despite receiving orders to the contrary.’ Mr Holland paused before resuming. ‘Did you in fact proceed with the investigation.’
Honey had made her mind up. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Knowing that your instructions had been given against orders?’
Honey looked at Mr Blackhouse. He was not looking in her direction but she knew that she was visible in the corner of his eye. She could still cover herself at his expense. But his attitude, often that of a bully, was now, whether he knew it or not, one of pathos. She did not have to like him to have sympathy for him. ‘Yes,’ she said.
The two senior men exchanged a glance. ‘I think that that’s all that we need to know,’ Mr Vosp said briskly.
‘May I ask a question?’ Honey enquired gently.
The two men looked surprised but Mr Holland said, ‘Go ahead.’
‘Would it make any difference to the outcome if I were to tell you that I did arrive at a conclusion.’
‘In my opinion, no,’ Mr Vosp said. ‘This meeting was called in order to decide whether orders had been disobeyed. We now know the answer.’
Mr Blackhouse sat up straight. Honey’s support seemed to have stiffened his backbone. ‘You are implying that there is never any excuse for acting against orders. But, with all respect, that is the kind of argument that has been put up by every minor war criminal since the Nuremberg Trials. It has become clear that orders are no excuse for wrong behaviour. If the order was wrong and should never have been given, then there was justification for ignoring it.’
Mr Vosp drew himself up. ‘In this instance, the orders were clear and legitimate. I resent any suggestion that they were in any way improper.’
‘Superintendent Blackhouse has a point,’ Mr Holland said. ‘It’s certainly an argument that would better be considered at this early stage. Let the inspector tell us what she uncovered.’
‘Off the record,’ Mr Vosp suggested.
‘I would object to that,’ Honey said.
Blackhouse grunted agreement. ‘So would I.’
‘Let’s have a complete record,’ said Mr Holland. ‘We don’t want any suggestion of a cover-up. Carry on, Inspector.’
‘Thank you. You’ll appreciate,’ Honey said, ‘that working from home with no backup, no facilities and no access to official records I could not possibly arrive at a case that would stand up in court. But I am absolutely confident that continued investigation along the same lines will produce a proven case.
‘Dr McGordon and his nephew, Mr Samson, who is a surgeon, have been in the habit of going abroad to give free medical aid in impoverished countries.’
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ Vosp snapped. ‘That fact is well known.’
‘Of course,’ Honey said. ‘But on most such trips they brought back
a patient with them who subsequently underwent surgery in the Gilberton Clinic.’ Honey was only too well aware that she would soon run out of evidence that she could produce. The Doctor’s bank statements, for instance, had been obtained by means that would be far outside the law. The records from Dr McGordon’s medical office were similarly taboo, but more or less so? Her stomach-ache had returned, more insistent. She was tempted to ask whether any of the men had a Rennie. ‘May I play you a piece of tape?’ she enquired.
‘I see no reason why not,’ said the ACC. He produced a cassette recorder from a bottom drawer of the desk. Honey played the recording of the telephone call. As she pressed the key she became aware that her hand was shaking. The three men listened to the voices in silence except for an occasional small sound of surprise or – dared she hope? – disapproval.
‘That doesn’t mean a thing,’ Vosp said. ‘What Mr Samson told you on the phone is much what you’d been told through Mr Blackhouse.’
‘Except,’ said Mr Holland, ‘that Mr Samson was not authorised to make any such threatening remarks and he does seem to have been in possession of information that should never have left this building. We will have to consider both aspects with care but together they come very close to an attempt to pervert the course of justice, wouldn’t you say?’
‘No, I would not,’ Mr Vosp snapped. ‘With respect, Mr Holland, there is not a single threat on that tape; only warnings of consequences that Inspector Laird over-reacted to and seemed and still seems to be bringing on herself. The reference to losing her nose was merely the kind of colloquialism that gets resorted to when discussions get heated.’
The ACC(Crime) looked at his depute for a few seconds before continuing. ‘Except that he went on to refer to the effect that that – um – amputation would have on her baby. That suggests that the threat was literal rather than figurative. But we’ll consider the implications later. Go ahead, Inspector.’
Honey ignored another grumble from her midriff. ‘May I have my cassette back, please? You do have a copy of it in the record now.’
Vosp flared up again. ‘Are you daring to imply that the tape might be tampered with?’
‘The tape is Inspector Laird’s property,’ said Mr Holland tiredly. ‘As she says, we now have a copy.’ He ejected the cassette and handed it across the desk. ‘Now, Inspector.’
‘I have good reason to believe—’ Honey resumed.
There came a peremptory rap at the door and Mrs Marrack entered. ‘There is a phone call for Inspector Laird from one of the chief inspectors,’ she said. ‘He insisted that it was urgent.’
‘It could have waited until after the meeting,’ said Vosp.
Mrs Marrack pierced him with a quelling eye. ‘He said not,’ she retorted. Turning away, she exchanged glances with Honey and – miracle of miracles! – there was the suggestion of a wink.
There would be time later to wonder whether Mrs Marrack was expressing sympathy out of dislike for Mr Vosp or because of a closing of feminist ranks. Honey listened to Sandy’s voice on the phone and relief swelled alongside the baby inside her. It was followed by a nervous spasm. Good news for herself and Mr Blackhouse would be disaster for others. Her stomach was cramping but she gritted her teeth. ‘This is what I was waiting for,’ she said. ‘This is convincing.’
All three men were throwing questions at her but she stuck to her own agenda. She spoke quickly, ignoring the cramps in her stomach. ‘I now have reason to believe that the so-called patients who came to Britain with the two doctors were in fact donors who had come to sell their own organs for transplant.’ She paused and gritted her teeth against a passing spasm. ‘That, of course, is illegal. But it becomes much more serious. I now have information about the last such person—’
She broke off. She had another and overriding concern. They were staring at her but that hardly mattered. She realised that she was sitting in a puddle. She opened her mobile phone again and keyed in the short code for Sandy’s number.
‘I’m sorry about your chair,’ she told the ACC (Crime). Sandy answered his mobile. ‘Come and get me,’ she said. ‘Hurry, hurry, hurry. My water’s broken.’
Chapter Nineteen
That same afternoon Sandy sat at his wife’s bedside, holding her hand while snatching occasional glances into the cot at the foot of the bed where his brand new daughter was sleeping. The midwives agreed that it had been one of the quickest and easiest births in memory. This, they had also agreed, had been because the main participant had seemed to be thinking about something else. The maternity home had been only a five-minute journey by ambulance so that labour, which had already started when the ambulance set out, was still incomplete on arrival. It had lasted for all of a further twenty minutes. Honey recalled the experience as having been painful but not agonising; indeed, the memory of the pain was fading already. She was not even particularly tired but she was relieved to be rid of the extra weight and to be assured that she was nursing a real baby and not an incipient ulcer.
A nurse came round the door. Despite the flattering uniform she was unprepossessing, having buck teeth and spots. ‘There are three men asking to see you,’ she said. ‘They said they’re policemen,’ she added doubtfully.
‘Then it’s probably true,’ Honey said. She was revelling in the fulfilment of motherhood and delighted that both the discomfort of labour and her responsibility in the matter of Dr McGordon were coming to an end. She could feel the beginning of a return of the flippancy that she had thought was gone forever.
Sandy gave the nurse a reproving headshake. ‘You may care to know,’ he said, ‘that my wife is a detective inspector, I’m a chief inspector and the three visitors are almost certainly the Assistant Chief Constable (Crime), his deputy and a detective superintendent. You have under your roof the cream of criminal investigation for Edinburgh and the whole of Lothian and Borders.’
‘You, my boy, are getting above yourself,’ Honey said. ‘All the same, it’s true. And this would not be a good time to tell them to go and bowl their hoops. You may as well let them in.’ She crossed her bed-jacket carefully. Now that the bump was reduced almost to disappearing, her bosom seemed to have become disproportionately pronounced. She glanced at the side table where her tape recorder was waiting.
The three men came in and arranged themselves around the foot of the bed and therefore round the cot. The room, tricked out in tasteful colours and as much soft fabric as was compatible with hygiene, made every effort to seem unlike a hospital room. The visitors were noticeably uncomfortable; as well they might, Honey thought, in what was essentially matriarchal territory after all the fuss and accusations. Mr Blackhouse felt obliged to make the customary cooing noises over the infant; the ACC(Crime) contented himself with a clucking sound and his depute tried to look as though the whole business of procreation was far beneath his notice.
‘So this is my goddaughter!’ Mr Blackhouse announced, thus making a grab for moral ascendancy over the others. ‘What is her name to be?’
‘We haven’t decided yet,’ Sandy said. ‘Suggestions would be welcomed.’
‘We have business to conclude first,’ Mr Holland said. ‘Detective Inspector Laird was about to tell us her conclusions.’
‘We really should not be troubling Mrs Laird at such a time,’ his depute said anxiously.
‘That’s very considerate but you’ve already troubled me by throwing accusations around,’ Honey pointed out. ‘I’m just trying, if I can put it that way, to untrouble myself. You accused me of disobeying orders. But Mr Blackhouse and I found the Constable’s story convincing. We decided to test it. There could be no reason not to do so except for somebody’s desire to protect a friend or relative. Which was the more wicked – disobeying that order or trying to protect a friend from the consequences of a possible crime?’
The air in the room seemed to be filled with tension. Even the baby felt it. She awoke and made small sounds signifying interest.
‘Surely,’ Sandy said, �
�this could have waited at least until my . . . until Inspector Laird gets home.’
‘That was my fault,’ Mr Blackhouse said. ‘I insisted. I didn’t feel that either of us should be kept in suspense any longer.’
That note of apology was so unusual in the Detective Superintendent that Honey, overcome suddenly by maternal feelings towards the whole world, felt an urge to protect him. ‘It couldn’t have waited,’ she said. ‘I’m given to understand that Dr McGordon and his nephew are booked to go on another surgical safari very shortly. Let us by all means clear it up. When we do, I think you’ll see why we shouldn’t waste time, because what has happened before might well happen again. And, by the way, I do feel that this should still go on the record so I asked my husband to hurry home and fetch my cassette recorder. I’m sure that you have no objection.’
‘We have every objection,’ said Mr Vosp. ‘This is all very irregular.’
The ACC(Crime) looked sharply at his depute. ‘No, it isn’t,’ he said. Mr Vosp looked thunderous but remained silent.
Honey nodded to Sandy, who started the tape. ‘I was telling you,’ she said, ‘that Dr McGordon and his nephew brought back patients when returning from most of their trips abroad. That much is public knowledge and has gained them considerable respect. Only it now seems that these were not patients but donors. You’ll be aware that to buy body parts is illegal in this country. Smuggling body parts, or even importing them at all, is fraught with difficulties. The length of time that they are out of a donor’s living body reduces proportionately the chance of a successful implant; and during that time they have to be kept cold, which would add enormously to the difficulty of smuggling. But a very wealthy man in need of an eye or a kidney, or in one instance a testicle –’ (all three men flinched) ‘– will pay very handsomely for such a part, while a peasant with a starving family may sell one of a pair of components for a sum that may seem trifling to us but lifesaving to him.
A Dead Question (Honey Laird Book 2) Page 17
