Quintin Jardine - Gallery Whispers

'Well,' she said at last. 'If it'll reassure that big daft bugger of a husband of mine, why not. Hang on here a minute. I'll ask my neighbour to keep an eye on the kids and the cat, till Neil gets home, then I'll write a note for him, and we can be off.'

She moved towards the back door. 'That sure is a lovely cat,' Sarah remarked, casually.

'Samson? Yes. The kids spoil him rotten.' As she turned to answer, Sarah noticed, for the first time, a small lump on the right side of her neck.

'St Martha's.' Andy Martin read the name aloud. That was all there was, picked out in gold lettering on the small green board, fixed to the gate-post at the entrance to the big red sandstone villa, in one of the quietest streets in the Grange, one of the wealthiest of Edinburgh's southern suburbs.

'Doesn't tell you a lot, does it?'

'No,' said Mackie, 'as private clinics go this one seems almost secret.'

'Let's go and find out what secrets they are keeping.'

The Head ofCID locked his silver Mondeo and led the way up the gravel path, holding a huge golf umbrella as shelter against the rain.

The storm doors of the clinic were open as they reached them, revealing a big grey-glass-panelled door inside. As Martin folded the umbrella in the wide vestibule, Mackie tried the door handle. It turned and they stepped inside.

The entrance hall was a study in mahogany. The polished floor shone, a heavy balustrade ran up the wide stairway which led to the upper floor, and a huge piece of furniture, all coat hooks and mirrors, stood against one wall, facing a varnished door, on which the word 'Reception' was etched on a brass plate.

Mackie tried the second door, but it was locked. As he frowned at the Head ofCID a woman appeared at the rear of the big hallway. 'I'm afraid our office is closed, gentlemen,' she said, sharply. 'In any event we do not receive representatives without appointment.'

'You will receive us, though, madam,' the detective chief superintendent barked back at her, producing his warrant card as he spoke.

'We are police officers.' Afterwards it occurred to Brian Mackie that Andy Martin normally would have seen the funny side of her remark.

'I see,' murmured the woman, examining his card, and Mackie's, closely. She looked to be in her early fifties, dressed in a severe grey skirt and pullover, which almost matched her hair. It was drawn back in a bun. 'I, in mm, am Miss Emma Pople,' she said, through thin lips. This woman has all the warmth of a mackerel, thought Mackie. 'I am the administrator here. What is the reason for your visit?'

'What services do you provide here?' Martin asked.

'We provide convalescent facilities for Roman Catholic ladies recovering from surgery, or other debilitating treatments. St Martha's is owned by an Order of nuns. Some of our patients are themselves sisters.'

'Who attends your patients?'

'Usually they are seen by the surgeons or physicians in whose care they have been.'

'Do you have surgical facilities here?'

'We have a small theatre, for emergencies. We don't have Health Board approval for everyday surgery.'

'Ah, I see. So is that why you obstructed our pathologist colleague when she called you earlier on today?'

For this first time, Emma Pople looked unsure of herself. 'You remember,' Martin went on. 'Her name's Dr Skinner. She called this clinic earlier today asking for information on a Mrs Gaynor Weston; more specifically whether she had ever been a patient here. You did speak to her, didn't you?'

The woman's mouth set even tighter. 'That is correct. I was unable to help her.'

'No, Miss Pople, you refused to help her. Told her to get a court order, I believe.'

'I may have done. I may tell you the same thing.'

'Just you do that, ma'am,' said the Head of CID, evenly. 'In that event, Mr Mackie and I will take you at your word. We'll go to the Sheriff, and he'll give us a warrant to search these premises. But we won't do it privately, or even quietly. We'll make a fuss about it in the media, and we'll make damn sure Lothian Health Board hears about it too.

'Is that what you want? Would the Holy Sisters appreciate the publicity? Would the Health Board like what we might find?'

Emma Pople looked at him, and realised that he would do exactly as he threatened. Her grey armour seemed to crack.

'Very well,' she muttered, defeated. 'Come through to my office.'

The television was still on when Olive Mcllhenney showed Sarah into her living room. But this time Neil was watching, shirt-sleeved and alone, as the opening titles of The Bill showed on the screen.

'Looking for tips on policing?' Sarah ventured, with an awkward smile.

The big sergeant turned to look at her. He began to heave himself out of his chair, until she waved him to stay seated. 'I was mocking the afflicted, actually,' he answered. 'None of those buggers would last five minutes with the boss. That CID room of theirs is a joke; most of them seem to be sat on their backsides all day.'

'Kids upstairs?' Olive asked. He nodded in reply. 'I'll just go and see what they're up to. You have a chat with Sarah.' A quick look passed between husband and wife. Sarah saw it and thought that she had never seen so much said without words, in only a moment in time.

'You've got something to tell me,' he said quietly, as the door closed.

As she looked at him, she felt fear's cold hand clutch her stomach.

This was not something she had ever done before; not to a friend at least. None of her training had covered this moment. 'Yes, Neil, I have. Olive asked me to explain things to you alone, while she's with Lauren and Spencer.

'She and I have just been to the Chest Clinic at the Western. We saw Dr Miller, one of the registrars there. She's a very fine doctor; we couldn't have seen anyone better. She sent Olive for an X-ray: when the print came back it showed a big patch covering most of the lower part of her right lung. The left one is clear.' She paused.

'What does that mean?' Neil asked, speaking slowly as if to keep his voice steady.

'It could have meant pneumonia, with other symptoms, or pleurisy.

In the present circumstances the next stage of investigation would normally have been a bronchoscopy. That's a procedure in which an instrument is passed into the lung, and a piece of tissue is snipped out, for biopsy.

'However Dr Miller found a lump in one of the lymphatic glands at the base of the neck. She took tissue from that with a needle and sent that for analysis. I persuaded her to call in a favour from someone in the lab, and have it rushed through while we were there.'

She stopped, to gather herself and to fight back the tears which she knew were not far away. 'A biopsy tests for malignancy, Neil. I am afraid that Olive's was positive. She has what is known as a non-small cell carcinoma of the right lung. It's at a fairly advanced stage, since it has metastasised into the lymphatic system.'

She looked at the big detective, and he stared back at her. 'Are you telling me that Olive has lung cancer, Sarah? Is that what all that stuff means?'

'Yes.' Her answer was a whisper, yet it seemed to fill the room.

Neil sagged back into his chair, feeling the cold sweep through his body, feeling his heart hammering in his chest, feeling a panic akin to nausea rising in his throat. 'What are our chances?' he asked, his voice as quiet as hers.

'All the better with you at her side,' Sarah replied. 'This disease can't be cured, but there are treatments which can drive it into remission. Dr Miller has arranged an appointment with one of the consultants in the Department of Clinical Oncology at the Western General. His name's Derek Simmers: he's fitting Olive in at his Friday Clinic, tomorrow afternoon at two fifteen.'