Quintin Jardine - Gallery Whispers

'That's the way it is in their world. They deal in rumour and suggestion, not substance; they stand sightless in some damn great gallery, picking up each and every whisper, analysing them, giving them form and putting them together until the jigsaw picture is complete; or at least recognisable.'

Skinner leaned back in his chair. 'So, inspector, what murmurings have you been picking up around your patch?'

McGuire shook his head. 'So far, boss, the silence has been deafening.'

Neil Mcllhenney stared out of the only window in the small consulting room. It looked on to a car park, in which every space seemed to be occupied. 'I never realised' he whispered, to himself.

'What?' said Olive sharply, beside him.

'Sorry love,' he replied. 'I was thinking out loud. The car parks here; there are so many of them, and they're all full. I never realised that there were so many sick people.'

'You just concentrate on this one!' The strain in her voice tore at his heart; he reached across and took her hand, feeling the pressure as she squeezed his.

'Sure, love, sure.'

They had been in the clinic for just over two hours. In that time, Olive had been weighed, examined by a thin-faced girl who had introduced herself as Dr Berry, Mr Simmers' registrar, and sent for a scan. A few minutes before they had been called back into the consulting room.

They looked over their shoulders, simultaneously, as the door opened. A tall, well-built, fair-haired, round-faced man strode into the room, wearing a white coat and with the tool of his trade, a stethoscope, hanging from his neck. 'Good afternoon,' he said. 'I'm Mr Simmers, your consultant. Sorry to have kept you waiting; I'm afraid that the first consultation always seems to take for ever. That's because there are so many things we have to do.'

He sat, not behind his desk, but on it, and looked directly at Olive.

At once Neil was struck by the gentleness of his eyes and by the calmness of his expression. From out of nowhere, an inexplicable feeling of relief swept over him.

'The first thing I have to ask you, Mrs Mcllhenney, is this. Do you understand what is happening to you?'

'Yes,' she replied; the word was clipped, but controlled.

'That's good. In these situations we can't afford to prevaricate. You have an incurable disease, Mrs Mcllhenney; we can't avoid that fact.

You have a carcinoma of the right lung in the second stage of development. Now I use the word incurable because that in clinical terms is what it is. However it is not untreatable; there are ways of attacking your tumour, and the secondary growth.

'Surgery isn't an option here, not with the metastasis in the lymphatic system. But we do have the options of chemotherapy or radiation therapy or a mixture of both. There is a chance that if you react favourably, your cancer can be driven into remission, possibly indefinitely. Looking at your X-Ray, and on the basis of Dr Berry's examination, I would propose that we start you on a course of chemotherapy. Radiation might have a part to play later, depending on the rate of progress, but not just yet.'

For the first time, the consultant looked at Neil, then back to Olive.

His gentle blue eyes were unblinking. 'I'm not going to play anything down here. These treatments are aggressive, and the side-effects… at least initially… will be unpleasant. You'll experience a day or two of fairly violent sickness, but we'll do what we can to control that, using steroids.

'However…' He paused. 'However; there is a further alternative which I have to put to you, and that is that we simply give you palliative treatments and concentrate on keeping you as well and as comfortable as possible, for as long as possible. The choice has to be yours.'

To her complete surprise, she smiled at him. 'You mean I can give up?' she asked. Then, without waiting for a reply, she looked sideways at Neil, raising her eyebrows very slightly. He gave the briefest of nods.

Olive Mcllhenney turned back to the consultant. 'As my husband would say, if I didn't have him so well trained,' she said, 'bugger that for a game of soldiers.

'When do we start the treatment?'

'Neil doesn't have the problem, Andy. It's Olive who's in bother.'

'Cancer?'

'Look, don't ask me about it, man. The big fella asked me for help and I got Sarah involved. If he wants to tell anyone about what's happening, he will. But until he does say something, you and Mackie forget about seeing them. Okay?'

Martin nodded, emphatically. 'Absolutely. I'll call Brian to let him know; not that he's an office gossip type, mind you. Christ,' he said, 'it's a cliche, I know, but something like this doesn't half put your own troubles into perspective.'

'Don't talk to me about them either. Sarah and I have decided that you and Alex can sort your own lives out. Selfish bastards we may be, but you two are adults. Only you know how you feel.'

He spun away from the window of his office. 'Let's change the subject. How's the Weston investigation coming along?'

'It's not going to be a quick fix,' the Head of CID replied. 'That much I do know. The husband looked like a good bet, but he claimed that he was at home in bed with his wife. Brian's gone to interview the lady, but I've no doubt he was telling the truth.'

'Anyone else in the frame?'

'Well, there's the son, Raymond. Professor Weston let slip that he has a car up in Aberdeen, so it's possible that he could have driven down to Oldbams. He's only a kid, though; just eighteen. I don't think for a minute that his mother would have involved him in helping to end her life.'

'Still, he'll have to be interviewed,' said Skinner.

'Sure, I know, but it's not a priority. No, there's one other line of enquiry open to us. Mrs Weston was killed with a pharmaceutical quality drug. If we can trace the source…'

'You're sure it couldn't have been street heroin?'

'Bob, the stuff was absolutely pure. If anything like that was in circulation, we'd be finding bodies all over the city.'

'Aye, I suppose you're right. So what are you going to do about it?'

'We're doing it right now. Rose and Steele are contacting the Chief Pharmacists in every hospital in the city, asking them to verify their stocks of diamorphine, and report any short-falls. The Drugs Squad maintains regular contact with the only manufacturer in the area, but their procedures and security are exemplary, so I don't believe for one moment that the stuff that killed Mrs Weston came from there.'

The big DCC sat on the edge of the Chief's desk. 'It's bloody difficult to nick heroin from a hospital pharmacy as well. The stuff's kept under lock and key, and only released on a doctor's signature.' He looked across at Martin. 'But maybe if you were a doctor… a consultant, even.'

'But Nolan Weston didn't do it.'

'According to his wife. Come on, Andy; if you had solid circumstantial evidence against some hooligan and he offered his wife as an alibi, would you accept it at face value? Bloody sure you wouldn't.

Professor's wives don't tell porkies? Is that what you're saying to me?'

'Touche!' The chief superintendent laughed, gently. 'However if you were a juror — not a cynical bastard of a copper, but an ordinary, innocent, conscientious juror — and the nice, pregnant Prof's wife stood up in the witness box and swore on the Bible that when her predecessor was off-ed, she was making him a nice cup of hot chocolate, would you believe her? Almost certainly, you would.' It was Skinner's turn to smile.

'Anyway,' continued Martin. 'I believe Weston.'

The acting chief constable pushed himself off the desk and took two steps back to the window. 'Okay, I won't argue with that.' Suddenly his right hand shot up, index finger pointing at his colleague. 'So Weston didn't do it. But maybe he supplied the diamorphine.'