John Harvey - Cutting Edge

“The number of operations that are carried out …”

“Please”-Skelton spread his hands-“Mr. Salt, even if such issues were my concern, you would not have to convince me that what you say is true.”

Salt cleared his throat and stretched out his legs, drawing them back up again towards his chair.

Skelton glanced over at Patel and nodded.

“The operation to remove Mr. Ridgemount’s gallbladder, sir, the anesthetist was Alan Imrie and his assistant was Amanda Hooson.”

“Correct.”

“At the time of the operation, Tim Fletcher was attached to you as a junior houseman?”

“I believe … I should need to check to be … Yes, yes. I suppose it’s possible.”

“The surgical ward in which Mr. Ridgemount was a patient, Karl Dougherty was a staff nurse on that ward.”

“He may have been. I’m sure you know that better than I.”

“Dougherty, Fletcher, Hooson-after the last of these, at least, why didn’t you come forward?” Skelton asked.

“I had never drawn the connection you are suggesting.”

“Never?”

“Superintendent, Dougherty may have been one of the nurses who cared for Mr. Ridgemount. During his time at the hospital, so would a good many others. And as for Fletcher, I can’t imagine that his contact would have been more than peripheral.”

“So you never thought it might be relevant-what happened to Ridgemount?”

“What he alleges happened.”

Skelton looked at the consultant keenly. “He made it up?”

“An operation, Superintendent, it’s a traumatic thing. It has been known for patients to hallucinate, for their imaginations to distort what actually happened under the anesthetic.”

“And you’re saying that’s what happened in Ridgemount’s case?”

“I’m saying it’s a possibility.”

“It’s also a possibility that he was telling the truth.”

“Yes.”

“Ridgemount,” said Patel, “he was threatening legal action also.”

Bernard Salt nodded. “At one time.”

“Against yourself, the senior anesthetist, and the health authority?”

“So I believe.”

“You’ve no idea, sir,” asked Patel, “why the action was dropped?”

“None. Although, my supposition at the time was that whoever had been advising him didn’t consider his case strong enough to take to court. Either that, or he changed his own mind about what actually happened.” Salt made a point of looking at his watch. “Gentlemen,” he said, rising to his feet, “I am in danger of being late for theater.”

“The anesthetist in charge that day,” Patel said as they were passing through the door, “Imrie, wasn’t he also involved in the cesarean section? The case that was settled out of court?”

“I believe he was.”

“If we wanted to speak to him?” Patel said. “He no longer appears to be on the staff of the hospital.”

“Eight months after the Ridgemount operation,” replied Salt, turning in the corridor to face the two policemen, “when legal action was still threatened, Alan Imrie committed suicide.”

Instead of going directly to the operating theater, Bernard Salt went to Helen Minton’s ward, where she was just finishing hand-over.

“I assume this is more of your dried-up spite. Dragging this wretched Ridgemount affair back into the open.”

Helen Minton arched her back and stood her ground. “I thought telling people of your inadequacies as a man was not enough. I thought they should understand how far the same inability to face the truth or to accept your responsibilities is present in your professional life as well.”

While this confrontation was taking place, a zoology student named Ian Bean, fresh back from a field trip to Robin Hood’s Bay, walked into Skelton’s station and asked to speak to whoever was in charge of the Amanda Hooson murder inquiry.

Less than an hour later, Ian Carew was released from police custody without charge, thirty-two hours after he had been arrested.

“Whatever you do or don’t do,” Ridgemount said to his son, “don’t be forgetting the split peas. One thing I don’t want, come back out of breath from pedaling up that hill, find the peas have gone to mush, bottom of the pan burned out. Am I understood?”

“Umh,” grunted Calvin, headphones pushed tight inside his ears. “Urn, umh, umf.” What he liked about those old bands like Black Sabbath, when they hit a rhythm it stayed hit.

“Calvin!”

Calvin’s eyes widened and he swayed out of his father’s reach. Headphones were going to be removed, he’d do it himself.

“You hear what I said?”

“Split peas, watch ’em. Satisfied?” Sound squeaked from the headphones that dangled from one hand.

“Listening to that garbage the whole time, turned up loud as it can go, be deaf this side of twenty-one.”

“Better than being a fool.”

Calvin started down the stairs to his room, his father standing by the front door, pointing his finger. “Take care, boy. Just you take care.” Whether he was still going on about the peas, or meant Calvin’s mouth, Calvin didn’t know.

“Whatever else we’ve done on this one,” Skelton said, “we’ve not exactly covered ourselves in glory. The Assistant Chief’s already had the Senior Consultant Anesthetist on the phone talking about undermining public confidence, asking where the virtue is in unnecessarily tarnishing professional reputations, causing additional distress to the relatives of the dead.”

“Imrie?”

Skelton nodded.

“Not much concern about the poor bloody patient in all that lot.”

“Closing ranks, Charlie. We know about that as well as anyone. A copper stands accused, one of the public brings a complaint, nine cases out of ten, what’s the first thing we do? Get the waggons round and form a circle. Keep the buggers out. Doctors, they’re no worse than any others.”

“Maybe, sir.”

“All I’m saying, Charlie, if we are close to something, let’s not screw it up. Take care. Just take care.”

“Right,” Resnick said. “Kid gloves.”

David McCarthy had promised Resnick fifteen minutes, no more, a meeting in the brasserie on High Pavement, across from St Mary’s Church. Around the corner, in Commerce Square, the first of the old Victorian lace factories was in the hands of the developers and would soon be architect-designed studio apartments, luxury condominiums, a gymnasium, a pool, a sauna.

Resnick had met McCarthy once before and recognized him as he came in, a slightly hunted look, briefcase in one hand, portable telephone in the other. He was finishing a call as he came through the door.

“So,” McCarthy said, carrying his glass of Aqua Libra over to the corner Resnick had staked out, “why the renewed interest in this old chestnut?”

Briefly, Resnick told him.

McCarthy leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. Cuff links, Resnick thought, noticing the solicitor’s pale blue shirt, thought they were a thing of the past. Like those daft suspenders for men’s socks.

“You’re not, of course, asking for anything that might be considered privileged information?”

“What I want to know,” Resnick said, “why was the action dropped?”

“Client’s wishes.”

“Not your recommendation?”

“Absolutely not. We had every chance of building up a good case.”

“If anything, then, you’d have been encouraging him to stay with it?”

“Financially, it would have served his interests best.”

“But not in other ways?”

McCarthy took a drink, glanced at his phone as if it were about to ring. “A similar situation to cases of rape, balance out the distress a client is put through reliving the experience in court against the potential gains. Here’s a man, held down, physically violated, and powerless to do anything about it at the time. How much does he want to talk about it, describe it, have what he believes to be true attacked, even ridiculed? No, he decided enough was enough.”