Stuart Pawson - Deadly Friends

"My name's Priest," I said, 'from Heckley CID. I have an appointment with Dr. Barraclough."

She smiled and tapped a number into a state-of-the-art communications system. I mentally filled in an MFH report on her: five-three, forty-five, hundred and twenty pounds, and stunning with it, in spite of the heavy make-up. She could have saved herself fifty minutes in front of the mirror every morning and still given the odd cardiac arrest to the clinic's male visitors. Her shoulders were like an American foot baller but they may have come with the uniform. The name badge said: "Cicely Henderson, Receptionist'.

"There's Mr. Priest to see you, Dr. Barraclough," she said into a microphone the size of a toothbrush.

The foyer of the clinic was all exposed brickwork, but it looked good.

Chinese rugs were scattered around and a huge shaggy collage hung on a wall, depicting a stylised moorland scene, with mill chimneys in the valleys with smoke streaming from them. The artist must have done that bit from memory. The heating was high, which is always a sign of prosperity.

"Would you like to take a seat, Mr. Priest," she said. "Dr.

Barraclough will be with you in a moment."

I preferred to lean on her desk. "How many reception staff are there, Mrs. Henderson?" I asked.

"Two of us full-time, and two part-timers who cover the weekends," she replied.

"So do you and the other person work different shifts?"

"Yes. We cover from eight in the morning to ten at night."

I was about to say that I'd like a word with her later when a door opened and Dr. Barraclough, Medical Director, swept into the foyer.

"Inspector…" he greeted me, hand extended.

He was wearing a suit that was just a tone too blue, white shirt and complementary striped tie. His hair was a fraction longer than respectable and greying to order at the temples. He could have stepped straight off the set of a Northern Upholstery commercial.

The hand might have been a musician's or a surgeon's, with long, perfectly manicured fingers. I tried not to crush them, although I suspected his livelihood had long-since ceased to depend on them.

"Dr. Barraclough," I said. "Thanks for seeing me at such short notice."

He led me to his office after asking Cicely to make us two coffees, if she didn't mind. "The decent stuff," he added, with a wink.

Her look said that for him she'd gladly have fetched it herself from Brazil, walking all the way with one stiletto heel missing.

The office was tidy and hi-tech, as I'd expected. A photo frame stood on his desk but I could only see the back of it No doubt it helped him resist the temptations of his position and gave off a signal to predators. His window looked up the moor, towards Blea Fell, our local hill.

"Nice view," I said, accepting his invitation to sit down "It is, isn't it? Some of us jog to the top three times a week."

"Really? I'm impressed."

"But I'm not one of them," he added, smiling at his own joke.

"Oh."

"I believe you said your predecessor had broken his leg while skiing, Inspector."

"Yes, I'm afraid so. I've read his reports but I find the personal approach more useful."

"I can understand that. We were all devastated by Clive's Mr. Jordan's death. He was one of the best obs and gynae surgeons in the business and one of the finest human beings I've ever known. The Lord truly moves in mysterious ways How can I help you, Inspector?"

I'd just noticed the tiny crucifix in his lapel. "I believe," I said, 'that you perform abortions here?"

"We do, Inspector, but do not confuse that by assuming we approve of them. Nobody approves of abortion. It is wrong, full stop. However, the issue is not as simple as that. I'm sure you know the arguments, but to fast forward to the bottom line, the attitude of the White Rose Clinic is to be in favour of giving the prospective mother the informed choice of either continuing with the pregnancy or having a termination.

Ultimately, it is between her and God, or her conscience. We create a safe, non-judge mental environment in which she can reach a decision, and supply all the counselling and medical support she needs. We consider this to be a responsible approach to a very difficult situation."

Perhaps, I thought. "And Dr. Jordan actually performed the terminations?" I suggested.

"Yes, he did."

"So how many would he do?"

"Most of our other clients are with us for two, sometimes three, days.

We work to a cycle which means most beds are available on Wednesdays and Saturdays, which is when we perform the terminations. The usual figure is somewhere between a dozen and… oh, as many as twenty on a Wednesday, with perhaps six or eight on a Saturday."

Cicely came in with the coffee and returned the smile I gave her. This time I decided to indulge myself, and used the cream and sugar.

I quizzed the doctor about the workings of a private clinic. He was helpful and completely at ease with the situation. The cosmetic surgery was usually done on Mondays and Thursdays, by surgeons moonlighting from other hospitals, although he didn't use that word.

He'd moved into administration early in his career, after finding that "It was all something over nothing," he said, his brow furrowed with concentration, 'but I can't remember the details. It was completely unfounded, I can assure you of that. We'd just opened, and Clive had been highly recommended to us, then this happened, at the General. It put a bit of a cloud over him for a few weeks, but it all blew over.

Your best bet will be to ask at the General they'll tell you all about it."

"If I can find someone to ask," I said. "If I can cut through all the red tape. If I can find someone who doesn't start telling me about confidentiality. There are ways of extracting information from institutions like the General, Dr. Barraclough, but like I said, I prefer the personal approach. I'd be very grateful if you could give me a head start."

"Yes, I know what you mean, but I'm sure it was all a storm in a teacup."

"It might not have been a storm in a teacup to the complainant."

"You mean someone might have borne him a grudge?"

"Something like that."

"Could you leave it with me, Inspector? You're quite right, there was something, a few days after he joined us, but it all blew over. I'd forgotten all about it but it should be in there, somewhere. My secretary is off today, but I'll ask her to dig out Clive's file, first thing in the morning, if that's OK?"

"That will be fine. I'll look forward to hearing from you and thanks for your cooperation."

I went down the short corridor that led back to the foyer. I thought about standing there and yelling: "Step forward everybody that Clive Jordan was shagging!" but decided it might be against Dr.

Barraclough's guidelines, and I didn't want anyone killed in the stampede. I'd have to do it the hard way.

Mrs. Cicely Henderson was not one of the names I'd highlighted, but I decided to start with her. I like to keep my methods flexible.

"Thanks for the coffee," I said.

"You're welcome," she replied. "Was Dr. Barraclough able to help you?"

"Yes, he was. And he's given me permission to talk to all the staff, so I've decided to start with you." I gave her my lopsided grin and just knew her legs were turning to jelly Some of her make-up had rubbed off on to the edge of her tunic's mandarin collar. She'd have to have a fresh clean one every day, eye-squinting white and crisp as an iceberg lettuce. I wondered what she was like at ironing shirts I told her about Makinson' sbroken leg, just to be friendly and explained that I was doing follow-up interviews. Someone had spoken to her early in the enquiry, but she'd said that she rarely saw the doctor and had heard no scurrilous gossip about him.