Ken McClure - Lost causes

‘Consider it done,’ said Macmillan. ‘I’ll put something down in writing and send it over in the morning. Now, are you going to bring me up to speed?’

Steven did so. He was genuinely delighted to see Macmillan apparently almost back to his old self. He sat, listening without interruption, looking off into the middle distance, as was his habit, but, as Steven knew only too well, taking absolutely everything in. When he’d finished, Macmillan continued to sit in silence for a few moments before saying, ‘No wonder the Northern Health Scheme was so bloody efficient. They didn’t address problems: they buried them.’

‘That’s certainly what it looks like,’ Steven agreed. ‘But it’s going to take some work to prove it and establish exactly how they did it.’

‘If all this should turn out to be true, the meeting in Paris could have been the first step in starting up the whole thing all over again.’

‘Presumably the prospect of a change of government and an easier administration to infiltrate brought their long hibernation to an end.’

‘But something went wrong. Instead of conducting a secret meeting in Paris, away from prying eyes, they ended up dead. Any ideas?’

‘The killer had to be one of their own,’ said Steven, giving his reasons for thinking so, and adding, ‘Apart from anything else, you don’t go around with a lump of Semtex in your pocket on the off chance

…’

‘Quite so,’ Macmillan conceded.

‘I’d like to think that one of them had an attack of conscience and decided to put a stop to things for once and for all, but… there are alternative explanations.’

‘Like?’

‘Internecine strife? A policy disagreement? A takeover bid?’

Steven went on to tell Macmillan of his doubts surrounding John Carlisle’s suicide. ‘It looks to me as if someone went for a complete wipe-out of the old guard, including Carlisle.’

‘In order to do what?’ mused Macmillan.

‘Now ain’t that the big question. I suppose it could be the same thing again. It could have been that the others in Paris weren’t keen to try that. The scheme seemed to work well enough the first time. If it hadn’t been for James Kincaid and his interfering little band, it could well have spread across the whole country, the end result being

…’

‘A leaner, fitter, richer nation,’ said Macmillan with a wry smile. ‘Right-wing politics do have that unhappy knack of appealing to plain, ordinary common sense, don’t they? It’s only when you start uncovering the pits full of bodies that you see the reality.’

A middle-aged woman in nurse’s uniform knocked and entered. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. Time’s up, Sir John,’ she said, pointing to the face of the watch hanging on the front of her dress. ‘You don’t want to overdo things when you’ve been doing so well.’

‘Sorry, Steven,’ he said. ‘Keep me informed. I’ll get that letter to the Home Office in the morning.’

James Black, the new head of the Schiller Group in his guise as the secretary of the competitions committee of Redwood Park golf club, had called a meeting at only four hours’ notice, so he wasn’t sure how many would make it to the private function room at the usual restaurant by the suggested time of eight p.m. In the event all had arrived by twenty past.

‘I take it we’re not about to be given good news,’ said Toby Langton.

A murmur came from the others.

‘Nothing we should be greatly concerned about, but I thought it best you should know. Sci-Med has started to take an interest in the old Northern Health Scheme.’

‘And we shouldn’t be concerned?’ exclaimed Constance Carradine. ‘That’s the last thing we need.’

‘What in God’s name made them do that?’ asked Rupert Coutts.

‘Take it easy,’ said Black. ‘They’re not exactly knocking at our door. They probably looked at the identities of the dead in Paris to see what they had in common, made the connection to John Carlisle…’

‘And came up with the Northern Health Scheme,’ completed Elliot Soames. ‘I don’t like it.’

‘How much do they know?’ asked Langton.

‘What is there to know?’ said Black. ‘The scheme was very popular and highly successful in its time. Everyone behind it is now dead. Sic transit gloria mundi and all that.’

‘I still don’t like it,’ said Constance. ‘Sci-Med have a reputation for picking away at things.’

‘How did you find out about this?’ asked Toby Langton.

Black hesitated before answering, knowing that his reply would not help to settle nerves. ‘A contact in the police forensic service told me that Sci-Med weren’t convinced Carlisle took his own life.’

‘Jesus Christ, they’re really onto us,’ said Coutts.

‘Whoa,’ said Black. ‘The pathologist’s initial report was confirmed.’

‘Thank God for that.’

‘I heard that the head of Sci-Med was seriously ill,’ said Soames.

‘He is.’

‘So who started asking questions about Carlisle?’

‘Someone called Dr Steven Dunbar, Sci-Med’s chief investigator apparently.’

‘Do we know what made him suspicious?’ asked Constance.

‘I understand he went to see Carlisle’s wife.’

‘Do we know why?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe we should ask her?’

‘I considered that,’ said Black. ‘She’s out of the country, in South Africa, getting over the demise of John. Look, I think we’re worrying unnecessarily here. There’s nothing to connect French and the others and what they did to us. They’re all dead.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Coutts. ‘Still, the thought of Sci-Med nosing around is… disconcerting.’

‘It’s my bet their interest is over,’ said Black. ‘They probably felt obliged to take an interest in the Paris deaths and the suicide of an ex-health secretary and now it’s over.’

‘If you say so,’ said Coutts. ‘But it wouldn’t do any harm to keep an ear open.’

‘We should certainly do that,’ agreed Black. ‘But they’re an independent lot. Tend not to advertise what they’re up to.’

‘What do we know about Dunbar?’ asked Constance.

‘Rumour has it he’s good at his job, but it’s my understanding that he’d actually left Sci-Med but came back to stand in for Sir John Macmillan when he fell ill. Probably just holding the fort. Going through the motions. Perhaps now you’d like to hear how things are going with our plans?’

‘There are no official hospital records from the time of the Northern Health Scheme,’ said Jean Roberts. ‘The practice Dr Neil Tolkien was a partner in ceased to exist fifteen years ago. No record of patient reallocation was kept, and no one can remember anything about the drug rehabilitation scheme he was involved in. All thoroughly depressing.’

‘Damnation,’ said Steven. ‘But you said “official” hospital records?’

‘I thought you might latch on to that,’ said Jean with a smile. ‘Apparently hospitals like to get rid of records as soon as they possibly can, so when the legal requirement time for keeping them passes they simply don’t exist on the system any more. That doesn’t actually mean that they’ve been destroyed. They’re often not, a bit like deleted items on the hard disk of a computer. They’re still there; they just don’t have a label any more and you can’t reference them.’

‘And?’

‘There’s a reasonable chance that the files still exist in physical form somewhere in the basement of College Hospital. Apparently it’s a warren of cellars and tunnels that people use for storage when they’re pressed for space upstairs. My informant couldn’t guarantee that what you’re interested in will be down there but there’s a chance.’