Ken McClure - Lost causes

‘It is.’

‘Not planning to go ten rounds with him, are you?’ said Plumpton, alluding to Steven’s bandages.

‘I was rather hoping I wouldn’t have to. In fact, I was hoping he’d be a model prisoner?’

This prompted a laugh to escape Plumpton’s mouth before it was entirely free of biscuit, and he wiped the crumbs from the scatter area. ‘They all are. Mainly middle-class chaps with jobs that brought them too tantalisingly close to other people’s money and, in a moment of madness — as their defence counsel would maintain — they gave in to temptation and changed the course of their lives.’

Steven nodded. ‘Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary about Field?’

‘Like what?’

‘Does he have strong views about anything? Politics? The system? The unfairness of it all?’

Plumpton shook his head. ‘Far from it. Some of them seek to atone for past mistakes by going too far the other way, if you know what I mean. They find religion and decide to bring it to the rest of us, devote themselves to lame ducks and good causes, but Field just keeps his head down, does what he’s told and serves his time without comment.’

‘Thanks,’ said Steven. ‘That’s helpful.’

He was shown to an interview room where Field was already waiting. He said who he was and sat down opposite the prisoner. ‘Mr Field, I’d like to ask you about your time at College Hospital in Newcastle.’

‘What would you like to know?’ replied Field in well-modulated tones.

Steven eyed him up, looking for signs of dumb insolence, but found none. ‘Exactly what were you and French and Schreiber up to?’

Field recoiled a little and Steven thought he saw nervous uncertainty in his eyes. ‘What d’you mean? I was the hospital manager. I did my job. End of.’

Steven shook his head. ‘No, no,’ he said with a smile. ‘We both know that’s a bunch of crap. I think you were involved in something that’s going to end up with you moving to a very secure prison indeed, where Leigh will just be a distant memory of holidays past.’

‘I swear to God I had nothing to do with whatever these bastards were up to.’

‘I’m not God and I’m not interested.’

‘Okay, look, I admit I played a part in the Greta Marsh deception but I didn’t have much choice. You didn’t say no to French and that bloody woman Freeman.’

‘Greta Marsh was the patient being operated on when her surgeon died?’

‘That’s right. They didn’t want any publicity. That bloody Freeman woman didn’t seem to give a fuck about her husband dying. All she and the others were interested in was making the press go away. College Hospital was to be about good news, nothing else.’

‘Tell me about the deception.’

‘Greta was left blind and brain-damaged. She was shipped off to an institute called Harrington Hall, and French and his buddies hired an actress to take her place at a press conference to assure everyone that Greta was okay.’

‘And James Kincaid?’

‘Who?’

Steven kept quiet and just stared at Field until he said, ‘Oh, the journalist, right? He kept popping up like a bad smell.’

‘So you killed him.’

‘No, I had nothing to do with that,’ insisted Field, beginning to panic. ‘I admit I was involved in scaring him off after he broke into Harrington Hall and got a bit too close to the truth for comfort, but that’s as far as it went. As God’s my witness…’

‘So what were French and his pals up to? The thing you had no part in…’

‘I don’t know. I was an outsider. They didn’t tell me anything I didn’t need to know. As far as I could see, they seemed to be doing a pretty good job. They ran a very efficient operation that all the staff and patients liked…’

‘But?’

‘Somehow, they weren’t exactly the sort of people you’d expect to be doing that sort of thing, if you know what I mean. They weren’t natural candidates for the caring professions.’

Steven understood his meaning very well. ‘And John Carlisle, where did he come into it?’

‘The health secretary?’ said Field, appearing amused. ‘He popped up at intervals with his entourage and took any credit that was going. He smiled a lot and made the right noises. Did what politicians do.’

‘You said French and Schreiber ran a very efficient operation. What exactly did they do in a practical sense?’

‘French oversaw the computing side of things, Schreiber organised the pharmacy and liaised with the supply company.’

‘Which was?’

‘Lander Pharmaceuticals. I think Schreiber had some connection with them.’

‘And Antonia Freeman? What did she do?’

‘Lady Antonia? God knows, but everyone seemed shit scared of her, like she was the real boss.’

‘Of what?’

Fields shrugged. ‘I dunno. It’s funny. They seemed like a bunch of individuals but they weren’t, if you know what I mean?’

‘No.’

‘Well, they seemed to have access to… back-up services. They knew where to hire an actress to play Greta Marsh. They knew where to come up with heavies when Kincaid had to be warned off. Things like that. It was like they weren’t alone. Little helpers just appeared when they needed them.’

Steven nodded, thinking about someone to open a steam valve. ‘Thank you, Mr Field. I don’t think I need to take up any more of your time.’

‘Take up as much of my “time” as you like,’ said Field. ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Steven, getting up to go. He did not add that one of the main reasons for believing Field was the fact that he had been left alive when all the others hadn’t.

Steven was half an hour into his journey back to Newcastle when Jean Roberts phoned. The courier company had been briefed and would be on site at College Hospital at four p.m. if that was convenient.

Steven checked his watch and said that it would.

‘I’ve also recruited a team to start work as soon as the records arrive. They’re people from the Department of Health, and the permanent under-secretary insists that Sci-Med foots the bill.’

‘No problem.’

‘And one other thing. I’ve managed to trace a doctor who worked with Neil Tolkien at the time of the Northern Health Scheme. She was one of the voluntary team who worked with heroin addicts at the time. Her name is Mary Cunningham; she’s still a GP in the area with a practice in Lamont Avenue.’

‘Excellent. I’ll look her up.’

It was just after six p.m. when Steven watched the second of two courier vans leave College Hospital for London, laden with the medical records of patients treated between 1990 and 1992 when John Carlisle was health secretary and the sun was shining brightly on his career. Drysdale, the clerk of works, was on hand to lock up the cellars and return the trolleys the couriers had been using, and Paul Drinkwater was there to represent hospital management, his brief being ‘to see that things went smoothly’.

‘Will you be bringing them back?’ he asked Steven.

‘Do you want them back?’

‘Not really. They’re officially off-system. It’s just a question of data protection.’

‘We’ll take care of that.’

Steven phoned the surgery in Lamont Avenue and was asked if he was registered with Dr Cunningham. He explained who he was and asked if it might be possible to have a word with Dr Cunningham that evening. A long pause was ended by a suggestion that he come round after evening surgery. She should be finished by seven thirty.

Mary Cunningham proved to be a tall, studious-looking woman, somewhere in her forties, her hair starting to grey and the first lines of age appearing at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She looked over her glasses at Steven as he was shown into her consulting room by a receptionist who already had her coat on, ready to leave.