Ken McClure - Dust to dust

A cloud of doubt swirled back in. Maybe he couldn’t eliminate the possibility that Michael Kelly had died in the UK after all. Maybe it was his dead body that had been returned to Afghanistan.

More and more, his attention was being drawn towards the London bone marrow transplant. How had a Royal Marine serving in Afghanistan come to be selected as the donor? Who was the patient? He must have had something more than money going for him to merit this kind of hush-up. Unwittingly echoing the Motrams’ assessment of the patient’s possible identity, Steven supposed the ante could have been raised considerably by his being a member of one of the ruling families in the Gulf that the UK and US depended on for support; he could even con ceivably be a powerful figure in a not-so-friendly administration who had been forced to seek medical help in London without the knowledge of the opposition in his own country — a favour to be called in at a later date. But advanced leukaemia at a stage that required a last-ditch bone marrow transplant wasn’t really something that could be hidden that well…

Steven got off the bus and found a quiet spot to call Sci-Med. He asked that they make immediate enquiries at the Ministry of Defence regarding the current location and welfare of Marine James Leslie, serving with 45 Commando in the Northern Battle Group in Helmand Province. He hoped that having Sci-Med express an interest might make others think twice about initiating any adverse action against him.

Steven had a beer and a sandwich in a city centre pub before calling Tally on his way back to the car park. He was redirected to her answer service. This was nothing new. Life as an NHS hospital doctor meant that she could rarely answer during the day. He left her a message, saying that he’d finished in Scotland and could stop off on the way back if that was all right with her. He asked that she leave him a message if it wasn’t.

He stopped at a service station some three hours later to take on fuel and have a break. The sun had come out, so he took a stroll around the car park and found a spot where the boundary fence backed on to farmland to call John Macmillan. He told him about the attack on Brian Kelly.

‘That explains your earlier call,’ said Macmillan. ‘The duty officer told me you’d requested information on Marine James Leslie from the MOD. Actually, it’s just come in…’

‘That was quick.’ The slight pause that ensued made the hairs on the back of Steven’s neck stand on end. ‘And?’

‘Marine Leslie died in a car accident yesterday. He’d been home in the UK on compassionate leave; his partner lost her baby recently. He was driving up to HMS Condor in Arbroath where 45 Commando are based.’

‘But they’re in Afghanistan just now,’ interrupted Steven.

‘They’re due home in April,’ said Macmillan. ‘I suppose someone decided there was no point in sending him back out to Helmand if they were all coming home next month.’

‘So they sent him up to Arbroath instead.’

‘His car left the road between Dundee and Arbroath at around three p.m. yesterday. Police are appealing for witnesses.’

Steven let out a snort of anger. ‘I think I want to call a Code Red on this.’

‘Agreed,’ said Macmillan without argument.

By agreeing to Code Red status, Macmillan was sanctioning the upgrading of Steven’s preliminary investigation into a fully funded Sci-Med inquiry. Full Home Office backing would be accorded to him, including the right to demand police cooperation where necessary. He would also have access to a number of other facilities ranging from financial provisions to expert scientific analysis. A duty officer at Sci-Med would be assigned to him specifically — actually three, giving round-the-clock cover — and he would have the right to bear arms if he thought it necessary. Unlike chain-of-command organisations, Sci-Med investigators could conduct their inquiries exactly as they saw fit. Any repercussions would be left until after the inquiry was over.

‘Any thoughts?’ Macmillan asked.

‘Route one.’ I’m going to ask Sir Laurence Samson and St Raphael’s Hospital what the hell’s been going on.’

‘And when you get nowhere?’

‘I’m going out to Afghanistan. Michael Kelly’s the key to this whole business. I need to know where and when he died.’

‘And the why?’

‘That’ll come.’

‘How was bonny Scotland?’ asked Tally with a smile when Steven arrived at her flat just before eight o’clock.

‘Less than bonny,’ replied Steven. ‘I’ve called a Code Red on the whole thing.’

Tally stopped pouring them a drink and turned to stare at Steven. ‘What happened to dull, boring inquiries?’ she asked.

‘One academic with his brains scrambled and now two dead marines,’ said Steven, knowing that he was skating on thin ice with Tally.

‘So what’s in store for you, Steven? Brains scrambled or just plain dead?’

‘Look, I know how you must feel after last time…’

‘Do you, Steven? Do you really?’

‘Look, Tally, I don’t go looking for trouble… it just happens sometimes.’

‘Maybe they’ll say that at the service after your body is recovered from a burnt-out car or riddled with bullets. I’ll stand there, dressed in black, being brave, hearing you being given the thanks of a grateful nation… Like fuck I will!’

There was an electrifying pause. Tally’s temper was struggling with the tears running down her face. ‘Why don’t you just let the police investigate this?’ she demanded.

‘They wouldn’t know where to start; the military are involved…’ said Steven weakly.

‘Well, the military police?’

‘There are medical aspects to the case that…’

‘Only Steven Dunbar understands,’ interrupted Tally.

‘If you like,’ said Steven quietly.

Tally fixed Steven with a stare that seemed to go on for ever. ‘I love you, Tally,’ he began.

‘And I love you too, Steven,’ said Tally. ‘But this kind of life is not for me. I’d like you to go now please.’

Steven drove back to London.

Steven sought comfort in the arms of gin and tonic when he got in. It was late; he was tired; he felt low and any argument from his conscience that he was just feeling sorry for himself was dismissed without further consideration as he refilled his glass and slumped back down in his chair by the window to gaze up at the stars in the cloudless sky — the ones he could see against the light pollution of the city. It was impossible not to think here we are again as yet another love affair looked set to founder on the rocks of his job.

Maybe Tally would come round or maybe she wouldn’t and this really was the end. Maybe he should be soul-searching, analysing, considering his position as the doomed were always advised to do… No, gin was better. The pain was easing; the edges were already becoming blurred, so hazy even that a wry smile crossed his lips when he thought that at least he wouldn’t have to tell Tally he was going to Afghanistan.

Next morning, Steven slept late before spending a long time in the shower and downing three cups of strong coffee before he even started to consider the day ahead. It eventually began with a call to Jean Roberts and a request that she make him appointments at St Raphael’s and with Sir Laurence Samson.

‘How insistent should I be?’ asked Jean.

‘Start nicely and move towards doing it at a police station if they’d prefer.’

Remind me not to steal your toys,’ said Jean.

‘Sorry, Jean. Bad night.’

Steven had his appointment with the hospital secretary at St Raphael’s at two p.m. He arrived a few minutes early and was invited to wait in a room with a view. There was no need to avail himself of one of the upmarket magazines — a wide choice and all current editions — while he could look out through a large picture window at the garden and enjoy the scent of the spring flowers that filled four vases in the room. Beethoven’s ‘Pastoral’ Symphony was playing almost imperceptibly from a hidden speaker system in the room. The level was exactly right. He suspected that the level of everything in this hospital was exactly right.