Ken McClure - Dust to dust

‘Mr Sneddon will see you now, doctor,’ said a smiling girl in an immaculate white dress. She showed Steven to an office where a man in a Savile Row suit greeted him as if he’d been looking forward to his visit for weeks. He waved away Steven’s ID card, saying, ‘I’m sure you have every right to be here, doctor. How can we help?’

‘I need information, Mr Sneddon. I need to know all about the operation that Dr John Motram acted as an adviser on some weeks ago.’

‘Would you have a more exact date?’ asked Sneddon, opening up a desk diary.

Not entirely convinced by Sneddon’s apparent lack of recall, Steven said shortly, ‘The eighth of March.’

‘Ah, here we are,’ said Sneddon, adjusting the frameless glasses on his nose. ‘Oh, of course, I remember now. Dr Motram was here to screen a potential donor for a marrow transplant operation. The patient was suffering from advanced leukaemia…’

‘Yes, I know that,’ said Steven.

‘Then what?’ asked Sneddon, looking puzzled.

‘I want to know who the donor was, who the patient was and the outcome of the operation.’

Sneddon did a good impression of a man shocked out of his skin. ‘I’m sorry,’ he began, with an excellent stutter. ‘We can’t possibly divulge such information. It’s absolutely out of the question.’

Steven did a very good impression of a man who wasn’t at all surprised. ‘Mr Sneddon, I have the full backing of the Home Office in making my inquiries. I need that information.’

‘Doctor, this hospital… this establishment… this business exists on an absolutely fundamental code of total confidentiality. That is more important than our consultants, our nurses, our operating theatres, our recovery rooms. Without it, we simply couldn’t survive.’

‘I have the right to demand answers to my questions,’ said Steven.

The good nature in Sneddon’s eyes was replaced by blue ice. ‘I don’t think you have,’ he said. ‘Unless you are pursuing a murder inquiry, I don’t think I have to tell you anything.’

Steven silently acknowledged that he was right and took a moment to consider how he was going to proceed. He hadn’t expected Sneddon to tell him anything: he was here on a cage-rattling exercise. ‘Dr Motram is currently a very sick man,’ he said.

‘Yes, I heard,’ said Sneddon, putting care and concern into his voice with consummate ease. ‘Some kind of nervous breakdown, I heard. Poor chap.’

‘No, it wasn’t a nervous breakdown,’ said Steven. ‘He was poisoned and his condition is in some way connected with his involvement in the operation he was advising on.’

Sneddon did ‘taken aback’ very well. ‘You cannot be serious,’ he said.

‘I am,’ said Steven flatly.

‘But he was in the process of unearthing a centuries-old tomb,’ protested Sneddon. ‘There were suggestions of Black Death, I understand. How can there possibly be a connection between that and what he was doing here?’

Steven ignored the question. ‘The donor Dr Motram saw here was a serving Royal Marine who has since died.’

‘Oh, that was just a silly case of mistaken identity,’ exclaimed Sneddon, as if relieved to be clearing up an old misunderstanding. ‘Sir Laurence explained that to Dr Motram.’

‘Dr Motram didn’t believe him,’ said Steven, getting to his feet. ‘Neither do I.’

Sneddon lost his aplomb and seemed distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Well, that’s something you’ll have to take up with Sir Laurence,’ he said, starting to move some papers around on his desk like a TV newsreader at the end of a bulletin.

‘On my way,’ said Steven pleasantly. He left, feeling well satisfied with the cage-rattling he’d done. He would have bet his eye teeth that Sneddon was already on the phone to Samson.

His appointment with Sir Laurence wasn’t until four p.m. so he picked up a sandwich and a soft drink and took a leisurely walk down to the park, where he shared his lunch with some ducks. It was therapeutic to interact with simple creatures who had no agenda but to survive. They had no convoluted notions of confidentiality and honour, didn’t know what hypocrisy and lying were, or cheating and double-dealing. The irony that struck him was that despite the multiple layers present in human sociology, the underlying driving forces were really just as simple as those of the ducks. It might be important to remember that when you started rattling cages… If you get in my way, I’ll push you out of the road…

It was impossible for Steven not to acknowledge that he was in the very heart of the medical establishment as he sat waiting in Sir Laurence Samson’s premises in Harley Street, but the rebel inside him couldn’t help but reflect that there had been a time when the practitioners in this famous street really didn’t know that much about medicine at all. But, as with witch doctors in darkest Africa, the mystique had survived.

‘Dr Dunbar, I’m a few minutes late. I do apologise.’

Steven smiled at Samson. ‘No need, Sir Laurence. Mr Sneddon has probably told you what it’s all about.’

A look of irritation appeared in Samson’s eyes, but only for a second. ‘No, should he have done?’

Steven told him what he wanted to know and got the same response he’d got from Sneddon. He made his final gambit. ‘Dr John Motram may die and a young marine has already met an untimely death — two young marines, in fact, although the second needn’t concern you for the moment.’ Steven looked for surprise in Samson’s eyes and found it. He continued, ‘There is a limit to how long you’re going to get away with playing the confidentiality card before what you’re doing simply becomes obstruction in a very serious criminal investigation.’

The look on Samson’s face told Steven his cage had been well and truly rattled. ‘Thank you for your time, Sir Laurence.’

‘You’ve been busy,’ said Macmillan when Steven called him.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘The phone’s been red hot with calls from people who’d rather you stopped what you’ve been doing.’

‘Anyone interesting?’

‘People in high places. But…’

‘But what?’

‘I don’t know — I should be used to this sort of thing by now, but there’s something different about it this time: I can’t quite put my finger on it. Usually I can work out the primary source of any flak that’s flying, but not this time.’

‘Maybe I’ve upset everyone equally,’ suggested Steven, tongue in cheek.

Macmillan permitted himself a laugh before he said, ‘Seriously, watch your back.’

‘Will do.’

‘How’s Dr Simmons, by the way?’

‘I’m sure she’s fine.’

‘Oh… I didn’t realise.’

‘Some other time, John.’

‘Right… Are you still intent on heading off to sunny climes?’

‘I’ve been in touch with my old pals in Hereford. They’ve been given a job to do in the Sangin Valley in the north of Helmand Province — that’s where 45 Commando have been operating. I’ve arranged to fly out with them; they’ll kit me out and provide me with a vehicle. After that, they’ll go their way and I’ll go mine. I plan to start at the field hospital where Michael Kelly was reportedly treated before he was transferred to Camp Bastion.’

‘You do realise we could do all this through official channels,’ suggested Macmillan.

‘I prefer my way,’ said Steven. ‘Official channels can leak, and from what you’ve said about some folks in officialdom not being too happy, I’d rather not be a sitting target. The Regiment doesn’t advertise its travel arrangements.

‘And after you’ve checked out the field hospital?’