Ken McClure - Donor

‘I take it the hospital has put out a press release?’

‘Oh yes,’ replied Ingrid. ‘I’m told the results will be quite dramatic, so the before and after pictures should be spectacular.’

Dunbar nodded. ‘Especially as there’s no scarring with that particular operation. They do all the cutting from inside the mouth, even removing portions of jawbone from either side. It should be very good publicity for the hospital.’

Ingrid said quietly, ‘I don’t think that’s the only reason the surgeons are doing it.’

‘Of course not,’ he conceded. ‘I’m sorry if I sounded cynical. The hospital needs as much good publicity as it can get.’

‘You seemed very interested in Dr Ross’s unit this morning. Is transplant technology a particular interest of yours?’

‘Not really,’ he said, immediately on his guard.

‘You seemed very interested in the logistics of transplants and what happened to the donor organs when they arrived,’ she persisted.

Alarm bells rang in Dunbar’s head. If Ingrid thought that, the chances were that Ross and Hatfull must have thought the same. Damn it! Had he overplayed his hand on his very first day? ‘I was just curious,’ he lied.

Dunbar spent the afternoon looking through the computerized staff and accounting files provided by Leo Giordano’s office. He found it all extremely boring but felt obliged to identify some questions to ask in the next few days, in order to make his role in the hospital seem genuine. As for the real purpose of his visit, he was just looking and learning. So far, everything about the hospital, and the transplant unit in particular, seemed impressive. Its record in terms of successful transplants was second to none, it was staffed by people of the highest calibre, the equipment was state-of-the-art, it was led by one of the finest transplant surgeons in the country, if not the world, and the unit was not under pressure — the usual cause of things going wrong in a hospital. If first impressions were anything to go by, Ross’s unit was the last place on earth he was going to find evidence of mix-ups or sloppiness.

The thing that still bothered him, of course, was the same thing that had bothered the Sci-Med computer, the fact that the same allegation had been made not once but twice, by two trained nurses, who didn’t know each other. At least, he had assumed they didn’t know each other. Was it possible that they did? He took the Sci-Med personnel files from his briefcase and checked the dates. Sheila Barnes had left Medic Ecosse almost two years before Lisa Fairfax started work there.

He would have to talk to them, he decided. If he ruled out sloppiness or bad management as possibilities, he would have to consider alternative explanations for the women’s allegations. Those would include malice and hysteria. He would have a word with Staff Nurse Fairfax first, find out what made her tick. You could usually tell more from a two-minute conversation with someone than from reading a fifty-page personnel file.

Sci-Med had supplied Lisa Fairfax’s address and telephone number. He picked up the phone and then thought again. He stared at the receiver for a moment, wondering if the hospital operated a call-logging system. He wouldn’t like anyone to know he was calling a dismissed member of staff, particularly as Ingrid had noted his interest in how donor organs were handled when they arrived. Any suspicion that the authorities were giving credence to a totally unsubstantiated allegation against such a prestigious unit as the Medic Ecosse transplant unit, and he really would be asking for trouble. He decided to make the call using his own mobile phone.

Dunbar didn’t hold out much hope of Lisa Fairfax being in on a weekday afternoon. He thought she’d be out at work but, as it turned out, she wasn’t.

‘Hello,’ said a well-modulated voice.

‘Miss Fairfax? My name is Dr Steven Dunbar. I’m sorry to ring you out of the blue like this but I wonder if we might arrange a meeting? I’d like to talk to you about your time at Medic Ecosse Hospital?’

‘Why do you want to see me?’

‘I work for a government department. We investigate allegations of irregularity in patient care.’

‘Do you now?’ said Lisa. ‘You’re a bit late, aren’t you?’

‘Well, you know what they say about wheels that grind slowly: they grind exceeding small,’ said Dunbar. He immediately regretted it; it sounded flippant. ‘I know you must be very busy,’ he continued, ‘but I really would appreciate it if you’d agree to see me.’

‘Busy? I haven’t worked since I left Medic Ecosse,’ said Lisa.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Could we talk?’

‘I don’t think so,’ she replied. ‘I said all I had to say at the time and everyone ignored me. Look where it got me! It lost me my job and probably all chances of getting another, if those people at Medic Ecosse have anything to do with it.’

‘I’d like to hear your side of the story,’ said Dunbar.

‘So you can do what? File it under “Ramblings of a neurotic woman” like they did last time? Offer me sympathy and counselling? Patronizing bastards.’ The words were angry but controlled.

‘I can’t say what I’d do until I hear what you have to say,’ replied Dunbar. ‘But if I thought there was any substance to your claims, I promise I’d see they were investigated fully.’

Lisa sounded unconvinced. She said, ‘I really don’t think there’s any point in going through the hassle all over again. It must all be in the files and I simply haven’t the stomach for it any more.’

‘Could that be because you’ve had a change of heart over the matter, Miss Fairfax?’ goaded Dunbar. ‘Maybe you decided that you’d been a bit hasty with your allegations at the time? And now that you’ve had time to think-’

‘No, it couldn’t,’ said Lisa icily. ‘I simply don’t want to go through it all again. It was unpleasant enough last time. Nothing I can say will bring Amy back. She’s dead but I’m alive. I need a job. I need to earn my living.’

‘Was Amy Teasdale special to you, Miss Fairfax?’

Lisa sighed. ‘Not that old thing again. I was not unduly attached to Amy Teasdale. I liked her; she was a nice kid. I was sad when she died. I was always sad when one of the patients died, but that was as far as it went. I’m a professional nurse. These things happen.’

‘Then you worked with children a lot?’

‘Yes. Why d’you ask?’

‘Nothing. I’d still like to meet you.’

‘Look up the files. You’ll find everything you need there.’

‘I’m not interested in the files. I’m conducting an investigation on my own. No one else up here is involved, and you have my word that everything you say will be kept absolutely confidential.’

‘I really don’t know,’ said Lisa uncertainly.

‘Why don’t I buy you dinner and we can talk while we eat?’

‘No,’ she replied quickly. ‘You’d have to come here.’

‘All right. Where’s that?’

She gave him her address and he pretended to write it down. He didn’t want to give away that he already knew where she lived from the Sci-Med file on her. ‘When can I come? Tonight?’

‘I suppose that would be as good as any other time,’ replied Lisa.

‘About eight?’

‘Very well.’

Lisa Fairfax lived in a sandstone block of flats off the Dumbarton Road, the arterial road that leads out from the heart of Glasgow to the banks of the River Clyde and the great shipyards that once built vessels for the world. The huge cranes were still in evidence but the contracts and the jobs had all but gone.

The street she lived in was quiet, but finding somewhere to park was a problem. Already at that time in the evening, cars were double-parked making negotiation of the area difficult for Dunbar in a car he was not used to and not that familiar with in terms of width when judging the size of gaps it could go through. There was a small piece of waste ground at the end of the second street he inched through. It was actually the frontage of a double lock-up garage with the message NO PARKING, IN CONSTANT USE painted on the doors. The paint was peeling and the padlocks were very rusty, so he took a chance and parked the Rover there. He didn’t think he’d be that long.