Ken McClure - Donor

‘Nice to see you again, Dr Dunbar,’ said the director’s secretary, Miss Roberts, with a welcoming smile. ‘Mr Macmillan won’t keep you waiting long.’

‘I’m in no great hurry,’ replied Dunbar with heavy irony.

She smiled but said nothing. A buzzer sounded on her desk and she nodded to Dunbar. ‘Good luck,’ she whispered as he passed.

‘Ah, Dunbar. Come in, sit down,’ said Macmillan. Tall and silver-haired, in any other environment he would have stood out as being extremely distinguished-looking, but here in Whitehall he was one among many. The upper echelons of the Civil Service seemed to attract such people. Dunbar often wondered if the job did it to the man or vice versa. On reflection he supposed that there was a type of person for most jobs. There were exceptions, of course, but the Hollywood stereotype for most professions often wasn’t far from the truth.

Macmillan closed the file he had been working on and put an end to Dunbar’s philosophizing. ‘You’ve dropped us in it, Dunbar,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Dunbar. ‘I was sure I was right.’

‘Do you realize how much it cost us to mount an unofficial exhumation?’

Dunbar had no idea but felt sure he was about to be told. The director told him. Dunbar looked suitably shocked.

‘Not to mention the calling in of favours and the fact that we are now beholden to Special Branch, of all people.’

‘Everything pointed to the dead child having been given the wrong organ — an incompatible animal organ,’ said Dunbar.

‘You mean a hysterical woman pointed to the dead child having been given the wrong organ. And you jumped to conclusions.’

‘Neither of the women involved can in any way be described as hysterical,’ argued Dunbar. ‘I’ve interviewed both of them and made up my mind about that. There’s also the fact that one of them, Sheila Barnes, has been the subject of what I believe to be a deliberate murder attempt, one that’s going to be successful very soon.’

‘Ah yes, the isotope in the wall,’ said Macmillan. ‘But I must remind you that the lab found nothing that linked the source to the Medic Ecosse hospital.’

‘That doesn’t mean they weren’t involved,’ said Dunbar.

Macmillan conceded the point with a doubtful shrug. He stroked his moustache thoughtfully, then said, ‘My feeling is that we should hand the Barnes case over to the police. There’s little doubt that a crime has been committed so they can take it from there and we can, with a bit of luck, extract ourselves from this mess you’ve landed us in.’

‘Despite your man’s findings I still think there was something odd about the two children’s deaths,’ said Dunbar. ‘I did a computer search for deaths under similar circumstances; there were none. Yet Medic Ecosse has had two. I believe we should hang on to the investigation. We’re the best qualified people to look into this sort of thing. That’s why we exist.’

‘Don’t try to tell me why we exist, Dunbar!’ snapped Macmillan.

‘No, sir. I just feel that handing everything over to the police at this stage is a bit of a cop-out. They’ll mount an investigation but they won’t get anywhere. As for us, we seem to be more interested in keeping our noses clean than in seeing this affair through to a conclusion.’

For a moment Dunbar thought he had gone too far. His P45 form floated before his eyes like a kite in a mocking breeze, but the anger died out of the director’s eyes.

‘You think that, do you?’

‘Yes, sir, I do.’

‘I’ll tell you what. If you can come up with an explanation of how these two damned women could still be right, in spite of the fact — fact, mind you — that Amy Teasdale’s body contains the right organ, then we’ll keep hold of the investigation.’

‘How long have I got?’ asked Dunbar.

‘Three days.’

Dunbar left the Home Office with mixed feelings. It could have been worse, he supposed. They could have fired him then and there. Instead they’d given him three days to come up with an explanation he’d been up most of the night searching for already. He walked along the Embankment hoping for inspiration, but all he got was wet. London was his favourite city but today he found himself totally impervious to its charms. In the rain, it could have been East Berlin. He returned to the airport to catch the shuttle back to Glasgow.

On the plane, he succumbed to the lure of a large gin and tonic offered by the stewardess. He was feeling low and his mood was not helped by the arrival of a plump northern businessman in the seat next to him. From the opening of ‘D’you go to Scotland a lot, then?’ he knew he was in trouble. Monosyllabic responses were no deterrent to Arthur Shelby, who was in hydraulic systems and was determined to fill this particular gap in Dunbar’s education during the following fifty-five minutes. There was barely time for Shelby to get round to ‘What line are you in yourself, then?’ before the plane landed and Dunbar was free at last. He called Lisa from the airport.

‘Well?’

‘They didn’t fire me. They gave me three days to come up with an idea.’

‘Is that good or bad?’

‘Depends if I do or not.’

‘Are you going to come over?’

‘I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we go out to dinner this evening?’

‘We might be seen by someone who works at Medic Ecosse,’ replied Lisa.

‘We can drive to some place out of town.’

‘If you’re sure you want to take the risk.’

‘Let’s do it. Pick you up at seven?’

‘I’ll be waiting.’

Dunbar arrived at Lisa’s place on time and found her ready, She had dressed up for the occasion. He smiled and said, ‘You look wonderful.’

‘Well, thank you. All this new-found freedom is making me feel dangerously like a human being.’

‘How is your mother, by the way?’ asked Dunbar, remembering the key to Lisa’s freedom.

‘She’s holding her own.’

‘I’m going to have to rely on you to suggest where we go this evening.’

‘I thought we might drive up to the Lake of Menteith. It’s not that far and there’s a nice hotel there. It’s right down on the shores of the lake.’

‘Sounds good. Do you think we’ll get in?’

‘I took the liberty of booking after you rang,’ Lisa confessed.

The drive up to the Lake of Menteith was straightforward and uneventful, and Dunbar was glad to see there were only four other cars in the car park as they drew to a halt. He wanted a quiet evening with time to talk. They both sipped gin and tonic while deciding what to eat. It wasn’t until they had ordered and the waiter had left that Lisa said, ‘So, what sort of an idea do you have to come up with?’

‘One that explains how you and Sheila Barnes could still be right in spite of everything.’

‘It sounds as if you took our part in London.’

Dunbar nodded.

‘Well, you were right to,’ she said.

Dunbar looked at her in silence for a moment, then said, ‘It’s a comfort to hear you sound so sure. You haven’t wavered once, have you?’

‘I came pretty close when you told me of the pathologist’s findings,’ she confessed. ‘But I know what I saw, and it was not the result of the transplant of a compatible organ.’

‘So our starting-point must be that Amy was definitely given the wrong kidney.’

‘Yes,’ said Lisa flatly.

Dunbar paused as their first course arrived. Then he said, ‘So if the correct donor kidney was found inside Amy after the exhumation… it must have got there some time after her operation. In fact, if she died of rejection problems, it must have been put there sometime after her death… At the first post mortem, of course!’ he exclaimed as things slipped into place. ‘As simple as that. Amy was given the wrong organ but it was switched to the right one after she died.’