Ken McClure - Donor

‘How was your day?’ he asked.

‘Excellent.’

‘Do anything in particular?’

‘I walked for miles,’ said Lisa, ‘in any direction I fancied. I just walked and walked because I didn’t need to be here. I was free to do as I pleased, and it felt wonderful.’

‘Good,’ said Dunbar.

‘And you?’

Dunbar told her about his plans to get into Vane Farm and take a look at Ross’s research findings.

‘You’re going for it then?’

‘It could put an end to all the speculation,’ said Dunbar. ‘Any evidence of animal parts being put into patients at Medic Ecosse and the police can act immediately.’

‘When?’ asked Lisa.

‘In a few days. I’m not going to do it alone.’

‘You will be careful, won’t you?’ she said softly.

‘Of course.’

‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Lisa as Dunbar fell silent.

‘Tomorrow.’

‘What happens tomorrow?’

‘A funeral.’

The following morning Dunbar set off for the Clyde-coast town of Irvine where Sheila Barnes had been brought up. She had asked to be buried there in the graveyard of St Andrew’s Church where she and her husband Cyril had been married twenty-six years before. That was the one saving grace about being told you’d got a terminal illness, thought Dunbar. It gave you time to put your affairs in order and make arrangements, something most people put off until it was too late.

There was nothing pretty about St Andrew’s. It had a cold, austere look with iron railings surrounding it instead of low walls or hedging. Even the churchyard seemed unnecessarily bleak, lacking as it did trees and shrubbery to break up the lines of tombstones which stretched for more than two hundred yards behind the building. But it had obviously meant something special to Sheila, and that was all that mattered. As he’d heard some churchman say recently on the radio, ‘Churches aren’t about buildings, they’re about people.’

As he entered the building, Dunbar noted that the sky was darkening ominously. He hoped the rain would hold off until after the interment. Earth turning to mud did little to enhance a burial ceremony. Not wishing to intrude on family and friends, he sat down near the back of the section to the right of the main aisle. He noted with some pleasure that the church was nearly three-quarters full. He had liked Sheila Barnes; even in the debilitated state in which he’d known her, she’d struck him as a woman of fine character. It seemed fitting that she be mourned by many. Cyril wasn’t present but that was no surprise; he must be close to death himself.

The service was conducted by a Church of Scotland minister who had clearly known Sheila personally. His voice was deep and resonant and reached all corners of the church without difficulty. The result was an informative and affectionate biography of the woman and her work, so different, thought Dunbar, from the hastily cobbled together bits and pieces gleaned from relatives at the last moment that was usually the case in modern times. He learned that Sheila had spent long periods overseas in the early days of her nursing career, working in Third World countries. Her long, happy marriage to Cyril was held up as an example of the power of love. Her son, Peter, was mentioned but Dunbar got the distinct impression that the minister was back-pedalling on that issue. Like the matron at The Beeches, he was obviously aware of the family rift.

Dunbar could see in the front pew a man whom he took to be Peter Barnes. He stood slightly apart from the other main mourners, who might be Sheila’s brothers and sisters, judging by their age. It gave the impression that the rift went deeper than immediate family. Peter Barnes was tall and dark and, when he turned to look at the congregation, wore a slight smile as if amused at some private joke. Dunbar noted that his tie was not black but purple, as was the handkerchief in his top pocket. Although the colour was muted, it seemed strangely disrespectful.

Dunbar, who had kept well out of the way of close family and friends at the graveside, was almost the last to join the slow procession back along the gravel path leading to the churchyard gates. What appeared to be a general shunning of Peter Barnes meant that he too was on his own. Dunbar joined him and offered his condolences.

‘Thank you,’ replied Peter.

‘You didn’t manage to see your mother at The Beeches before she died, then?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ replied Peter. ‘My work takes me away a lot. It was a bit difficult to get up to Helensburgh.’

‘I see,’ replied Dunbar. He hesitated before saying, ‘I know it’s not really any of my business, but if it’s any comfort your mother mistook me for you on my last visit. I let her think I was you. She was very pleased. She died believing you two had made it up.’

Peter smiled and said, ‘Thank you for telling me that, Mr…?’

‘Dunbar. Steven Dunbar.’

‘That gives me a great deal of comfort. Can I ask what your business was with my mother?’

‘I had to ask her a few things about her time at the Medic Ecosse Hospital, just to complete some paperwork I was doing.’

‘Ah, paperwork,’ said Peter Barnes in a way that suggested a sneer to Dunbar. He could understand why people didn’t take to the man. What is it you do, Mr Barnes?’ he asked.

‘I work on the design of warships.’

‘That sounds interesting. All aspects or one in particular?’

‘Radiation containment.’

Dunbar swallowed hard. He felt the, hairs on the back of his neck start to prickle. ‘Really?’ he said then cleared his throat against the tightness that had crept in. ‘Might I ask what company you work for?’

‘Baxters, on Tyneside.’

As soon as he got back to his hotel, Dunbar called Macmillan in London and told him what he now knew.

‘I agree, it goes beyond the realms of coincidence,’ said Macmillan. ‘This Barnes character could have plotted the deaths of his own parents so he could inherit. He must have thought he was going to get away with it, too. It was damn nearly foolproof. Would you like me to arrange for all the information to be handed over to the Glasgow police?’

‘I’d be grateful,’ replied Dunbar. ‘I’ve no heart for it. The case has nothing to do with what I’m interested in any more.’

‘Don’t get too down about it,’ said Macmillan. ‘You’ve just solved a double murder, and an unusual one at that.’

‘But not the double murder I’m interested in,’ said Dunbar.

‘You’re telling me that Sheila wasn’t murdered to keep her quiet after all?’ said Lisa.

‘Afraid not,’ he said. ‘In retrospect, I suppose it was wrong from the outset. If you want to kill someone to keep them quiet, you don’t choose a slow death. That’s more the style of someone who wants to make the death seem natural, the perfect crime committed by someone who can afford to wait a little.’

‘Like her own son,’ said Lisa with disgust.

‘Take a look at life again soon,’ said Dunbar.

‘So now you have nothing at all to go on against Medic Ecosse,’ said Lisa.

Dunbar shrugged and said, ‘Nothing except the word of two nurses and one of them’s now dead.’

‘The remaining one knows what she’s talking about,’ said Lisa firmly.

Dunbar decided to look at some of Ross’s published research before going out to Vane Farm; it might help him understand what he found there. Sci-Med had supplied him with reprints of Ross’s most recent papers, but he’d put them to one side until now. There were four, three on animal work and a fourth on something called ‘Immuno-preparation’, which he left in the file while he concentrated on what he thought the more relevant stuff.