Brian Freemantle - The Namedropper

By 7.30 a.m. Jordan had obtained the computer addresses of the two Boston clinics. The specialist who had attested that Alfred Appleton was free of any venereal infection was Mark Chapman, whose clinic was on Boylston Street. Leanne Jefferies’ consultant, Jane Lewell, practised on Haymarket Square, on the opposite side of the common. Both had personally dedicated laptops. Jordan set out to embed his Trojan Horses again through his undetected Australian cut-out, ensuring any recorded trace of his entry would be wiped out by leaving an erasing virus activated the moment the main frames of both clinics were booted up on the Monday morning. It took Jordan almost three full hours to hack past the protective firewalls – a second immediately confronted him after he picked his way through the first – into Chapman’s personal and dedicated desk top. Jordan presumed the double barrier was to ensure patient confidentiality, which he was determined it wouldn’t, but it still surprised – and mildly irritated – him that it was more difficult to get into the doctors’ records than it had been to penetrate the other systems.

Jordan’s patience was rewarded just after ten with the opening up on his screen of the detailed procedures and examinations Appleton had undergone for the preparation of Chapman’s report. It coincided to the minute by the jarring ring of Jordan’s phone. Jordan hesitated, momentarily tempted to ignore it, before picking it up.

‘I had dinner with Bob last night,’ announced Beckwith.

‘And?’ prompted Jordan.

‘I wish it had been more productive,’ Beckwith allowed.

‘I think he’s ineffective and inefficient,’ judged Jordan.

‘I told you the medical stuff knocked his case from under him.’

‘What’s he doing about it?’

‘Seeing Alyce…’ The lawyer paused ‘Just about now, in fact.’

‘Not with you?’

‘She’s his client, not mine. We’re co-operating, that’s all.’

‘You must be thrilled with all the stuff you’re getting from him,’ mocked Jordan.

‘We might be meeting later, brunch maybe, depending on what he gets from her.’

‘“We” meaning you and I or “we” meaning you and Reid?’

‘Bob and me. He’s still pretty sore about the way you spoke to him.’

‘I would have thought he’d be used to being spoken to like that by now,’ dismissed Jordan. ‘I might need to speak to you later.’

‘What about?’

‘I’m still sorting through stuff,’ avoided Jordan. ‘Did you actually see – read – those medical reports on Appleton and the woman?’

‘Yes. Why?

‘I’m curious about something.’

‘You off playing amateur lawyer again?’ demanded Beckwith, although without any irritation.

‘Just curious,’ repeated Jordan. Hurrying on to avoid any further questioning he said, ‘And I’m changing rooms. This one is too small. I’ll leave a message with the new number when I get it, if you’re not around.’

‘And I’ll call you, when I get back from seeing Bob. If I see Bob. If I don’t maybe we could lunch?’

‘Let’s keep in touch,’ agreed Jordan. Now he was actually in to Appleton’s records he could well be through by lunchtime.

Jordan used his own written report from George Abrahams as a rough template to check against the findings from Appleton’s consultation, his disappointment growing as the two appeared – according to his layman’s understanding – to match, with the exception of their haematology groupings, Jordan’s being O, Appleton’s A. Patiently Jordan went through Chapman’s examination a second time, alert for anything he might have missed on his first reading, and again finished with the same understanding. It did not take Jordan as long to break into Dr Lewell’s computer at her Haymarket Square clinic. At first reading her examination of Leanne Jefferies appeared the same as Appleton’s, with the exception of her blood group being AB. Jordan went through it a second time, once more using Abraham’s report for a comparison and once more achieved what appeared to be a match. As an afterthought he went through both comparing them to what Dr Preston had supplied in England, with the same result.

There was a disparity. Jordan was sure of it: sure that he just wasn’t seeing it. But what? He’d only been able to get the briefest look at both reports on Reid’s desk, too fleeting – and too distant – to absorb beyond the more prominently printed names and addresses of the two venerealogists. But with Abrahams’ document spread out directly in front of him Jordan’s impression was that his own report was actually longer than those of either Dr Chapman or Dr Lewell.

There was an obvious reason for the apparent differences, Jordan realized. His own completed and signed findings weren’t comparable precisely because those for Appleton and Jefferies weren’t completed and signed: what he’d read on his phishing visit into the computers of Appleton and Leanne’s doctors were still in note form, not assembled into dictated documents. He’d wasted his time, Jordan acknowledged. All three sets of information seemed factually comparable but he needed the presentations of the opposing venerealogists to decide the diagnoses reached from them, not just the results of various tests.

Despite it being well past noon and therefore obvious that Beckwith and Reid had met, Jordan still called his lawyer’s room, but got no reply. He was given the choice of three suites and chose the largest, transferring everything and resetting his entry traps. He left a message with the suite number, as well as the fact that he was lunching in the hotel coffee shop, which turned out to be unnecessary because the table he was allocated had a perfect view of the entrance through which a returning Daniel Beckwith would come.

The scrod, with a side salad, was hugely better than his previous night’s dinner, which proved the undeniable hotel lore that a hotel restaurant was always better than room service. He still had something far more important to prove and hoped Beckwith wouldn’t be too long getting back.

Something else he couldn’t understand had just occurred to him.

‘The bitch wouldn’t budge,’ declared Reid. ‘I had her read both medical reports and explained every which way that it made her denials of any other affairs completely untenable, but she wouldn’t change her story by as much as this!’ He held up his hand with his forefinger and thumb too close together to show any intervening daylight. The Bloody Mary he had in his other hand was his first, and still only half-drunk, and Beckwith was glad.

‘Did you tell her I’d cross-examine her as hard as I could?’

‘Of course I did.’

‘Didn’t that worry her?’

Reid shook his head. ‘She said she didn’t care how tough you were. That she was telling the truth and that was that. And that the judge and jury could make up their minds whether to believe her or not.’

‘Which they won’t.’

‘Of course they won’t! They’ll decide she’s promiscuous and that Harvey was one of many-’

‘Which I might capitalize on,’ broke in Beckwith, as the opportunity opened up to him. ‘If Alyce is a serial adulteress Harvey was just that, one of many who shouldn’t be made to pay for all the others.’ He sipped his own Bloody Mary, enjoying the drink and the abruptly occurring possibility.

‘It’s a dangerous argument,’ warned the other lawyer. ‘It’ll still cost him.’

‘But not as much as it might fighting every damned claim head on. This way I get to show that Harvey didn’t alienate any affection: that a lot of other unknowns did before him. OK, Harvey screwed her but he isn’t the marriage wrecker.’

‘If Pullinger finds in your favour that takes Leanne off the financial hook. And gives Appleton the petition, too.’