stocks?'
Miss Berry shook her head. 'No, I didn't say that. I keep a running
check on my supplies, Mr Mackie. If I had a discrepancy within the
pharmacy, I would know about it in the week it happened. Everything
that's gone out of here tallies exactly with the prescriptions submitted.'
She looked at Steele. 'A hospital pharmacy operates just like a high
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street chemist, sergeant,' she explained. 'Prescription drugs go out
only on a doctor's signature. As for diamorphine and the like, that has
to be signed for again, on receipt.'
'How about drugs held on wards?' asked the young detective.
'They're kept in a secure container and dispensed by a senior nurse.
That's the responsibility of the ward sister.'
'I see; so if anything was taken, the chances are it would go from
there?'
'No; the certainty is that it would. In this hospital at least.'
'And can you pin it down to a single ward?',
'Easily,' Margie Berry replied. 'A record is kept there of drugs
administered to each patient. I can tell by looking at it, and at
prescriptions issued, exactly how much should be in the drugs trolley
at any given time. Every so often, I will visit a ward, unannounced, and verify the figures.
'When your department called asking me to check on diamorphine
stocks, I did very discreet spot checks on all wards, going back several
weeks, and found discrepancies on two of them. Not huge in
themselves, but added together, we're talking about a significant dose
of diamorphine.'
'Enough to kill?' Asked Mackie, intently.
'Enough to kill a pony, never mind a person.'
'In what form was the stuff taken?'
'In phials, for injection. Diamorphine is used here mainly in postoperative
situations, so we shove it into the patient's arm or bum with
a hypo, rather than administering it through a pump, as they often do
on medical wards.'
'When did the stuff disappear?'
'Over a four-day period, around two weeks ago.'
'And is there a linking factor?'
The pharmacist looked at the superintendent. 'Only one that I can
find. The drugs were all issued on the prescription of the same doctor.
But what is really unusual is that he, rather than the ward sister or
senior nurse, signed for them personally.' She paused.
'So gentlemen, it's in deepest confidence - and this is why I asked
my assistants to vacate the premises - that I'm giving you the man's
name. He's Doctor Surinder Gopal, a Registrar on the staff of Derrick
Strang, the Clinical Director. But guess what... he's missing.'
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35
'I'm afraid your informant was exaggerating, officer.' There was a
patronising tone to the man's voice for which Stevie Steele did not
care, but he let it pass. Derrick Strang had been in the operating
theatre when the detectives had gone to seek him out, and so Mackie
had called up a patrol car to take him back to St Leonards, leaving the
sergeant to cool his heels in the Clinical Director's outer office for
over an hour, drinking coffee and making small talk with his middle-
aged secretary.
'Dr Gopal is not missing from his post,' said the surgeon, 'at least
not in the sense you mean. He's on leave; to which, incidentally, he is
more than entitled. There's not a doctor in this unit who works harder
than Surinder does.' He stripped off his white coat and hung it on a
hook behind the door, then leaned back, throwing his arms above his
head, forearms together, stretching the muscles of his back and
shoulders.
For the first time he smiled, and became less formal. 'Sorry about
the exercises; I've just done a hip replacement on a very large man.
Lay people don't appreciate it, but orthopaedic surgery is very
demanding physically, on the surgeon as well as the patients. By the
time we're ready to retire, most of us need new parts ourselves.' He
touched the tip of his nose with his fingertips, then pulled his elbows
back, sharply.
'What's all this about, anyway?' he asked
The detective shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Mr Strang; I can't tell
you that, not until I've spoken to your colleague.'
'Is it a professional matter? Is it something I could help you with?'
'No, it isn't. We just need to talk to Dr Gopal, that's all. We believe
that he may have information which is relevant to a current investigation.
When did he go on leave?'
'Last Monday, or rather, Tuesday morning, if one wanted to be
pedantic about it.'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean that he called in on Tuesday and asked me if it would be all
right if he took three weeks' leave, with immediate effect. I told him
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that would be okay, that I would arrange cover for his list.'
Steele made no attempt to hide his surprise. 'Did you ask him why
he couldn't give you notice?'
'Of course. He said that he was burned out, and I accepted that. It
happens to hard-working young doctors, you know.'
'Policemen too,' the detective murmured. 'I must try that one on
my superintendent some time.'
He looked up at Derrick Strang. 'Where does Dr Gopal live?'
'Edinburgh. That's all I know. Our personnel people will have his
address on file. I'll ask my secretary to get it for you.' He opened the
door, and leaned into the outer office for a few seconds.
'Are you close colleagues?' Steele asked. 'Do you know each other
well?'
The Clinical Director shook his head. 'I wouldn't say that. We have
a cordial relationship, but it's purely professional. Surinder is a
member of my team, and he does very good work. He's a very
conscientious young man, as I've said, and a pleasant person into the
bargain, but we rarely socialise away from the hospital, other than at
the Christmas lunch and the Burns Supper.
'Nothing racial about that, by the way,' he added, hurriedly. 'Golf is
the main out-of-hours activity among the clinical staff, but young Dr
Gopal doesn't play the game.'
'How long has he been with you?'
Strang eased himself into his chair, facing the detective. He
scratched his chin. 'Let's see. He's been with me here since we opened;
before that around eighteen months at the PMR: two and a half years,
give or take a month. Before that he worked up at the Western, as a
junior on Nolan Weston's staff.'
Steele managed to maintain a casual tone. 'Is that Professor
Weston?'
'That's right; Chair of Surgical Oncology, at Edinburgh University.
Surinder thought about specialising in that area, but he decided that
the future lies in orthopaedics. He's right too; the trend in cancer is
away from surgery, whereas in our field we have all sorts of new
ground being broken.
'Ten years down the road, sergeant, we'll be transplanting a lot more
than organs; that's a certainty.' He raised his right hand and extended the
index finger. 'We can do these now, but that's only a start.'
As he spoke the door opened. Strang's secretary came into the
room and handed him a note. The consultant took it and passed it to
Steele.
'There you are, sergeant: Surinder's address. Maybe once you've
spoken to him you can tell me what the mystery was all about.'
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36
With every passing minute Karen Neville grew more uncomfortable
as she sat in the centre of the restaurant, facing the door, watching
each shadow cast on its glass panel by the street light outside.
Giuliano's is at its quietest in the middle of the evening, since most of
its trade comes from theatre-going diners before and after the nightly
performances at the Playhouse.
She took yet another sip of her San Pellegrino, and glanced at her
watch yet again: it showed nine thirty-three, and her aqua minerale was almost finished. She was sure that the young waiter was laughing
at her as he sidled up to her table. 'Can I bring you a glass of wine,
perhaps, madame?' he asked.
'No thanks,' she said, grimly. 'You can leave a menu though.'
'You are waiting for a gentleman, si?' She knew that his accent was
authentic, since most of Edinburgh's Italian restaurants employ
genuinely Italian waiters.
Karen fixed him with a look that would have frozen South Miami.
The waiter simply shook his head. 'He mus' be a crazy man, to keep
you waiting,' he grinned.
On another night she would have gone along with the joke, perhaps
flirted with the olive-skinned youth . .. who was not bad looking, she
admitted to herself. On another night, in fact, she might have called
his bluff. But the beginnings of anger were stirring in her; at that
moment he was simply a nuisance to be blown away.
'No,' she said. 'He has responsibilities at home. He has to put his
partner to bed every night; Dennis is very fussy about that. I'm used
to it.' At that moment, the door swung open, and Wayne Ventnor
swept into the restaurant. As he approached, she noticed that his limp
seemed more pronounced than it had at the conference centre.
'Karen, I am so sorry,' he burst out. 'I was afraid you'd have given
up on me by now.' He smiled as he sat opposite her, and she felt her
annoyance dissolve.
'Another ten minutes,' she replied, 'and you'd have found me eating.
But it's okay. Did you have trouble with your friend?'
'No, that wasn't it. Edinburgh is a bloody awful place to find a
119
taxi, that's all. No, Dennis is never a problem. He might look a bit
grumpy, but he's a good bloke really.'
'Why's he in the wheelchair?'
Wayne frowned. 'He's got some sort of degenerative disease. Not
MS, but something similar. I don't know. I'm ignorant when it comes
to medicine.'
'How about you? Where did the limp come from?'
'From falling off a ladder on my rig.' He smiled at her. 'Hardly
your stereotypical Aussies, are we? One in a chair, the other with a
bent wing.'
'You're not limping just now,' she said, softly.
They concentrated on their menu cards for a few minutes; once the
deflated waiter had departed for the kitchen with their orders, Karen
turned to the Australian. 'So how did the rest of your day go?'
'Just like the part you saw. The sandwiches at lunchtime were okay,
though. If it hadn't been for you, that would probably have been the
highlight of the day. How about you?'
The? Oh, I just went back to base and got on with the preparation
of our next event.' Inwardly she groaned. Don't chuck in unnecessary
detail, she scolded herself.
'And what's that?' came the inevitable question.
'A group marketing seminar for a big insurance company,' she
offered, hoping that it sounded sufficiently boring to end his interest.
'What's your company called?' he asked her. For a second, she
wondered whether it might be a trick question.
'I thought I told you this morning, I'm freelance. I have an associate;
we trade jointly as McGuire and Neville. We don't have an office,
though; we work from home.'
She imagined that she saw a shadow cross his face. 'Ah,' he said.
'You live together.'
'No we don't. I'm sorry, I meant from each of our homes. He's
married, and I . . .' She lowered her voice. 'I'm gay.'
In the silence that followed, she asked herself what had made her
say that. Did she still suspect him? Or had she simply laid down a
marker of her determination to follow McGuire's advice on pillow
talk? Whatever the reasoning behind her instinctive remark, his
reaction made it superfluous.
'That's all right then,' he said, taking her breath away as she had
taken his. 'So ami.'
They laughed; spontaneously and simultaneously. 'I know a joke
about a gay Australian,' Karen offered.
'Sure. He preferred women to beer.' Suddenly all her uncertainty
was gone. She felt completely relaxed.
120
'Which one are you, by the way?' he asked. 'McGuire or Neville?
You realise I don't even know your second name.'
'Didn't you read my badge at the conference centre? Or are you
dyslexic on top of everything else? I'm Karen Neville.' She smiled as
she offered her hand. 'Pleased to meet you.'
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37
asked Andy Martin.
As he nodded, Brian Mackie's dome gleamed under the fluorescent
tubes which lit the Head of CID's office. 'As I see it, there's little
doubt about it. He signed for the stuff; it was spread between two
wards. We went back out there this morning and interviewed the
sisters, and the nurses in charge of the drug trolleys.
'The only way the discrepancy could have arisen was if there had
been collusion between at least two of them. But they all know that
Margie Berry makes regular checks. Gopal didn't know that; he
prescribed the diamorphine and signed for it. Everything points to
having kept some for himself then delivered the rest to the wards.'
'How far back did the pharmacist check her records?'
'I asked her to look back over the past year, and to check who
signed for drugs issued on prescriptions written by Gopal. There were
no other discrepancies; this was a one-off event, a few days before
Gaynor Weston died. And a couple of years ago, Gopal was on Nolan
Weston's staff.'
'I see,' said Martin, leaning against his window-sill. 'That puts the
Professor firmly back in the frame, doesn't it.'
'On the face of it,' Mackie agreed. 'At the very least, it means that
we have reason to go and interview him again. Want to come?'
'Not a lot. I will, though, if you want. However I think you should
find Dr Gopal before you do anything else. There's aprimafacie case
against him, so he should be our priority. Until you've talked to him,
anything you say to Weston will be pure supposition. Incidentally, I
know we initiated the check, but has the hospital made a formal
complaint about the missing drugs?'
'Not as such. But we know about it, so we have a duty to investigate,
whether they do or not.'
'Yes, I
suppose so. There's no need to be a stickler for the book,
but still, I think I'll have Sammy Pye draft a report to the Fiscal, just
to cover our legal tails. After all, we are dealing with the theft of a
significant quantity of a Class A drug. I take it that Dalkeith was the
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only hospital to report a discrepancy.'
'Yes, thank Christ,' the superintendent confirmed. 'Right. I'll head
off to find Dr Gopal. He lives in the Old Town, apparently.' He
paused. 'Before I go; I hope you don't mind my asking you this,
Andy, but are you all right?'
Martin glowered at him. 'What makes you think I'm not?' he said, curtly.
'You seem a bit pre-occupied with something. And if that wasn't
the case, the fact that you just bit my head off is a good indication.'
The Head of CID shrugged his shoulders. 'Sorry if I hurt your
feelings, Brian, but the fact is I'm becoming a bit pissed off with well
meaning friends asking me if I'm OK.
'Listen up: I'll tell you this, and then the subject's closed, because
I don't like my problems being public property. Alex has moved out,
okay. She's saying all the usual things about giving ourselves room to
develop as a couple, and yes, maybe to save my own face I'm agreeing
with her, making all the right noises and so on.
'She could probably argue that I pushed her into making that
decision, but I didn't really think that she would. I don't like it, and
privately, I don't agree with all that "growing space" crap, either.'
'Are you still engaged?'
'Oh, she's still wearing the ring, Brian; but only on her finger, if
you know what I mean, not in her heart.'
'What's the Big Man saying about it?'
'Nothing: Bob's maintaining a determined neutrality. But I know
him better than that. He wouldn't admit it under torture, but deep
inside, I reckon he's pleased. He has ambitions, professional ambitions,
for Alex, and I suspect he was worried that she might have been
giving too low a priority to her career.'
He glanced at Mackie. 'How do you feel about Sheila's career, Brian?'
'It's a fact of our life; it doesn't bother me.'
'But longer term, d'you think it might?'
'Andy,' said the slim detective, 'she and I have only just started
living together. Right now, I'd settle for knowing that we have a longer