hated it: which in fact, he did. 'If he did that, and whether or not the
Prof is involved .. .', he pointed a finger at Mackie,'... you must not
necessarily assume one from the other. There could have been an
entirely separate relationship between Gaynor and Gopal for all you
know . . . the likelihood is that he's taken himself off for a while just
to ensure that there's no aftermath.
'If that's the case, when he hears that an FAI's been scheduled, he'll
assume that no one's connected him.'
The big man beamed at his colleagues. 'You came to me for counsel
and advice, gentlemen. You might think I'm the last person who
should be telling you this, but: be patient.
'For what it's worth, I don't believe that Professor Weston played
any part in his wife's death. He's been interviewed twice by senior
policemen - Brian, you've seen him both times - and from what I've
heard, his story hasn't wavered. You guys are used to dealing with
professional liars; this man's an amateur, yet you haven't seen a chink
in him.
'As far as Gopal is concerned, who knows about him? If I wasn't
still tied to this office, I might have a go at finding out myself. But
since I am...
'Let this investigation simmer for a bit lads. It's a mystery now, but
it won't be for ever.'
'Okay, boss,' Martin sighed, wearily. 'How much longer will you
be on this side of the corridor, d'you think?'
'A few weeks yet, probably,' Skinner replied. 'I had some good
news from Jimmy yesterday though. The Spanish consultant was
131
a
pleased with the results of the tests they did last Tuesday. He's given
him the all clear to drive, so he and Chrissie will be starting home on
Monday.
'Once he's back home, we'll see what his own doctor, and our own
ME, have to say about coming back to work.'
'What'll you do when he comes back, boss?' asked Mackie, with
one of his rare smiles.
'Brian,' said the DCC earnestly, 'I think I'll spend a week just
cruising the streets.'
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41
Neil Mcllhenney sat in the waiting area of the Department of Clinical
Oncology becoming acquainted with a new companion. He had never
known Fear before, not until Sarah had made the introduction after
bringing Olive home from her first visit to the Western General.
Of course there had been the odd scary moment in his life, the
occasional anxiety. He remembered ... he must have been seven or
eight at the time .. . waiting for his father to come home, having
upset his mother, and suspecting that he might be in for a real
leathering. Then there was the hour he had spent in the corridor of the
Maternity Unit, waiting for Lauren to be born. On another night early
in his police career he had found himself in a cul-de-sac, in uniform,
with his back to the wall and four large, threatening youths blocking
the exits.
Those had just been minor crises, mere butterflies in his expansive
stomach, and each one had had a happy outcome. His father had
decided that the wait had been punishment enough, and had lashed
him with his tongue rather than his belt. There had been the
indescribable miracle of Lauren's birth, the moment of holding his
first child, for the first time. And on that third occasion. Constable
Mario McGuire had appeared behind the four young thugs, a Satanic
smile on his face as he contemplated the mess that he and Mcllhenney
would leave behind them in the alley.
This was different though; this was something which threatened to
consume him, yet which he knew had to be conquered and contained
within him, never allowed to show on the outside, least of all to Olive.
Since the illness had been diagnosed, he had experienced a succession
of horrors. Now, waiting for his wife to come down from the ward, he
sat contemplating apprehensively the weekend to come.
They had been warned about the treatment, about the sickness that
was the most common side-effect of the drugs. 'These are very
powerful and toxic chemicals. Olive,' their supervising nurse had
warned as she had talked them through what would happen. 'Their
an effect on your entire system. We'll give you steroids to control it,
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but the chances are that you'll be very sick for a couple of days after
your first treatment.'
At that moment, he was fearful of that imminent crisis more than
anything else. His mind had simply locked away the long-term
possibilities, refusing to contemplate them, but right there and then
he dreaded the very thought of watching his wife's distress.
'Mr Mcllhenney?' The calm voice broke into his fearful anticipation.
'How are you getting on?' He looked up from his chair to see
Derek Simmers standing over him.
'Okay,' he replied, trying to smile. 'Just waiting for Olive, as
instructed.'
'I've just left her,' said the consultant. 'She'll be another twenty
minutes or so. Don't wait here; come on through to my office. I'll tell
reception where you are, so she can find you when she comes down.'
Neil nodded. He stood, picked up his coffee and followed the tall,
fair-haired Simmers to the desk at the entrance, where he paused, then
round a corner and into a small office opposite the room where their
initial consultation had taken place. There was no desk, only a few
chairs and a low coffee table.
'Sit, down, sit down,' the physician insisted. And then unexpectedly,
he sighed. 'You know,' he began, 'I've lost count of the number of
patients I've treated in this place. I've lost count of the number of
husbands and wives that I've seen in your shoes; but still I can't really
imagine how it must feel for either the patient or her partner.
'I can try. I do, of course; but, not having experienced it for myself,
not having sat on your side of the desk at the consultation, seeing with
your eyes, listening with your ears; not even having sat out there
being ministered to by the WRVS ladies in their canteen, I don't
suppose I even get close to the reality.'
'No,' Mcllhenney answered quietly. 'I don't suppose you do.'
'Maybe that's a good thing, though. Because it ensures that I remain
objective, and as long as I do I have something to offer my patients
beyond the mechanics of the treatment.' The gentle blue eyes settled
on the policeman, and he felt the same wave of inexplicable relief
which had swept over him at his first meeting with Simmers.
'I will never lie to Olive, or to you,' he said, earnestly. 'I will
always tell it to you like it is; to a great extent the success or failure of
her treatment will depend on the interpretation which both of you
place on my words. I am dedicated to the preservation of life, Neil, for
as long as that can be. I will prescribe and administer the most
appropriate treatment for Olive's physical condition.
'But once I've done that, your job begins; you have to remain
positi
ve and you have to remain mentally strong. From what I've
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seen of you both, you will be able to do that.
'The next couple of days will be tough, for both of you; make no
mistake about that. But in the course of this treatment, which will last
for up to six months, they will probably be the worst you'll experience.
'My best advice to you is to set yourselves targets. For example, in
a couple of weeks, maybe even next weekend, you might be able to
contemplate an evening at the theatre. After two months' treatment,
you might want to go on holiday. If you do, I'll make a gap in the
schedule for you. Working towards and achieving objectives like these
will be a tremendous psychological help to you both and will improve
Olive's chances of keeping this thing at bay'
Simmers paused, and Mcllhenney saw pain written in his soft eyes.
'The hardest thing for me,' he continued, 'is to tell devoted partners
like you and Olive that one of you has an incurable disease. I don't
discuss survival rates or make prognoses; anyone can pick all that
stuff off the Internet if they have a mind. I can tell you this though,
from long experience: the people who believe from day one, without
doubt, that they will wind up on the positive side of the ratio, whatever
that might be, are the people who do best.
'You do believe that, Neil, don't you?'
The policeman felt his jaw tighten as he returned the consultant's
gaze. 'Absolutely,' he said.
'That's good. Hold fast to that belief; it's the best advice I have for
you.'
The physician rose to his feet. 'We'd better go back out there. Olive
should be down from the ward any minute.'
Mcllenney nodded. 'Thank you,' he said. 'Thank you very much,
Mr Simmers.'
The man laid a hand on his shoulder. 'Listen Neil, over the coming
months you and Olive and I are going to have to maintain a close,
trusting relationship. So please, drop the Mr Simmers stuff. Don't
call me Derek either; I've never cared much for that name. Call me by
the name my friends use. Call me Deacey.'
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42
She found the apartment without difficulty: a short taxi trip across the
Bridges from her own small flat offNicolson Street, down Broughton
Street, through the traffic lights at Rodney Street and there it was,
facing her as Wayne had described it.
He was ready to leave when he opened the door, tall and handsome
in jeans and a red LaCoste waterproof. His beard looked as if it had
been newly trimmed.
'Am I late?' she asked, untypically concerned that he might think
she was evening the score for Giuliano's.
'Not at all,' he drawled. 'I saw your taxi arrive, that's all. Say,
before we leave, come on in and say hello to Dennis. He's ready for
bed but he's decent.'
Karen was not entirely certain that she wanted to meet Wayne's
friend again, remembering his sourness when she had checked him in
at the conference centre, but she followed him inside. The paraplegic
was in his wheelchair, dressed in pyjamas and a silk dressing gown.
His hair was damp at the edges, and his skin slightly pink, as if he had
just come from a bath. He seemed to be concentrating hard on the Scotsman crossword.
'Say hello to Karen, mate,' the tall Australian commanded.
Dennis Crombie looked up, peered at her through his spectacles,
and barked a quick, 'Hello.'
She grinned back at him, and pointed towards the newspaper on his
lap. 'Friday's usually the hardest,' she said. 'That's what I find, anyway.'
'Eh?'
'The crossword.'
'Oh. Yes, it's tougher than yesterday's.' The faintest smile seemed
to cross the economist's face, and a gold filling in one of his upper
canines caught the light for an instant. 'Too many Scottish words,
that's the problem for me.'
'Don't worry, if you're staying on for a few weeks you'll learn the
language.'
The smile vanished. 'As long as I can stay warm, I don't give a
136
stuff about the language. I never thought Scotland would be so cold.'
'Hey, it's not that bad,' she protested.
'It is when you can't move about.'
She felt a mixture of guilt and sympathy. 'I'm sorry, Dennis, I
didn't think.'
'No,' said Crombie. 'People don't. They can't imagine what it's like to look at the world from this angle.' He smiled again, but it
looked forced. 'Hey, don't mind me. I'm just an embittered old cripple.
You two get going. Wheel me though to bed first though, mate.'
Wayne nodded and took the guide handles of the chair. As Karen
stepped back into the entrance hall she heard Dennis call out. 'Have a
nice night now. Don't do anything I can't.'
Her escort joined her in a couple of minutes, breathing a heavy
sigh as he closed the door behind him. 'You sound tired,' she said.
'Relieved, more like it. It was bath night for Dennis. That's always
a performance.'
'Never mind,' Karen chuckled, 'the best is yet to come. Where are
we going?'
'Well,' he answered slowly. 'I thought we might have a couple of
pints in the pub on the next corner, the Northern Bar, and then go for
a Chinese in the place a few doors down, the Loon Fung.'
'Absolutely,' she agreed. 'You couldn't have chosen better. That
place does lemon chicken to die for.'
Three hours later, he had to agree with her. 'That was just magic,'
he murmured, as the last forkful disappeared. An extra couple of pints
and half a bottle of red wine had taken the rough edge from his accent
in the course of the evening, most of which Wayne had spent talking
about Australia, aboriginal rights, and life on board an oil rig. 'Do
you know any more places like this?' he asked.
She nodded. 'A few. Maybe we'll get round to them, all in good
time.'
'Maybe.'
'You're all right you know, Wayne,' she whispered, feeling as relaxed
as she had in years. She smiled, broadly. 'For a poofter, that is.
'It's a pity,' she went on, 'that male-female relationships are usually
so hopeless. Most of them just start and finish with that sticky
business, all that pushing and shoving and sweating and shouting. It's
nice to be able to enjoy an evening with a man, just as two sensible
people.'
'Couldn't agree more.'
'What sort of a bloke are you, back home?' she asked. 'I mean are
you an action man? D'you play rugby? Are you a Wallaby, or is it a
Kiwi?'
137
He frowned. 'I ain't a Kiwi, that's for sure. I hate nicking Kiwis.'
She reached forward and tapped the back of his right hand lightly
with one of her long finger-nails. 'So don't fuck any,' she said straight-
faced.
The Chinese waiters looked across at them as they collapsed in
laughter, heads touching across their table. Then they looked away:
they were used to Friday night customers fresh from the local bars.
'Coffee?' she asked, eventually.
'Not here. My place. I've got some really fine Colombian grounds,
and some decent Spanish bran
dy.'
'Sounds good.'
Karen insisted on taking her turn to pay for the meal. 'You come
again,' the head waiter called as she stepped out into the night, which
had gone from chilly to frosty.
'Christ,' she said. 'Dennis will be freezing his balls off.'
'Nah. That apartment's like an oven, plus, he's got an electric
blanket.' He paused and she could see his smile under the street lights.
'They've been numb for years, anyway.'
They stumbled through the door of the flat, almost comic in their
efforts to be quiet. She followed him into the dining kitchen and
watched him as he made the coffee, admiring the care with which he
measured the grounds into the filter and tamped them down. 'The
brandy's in the cupboard behind you,' he told her, without turning
from his task as he poured water into the cone-shaped filter.
In that moment, Karen realised that more alcohol was the last thing
she wanted. Yet what she did have in mind was not, it seemed, on
offer. 'I won't thanks, Wayne. I've had well enough.'
'I won't either then. I don't really need a bad head in the morning.'
He waited until he judged the coffee to be perfect, then poured two
medium sized mugs.
'Let's sit through there,' he said, nodding toward the living room.
He placed the mugs on a glass-topped table and sat beside her on
the comfortable sofa. 'How big is this place?' she asked, quietly.
'You've seen most of it. There's this, the kitchen diner, bathroom,
toilet and one bedroom. Why d'you ask?'
'I just wondered,' she said. 'Like whether you have a room of your
own.'
'This sofa is a convertible. I sleep on it.'
'Mmmm.'
She looked at him suddenly, catching him off-guard, catching him
in a glance which told her all she needed to know. He told her,
anyway. 'I'm not really gay, you know. I only said that to make you
feel more comfortable.'
138
'I know,' she murmured. 'Neither am I. I only said it because I
wanted to keep you at a distance for a while, until I could work out if
I really fancied you as much as I thought at first.'
'And do you?'
'Oh yes.'
He leaned across kissed her, hearing her soft moan as she responded,
feeling her tongue searching for his. His touch was light; even his
beard felt smooth against her cheek.
As they embraced, his hand slipped under her sweater, fingers