husband had been trying for many years to achieve this, but with very
few successes. However when she opened her front door, and saw
who was standing on the step, a green Barbour thrown over her
shoulders to protect her from the rain, her normally imperturbable
expression changed to one of complete surprise.
'Dr Skinner,' she exclaimed. 'Come in, quick, out of the rain.'
'You remember me then,' said Sarah, as she stepped into the narrow
hall way of the semidetached villa. The two women had met only
once, at a social event more than a year earlier.
'Of course I do. Here, give me your coat. What brings you here,
anyway?'
As well as being unshakeable. Olive was quick witted. Even as she
was hanging the waxed cotton rain-coat on one of a row of hooks
behind the front door, she answered her own question.
'Has that husband of mine been talking to you?' she asked, quickly:
too quickly, for the cough took her unawares, racking her body, sending
colour to her cheeks, making her visitor realise how pale they had
been before, and highlighting the contrast of the dark circles under
her eyes. She produced an inhaler from the pocket of her cardigan and
took two quick puffs.
'No,' Sarah replied, truthfully, as the fit subsided. 'Neil hasn't said a
word to me. But my husband has been worrying about him, and this
afternoon, finally, he made him tell him what was wrong. So if you
want to blame anyone for this visit, blame Bob.' As she spoke, she
followed her hostess into the living room, where Lauren and Spencer
were watching Grange Hill, intently. Neither turned as the two women
passed through into the kitchen, although the chocolate-point Siamese
cat which lay on the floor between them did flick an ear in their direction.
Olive's complexion had paled once more, after the paroxysm.
'Maybe I shouldn't say this to you, but Neil never has trusted doctors,'
she said, as she closed the door on the children. 'He's just being silly.
My GP says I have a touch of asthma; that's why she gave me the
inhaler.'
37
'And does it help?' asked Sarah, very quietly, catching her eye as
she did so, not allowing her to look away.
'No, it doesn't,' she answered, in a whisper.
'No, I didn't think it had. Olive, I'm here as a friend, and the last
thing I want to do is to undermine your confidence in your relationship
with your family doctor, but I have to ask you; have you had a chest
X-ray recently?'
The other woman shook her head. 'Not in the last seven years. My
last one was clear, though,' she added, quickly.
'Has your doctor suggested an X-ray?'
'No.'
'How long have you had this cough?'
Olive frowned, leaning back against a work-surface and looking at
the ceiling. 'I suppose it would have been around the end of June
when it started. I had a bit of bother when we were on holiday just
after that. Neil and I like to walk, but I found that I was getting short
of breath if we went too far. We gave up on the walks, and the problem
went away. I put it down to a chest infection at the time.
'Then at the end of September, it came back. I went to see Dr Jones
then. She said it was probably asthma and gave me the inhaler.'
'I see.' Sarah paused. 'Listen Olive, I have to be honest here. If you
were my patient I'd have sent you for an X-ray straight away, to
eliminate certain possibilities if nothing else.' She glanced at her
watch. 'I have a friend who works in the chest clinic at the Western. I
checked with her earlier; she's on duty now, and she'll fit you in.
'If you like, I could take you along there. Best have this cleared up,
yes?'
Olive Mcllhenney looked at her shrewdly. She knew exactly what
was being said; what her visitor meant by 'certain possibilities'. She
had smoked too many cigarettes in the years between ages fifteen and
thirty-four not to have been aware of them. Still, those were possibilities
for others, not for her.
'Well,' she said at last. 'If it'll reassure that big daft bugger of a
husband of mine, why not. Hang on here a minute. I'll ask my
neighbour to keep an eye on the kids and the cat, till Neil gets home,
then I'll write a note for him, and we can be off.'
She moved towards the back door. 'That sure is a lovely cat,' Sarah
remarked, casually.
'Samson? Yes. The kids spoil him rotten.' As she turned to answer,
Sarah noticed, for the first time, a small lump on the right side of her
neck.
38
10
'St Martha's.' Andy Martin read the name aloud. That was all there
was, picked out in gold lettering on the small green board, fixed to the
gate-post at the entrance to the big red sandstone villa, in one of the
quietest streets in the Grange, one of the wealthiest of Edinburgh's
southern suburbs.
'Doesn't tell you a lot, does it?'
'No,' said Mackie, 'as private clinics go this one seems almost
secret.'
'Let's go and find out what secrets they are keeping.'
The Head ofCID locked his silver Mondeo and led the way up the
gravel path, holding a huge golf umbrella as shelter against the rain.
The storm doors of the clinic were open as they reached them,
revealing a big grey-glass-panelled door inside. As Martin folded the
umbrella in the wide vestibule, Mackie tried the door handle. It turned
and they stepped inside.
The entrance hall was a study in mahogany. The polished floor
shone, a heavy balustrade ran up the wide stairway which led to the
upper floor, and a huge piece of furniture, all coat hooks and mirrors,
stood against one wall, facing a varnished door, on which the word
'Reception' was etched on a brass plate.
Mackie tried the second door, but it was locked. As he frowned at
the Head ofCID a woman appeared at the rear of the big hallway. 'I'm
afraid our office is closed, gentlemen,' she said, sharply. 'In any event
we do not receive representatives without appointment.'
'You will receive us, though, madam,' the detective chief superintendent
barked back at her, producing his warrant card as he spoke.
'We are police officers.' Afterwards it occurred to Brian Mackie that
Andy Martin normally would have seen the funny side of her remark.
'I see,' murmured the woman, examining his card, and Mackie's,
closely. She looked to be in her early fifties, dressed in a severe grey
skirt and pullover, which almost matched her hair. It was drawn back
in a bun. 'I, in mm, am Miss Emma Pople,' she said, through thin lips. This woman has all the warmth of a mackerel, thought Mackie. 'I am
the administrator here. What is the reason for your visit?'
39
'What services do you provide here?' Martin asked.
'We provide convalescent facilities for Roman Catholic ladies
recovering from surgery, or other debilitating treatments. St Martha's
is owned by an Order of nuns. Some of our patients are themselves
sisters.'
'Who attends your patients?'
'Usually they are seen by the surgeon
s or physicians in whose care
they have been.'
'Do you have surgical facilities here?'
'We have a small theatre, for emergencies. We don't have Health
Board approval for everyday surgery.'
'Ah, I see. So is that why you obstructed our pathologist colleague
when she called you earlier on today?'
For this first time, Emma Pople looked unsure of herself. 'You
remember,' Martin went on. 'Her name's Dr Skinner. She called this
clinic earlier today asking for information on a Mrs Gaynor Weston;
more specifically whether she had ever been a patient here. You did
speak to her, didn't you?'
The woman's mouth set even tighter. 'That is correct. I was unable
to help her.'
'No, Miss Pople, you refused to help her. Told her to get a court
order, I believe.'
'I may have done. I may tell you the same thing.'
'Just you do that, ma'am,' said the Head of CID, evenly. 'In that
event, Mr Mackie and I will take you at your word. We'll go to the
Sheriff, and he'll give us a warrant to search these premises. But we
won't do it privately, or even quietly. We'll make a fuss about it in the
media, and we'll make damn sure Lothian Health Board hears about it
too.
'Is that what you want? Would the Holy Sisters appreciate the
publicity? Would the Health Board like what we might find?'
Emma Pople looked at him, and realised that he would do exactly
as he threatened. Her grey armour seemed to crack.
'Very well,' she muttered, defeated. 'Come through to my office.'
40
11
The television was still on when Olive Mcllhenney showed Sarah into
her living room. But this time Neil was watching, shirt-sleeved and
alone, as the opening titles of The Bill showed on the screen.
'Looking for tips on policing?' Sarah ventured, with an awkward
smile.
The big sergeant turned to look at her. He began to heave himself
out of his chair, until she waved him to stay seated. 'I was mocking
the afflicted, actually,' he answered. 'None of those buggers would
last five minutes with the boss. That CID room of theirs is a joke;
most of them seem to be sat on their backsides all day.'
'Kids upstairs?' Olive asked. He nodded in reply. 'I'll just go and
see what they're up to. You have a chat with Sarah.' A quick look
passed between husband and wife. Sarah saw it and thought that she
had never seen so much said without words, in only a moment in
time.
'You've got something to tell me,' he said quietly, as the door
closed.
As she looked at him, she felt fear's cold hand clutch her stomach.
This was not something she had ever done before; not to a friend at
least. None of her training had covered this moment. 'Yes, Neil, I
have. Olive asked me to explain things to you alone, while she's with
Lauren and Spencer.
'She and I have just been to the Chest Clinic at the Western. We
saw Dr Miller, one of the registrars there. She's a very fine doctor; we
couldn't have seen anyone better. She sent Olive for an X-ray: when
the print came back it showed a big patch covering most of the lower
part of her right lung. The left one is clear.' She paused.
'What does that mean?' Neil asked, speaking slowly as if to keep
his voice steady.
'It could have meant pneumonia, with other symptoms, or pleurisy.
In the present circumstances the next stage of investigation would
normally have been a bronchoscopy. That's a procedure in which an
instrument is passed into the lung, and a piece of tissue is snipped
out, for biopsy.
41
'However Dr Miller found a lump in one of the lymphatic glands at
the base of the neck. She took tissue from that with a needle and sent
that for analysis. I persuaded her to call in a favour from someone in
the lab, and have it rushed through while we were there.'
She stopped, to gather herself and to fight back the tears which she
knew were not far away. 'A biopsy tests for malignancy, Neil. I am
afraid that Olive's was positive. She has what is known as a non-small
cell carcinoma of the right lung. It's at a fairly advanced stage, since
it has metastasised into the lymphatic system.'
She looked at the big detective, and he stared back at her. 'Are you
telling me that Olive has lung cancer, Sarah? Is that what all that stuff
means?'
'Yes.' Her answer was a whisper, yet it seemed to fill the room.
Neil sagged back into his chair, feeling the cold sweep through his
body, feeling his heart hammering in his chest, feeling a panic akin to
nausea rising in his throat. 'What are our chances?' he asked, his
voice as quiet as hers.
'All the better with you at her side,' Sarah replied. 'This disease
can't be cured, but there are treatments which can drive it into
remission. Dr Miller has arranged an appointment with one of the
consultants in the Department of Clinical Oncology at the Western
General. His name's Derek Simmers: he's fitting Olive in at his Friday
Clinic, tomorrow afternoon at two fifteen.'
'Would it help if we went private?'
She shook her head, brushing her auburn hair against her shoulders.
'Not at all. There is no finer centre for the treatment of cancer
anywhere in the country than the Western General. It's a major research
hub, and it exchanges information with other centres around the world, so whatever treatment is offered to Olive will be state-ofthe-art.'
'He's good then, this Simmers?' asked Neil, struggling to control
'The best.'
'Will he operate? Can he cut the thing out?'
'I can't say for sure, but as I understand it, surgical intervention at
this stage of Olive's disease would be unlikely. Because of the
metastasis it would have to be radical, and there would always be a
danger that it would actually make the cancer spread faster.'
'Does Olive know all this?'
'I think she knew it before we went to the Clinic.'
Sudden fierce anger shone in his eyes. 'And that GP of hers told
her she had asthma!' he snapped. 'I'll have the woman struck off.'
'Neil,' said Sarah, urgently. 'We all make clinical judgements based
on what we see, and on what our patients tell us. Anyhow, you can't
42
let yourself be side-tracked by anything right now. Dr Miller has
written to Dr Jones telling her what's happened, and I'll speak to her
myself tomorrow.
'You have to be completely focused on helping Olive fight this
thing. Don't think about anything else. I'll speak to Bob, and I'm sure
he'll give you compassionate leave as and when you need it.'
'I don't want that,' the detective replied, at once. 'I'll go with her to
see Simmers tomorrow, of course, but we have to hold on to our
normal life, as far as we can.'
'I understand that, and it's good.' She bit her bottom lip, an
unconscious gesture. 'God, Neil, I can't advise you on this, because I
can't really imagine being in your shoes.'
'Oh no?' he countered, quietl
y. 'What about that time the boss was
stabbed?'
She smiled, sadly. 'No, that was different; that was only a forty-
eight hour crisis. You and Olive have a longer fight on your hands to
beat this thing.'
'But beat it we will,' Neil Mcllhenney said, determinedly, as the
door opened and Olive came into the room. She was smiling. Sarah
thought it was the bravest thing she had ever seen.
She turned, patted her on the shoulder and, without a word, left
them together. She was in her car, shoulders wet from the rain which
was still falling heavily before, finally, the tears caught up with her.
43
12
'Couldn't you have visited me at my office tomorrow?' the man
asked, as he showed Maggie Rose into his small study.
'I'd have called at your office this afternoon, Mr Futcher,' the red-
haired detective replied, 'but you were out and your secretary didn't
know when you'd be back.' She glanced around the study; the ornately
papered walls were covered in photographs of its owner, mostly in
evening dress, and all with other people in groups. As her gaze panned
around the room, she recognised several sports and show business
personalities, three Scottish business heroes, and a number of public
figures, including, to her surprise. Deputy Chief Constable Bob
Skinner.
'Did you tell my wife why you're here, when she answered the
door? Not that it matters of course,' he added, too hastily.
'No, we simply introduced ourselves and asked to see you.'
Terry Futcher glanced at Detective Sergeant Stevie Steele. 'Why
are there two of you anyway?'
'It's our normal practice in circumstances like these,' the detective
chief inspector answered. 'I take it you know why we're here.'
Futcher nodded his head. He was a tall, well-built man in his early
forties, sun-bronzed even in late autumn, with immaculately groomed
brown hair and a tightly trimmed beard. 'Yes, I can guess. You've
come about Gay.' He pointed to a green leather Chesterfield settee.
'Take a seat, please,' he offered, lowering himself into a matching
armchair. 'Take a seat.'
'Thank you,' said Rose, settling against an arm of the comfortable
sofa. 'How long have you known Mrs Weston, Mr Futcher? she asked.
'For just over four years.'
'How did you meet?'
'I hired her consultancy firm to train my people. She was a specialist