‘Saving Ryan’s Privates,’ Atherton clarified.
‘Sex change. Wouldn’t you like to go for that, Jez?’ Connolly said with a sweet smile. ‘They turn your lad inside out and stuff it up inside—’
Fathom went pale. ‘Shut up! That’s nothing to joke about!’
She went on reading from the screen. ‘And they do transplants. Kidney, corneal.’ She looked up. ‘Is that a bit of a strange combination, would you think? Plastic, sex-swap and transplants? As in, “Hello, I’m Doctor Death, the eye, nose and bladder man.”’
‘It’s a private hospital,’ Slider said, ‘and they’re all things that people are willing to pay big money for.’
‘Especially foreigners from countries where the culture is less laissez-faire,’ said Atherton. ‘Imagine being an Iranian wanting a sex-swap-op.’
‘You’d hop on a plane and bop along to the sex-swap-op-shop,’ Connolly said, still clattering.
‘Or countries where the very rich have scads of money, but the medical facilities aren’t so advanced,’ Atherton concluded. ‘Plenty of those.’
‘Here’s the staff,’ Connolly went on. ‘“Our illustrious consultants.” Smiling pictures – Janey Mackeroni, aren’t they the sinister crew? I wouldn’t let them take out a splinter. And . . . no David Rogers,’ she concluded, having scrolled to the end.
‘But there is – go back,’ Slider ordered. ‘There is one name we know. There, look. Director of Surgery, Sir Bernard Webber.’
‘Rogers’s pal,’ said Hollis.
‘And benefactor,’ said Atherton. ‘Which perhaps explained why the Cloisterwood leapt to mind when he was spinning a line to Ceecee St Clair.’
‘Maybe he did work there,’ said Hollis, ‘just not as a consultant. They don’t list all the staff. Maybe he was working in a lab or the mortuary.’
‘Or parking cars,’ Fathom offered.
Connolly rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, they’d pay him highly for that, you gom!’
‘He could have been their PR man,’ Atherton said. ‘Didn’t someone say he took rich foreigners to that club? Showing them the hospitality. Maybe he was reeling in the customers. That would pay well.’
‘That would fit in better with the Rogers we know about,’ Slider said. ‘Being charming, wearing nice suits, wining and dining and beguiling the punters.’ He looked around at his crew, who had all picked up amazingly in the last five minutes. ‘All roads lead to Stanmore. Our murderer went there after the shooting. The number plates came from there.’
‘Not quite all roads,’ Atherton said. ‘What about Suffolk?’
‘What about it?’ Mackay objected. ‘We’ve only got that bint’s word for it he went there. And it was probably just a leisure thing anyway.’
‘One red herring at a time,’ Slider said. ‘We have to find out if Rogers did have a connection with Cloisterwood first.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Find out if Sir Bernard Webber is there today, and tell him I want to come over and see him. And –’ to Connolly – ‘see what else there is about him on the Internet. Let me have a few facts under my belt before I go.’
‘Here, sir,’ Connolly said, placing a printed sheet in front of him. ‘All I’ve been able to get so far. Age fifty-six. On his second wife. Two kids from first marriage grown up and gone away. Lives in a gin palace in Letchmore Heath.’
‘How do you know it’s a gin palace?’
‘I looked it up on Goggle-at-my-house – aka Google Earth. Called The Boydens. Gak! I hate people who call their houses The something. Massive modern place. Private cinema, indoor swimming pool, tennis courts. Ugly as a dog’s arse. Sure it looks like a golf hotel in Antrim.’
‘You’ve a cutting tongue on you, Detective Constable. Go on.’
‘He’s consulting rooms in Harley Street, present position Director of Surgery, Cloisterwood Hospital, as we know. Hobbies, golf – there’s a surprise. Fishing – and another. And flying – has his own light aircraft at Elstree Aerodrome. Other positions, Deputy Director of Standards, General Medical Council; Member of the Health Service Advisory Group; Member of the Pharmaceutical Oversight Board. Jayzus, you’d think they’d want to get rid of pharmaceutical oversights, not have a board for them! Quite the political player, too. He’s been Special Adviser to the Department of Health – that musta been a bit of a jolly: did an eighteen-month fact-finding tour of China, the Middle East, the Sub-Continent – what’s that when it’s at home?’
‘India and Pakistan.’
‘Oh, right – and South America. Nice work if you can get it. He’s also been Cabinet Special Adviser on Care Implementation, and Deputy Chair, Select Committee on GP remuneration. On the GMC website under his interests it’s listed he’s a member of the Labour Party, but we might have guessed that – he got his knighthood in 2003 for helping to shove through the new GP contract.’ She looked up at Slider. ‘You’d want to watch yourself, guv, tangling with that class of a player. He’s friends in high places.’
‘I eat people with friends in high places for breakfast,’ Slider assured her. He held out his hand. ‘Can I have that?’
‘Work away,’ she said, handing it over. ‘If you get into trouble, you can write a cry for help on the back and turn it into a paper aeroplane.’
‘Or fashion it into a pistol and frighten my way out?’
She considered. ‘Forget that,’ she concluded. ‘Just do a legger.’
THIRTEEN
Bedside Manor
This part of Middlesex was simply lovely: gentle inclines, rich rolling pastures, fine mature trees, old hedgerows and wide verges. In the grounds of the Cloisterwood Hospital there was a prettily-shaped small lake, reed-fringed, from which skeins of ducks rose with joyful clamour. It looked like an eighteenth-century landed gentleman’s idea of the Garden of Eden.
Part of the hospital building – the part you first came upon down the long drive – was a white-stuccoed early Victorian house of large windows, tall chimneys and gracious aspect, presumably the country residence of the original owner of this artful landscape. The modern, functional buildings that had been added to turn it into a hospital had been politely tucked away at the back, as was the car park, which was full of BMWs, Mercedes and Audis, not to mention a generous sprinkling of Rollers and Bentleys. In the corner a discreet notice pointed the way to the staff car park, and Slider, feeling his common old car would look less out of place there, modestly followed it. Ah, this was better. Minis and Micros and Meganes, Golfs, Fiestas and Focuses, and even a couple of MPVs, together with a fair and reasonable degree of scruffiness and dilapidation, allowed him to park with more confidence.
Webber’s office was in the old building, and he was shown into it by a slight, pretty girl in a lavender uniform dress and told that Sir Bernard would be with him very shortly. Slider anticipated a power-wait, but in fact it was only two or three minutes, barely time to take himself to the window and look out over the parkland to the lake, before the door opened behind him and a voice said, ‘Nice view, isn’t it? Even lovelier when the chestnuts come into bloom.’
Slider turned. Given Webber’s eminence, status, and connections, Slider had been quite prepared to dislike him. He had expected cold briskness, arrogance, finger-drumming impatience with Slider’s inferiority and the waste of valuable time he represented. But the Webber approaching him across the room was perfectly relaxed and smiling, holding out his hand with such an air of cordiality that Slider shook it without even a momentary shrinking.
‘One of the perks of my position here,’ Webber went on, joining Slider at the window. ‘I got to choose my own office. I’ve worked in so many modern buildings – and of course no one wants to house the medical side of things in old buildings. But an office like this was always my dream. We had to adapt the house to a certain extent, but I think we did it tactfully – don’t you? You see how we matched the mouldings and cornice – that’s actually a false wall there. And the door is a copy.’