‘What’s so urgent, Mr Fine?’ she demanded.
He removed the spectacles, and tucked them into a pocket of his lab coat. His hair was less well groomed than it had been at their earlier meetings and she was grateful for that also. If he’d only shave off that fucking moustache, she thought.
‘There’s something I have to talk to you about,’ he began, ‘something to do with your pregnancy.’
She felt all her strength and much of her self-control drain away. ‘Is she dead? My baby? Is she dead? She can’t be: she kicked me just this morning.’
‘Calm yourself, Mrs Steele. Your baby isn’t dead.’
‘Is she deformed? Is it spina bifida? Down’s syndrome? I know that can happen to first-time mothers my age.’
Aldred Fine swung round in his chair and leaned forward. His eyes held hers, and Ron Mael was gone, gone for good. His gaze was kind, comforting, reassuring, and although his face was still serious, she felt her panic subside, her breathing steady and her heartbeat slow to its normal steady rate.
‘At this stage of the pregnancy, your baby couldn’t be better,’ the consultant said. ‘She’s not too big, but that’s not a problem. No, my concern is with you.’
‘Me?’ Maggie laughed spontaneously. ‘Mr Fine, I’ve never felt better in my life.’
‘I don’t doubt that for a moment. However, as I said, there is something that’s arisen from your most recent scan. You’ll recall my explaining that a second scan isn’t usual but that we sometimes do it in the case of ladies who were once somewhat indelicately categorised by my profession as “elderly primagravida”. “Special mums” is the currently fashionable term. When we did yours, I’m afraid that it revealed a shadow on your right ovary.’
The butterflies returned. ‘What sort of a shadow?’
‘That we do not know. Ultrasound only shows up abnormalities; it doesn’t usually define them, not in the mother at any rate.’
‘Did it show in my first scan?’ Maggie asked.
‘No, but that doesn’t tell me categorically that it wasn’t there.’
She steeled herself to ask the question. ‘What could it be? Be straight with me, please.’
The consultant’s eyes fixed on hers again. ‘It could be, and I am sure that it is, an ovarian cyst; on the other hand, there is a chance that it could be something more problematical.’
She felt a cold wave break over her; she waited until it subsided. ‘If it’s not a cyst, then what? Do you mean cancer?’
‘That’s one possibility.’
‘How can we find out?’
‘The best way would be a CT scan, but we can’t do that, since it uses X-rays and would be harmful for the baby. So I propose that we give you an MRI scan. . That’s an acronym for magnetic resonance imaging.’
‘I know that,’ she snapped. ‘Sorry,’ she added quickly. ‘How does it work?’
‘The process is much the same as a CT scan; different technology, that’s all. We put you in a tunnel and take a cross-sectional picture of the abdominal area. Magnetic resonance should give us a decent image, and help us to make a diagnosis.’
‘An unequivocal diagnosis?’
Fine shook his head. ‘In your situation, probably not. It’ll give us an indication, that’s all. However, I should say that the ultrasound only showed an abnormality in that one ovary, nowhere else.’
‘Where else might it have been?’
‘In the other ovary, and in the uterus. Mind you, your womb has a tenant at the moment, and the ultrasound can’t see behind her. Mrs Steele, can I ask, is there a history of ovarian cancer in your family?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘My mother died of breast cancer, and my sister’s perfectly healthy, as far as I know. She’s in Australia; I haven’t seen her in years.’
‘How about grandmothers, aunts?’
‘My father’s mother was Portuguese; I never met her and I’ve no idea what happened to her, but as far as I know, he was an only child. My other granny died when I was seven, and my aunt Fay, my mother’s older sister, she died when I was fifteen, of stomach cancer, I believe.’ She paused, then went on. ‘The MRI scan: is there any danger for the baby in that procedure?’
‘None at all.’
‘When do you want to do it?’
‘I’ve booked you in for tomorrow afternoon.’
She looked at him. ‘You were sure of yourself.’
‘Not really,’ he told her. ‘I was sure of you. I must stress that this is purely precautionary, so please don’t go fearing the worst, but on the infrequent occasions that I have this type of conversation, I’ve never encountered a patient who didn’t want to rush straight into the scanning tunnel afterwards.’
Thirteen
‘Hey, before I forget,’ Stevie Steele exclaimed, ‘did you call that guy from the Royal?’
‘Yes,’ Maggie replied. ‘It was a mistake: his secretary had mixed up my notes with someone else’s. It wasn’t me he wanted at all.’
‘Jesus! Makes you think, doesn’t it? People go on about the dangers of computerisation, but you can’t beat good old-fashioned human error when it comes to fucking things up.’
‘Indeed. Speaking of which, how’s your investigation unfolding?’
‘Thank you very much, my darling.’ He chuckled. ‘I love you too. We’ve established for sure that the same gun was used in both shootings: no surprise there. Thanks to Neil McIlhenney, or rather his wife, we’ve turned up the possibility that he might be a trophy-taker. But we still don’t know who the second victim is. She isn’t a locaclass="underline" I’m certain of that much.’
‘If that’s as far as you’ve got, Inspector, what the hell are you doing phoning me?’
‘I’m keeping tabs on my wife, like I do every day. Where are you, anyway? I can hear traffic noise. Are you out of the office?’
‘The window’s open,’ she replied circumspectly, pushing the one-touch button on the driver’s door to close it.
‘Ah, okay. I really do have to go, love. Look after yourself, and I’ll see you tonight.’
‘Okay. Be lucky.’
‘I need some. ’Bye.’
He flipped his mobile closed, and slipped it back into his pocket, then picked up the phone on the desk. He consulted a Post-it note, with a direct number he had used earlier, and dialled it again. ‘Dorward,’ a familiar voice announced in his ear.
‘Arthur, this is Stevie. Any joy on that ballistic search of the PNC?’
He heard a sigh. ‘Son, there’s a queue, even for you. Computers are supposed to be instantaneous, but when you have human interface. .’
‘Funny,’ said Steele. ‘I’ve just had this conversation with my wife.’
‘One day I’ll have direct access, but until then, it can get frustrating.’
‘Okay, I’m sorry I rattled your cage.’
‘Apology accepted, but actually I was rattling yours. I’ve just had a call back: your gun’s a virgin, at least it was when it killed the Gavin girl. There’s no record of it being used in any other crime. I can tell you a couple of things about it, though. I had some very specific research done on it.’
‘Such as?’
‘It’s a very special gun; a SIG Sauer automatic, popular with competition shooters. We ran the ballistic-test results past the manufacturers, and they confirmed it. The current model would cost you going on for two grand, if you could buy it in the shops, that is. It’s a state-of-the-art nine-millimetre automatic, nineteen-shot magazine, single-action trigger, low-profile adjustable sight, eight point eight inches long, weight when fully loaded, just under three pounds. When you come across it, be very careful, especially if it’s in the possession of its owner. Anyone who has a gun like this will know how to use it: he’ll be able to take your eye out from fifty yards away, and do the other one before you hit the ground.’
‘So far he’s only used it close up. Maybe that’s his limit.’
‘No chance. This guy’s a marksman: the gun says so. I’ll bet my pension on it.’
‘Who would have a weapon like that?’
‘A criminal, maybe, Stevie?’ Dorward grunted.