He sat behind the wheel of his taxi-cab and started the engine. He was still feeling anger, he realised, a sense of betrayal, shocked at the peremptory way he’d been removed from the Kindred case, a case that should belong to no one else but him. A clear vote of no confidence — he was a failure in their eyes — whoever ‘they’ were…
And what was that mustachioed berk, Yuri, going to achieve? He might tip Bozzy off that Yuri would be prowling round The Shaft. Bozzy and his mates could lead him a merry dance while Jonjo Case, in the meantime, quietly and thoroughly followed his nose and brought them Kindred. In the same way, it struck him, that Jesus had taken the heat for John. A nice analogy, he thought: then gratitude would follow, certain reinstatement, a significant cash bonus. He smiled to himself as he pulled away from the kerb — he should just firm up, the Kindred trail was warm and getting warmer and one day one of these arsehole Johns would recognise him. It was simply a matter of time.
44
THE PURPLY-TAUPE, ALL–IN-ONE, ZIP-UP ‘action suits’, as they were known in St Bot’s, were a great improvement on the 1980s-style commissionaire look of the epaulettes and matching ties of Bethnal & Bow, Adam considered. In his action suit Adam felt like a paramedic, someone empowered, who might have sprung from a hovering helicopter or a skidding 4×4, ready to administer first aid, give help, rescue, save a life. The fact that he was going up to the de Vere Wing to pick up a file of invoices to deliver to the medical secretaries in Accounting didn’t diminish his vague sense of himself as a significant, albeit minor, cog in the great machine — the medical Leviathan — that was St Botolph’s. All the staff secretly liked their funky jumpsuits, whatever shade they were. The design guru who had come up with the scheme clearly understood human psychology better than most psychologists. Even the cleaners took more pride in their work, thanks to their acid-green overalls, as they fought the good fight, the unending battle, against MRSA, C. difficile and other bacterial infections.
As the lift approached the de Vere Wing’s floor, Adam told himself to concentrate. This was his sixth or seventh visit to de Vere in the two weeks he’d been at St Bot’s — Philip Wang’s domain — and he was beginning to be recognised by the staff and develop the bantering relationship with them of a familiar, even though there were over a hundred porters at St Bot’s — theatre, departmental and outpatient — on duty at any one time. “Hey, Primo,” people were starting to say; “Prime’s here.” He’d been offered a cup of tea on his last visit. The aim was to become a routine presence, part of the transient furniture, someone that no one was surprised to see.
The transfer from Bethnal & Bow had been surprisingly easy to effect. Rizal, one of the senior porters, had a brother, Jejomar, who worked at St Bot’s. It was one of the facts of British medical life that all hospital portering services were understaffed, hence the reliance on agencies to make up the shortfall. Primo Belem had been warmly welcomed: as a trained porter with good references and a CRB clearance he had already benefited from a marginal salary rise (another £200 per annum) and hints had been dropped by management that there was a clear promotional route available to him, should he wish to pursue it. A few evening courses to follow, some basic administrative training in human resources and he could move up several levels with ease — the portering world was his oyster.
There was an unusual and noticeable excitement on the de Vere Wing when he arrived to pick up the documents — nurses chatting loudly, laughing, showing magazines to each other. One was scissoring out a page which was then stuck on the wing’s notice board along with the ‘get well’ cards, the health and safety warning notices and the holiday snaps and postcards from grateful former patients.
“Hi, Corazon,” he said to a nurse he knew. “What’s going on?”
She showed him a two-page advertorial in Nursing Monthly, headlined ‘A CURE FOR ASTHMA?’ And followed by a vague impassioned mission statement about a search for a drug to end this modern curse on the lives of so many.
“We are running the clinical trials here,” Corazon said, emotionally. “For three years. Finally we are there.”
“What clinical trials?”
“For Zembla-4.”
She pointed out the references in the advertorial.
“Here? Zembla-4? Congratulations,” Adam said, disingenuously. “Amazing. My niece has terrible asthma. Sometimes she can hardly breathe.”
“This drug can helping her,” Corazon said with real sincerity. “I have seen it working. Incredible. Tell her to ask her doctor.”
“Maybe she could even come here,” Adam said. He knew the wing well now: twenty comfortable rooms with en suite bathrooms off a wide carpeted corridor, a bright toy-crammed playroom at one end.
Corazon shrugged ruefully, as if to say — don’t get your hopes up. “Is private, you know. Expensive.”
“You mean all these are rich kids in this wing?”
“No, no,” Corazon said. “They ordinary kids — the de Vere Trust pay for everything. But they choose. If you niece very sick maybe she can get in.” She lowered her voice, confidentially. “You go to doctor, you say you niece very, very sick with asthma. You say, what about St Bot’s? He send you here, to de Vere Wing — for free.”
“Free?”
“Yes. The doctors they send us the sick children. It’s a wonderful thing. They getting Zembla-4. Only here.”
“Yeah, amazing. Maybe I’ll try…Who runs this wing, anyway?”
“We have many doctors. Dr Zeigler is the last. He’s in USA now. For PDA submission.”
“Of course. So he must work for Calenture-Deutz.”
“Yes. All our doctors are paid by Calenture-Deutz. We all get bonus from Calenture-Deutz. That’s why we so happy.”
Adam left with his file of clinical records and invoices and duly delivered them to Accounting in the Main Building, third floor.
Back off duty in the porters’ restroom Adam took out the document with Wang’s list. He had had several copies made and had replaced the precious original back in its buried safety deposit box in the triangle by Chelsea Bridge. There were five names listed under St Botolph’s: Lee Moore, Charles Vandela, Latifah Gray, Brianna Dumont-Cole and Erin Kosteckova. Five children who had been in the Felicity de Vere Wing in the three years before Philip Wang’s death.
He went to the payphone in the corridor, slotted in his coins and dialled Administration.
“Hello,” he said, when the phone was eventually answered, “I wonder if you can help me. I’ve just got back from South Africa. My god-daughter is a patient in the hospital. I want to find out what ward she’s in. She’s—” he read a name off the list—“Brianna Dumont-Cole.”
“One moment, please.”
There was a longish pause. He was asked to repeat the name. In the background he could hear the dry bony click of a computer keyboard.
“There seems to be some mistake, sir.”
“No, no, I just want to pay her a surprise visit. I’ve been out of the country for months. I haven’t seen her for nearly a year…Hello?”
“Brianna passed away, sir. That was four months ago. I’m terribly sorry. Her family will know all the details.”
Adam hung up without saying anything.
♦
It took him two days and many pound coins to work through the names on Wang’s list, calling the four hospitals around the country: Aberdeen, Manchester, Southampton and St Botolph’s. It turned out that all the names on Philip Wang’s list were those of dead children. After he had logged the first five he changed tack — when he telephoned he now let it be known from the outset that he was aware the child was deceased. He had a variety of excuses ready in his search for information — a memorial garden was being planned, or a headstone, a charity auction, a celebration of the child’s short life at her primary school. Can you confirm the date and time of day? No problem. We want to donate money to a charity of the hospital’s choice. Thank you so much. My uncle would like to speak to the doctor in charge at the time. I’m afraid that will not be possible, sir. Whatever the excuse, the pretext, the sentimental lie he proffered, the answers he received all confirmed that the fourteen names Philip Wang had noted down on his list were those that had died in Felicity de Vere wings in four hospitals in the British Isles where expensive and thorough clinical trials were being undergone over several years to test the efficacy of a new anti-asthma drug, Zembla-4.