‘It’s a shoe, not a trainer. Size eleven, left foot. Owner likely to weigh in excess of twelve stone. The grip on the sole is quite distinctive and it’s completely worn away on the inside edge, suggesting that the wearer pronates quite heavily. As a result, he’s highly likely to have an unusual gait.’
The scene in the hospital corridor flashed into Jon’s mind. He had thought Pete Gray swaggered as a result of his beer belly. Now he wondered if the swivel in his hips could have been the result of one foot turning inwards with each step.
The clinic in Worsley was tucked away behind the pleasant green. It was part of a cluster of council buildings including a small swimming pool, exercise hall, doctor’s surgery and the clinic itself.
The reception area was plastered with a haphazard collection of posters. Professionally produced NHS ones on giving up smoking sat alongside home-printed ones on dieting groups, childcare support and mothers’ meetings. Jon looked with interest at a cluster of smaller, handwritten cards advertising everything from breast pumps and second-hand prams to babysitters and exercise bikes.
He heard someone cooing. A young woman in the seating area was bouncing a baby on her knee. The infant’s head rocked gently back and forth but its eyes were locked on its mother’s, the rest of the world completely irrelevant to them both. She held it up and the sight touched something in Jon. Just as he was about to smile, the baby vomited down its mother’s shirt.
‘Good morning.’ The rosy-cheeked receptionist was studying them through the glass screen.
‘Hello, there,’ Jon replied as they produced their warrant cards. ‘Who could we speak to about the medical supplies the clinic orders?’
‘For my sins, that’s me,’ she replied, sliding a plate with a half-eaten muffin to the side.
‘Does that include such things as medical gloves?’ asked
Rick.
‘Yes,’ she beamed. ‘In fact, I took a new order the other day.’
‘From Protex?’
‘That’s right.’ Her voice slowed down. ‘From Protex.’
Rick took out Gordon Dean’s photo. ‘You dealt with this man?’
‘Gordon,’ she started to smile again, then stopped. ‘What is the. .’ Her voice faded away.
‘How did he seem to you?’ Jon asked.
Her eyes swung between them, settling back on Rick.
‘Friendly as ever. He doesn’t come in that often. It’s a rolling order — once every few months.’
‘Do you remember what time he left?’
‘I don’t know.’ She flicked back through her appointments book. ‘He came in after the nurse’s post-natal clinic started at four. He probably left at about quarter past. Is he in some kind of trouble?’
Rick shook his head. ‘No. We just need to trace him. Did he mention anything not related to work?’
‘No. I didn’t have time to chat that day — the post-natal clinic’s always very busy.’
‘But you do chat sometimes?’ Jon asked.
‘Yes, sometimes.’
‘What does Gordon like to talk about?’
She thought for a few seconds, then smiled sheepishly.
‘Actually, come to think of it, he usually asks about my family and then lets me rabbit on about what my kids have been up to recently.’
‘Nothing about himself?’
‘Not really. Just how the job’s going, if he’s busy. You know, small talk, I suppose.’
*
They drove back to the city centre, heading for the next client. The business was in a smart modern building just off the prime shopping area of King Street. Eventually they found an empty loading bay on the edge of St Anne’s Square. Leaving a police sign on the dashboard, they walked back round and examined the list of companies listed at the entrance. Firms of solicitors seemed to be the dominant force. A uniformed security officer in the lobby directed them towards the lifts. ‘Sixth floor. They’ve got it all to themselves.’
As the lift rose silently, Rick said, ‘I’ve heard of the Paragon Group. Big ads at the back of women’s magazines. Must cost a fortune.’
The doors opened on a plush foyer, the green of tropical palms complemented by walls washed with a subtle turquoise paint. The carpet was pale blue, the lighting recessed. The result was very soothing. Trust us, you’re in good hands, Jon thought.
The receptionist wore a starched white tunic and her hair was pulled back so tightly it looked like the follicles might bleed. As they approached her desk, she reached for a couple of forms.
Rick stepped up, his warrant card out. ‘DS Saville and DI Spicer. May we speak to whoever orders your medical supplies, please.’
She looked confused. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you’d just popped in to enquire about, er…We don’t have much here.’
‘If whoever orders your medical examination gloves could spare us a minute.’
‘Oh, that’s our head nurse. She’s with someone at the moment. Please help yourself to coffee.’ She gestured towards an open door. A pot of coffee was in the corner of the room and satellite television played softly on a plasma screen mounted on the wall. A middle-aged woman squirmed with embarrassment as they stepped in. She pulled her magazine tight into her lap, and kept her head bowed over it.
Jesus, you’d have thought it was a sexual diseases clinic, Jon thought as they sat down. He picked up a brochure. It was printed on expensive stock, plenty of white space between the words. Printing costs had obviously not been a problem.
‘Here you go,’ Rick said, holding a woman’s magazine out. The Paragon Group’s ad dominated the page. A nude woman was sitting on a polished wooden floor. Her legs and arms were artfully crossed, screening a figure that was faultless. Below it the locations of the group’s centres were listed. Every major city seemed to have one.
‘Big business,’ Rick stated.
Jon turned to the brochure’s contents page. Surgery for the face and body, liposuction, hair transplants, tummy tucks, reshaping and enhancing of genitalia. Curious to see how revealing the images might be, he flicked to an inner page. The photo was harmless: a woman gazed off to the side, a benign smile playing at the edge of her mouth. Ear reshaping, lip reduction and enlargement, chin implants.
‘Gentlemen, please come through.’
A statuesque woman in what might have been her mid-thirties stood in the doorway. The same crisp outfit as the receptionist. She led them into an examination room.
‘You have a question about our examination gloves?’ She picked up a box from the corner of her desk. The label said: Powder-free surgical gloves. Non-sterile latex.
‘Actually, it’s about the person who supplies them,’ Rick said. Her immaculately painted lips contracted to form the word
‘Oh?’
‘Gordon Dean, he works for Protex,’ Rick continued.
‘Mr Dean, yes. He was here two days ago.’
‘At what time?’
‘About quarter past three, I’d guess.’
‘And did he stay for long?’
‘About three minutes.’
‘Did you chat to him? How did he seem?’
‘Chat with him?’ The suggestion seemed to bemuse her. ‘No. I signed for the delivery and he left.’
Jon saw this was going nowhere. He looked around. ‘What goes on here, then?’
Her eyes turned to him. ‘In terms of what?’
‘Treatments. Have you got surgical theatres and doctors hidden away here? It seems very quiet.’
She shook her head. ‘The only things performed here are non-surgical procedures requiring, at most, local anaesthetic. Botox injections and laser treatments, for instance. The primary function of this office is for consultations. An initial one with myself or another nurse, then one with a surgeon. Once the paperwork is complete, the patient will see their surgeon for a further pre-operative medical examination and briefing prior to the procedure at a local private hospital nearby. We rent the theatres from them.’
‘Who are your surgeons, then?’ Jon asked.
‘Is this part of the original reason for your visit today or merely curiosity on your part, Detective Inspector?’ There was a challenging, almost provocative, look in her eyes.