They exchanged a look as the door clicked open, allowing them to enter a softly lit lobby. The air was slightly musty and Jon looked down at the deep-red carpet at his feet. The groundfloor doors were all plastered over and Jon guessed the rooms on the other sides were offices of companies in the adjoining buildings. The only way to go was up the stairs, and the heavy carpeting completely muffled their footsteps as they climbed. At regular intervals were facial portraits of models, a small notice below each photograph. Collagen. Restylane. Hylaform. Laser skin resurfacing. Temporary wrinkle filler. Cool touch laser.
Jon nodded knowingly at Rick, ‘Non-surgical procedures only.’
At the top of the stairs was a short corridor with two doors leading off. The one marked ‘Treatment Room’ was closed, the other open.
‘Please come in,’ the same voice called from inside.
They entered an office that looked like it should have belonged to a lawyer. A huge wooden desk dominated the end of the room, rows of books weighing down the shelves behind it. The daylight that made it through the windows seemed to be instantly soaked up by the red carpet and wooden wall panels.
A distinguished-looking man was seated behind the desk, wiping the handset of the intercom phone with a cloth for cleaning glasses. ‘Slippery bugger. Hope it didn’t sound too loud your end. Take a seat, why don’t you.’
Jon drank in the Irish lilt. As they walked across the room, he took in the doctor’s full head of white hair, guessing he was in
his late fifties. Closer, he reassessed the doctor’s age. If he was approaching sixty, he wore his years incredibly well. His jawline was firm, the skin around his eyes smooth.
When he smiled, his teeth were perfect. ‘How can I be of help?’
Rick took out his sheet of paper. ‘Do you run this place all on your own, Dr O’Connor?’
‘I have a nurse on the days we carry out procedures. But there’s no point in paying her to be here when it’s just paperwork that I’m tidying up.’
‘Perhaps we should be talking to her. It’s about whoever orders your medical supplies.’
‘I do a lot of that myself.’
‘Including medical gloves?’
‘Indeed.’
‘We’re trying to ascertain the recent movements of a sales rep from Protex.’
‘Young Gordon Dean? He was in here only two days ago.’ He plucked a tangerine from the pile of fruit in a polished wooden bowl on his desk, then nodded towards it. ‘Gentlemen?’
Jon and Rick shook their heads and the doctor held up a finger. ‘Five pieces a day.’ He leaned forwards conspiratorially.
‘If more people kept to that little maxim there’d be a lot less work for me.’ He dropped the peel into a bin and popped a segment of tangerine into his mouth.
‘How did Gordon Dean seem to you?’ Jon asked.
‘His usual cheerful self.’
‘He normally strikes you as happy?’
‘He does. Seems to enjoy his work visits to Manchester, at least.’
‘How about non-work issues? His personal life, for instance?’ The doctor paused. ‘He’s married, I gather. No children, though I don’t know why. I’m not sure what answers you’re looking for.’
Jon smiled. ‘Neither are we. We’re just trying to get an idea of him.’
‘He’s in trouble, I take it?’
‘No. We just need to trace him. He seems to have disappeared.
The last time you saw him, was there anything out of the ordinary? Was he agitated or preoccupied, perhaps?’
O’Connor shook his head.
‘Was he here for long?’
‘No longer than usual. He left at about three o’clock.’
‘Did you chat at all?’
‘We talked about the current best dining options in
Manchester.’
‘Those being?’
‘Gordon loves his Italian food. He mentioned he was staying over in Manchester, so I recommended a place I visited the other day. Piccolino’s. Have you tried it?’
Rick and Jon shook their heads.
‘Ah, Gordon had. I think he was eating at one of his regular places. A person’s name. Now let me think.’ He closed his eyes.
‘Don Antonio’s?’ Jon asked.
The doctor clicked his fingers, opening his eyes and bowing his head fractionally at Jon. ‘Don Antonio’s. I’ve not been there myself. Have you?’
‘No, but I think we will be.’ Jon started to get up, but paused.
‘We’ve just come from the offices of the Paragon Group. What do you think of them?’
The silence was a second too long before he answered. ‘A very efficient organisation.’
Jon sank back in his seat. ‘And your personal, not professional, opinion?’
Dr O’Connor looked into Jon’s eyes. ‘My confidential personal opinion?’
‘Won’t go further than us three,’ Jon replied.
‘A bunch of mercenary money-grabbers.’
‘Go on,’ said Jon.
‘They’ll employ anyone as long as they have one ethic.’ Jon raised his eyebrows in encouragement.
‘That they’re prepared to treat anyone, regardless of need or suitability.’
‘You mean surgery?’ asked Rick.
O’Connor nodded. ‘Their staff all have medical qualifications
and a basic knowledge of cosmetic surgery. But they don’t need any sort of track history — actually, they don’t need any history or experience at all. Add to that the fact that this is an industry woefully lacking in regulations. New procedures and techniques are appearing all the time, and all too often they’re driven by profit rather than patient well-being. Not, in my opinion, a healthy state of affairs.’
‘So you’ve never applied to work for them?’
O’Connor snorted. ‘Absolutely not. The reverse, as a matter of fact. They’ve tried to buy me out once or twice, but I’m not interested. I’ve also had doctors approach me looking for work. I’ve turned them away due to their lack of experience, only to hear they’re employed by Paragon weeks later.’
‘Performing full surgical procedures?’ Jon asked.
‘Full surgical procedures.’
‘As opposed to what you perform here?’
‘Correct. I specialise in aesthetic medicine — laser treatments, botox and filler injections, on the whole. Nothing more than skin deep. But the industry’s expanding at an incredible rate. Everyone wants a slice of the action, to employ the prevalent terminology. Dentists now offer Botox treatments on the side. Got a medical qualification and a syringe? Then join the party. There are rich pickings for all.’
Jon contemplated the doctor’s words. ‘Going back to the surgical side of things, how many people would you say are employed in the industry?’
‘Nationwide or just Manchester?’
Jon toyed with the idea of letting the doctor know which investigation they were on, suspecting that he’d soon guess.
‘Manchester for starters.’
O’Connor frowned. ‘Well, Paragon and their three main competitors have a total of around twelve doctors on their books, I’d say. Some of those work as surgeons in local NHS hospitals and do the private stuff on the side to boost their incomes. Of course, if you were going under the knife, that’s the type of surgeon you want. In addition, they employ several who do private cosmetic work full time. Those guys may do a couple of days a week in Manchester, one in Leeds and one in Liverpool.
They go where the business is. I’d hesitate to say how many of them are in Manchester altogether. Fifty, maybe?’
‘Thanks for your time, Doctor,’ Jon said, getting to his feet.
Out on the street Jon wrinkled his nose as a noisy lorry roared past, leaving a light haze of exhaust fumes in its wake. ‘We’d better recommend to McCloughlin that all surgeons employed by the likes of the Paragon Group are traced and interviewed.’
‘Should be easy to check the alibis of the travelling ones,’ Rick said.
‘True,’ Jon agreed. ‘Let’s see Gordon Dean’s appointments list again.’
Rick got the sheet of paper out, holding it taut against the buffets of air created by passing traffic.
Jon pointed to the final appointment of the morning. ‘Jake’s, in Affleck’s Palace. That’s a tattoo artist.’ He looked towards Great Ancoats Street. ‘It’s only over there. Shall we get it done?’