Dust to dust

TWENTY-TWO

Steven collected the file on the dead marine from the Home Office before setting out for the north. Jean Roberts apologised for the lack of detail but she had only had time to get her hands on the official press release from the MOD and add in what she could garner from the newspapers. John Macmillan wasn’t in the office so Steven didn’t get the chance to tell him about the bogus Public Health official and what he’d deduced. He told Jean he’d call him later.

After an uneventful drive with only one stop for coffee at a service station, which had given him the chance to read through the slim file on Michael Kelly, he drew up outside Cassie Motram’s cottage: it was shortly after one o’clock. Cassie told him that she’d made sandwiches in case he hadn’t stopped for lunch. Steven smiled, thinking that this was exactly the kind of thing Cassie Motram would do. He accepted gratefully.

He was invited to take a seat in the small conservatory stuck on the back of the house where he sat and looked out on a picture-book country garden while Cassie went to fetch them, calling through from the kitchen that she had hoped to have been able to talk outside in the garden.

‘I thought when I saw the sunshine this morning…’ she said as she put the heaped plate down. ‘But it was false optimism; I’m wishing the winter away. I always do; but it’s still far too early and far too cold. So, put me out of my misery, Dr Dunbar. What did you make of the TV news item?’

‘That’s really why I’m here,’ Steven admitted. ‘Seeing that report after what you’d told me about John thinking the donor and the dead marine were one and the same started alarm bells ringing. It’s just too much of a coincidence. I need to know everything you can remember about John’s London trip and the transplant operation he was involved in: how it came about, the names of those involved, absolutely everything, no detail too small.’

Cassie looked serious. ‘Do you think this could have had something to do with what happened to John?’ she asked.

‘Yes. I do.’

‘So it had nothing to do with the excavation at all?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Then what?’

‘That’s what I’m determined to find out. Let’s start from the beginning.’

Cassie took a sip of her tea. ‘When Balliol College told John about the letters raising the possibility of preserved bodies of Black Death victims lying in a secret tomb at Dryburgh, John was over the moon. But he didn’t have the funding to take on such a project: he’d more or less been told his grant for the historical work wasn’t being renewed. However, the Master of Balliol said that funding might be available from a new source called the Hotspur Foundation. All John had to do was agree to act as a consultant in his specialty when called upon and without being given too much notice. Well, of course, John agreed, seeing it as a lifeline for his research and his chance to settle the argument over the cause of Black Death. He signed on the dotted line, as they say, and a few weeks later he was called to London, to a private hospital in South Kensington. It was called St Raphael’s.’

Steven wrote the name down. ‘Who called him?’

‘A firm of London solicitors representing the Hotspur Foundation.’

‘Do you still have the letter?’

Cassie left the room for a few moments and returned with it. ‘Apparently the person or persons behind the Hotspur Foundation are very reclusive so they use the solicitors as a front to protect their privacy. The Master of Balliol College told John he thought it was probably a billionaire atoning for past sins.’

Steven smiled. ‘Quite a few of those around,’ he said. ‘They usually pop up in the honours list.’

‘When John turned up at the hospital there were some other people there, all specialists in their own fields… I think he said six but I’m not sure.’

‘Names?’

‘Sorry, John didn’t mention any, but the man in charge of proceedings who told them why they were there was a Sir Laurence Samson. Of Harley Street, no less.’

‘And they were there because they were to be involved in the treatment of a patient who was to have a bone marrow transplant?’

‘Yes. The patient had advanced leukaemia. As a last resort they were going to try replacing his bone marrow. It was John’s job to screen the donor for compatibility. He told me there was a tremendous air of secrecy surrounding everything. The patient was only ever referred to as Patient X, although there was a strong hint that he was fabulously wealthy. The donor was simply called the donor. The consultants weren’t allowed to talk to each other about the case unless it was professionally necessary and no names were to be mentioned. There were to be severe financial implications for anyone stepping out of line, although I don’t think John ever understood why such threats were necessary. He saw his role in screening the donor as being very simple and straightforward — any hospital lab could have done the essentials, according to him. He couldn’t understand why he — or rather the university — was being paid all that money for a piece of routine work. I think we concluded that the patient was buying the best of everything simply because he could.’

‘Am I right in thinking that John never saw the patient, only the donor?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And he didn’t know the donor’s name?’

‘No. He was a young man with a Scots accent. That’s it.’

‘Who looked a lot like the young marine on the television,’ said Steven.

‘John was sure he was the young man he’d seen in London, but Sir Laurence convinced him otherwise and the dates made it impossible. But then when I saw the story on the news last night…’

‘So John actually voiced his suspicion to Laurence Samson?’ asked Steven, seeing this as a crucial point.

Cassie nodded. ‘He was so sure. He called him up almost immediately after seeing the report of the death on TV. Sir Laurence assured him he was mistaken.’ She refilled Steven’s cup. ‘So who’s lying?’ she asked.

‘And why?’ Steven wondered.

Steven decided against telling Cassie anything yet about his suspicions surrounding the false Public Health doctor and the possibility that John had been deliberately poisoned, but he did tell her something about the dead marine. ‘If the soldier really was the donor John saw in London, his name was Michael Kelly and he came from Glasgow. The official report says he was wounded by shrapnel in an incident in Helmand Province in southern Afghanistan. It wasn’t thought to be a serious wound but it turned septic and didn’t respond to treatment. He died from blood poisoning in a military hospital at Camp Bastion where he was taken after being transferred from a smaller field hospital. His body was returned to the UK for burial with full military honours.’

Cassie looked perplexed. ‘So what exactly are his family going on about?’ she asked.

‘Michael Kelly’s parents have complained to their local member of the Scottish parliament that they haven’t been told the full story about their son’s death. They claim he was flown home secretly to the UK shortly before his death but haven’t been told why. They also complain of a lack of information about the incident he was supposedly wounded in. Their MSP has decided to run with it and has passed on their concerns to the Ministry of Defence — defence is not a devolved power in Scotland. He’s also briefing the news media, by the look of it.’

Cassie shook her head in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘So it is possible this young man was the donor. God, I wish I knew what the hell was going on.’

‘Well, it’s going to be my job to try and find out,’ said Steven, getting up to go. ‘If you remember anything else you think could be useful, let me know.’

As he headed north-west to Borders General Hospital, Steven reflected on what he’d learned from Cassie Motram and tried to match it to what he already knew or suspected. If John Motram really had been the subject of an attack, it was difficult to see the motive, particularly if MI5 were party to it. It was possible that Motram had been targeted to shut him up about something to do with the secret transplant, but what? He didn’t know anything. He had said, however, that he thought the donor and a dead Royal Marine were one and the same. Had voicing that suspicion been enough to seal his fate?