Trauma

Three

Sarah Lasseter had been on duty for thirty-five hours with only two hours sleep. She had known what to expect when she started out on the course that would make her a qualified doctor but that didn’t make her feel any better about it. She was exhausted. What made it worse was that she really could not see any need for it. Like so many bad things, it had become ‘traditional’ that junior doctors should work themselves to a standstill. Because of that, there was no real impetus to change matters. If any such attempt was made it usually had to come from junior doctors themselves and in the end, the more vociferous of their number were patronised by the authorities as being young and ‘bolshie’. The others tended to fade from the protest scene, fearing damage to their future careers.

Sarah’s feelings on the matter remained unexpressed simply because she wasn’t prepared to back them up with action. She felt that she had enough on her plate with the study and practice of medicine without getting involved in the politics of it. She also recognised that, as a woman, she was starting off at a disadvantage. Whatever anyone said to the contrary, medicine had a strong male bias. In the upper echelons, very few consultancies were filled by women. Sarah had quietly checked when she’d started at the hospital. The ratio was seven to one in favour of men. She hadn’t mentioned this to anyone because she felt the feminist cause had been lost to the loonies. She accepted pragmatically that to be seen as an equal she’d have to be better. At the moment she was doing her obligatory one year residency work in hospital medicine, finding out her strengths and weaknesses, her likes and dislikes, with a view to future career direction. Her first six months had been spent in general surgery where she had performed well enough to be recommended for her current position in the prestigious Head Trauma Unit. When asked about future plans, Sarah would invariably say that, eventually, she planned to join her father in general practice. Just lately she had become aware of how much emphasis she had been putting on the word ‘eventually’.

Sarah had been brought up in a small town in Norfolk, the only daughter of a country doctor and his wife, who was virtually a partner through her involvement in the day to day running of the practice. Sarah had inherited her father’s intellect but, to her own regret, not her mother’s inexhaustible patience and her capacity to see the good in everyone. Sarah regarded herself as much more of a realist. There had been a time in her teenage years when she’d gone off the rails and had driven her parents almost to distraction. For a year and a half she had rebelled against the values her family held dear and had run wild. Her school work was ignored and she fell in with a crowd who were, to her way of thinking at the time, exciting. This unhappy time for all of them had ended almost as suddenly as it had begun and before Sarah had got into any serious trouble. The leather-jacketed boys who drank and smoked and ‘borrowed’ cars stopped being so exciting. Almost overnight they became boring and vacuous.

Ostensibly, relationships with her father and mother were restored, but Sarah knew that the hurt she had caused ran deep, particularly with her father who had been ill-prepared for her antics. She had done her best to atone by catching up with her schoolwork and then gaining entry to Glasgow University’s medical school.

She knew how proud her father had been on graduation day, but was aware that what he really wanted was for her to join him in general practice and one day take over the care of the people who had come to mean so much to him. She had almost convinced herself that this was what she, too, wanted for herself, but knew that somewhere, at the back of her mind, guilt for the pain she had caused was still playing a part.

What concerned Sarah at the moment was not the fact that she was unbelievably tired and run off her feet but that her immediate boss clearly did not like her. Dr Derek Logan was being less that helpful and she wasn’t sure why. She suspected it had something to do with working-class snobbery. He liked people to know that he had clawed his way up from very humble beginnings and seemed to despise anyone who hadn’t, although he had very clearly set out to distance himself from these very origins. Whatever the reason, Sarah found him very difficult to talk to, and this was a problem, as there was a lot she had to learn. That meant asking questions, but asking Logan invariably brought a shrug of the shoulders and an equivocal response. His look always seemed to suggest that she should have known the answer to her question

The consultant in charge of the Head Trauma Unit, Doctor Murdoch Tyndall, was the very model of good breeding and manners, a charming man in his fifties who looked as if he might have auditioned successfully for the part of an aristocrat in a Disney film. His appearance was complemented by a formidable reputation for his work with brain-damaged patients. But despite his professional success, it was eclipsed by his brother’s achievements. Cyril Tyndall was a professor of viral epidemiology at the university medical school and a world authority on the design and development of vaccines.

Although the Tyndall brothers worked in different areas of medical research, Cyril Tyndall’s success in the development of animal and human vaccines had had a direct effect on his brother’s work. Gelman Holland, the pharmaceutical company which made a great deal of money from manufacturing Cyril’s vaccines under licence, had not only endowed the medical school with substantial sums to provide the best facilities for Cyril to continue his work — a strictly commercial gesture — but had also made a further grant of two million pounds to the teaching hospital. This was seen by many as a high profile public relations exercise, but the company insisted that it was to emphasise their avowed commitment to front line medicine and research.

To everyone’s surprise and delight, the Gelman Holland gift had been matched by an equivalent amount from the Department of Health in the unusual form of a direct grant. As agreed by both parties, the funds had been used to set up the Head Trauma Unit at the hospital. This had been done this ostensibly to establish a national centre of excellence for the treatment of head injuries but it was no secret that they also saw the propaganda value in illustrating how well public and private enterprise could work together for the common good in the field of health care. The government clearly saw this as the way ahead. Future funding would come less and less from the public purse and more and more from the involvement of commercial interests in health care.

The HTU — or more correctly, The Gelman Holland Head Trauma Unit, although no one ever called it that — had been open for fourteen months and had already earned an international reputation, particularly in the diagnosing of degrees of brain damage thanks to special monitoring equipment, the design of which was Murdoch Tyndall’s special research interest. A consequence of Murdoch’s research commitment was that much of the general running of the HTU was left to his senior registrar, Derek Logan. This was unfortunate from Sarah’s point of view.

Sarah lived in the junior doctors’ residency at the hospital, though she might have argued that she really lived in HTU; she spent so little time in her room. She was however, due some time off now. She looked at her watch and saw that she only had another hour to do before she was relieved and would have a full twelve hours to herself. There was a patient she wanted to check on before she went off- duty. She went up to the ward and spoke to the staff nurse in charge.

The patient in question, a woman in her early fifties who had been the victim of a hit-and-run accident seven months before, was due to be discharged later in the day. Sarah felt that this was all right as long as her daughter was going to be around to look after her — as the patient herself had maintained she would be. The daughter, however, had been proving elusive. Sarah asked the nurse whether she had made contact yet and whether in her opinion the woman could cope on her own.

“Her daughter hasn’t phoned yet,” said the staff nurse. “And I definitely think she won’t be able to cope on her own.”

“I don’t know what to do for the best,” said Sarah. “She’ll be heartbroken if she doesn’t get to go home today. Maybe I should try calling her daughter’s number again.”

At that moment Derek Logan came into the duty room and, seeing the frown on Sarah’s face, asked, “Problems?”

Sarah told him what the trouble was and Logan’s lips took on a sneer. “For God’s sake woman,” he said. “You’re a doctor not a bloody social worker, Dr Lasseter. Let them get on with it!”

“Yes, Dr Logan,” said Sarah through her teeth.

“Leave it with me,” said the staff nurse kindly and Sarah nodded her appreciation.

“Yes Dr Logan, no Dr Logan, three bags bloody full Dr Logan!” murmured Sarah as she walked into the lounge of the junior doctors’ residency and threw down her bag. There were three others there, one woman and two men. They looked up.

“May we take it that you and Del boy have been having words again?” asked Harry Whitehead, a tall gangling resident with rimless spectacles and a thinning quiff of fair hair. The vertical stripes on his shirt only served to emphasise his gauntness but his voice was strong and deep.

“You may,” answered Sarah. “I can do nothing right as far as he is concerned.”

“Don’t take it to heart, Sarah,” said the other man present, Paddy Duncan, senior house officer in general surgery.

“Sit down Sarah. Take it easy,” added Louise Vernon, who was doing a residency in obstetrics and gynaecology. “It’s only for six months, remember.”

“I’m beginning to count the minutes and it shouldn’t be like that! I can remember thinking I was the luckiest medic of my year when I got the job in HTU but now...”

“Nothing ever turns out like it should be. You have to learn to roll with the punches. Forget about him for the moment.”

“Easier said than done,” said Sarah.

“We’re all going out for a Chinese meal. Come with us.”

Sarah felt cheered by the prospect. “That sounds good; I’m sick to death of stale sandwiches and stewed tea.”

Lafferty was beginning to think that Main was not going to show up. He had expected him to come some time around mid-afternoon but it was now nearly seven in the evening. He had even begun to consider what he should do next, and was deliberating over whether he should visit Main at home or whether it might not be best in the long run to let the matter drop, when John Main came into the church and made the thought redundant. He was wiping snow from his shoulders.

“Cold out there?” asked Ryan.

“Freezing,” replied Main. “Mind you, it’s not that much warmer in here. He rubbed his arms to emphasize the point.”

“I’m afraid we can’t afford to have the heating on all the time,” said Lafferty. “But we can talk through here.” He made a gesture towards the head of the church with his arm. “It will be more comfortable.”

Main followed Lafferty through a small wooden door, painted blue and set in a stone arch to the left of the pillar behind the pulpit. It made Main think of Alice in Wonderland. Once through, they turned left again and entered a small room where Lafferty’s vestments were hung on the back of the door. They were all on a single coat hook and it looked overloaded. Main was careful how he closed the door behind him lest they all fall in a heap.

There were two armchairs in the room, which looked worn and not very comfortable, placed on either side of an ancient gas fire, and mounted along the wall opposite the single window in the room were several laden bookshelves. Below the window, arched and paned with leaded glass, stood a table stacked with hymn books that looked as if they had been withdrawn from service due to their tattered condition. A series of religious paintings were hung on plain walls that were a dull cream in colour, one of the chief colours favoured by institutions, thought Main, the other being green.

Lafferty invited Main to take his coat off and to sit down while he himself knelt down in front of a gas fire and started to feed it matches cautiously as the gas hissed through. On the third attempt the fire popped into life making Lafferty withdraw his hand quickly. Even so, Main could smell singed hair. He noticed that one of the radiants was damaged; it emitted a flickering yellow flame while the others were blue.

“How are you feeling?” asked Lafferty.

“I’m OK. Did you find out anything?”

Lafferty frowned and said, “In a negative sort of way. I’ve spent many hours in the ecclesiastical library and I had a long talk with Father McCandrew down at St Agnes; he’s made a bit of a study of the occult. The bottom line is that no one knows why these people would want your son’s body.”

Main closed his eyes and rubbed his upper lip with his forefinger while he came to terms with the news. “So I’m no further forward.”

“No,” agreed Lafferty. “But on the other hand, it’s as well to know that there is no known formal ceremony in satanic ritual or in the annals of witchcraft that demands the body of a recently deceased child.”

“I suppose,” said Main philosophically.

“But you still have to know?” asked Lafferty, reading the signs.

Main nodded. “I still have to know.”

“Have you been in touch with the police since it happened?”

Main smiled and said, “That’s why I was late. I was down at police headquarters trying to find out what they had come up with.”

“And?”

Main smiled bitterly and said, “They’ve come up with nothing, or as they put it, their ‘enquiries are continuing’.”

“They can’t have much to go on. Unless they are actually aware of any satanic activity going on in the community. Are they?”

“They say not.”

“In that case, they won’t know where to start. These people, however evil they are, probably won’t have criminal records and probably don’t consort with criminals so the police will be starved of information.”

“I’m sure the police will be grateful to you for putting their case so well,” said Main sourly.

Lafferty let the comment pass. “I’ve been wondering whether or not it might be a good idea to have a word with the man who was in the cemetery that night.”

“The wino’s story has been in all the papers. Every lurid detail,” said Main. “What else can there be to learn from him?”

Lafferty shrugged and said, “Well, you never know, there just might be one little useful fact or observation that he overlooked in his efforts to give our noble press the kind of story they were after.”

Main thought for a moment before saying, “Maybe that’s a good idea after all. I apologise for my earlier behaviour. I’m really very grateful to you for the trouble you’ve been going to.”

“No trouble,” Lafferty reassured him, “and there’s nothing to apologise for.”

“I’ll start hunting the man down tomorrow,” said Main.

“No,” said Lafferty firmly. “It’s best if I do it.”

“Why?”

“You’re too... intense. You might scare him off. It’s best if I go. Who knows? He may even be a Catholic and, if he is, he wouldn’t lie to a priest would he?”

Main smiled and thanked him. “This must be taking up an awful lot of your time,” he said.

Lafferty looked rueful. “I could be thinking about the repair of the organ, the state of the roof, how many replacement hymn books we need or how much or how little we have to spend on flowers at Easter but all these things can wait. They can wait until your mind is put at rest about Simon. Christianity is about people not bricks and mortar and budgets.”

Main left the church, saying he would come back in two days’ time if he hadn’t heard from the priest beforehand. Lafferty watched him leave and thought about the upheaval his involvement with Main had caused in the smooth running of the ‘club’. He had already had to go, biretta in hand, to the two ladies he had offended over the jumble sale and beg their forgiveness. He had yet to apologise to the Mothers’ group for not turning up at their afternoon meeting and to the senior Bible class for a similar offence.

He still had to have a word with young Mary O’Donnell, at her mother’s behest, about recent behaviour with regard to the opposite sex. He looked at his watch and decided he had better do that this evening. He stretched his arms in the air and let out a huge yawn. Randy boys were bad enough but randy girls... There was a whole lot of heartbreak still to come from that young madam, he feared.

John Main closed the door to the flat behind him and felt the quiet smother him like a cold, unwelcoming blanket. Noise and laughter, light and bustle had been replaced with silence and darkness. He rested his back on the door for a moment before urging himself not to dwell on this again. He needed light and he needed noise. He switched on the lights — all of them — and then turned on the television. Next, he needed warmth. He lit the gas fire to supplement the central heating until he had warmed up a little.

There were some messages on the answering machine and he played them back as he took off his coat in the hall. The first was from his sister, Anna, suggesting again that he should get in touch with her as soon as possible and wouldn’t he like to stay with her and her husband for a while? He hadn’t been in touch with Anna since Simon’s funeral. He hadn’t been in touch with anyone since the bastards took Simon’s body. He didn’t want to talk to anyone about it. They couldn’t help. They had already burdened him with as much sympathy as he could take over the course of two funerals. More of it wasn’t going to help matters. He already knew how awful it was and how sorry they all were. It might sound ungrateful but enough was enough.

Mary’s mother was next on the machine with much the same message. He should get in touch. She was worried sick about him.

Main poured himself a large gin and noted that he would have to get another bottle tomorrow. Tonic was also getting a bit low. Maybe he would take a trip to the supermarket and get some food as well, instead of working his way through the tins and packets in the kitchen cupboards, rummaging through the freezer and bringing in take-away meals. He smiled at the thought. Was this a step in his rehabilitation? He resolved not to go to the supermarket where Mary had done the family shopping. That would be asking too much.

The third voice on the machine was that of Arthur Close, head of the English department at Merchiston School where he worked. Main was not to worry about anything; the others would be happy to cover his classes. He had their deepest sympathy and that of everyone else at the school, staff and pupils alike. He, Close, and the headmaster were in complete agreement that he should take off as much time as he needed.

Main snorted at the bit about Close being in complete agreement with the headmaster. He said out loud, “You’re so far up the headmaster’s arse Arthur, it’s a wonder you can see where you’re going!”

He immediately regretted what he’d said. He thumped his fist into his forehead and berated himself loudly. “Christ! What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “They are ordinary, nice people, doing what they think is right. They’re trying to help you for Christ’s sake!”

Main slumped down in a chair with the gin and took a big gulp. “Get a grip,” he said quietly. “Get a grip.”

He gazed at the news on TV while the gin got to work on his fraying nerves, and then he remembered that there had been some mail behind the front door when he came in. He brought it in from the hall and sat back down in the chair to open it. An estimated electricity bill for forty-seven pounds and eight pence, an exhortation from an insurance company to ‘consider your family’s future — what would happen to them if you were to die?’ it wanted to know. Main threw it in the bin. The third felt as if a card were inside an envelope and bore a second class stamp. Main opened it and saw the pastel-coloured flowers on the front and the scrolled, ‘With Deepest Sympathy’ across the top in gold. He flipped it open. ‘Thinking of You, George and Martha Thornton,’ it said.

Main screwed up his face. Who the hell were George and Martha Thornton? Then he remembered. They were the couple he and Mary had met on holiday last summer. He was a grocer from Leicester and she was probably the most stupid woman he had ever met in his life. Main looked at the front of the card again and thought, thank God they don’t make ‘Sorry The Bastards Dug Up Your Son’ cards. Eventually, he remembered that there was a packet of chicken curry in the freezer.

McKirrop’s celebrity status lasted three days. Three more reporters sought him out in that time, each hoping for a new angle on the satanic ritual story but McKirrop told them all exactly what he had told Rothwell. In all, he only made another hundred pounds. There was not a high premium on what an old wino had to say. There was a vague promise of some more money for the entire group if they agreed to be the subject of a social investigation for a Sunday colour supplement but that would be at some time in the future, they said. The magazine was presently committed to covering the current vogue for Bonsai trees, the popularity of Western clubs in central Scotland — for which the clientele dressed up as cowboys — and an in-depth study of drug abuse in inner city housing schemes. The reporter thought some time round August maybe.

McKirrop had shared £150 in all with the others. That left him £250 that he had hidden from them. Maybe it was time to move on. Maybe a move to London. It might be warmer down there. But first, he had resolved to try his luck with the library card he’d taken from Rothwell’s pocket. Maybe there was some perfectly innocent explanation as to why Rothwell had had a doctor’s library card in his pocket but if there was, he wanted to hear it. After all, it was only going to be the cost of a phone call. And to a man of his means...

McKirrop brought the card out of his pocket and looked at it again. Maybe he wouldn’t call Rothwell immediately. Sotillo wasn’t a common name; there couldn’t be many of them in the phone book. There might even be a reward for the card if he was to tell the good doctor that he had found it in the street. Every little helped.

There was no phone book in the booth. McKirrop had to ask directory enquiries for the number and then remember it in his head because he had nothing to write it down with or on to. He kept repeating the number over and over while he sought out the digits with clumsy fingers. The number rang four times before it was answered by a woman.

“I want to speak to Dr Sotillo,” said McKirrop.

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“Just tell him he may hear something to his advantage,” said McKirrop. He could hear the woman laughing in the background while he waited. “That’s what he said, darling,” he heard her say. The receiver was picked up and a voice said, “Hello, who is this? What do you want?”

McKirrop was taken aback. He remained speechless for a moment, then he put down the receiver without replying. The voice he had heard belonged to the man on the canal bank. Rothwell. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind.

This put matters into a new light altogether. Rothwell wasn’t Rothwell at all. The man had lied. He had probably lied about being a reporter too, thought McKirrop. He had been right to be suspicious about that at the time. The question now was why? Why had Dr Ivan K. Sotillo pretended to be a reporter? What was his real interest in what had gone on in the cemetery that night? And most important, what was in it for John McKirrop?

As McKirrop returned to the canal, his mind worked overtime on what Sotillo might be up to. As he remembered, Sotillo had simply listened to his story, the same one he’d told the police, and had seemed quite happy with that. In fact he had even been keen that he should tell any other reporters the same thing. So that was it! Sotillo had been making sure that the story he had told the police was the story to be publicised. That suited Sotillo because... like him, he knew different!

That fact, decided McKirrop, was going to cost Dr Sotillo an awful lot of money. If he played his cards right, when this game was over he might well be able to afford a move to somewhere a good deal warmer than London. He remembered looking at a book in the local library last week while he was in there one morning keeping warm. The Magic of Provence it was called. The photographs had been beautiful. Provence, decided McKirrop, was the place for him.

Despite feeling that he held the whip hand, McKirrop was reluctant to take on Sotillo single-handed. He remembered the uneasy feeling that he had experienced when being alone with him on the canal towpath and how there had been a threatening air about the man. Sotillo might be a doctor, but he was no soft touch. There was more to him than met the eye and just how much more McKirrop had an idea it might be better not to find out. He decided reluctantly that he would need help, some kind of back-up, even if it were only the presence of a witness.

McKirrop had to concede that his circle of friends and acquaintances had shrunk to practically zero over the past couple of years. If he was brutally honest, he would have to admit that he did not have one true friend in the whole wide world. This had been true for some time, but it was he first time that he had been forced to confront the fact head on. He didn’t like the feeling.

For one brief moment his acquired capacity for blocking out the past was seriously threatened. As if a veil had been lifted from his eyes, he was forced to remember a happy, successful individual with a wide circle of friends and colleagues who all liked him and saw him as the fun-loving, carefree life and soul of any party. His name had been John McKirrop. The name was the same but the only people he associated with these days were the people in Bella’s group. If he were to recruit help it would have to come from there and that was not an encouraging prospect.

McKirrop eliminated the members of the group one by one until he was left with Flynn and Bella herself. He didn’t trust Flynn, but if matters should turn violent at any point, Flynn was the only one who would be of any use in that kind of situation. Could he be trusted if he paid him enough? His idea was to offer Flynn twenty pounds to accompany him to a meeting with Sotillo and to stand by to help in case of any threats or trouble, but McKirrop could imagine Flynn changing sides with no compunction at all if it suited him.

Bella was a woman and had therefore to be discounted from any participation in rough stuff. McKirrop smiled to himself at his gallant and mistaken notion — the truth was that Bella could probably beat the hell out of most of the group. He began to warm to the idea of using Bella. She was the nearest thing to a friend that he had, and she probably had deterrent value as a witness. Sotillo wouldn’t try anything with a woman watching. McKirrop decided he would ask her tonight.

“Let me get this straight,” said Bella. “You want me to go with you to meet this guy and if I do you’ll give me twenty quid. Right?”

“Right,” said McKirrop, a little on edge that Bella had said it so loudly. He didn’t want the others to know what was going on. That was why he had edged Bella away from the group a little.

“The guy owes me. I need you there as a witness to see that he hands it over.”

“Who is this guy? How come he owes you money?” asked Bella whose credulity was being strained to the limit.

“The reporter,” replied McKirrop with a sudden thought. “The reporter who came down here the first night I was back. Remember?”

“I remember,” said Bella. “He was nice. He knew how to talk to a lady.”

“Well, he hasn’t paid me everything yet. I don’t want him pretending to his bosses that he’s handed over all the money when he hasn’t.”

“But he gave you a hundred quid,” said Bella, displaying a better memory for figures than McKirrop would have liked.

“But he was to give me another fifty when the story came out,” improvised McKirrop. “It must be out by now.”

“And you’ll give me twenty?”

“Right,” said McKirrop. “We’re friends aren’t we?”

Bella smiled, pleased at the notion. “Friends,” she repeated. “When do we see this guy?”

“I haven’t set up the meeting yet,” said McKirrop. “I’m going to phone him and ask for my money.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Bella, getting up unsteadily.

McKirrop managed to dissuade her by handing over some money. “Why don’t you get us a bottle and we can enjoy it because tomorrow there will be no drinking till after the meeting.”

Bella nodded sagely. “Right,” she said. “I always say that business and booze don’t mix.”

McKirrop’s palms were sweating as he put some change on the shelf beside the telephone in the booth. He dialled Sotillo’s number, half hoping that there would be no answer.

“Hello?”

“I want to speak to the doctor please.”

“Who is this?”

“Doctor McKirrop.”

“One moment.”

McKirrop smiled at his little joke. He didn’t have long to wait and could tell from the tentative way Sotillo answered the phone that he knew something was wrong. “Doctor McKirrop?”

“Just McKirrop. I’m no more a doctor than you are a journalist, Sotillo — or would you prefer Rothwell?”

“Who is this?”

“I think you know well enough.”

“What do you want?” asked Sotillo.

“Money. a lot of it.”

“Why on earth should I give you money? I’ve given you quite enough already.”

“Because if you don’t I’ll start talking and I have a feeling that you wouldn’t be too keen about that. Am I right?”

“Start talking?” snorted Sotillo. “Start talking about what? Who’d be interested in the ramblings of a drunken sot like you?”

“Maybe the police, maybe a real reporter. After all, it’s a good story isn’t it?”

“If you really think anyone will be interested in the babblings of an alcoholic misfit, go right ahead. You’re welcome,” said Sotillo.

McKirrop had been prepared for this. He kept his cool and played his trump card. He said, “Maybe they won’t believe me at first, Doctor, but your library card will help convince them. Then, when the rest of the gang describe you as the man who came down here pretending to be a journalist, the police just might get round to asking you for an explanation.”

There was a long pause and it pleased McKirrop. There was some background noise and he knew it would be Sotillo checking to see if his library card was really missing from his coat.

“What exactly do you want?” asked Sotillo, his voice had changed to a low whisper.

“I told you,” said McKirrop. “Money, a lot of it.”

“What’s a lot?”

“Five thousand pounds,” said McKirrop, shutting his eyes as he jumped in blindly with both feet.

Sotillo spluttered out the figure and said, “That’s ridiculous. You must be out of your mind. I just might run to five hundred, for the convenience of getting my card back you understand, but five thousand? You’re crazy.”

“Please yourself,” said McKirrop matter-of-factly. He said it as if he were about to put the receiver down.

“Wait!” said Sotillo. “Just lerugby internationalsrugby internationalst me think for a moment.”

McKirrop was excited. He knew he was on the verge of getting exactly what he wanted. It made him think he should have asked for more. Still, there would be other times...

“All right,” agreed Sotillo. “But I need time to get that sort of money.”

“Tomorrow,” said McKirrop.

“That’s not enough time,” protested Sotillo.

“Tomorrow without fail.” That’s what they always said in the films.

Sotillo sighed. “All right,” he said. “Come to the house at seven.”

“No,” said McKirrop. “No house. Come to the canal, the bridge where we spoke last time. Seven o’clock.”

“Very well.”

McKirrop put down the phone and felt weak in the knees. He had done it! Five thousand pounds. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he’d get the lot. He was on his way to Provence.