Chameleon

ONE

'How do you feel?' Sue Jamieson asked her husband.

Scott Jamieson looked up at the pretty girl who was smiling down at him, her head slightly to one side. 'Amorous,' he said.

'Be serious.'

'I am serious.'

'You're not on,' laughed Sue.

'Come back to bed.'

'There isn't time. You can't be late for your interview,' she said sitting down on the edge of the bed and ruffling her husband's dark hair.

'Of course there's time,' said Scott Jamieson. He circled his arm round Sue and pulled her down on top of him but she remained adamant. 'There isn't!' she said putting both hands against his chest to fend him off.

Jamieson relaxed his grip and smiled. 'I love you,' he said softly.

'I know you do and I love you,' said Sue. 'But right now… shower!'

'You win,' conceded Jamieson swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Sue looked at the scars on his body as he sat up and kissed his shoulder on impulse. 'Change your mind?' he asked.

'Get on with you,' she said. 'I'll get breakfast.'

Jamieson turned on the shower with his right hand and felt a sudden, sharp twinge of pain in his fingers that made him draw back with a soft curse. He stretched his fingers out and examined them as he had done a thousand times before in the recent past but there was nothing untoward to see, no disfigurement, no indication of misalignment, no obvious reason why he should not hold a scalpel again if it were not for a residual stiffness that prevented him keeping perfect control of it. Give it time Jamieson, he reminded himself and immediately felt pleased at his new-found philosophical attitude.

It was a view he could not have expressed in the early months of his recovery when a mixture of frustration, self pity and blind anger had ruled his head and made him almost insufferable to live with. But Sue had never wavered. From the time of the accident she had been a tower of strength, nursing him through the physical pain and then the mental anguish that followed. It had even been her who had made him face up to the obvious — that he should at least think about changing specialties, an idea he had found abhorrent at first but had eventually come round to considering and finally to giving it a try.

A change to pathology had been the first idea to be mooted but a career among cadavers and the sweet, sickly smell of formaldehyde had held little attraction. Too many of the pathologists he knew were well on the way to alcoholism and he could understand why. For him, medicine was about saving lives not finding out why they had failed. He knew that this was a ridiculously simplistic view of things but white tiles and the stench of death were not for him.

That had left radiology and the lab specialties, haematology, biochemistry and microbiology. In all, Jamieson had spent eighteen months trying to find a new niche in medicine but in the end he had admitted defeat. His academic performance in refresher and re-training courses had been beyond reproach but once the challenge of learning something new had receded he had been left with an undeniable feeling of restlessness that he suspected the laboratory specialties could never satisfy. He was temperamentally unsuited to them, having known the excitement and challenge of surgery too well.

Jamieson had reached the point of considering leaving medicine altogether and joining his father's business when one of the consultants on his last re-training course had persuaded him to let him put his name forward for a job he thought Jamieson well-suited for. He was unwilling to say exactly what the job would be, only that it would not be ordinary and that it would not be a desk job. Agreeing finally that he had nothing to lose by applying, Jamieson was invited to attend for interview at the Home Office.

Scott Jamieson was thirty-three, eight years older than Sue. He had been brought up in the Scottish border town of Galashiels, a mill town that nestled on the banks of the River Tweed in soft, rolling countryside. The eldest son of a successful mill owner, Jamieson had been educated at Merchiston Castle School in Edinburgh like his father before him. Blessed with an easy charm and both physical and scholastic ability, he had sailed through his school years and in the process, acquired the confidence of someone who had never known anything other than success.

A down to earth father and the level headedness of the border folk who were his friends and neighbours had prevented this confidence from ever fermenting into arrogance. It was one thing to be captain of rugby at school quite another to take the field with the rugby- mad border teams on a Saturday afternoon. Self-opinionation had a habit of coming to grief in border mud.

From school Jamieson had gone on to Glasgow University to study medicine after taking a year out to work in his father's mill. Although he had enjoyed the experience of working in the mill, he knew that the life was not for him and had been relieved when his father had not seemed too disappointed when he told him as much. The fact that he had two younger brothers probably helped.

At university, he made the first mistake of his young life when he underestimated the demands of first year medicine and spent too much time socialising when he should have been studying. He had come close to failing the exams but scraped through and was careful not to make the same mistake again. He eventually graduated in the top one third of his class. An elective at a Boston teaching hospital in the United States had been followed by residencies at two London hospitals and a decision to become a surgeon.

He had met Sue, who was then a student nurse, during his appointment as surgical registrar at Addenbrookes Hospital in Cambridge and, like so many men who had known a string of girl friends, Jamieson had fallen head over heels in love when the real thing happened. He had known at once that Sue was the girl he must marry and eight months later he did.

Sue's father, a Surrey stockbroker, had given them a splendid wedding in the village where Sue had been brought up. They were married in the Norman village Church on a beautiful sunny day with Scott and his brothers adding colour to the gentle green of English grass by wearing full highland dress. Tartan had mingled easily with taffeta and champagne had sparkled in glasses shaded by floppy hats as both families and a host of relations celebrated the wedding of a golden couple whose horizons seemed unbounded.

Ironically it was Jamieson's unfamiliarity with any kind of failure that had made him so unable to cope with it after the car accident. He was unconscious for nearly two weeks and very weak when he finally did come round but as soon as his strength started to return he felt sure that it would only be a matter of a few weeks more before his life would return to normal. He would start operating again and resume his career path to the top. When it finally dawned on him that recovery was going to be a long, slow process and there was still a question mark over how complete it would be, he had started to behave with a petulance and ill temper that he had never displayed before.

His general rudeness to the hospital staff and in particular to the people who cared about him most had been compounded with long periods of relentless self-pity, with suicide at its main theme. Throughout it all Sue had shown a maturity beyond her years and she had brought him through the darkest period of his life to accept what lay before him — before them as she had never tired of pointing out. She eventually succeeded in restoring Jamieson to a point where he became thoroughly ashamed of himself and of his insufferable behaviour. From this point on Jamieson had improved day by day until now when, although there was still a large question-mark over his professional future as a surgeon, he was definitely restored to her as her husband, the old Scott Jamieson.

'Good luck,' said Sue as Jamieson turned at the door and kissed her on the cheek.

'If they want me to catalogue bedpans I'm not taking the job is that understood?' said Jamieson.

'Understood,' said Sue with a smile. 'But I'll get something special in for dinner just in case.' She stood in the road waving until the car had disappeared round the corner at the end of the lane.

Scott Jamieson always had to steel himself to leave the peaceful Kent village where he and Sue lived go up into central London in July or August. It invariably made him short tempered with its crowds and oppressive heat when the sun shone. But today the sun did not shine and a dull greyness gave the buildings in the city a blanket anonymity as he drove to an underground car park behind Trafalgar Square and collected his ticket at the barrier. It was a slow, five minute spiral before he found a place being vacated by an elderly man. The man was having difficulty reversing due to an inability to turn his head properly. Each attempt was accompanied by a corresponding increase in engine revs until, when he had finally succeeded, the entire parking level was filled with drifting blue smoke.

Jamieson locked up his car and sprinted up the stairs to begin his walk to Whitehall, weaving in and out groups of tourists who were moving along aimlessly and seldom looking in the direction in which they were travelling. He had to halt and make three attempts to pass a Japanese man, Nikon held to his face, moving synchronously with him each time he decided to change direction. The Japanese man's wife laid a hand on her husband's forearm and the impasse was resolved with an oriental bow and an occidental smile.

A uniformed man stopped Jamieson at the entrance to the Home Office and Jamieson produced his letter. He waited patiently while the man read it and then announced that he would have to check. He made a phone call on the internal system and then said, 'Miss Roberts will be down presently.' He invited Jamieson to take a seat and indicated to a bench in the hallway.

Jamieson sat down and idly watched the pedestrian traffic. A serious young man, wearing glasses that threatened to fall off his nose, shuffled quickly along the corridor simultaneously sifting through a sheaf of papers. The man had feet which pointed outwards, giving him the air of a silent-film comedian. His inattention to direction caused him to collide with two girls carrying tea cups. The tea slopped on to the floor as the girls tottered backwards holding their cups at arms' length. The man looked up from his papers and appeared not to realise that he had been the cause of the bother. He smiled briefly and walked on leaving the typists looking daggers after him. Jamieson smiled sympathetically and one of the girls shook her head.

Two men, wearing conservatively dark suits, approached from the other direction, speaking in loud voices and moving slowly. Jamieson noticed that the uniformed men stiffened at their approach.

'Absolutely,' said one of the men as they passed Jamieson without apparently noticing he was there. 'That kind of authorisation can only come from the Minister himself.'

Jamieson watched their backs as they passed the uniformed men without a glance, totally engrossed or pretending to be, in what they were saying. God save me from office society, he thought.

A woman wearing a mauve suit emerged from one of the lifts and walked purposefully towards him; she was carrying a clip-board. 'Dr Jamieson?' she enquired. Jamieson agreed and the woman made a tick on her clip-board before saying, 'I'm Miss Roberts. If you would like to come this way please.'

Jamieson and the woman exchanged a brief smile as their eyes met in the lift and then the woman studied her feet for the remainder of the journey while Jamieson looked intently at the floor indicator. He was in fact trying to remember the name of the perfume the woman was wearing. In the confines of the lift it was strong and for some reason, quite haunting. Femme! he remembered just before the lift doors opened. He now remembered why it was haunting. In his teens he had once had a holiday romance with a girl who subsequently drenched her letters in the stuff.

The doors slid back and the woman led them along a corridor to stop outside a room marked 'Suite 4.' Jamieson was left alone for a moment in a small ante room before the woman returned and said, 'The committee will see you now.'

Miss Roberts held the door and Jamieson walked into a large room which would have been sunny had not the sky been so overcast. He found three men there. The middle one did the introductions. 'Dr Armour, he said, indicating to his left to a small, grey haired man sporting a polka-dotted bow-tie, 'and Dr Foreman,’ he said, turning to his right. A thick-set man with coarse, oiled hair which came to a widow's peak on his narrow forehead gave a cursory nod. 'My name is Macmillan,' said the man in the middle, turning his gaze back to Jamieson. There was nothing rude in his stare but Jamieson was aware of being appraised. Macmillan was in his fifties, tall, slim and his complexion bore the smooth tan that Jamieson associated with good living. His silver hair swept back from his forehead to sit comfortably on the collar of his blue, Bengal-striped shirt.

'Let me explain,' said Macmillan. 'We represent the medical section of the Sci-Med Inspectorate.'

Jamieson looked blank and Macmillan continued. 'We are a relatively small body; we have a staff of twenty and we investigate and, if feasible, deal with problems arising specifically within the areas of science and medicine in this country.'

'I'm sorry. I don't think I follow,' said Jamieson.

Macmillan said, 'Frankly it's hard to be more specific. Our brief is so wide and varied.'

'You said 'problems',' said Jamieson. 'What sort of problems?'

Macmillan touched his finger tips together and then moved his hands apart in a deliberate gesture of vagueness. 'Matters of medical practice, matters of ethics, matters of circumstance and occasionally matters of criminality.'

'I'm still lost,' confessed Jamieson looking at Foreman. 'Surely the police would handle anything of a criminal nature?'

'Indeed,' said Foreman. 'But only once it was established that a criminal offence had taken place and that's where the difficulty can sometimes lie. There are times and circumstances when the police simply do not have the expertise to operate in certain areas. They have specialist officers of course, as in the case of the Fraud Squad, but when it comes to science and medicine for example they need expert help.'

'There is the forensic science service,' said Jamieson.

'True but they are back-room boys, both by inclination and by training. They are largely for after the event. Occasionally we need people up front and that's where the Sci-Med Monitor comes in. Let me give you an example. In the not-too-distant past, drug related offences suddenly started to rocket in a certain northern university town. The police had no success in finding out where the stuff was coming from until we put one of our people in on the ground. Three weeks later we had our answer. Four post-graduate students in the science faculty were manufacturing the stuff. They had all but cornered the market in hallucigenic agents. They all worked in different departments and each was responsible for obtaining a few of the chemicals needed for the manufacturing process. Because the materials were being spread out over four different order lists suspicion was not aroused until our man, who had access to all the paper work and the time to peruse it, spotted what was going on.'

'I see,' said Jamieson. 'I wouldn't have. I have no idea how to make LSD.'

'We wouldn't expect you to,' said Armour. 'Our chap in that instance was a biochemist. Because, as Macmillan said, our brief is so wide, we have to fit our person to the job. Let me give you another example. 'One of our biggest pharmaceutical companies was being embarrassed by rumours of success which had no basis in fact. One of our people traced the problem to a scientist working in a prestigious biotechnology unit located in one of our top universities. The individual in question had invested every last penny he had in the drug company's shares and then 'leaked' a false story to the newspapers about the unit having come up with an effective vaccine against AIDS and how the pharmaceutical company had been given the right to manufacture it. Because the leak had originated in such an eminent establishment the press swallowed it and printed the story. The company's shares shot up of course and the man made a killing.'

'I didn't even buy shares in British Gas,' confessed Jamieson.'

'Again we recognise that this is not your area of expertise,' said Macmillan.

'Then what is?' asked Jamieson.

'You are a surgeon and you also have considerable knowledge of other medical specialties thanks to your unfortunate accident and your auxiliary training in the intervening time. We think that this would make you a valuable asset to Sci-Med.'

'You said that you tend to fit people to the job in hand. Have you a specific job in mind for me?' asked Jamieson.

'As a matter of fact we have,' said Macmillan. 'The problem is surgical, not criminal, and that's largely why we think you are the man for the job.'

'I'm all ears,' said Jamieson. For the first time in many months he felt interested and intrigued at the prospect of a job.

Macmillan opened a file in front of him and removed something from the top of the pile. It was a single page report, typed on blue paper. He handed it to Jamieson.

Jamieson read the document in silence, his concentration under threat from the fact that the three men were watching him. He learned that two women had died in recent months after undergoing surgery in the Gynaecology Unit at Kerr Memorial Hospital in Leeds. Both had contracted post-operative infections from which they had later died.

'What's the problem?' asked Jamieson.

'The women, both in for fairly minor surgery, contracted a Pseudomonas infection after their operations and treatment proved ineffectual.' said Macmillan.

'Do you know why?'

'The strain turned out to be antibiotic resistant.'

'The usual problem with Pseudomonas,' said Jamieson.

'Quite so,' said Armour, 'but this one was particularly bad. Even the specialised drugs wouldn't touch it.'

'Nasty,' said Jamieson. 'Did they manage to trace the source of the infection?'

'No, and that's the real crux of the problem,' said Macmillan. 'Despite intensive investigation by the staff of the Microbiology Lab at the hospital and a flurry of disinfection after the second death, the problem has persisted; three days ago a third woman contracted the infection. She's very ill.'

'That's all a bit odd,' said Jamieson. 'Surely with a bit of co-operation between the labs and the surgical teams it should have been possible to identify the source of the outbreak and clear it up?'

'You have put your finger on the problem when you said "co-operation",' said Armour. 'The head of surgery at Kerr Memorial is rather a difficult man. Thelwell's his name. He is currently blaming the lab for failing to identify the source of the infection. Richardson, the consultant bacteriologist, is naturally having none of it. He maintains that if the wards and theatres are clean then the fault must lie somewhere within the surgical team itself.'

'Both sides have become entrenched,' added Macmillan.

'That makes things awkward,' agreed Jamieson.

'The local press haven't got on to the staff disharmony angle as yet but it can only be a matter of time. They're already showing signs of latching on to the problem as a political football. You know the sort of thing, cut-backs equal dirty hospitals, understaffing means danger for the patients.'

'And where exactly do I fit in?' asked Jamieson tentatively.

'You are a surgeon, you can tell good practice from bad. You have also spent enough time in Microbiology labs to be familiar with their side of things. We would like you, if you decide to join us, to go up there and take a good look at the situation. Try to find out where the problem lies and if possible sort it out.'

'My presence will be resented,' said Jamieson.

'Indeed it will,' agreed Armour. 'What people see as outside interference is never welcome in any profession, perhaps least of all in ours.'

Jamieson nodded and asked, 'What if they should refuse to co-operate?'

'They can't,' said Macmillan. 'You will have the full authorisation of Her Majesty's government to make any enquiry you wish. We would prefer you not to stand on too many toes but on the other hand when it comes to playing silly buggers with peoples' lives personal dignity comes second.'

'I see.'

'You can have until tomorrow lunch-time to decide whether you want to join us or not,' said Macmillan. 'We must know by then.'

'If it's not a rude question…' began Jamieson tentatively.

'You'll be paid a salary equivalent to that of a senior registrar,' said Macmillan.

'Time won't be necessary,' said Jamieson firmly. 'I've already decided. You can count me in.'

'Excellent,' said Macmillan. He got up and shook Jamieson's hand. Armour and Foreman did the same. 'Miss Roberts will give you details on the way out. The sooner you get started the sooner this business will be cleared up.'

'I'll travel up tomorrow if that's all right,' said Jamieson.

'You had better take this,' said Macmillan handing Jamieson the file on Kerr Memorial that lay in front of him. 'You will find information on the senior staff in here. It's as well to know something about the place before you arrive.'

Jamieson left the room and gave Miss Roberts the information necessary for her to complete the paper work for his appointment. She, in turn, provided him with documents of authorisation and two credit cards. A booklet on allowable expenses was included. He was asked if it would be convenient to have his photograph taken and undergo a routine medical examination that same afternoon. Jamieson said that it would. He had nothing else to do that day so he would have some lunch and come straight back.

Jamieson left the building feeling good for the first time in a long time. He had found himself a real job, not just a place on a refresher or retraining course but a real job and what was more, it sounded interesting. He phoned Sue from the first call box he came to and told her the news.

'That's marvellous,' said Sue. 'What is it exactly?'

'I'll tell you when I get home but it's something useful and I feel good about it.'

'I can hear that,' laughed Sue. 'When do you start?'

'Tomorrow.'

'That was quick!'

'… In Leeds.'

'Leeds!' exclaimed Sue with dismay in her voice. Does this mean we have to move to…'

'No it doesn't,' interrupted Jamieson. 'We stay where we are but if the job works out I may find myself away from home quite a bit. We can talk about it when I get back.'

'What time will you be home?'

'Early evening.'

'Bring some wine in with you,' said Sue.

It started to rain as Jamieson drove back along the A2 towards Canterbury. By the time he had passed through the town and was travelling along the lanes flanked by fruit farms he could tell from the heaviness of the sky that there was a lot more to come.

Water streamed down the windows of the cottage as Sue served up dinner and Jamieson told her about his job.

'Sounds like you are going to be some kind of medical detective,' said Sue.

'Not really. I think it's more a case of an outsider being able to see something that people who are too involved might miss.'

'The wood for the trees,' said Sue.

'That sort of thing.'

'More wine?'

'I have to work,' said Jamieson.

'On our last evening together?'

'I have to read through some papers about the hospital. I'm sorry but it is important…'

Sue smiled at Jamieson’s discomfort and kissed him on the forehead. 'Go on with you then,' she said. 'I'll clear up.'

Jamieson took the file he had brought home upstairs to the small room he used as a study and turned on the desk lamp. The desk was directly beneath the window and he watched the rain beat against it briefly before adjusting the angle of the lamp and starting to work his way through the papers. He left the main light off, preferring instead to use the circular pool of light from the desk lamp as an island of concentration.

Two hours later, Jamieson felt satisfied that he had assimilated all the information necessary to give him a head start at the Kerr Memorial. He had familiarised himself with the names and backgrounds of half a dozen of the senior staff at the hospital and how they related to each other in the hierarchy of hospital life. He flipped the folder shut and leaned back in his chair to stretch up his arms into the darkness outside the scope of the lamp.

Sue came into the room and came up behind him to wrap her arms around his shoulders and rest her cheek against the top of his head.

'We have some unfinished business,' she said.

'We have?'

'This morning…’

They paused on the landing outside the study door and Sue said, 'Ssh! Listen!' They listened together to the sound of the rain on the roof and of the larger drops falling from the branches of the willow tree outside. 'I love this place,' said Sue. Jamieson kissed her hair and said, 'I know, so do I. I'd like us to grow old here. I'd like to sit out there on a summer's evening watching my grandchildren playing round a house that stood here a hundred years before Bonnie Prince Charlie marched south.'

'Who's a sentimental old softy then?' said Sue.

'Me,' said Jamieson. 'Until tomorrow.'

Sue turned her face up to Jamieson and said softly, 'At least I've got you until then.' She pulled his mouth down on to hers.

Jamieson was up first in the morning. He was in the bath when he heard Sue get up and go downstairs. The sounds from the radio drifted upstairs as he towelled himself dry and looked out to see that it was still raining. He cursed softly at the thought of having to travel north on a wet motorway with spray from heavy lorries obscuring his vision. He looked up at the sky in both directions, hoping to find a break in the clouds, but found none. With a grimace, he padded back to the bedroom to begin dressing.

Jamieson came downstairs wearing a dark blue suit and adjusting his tie as if it were too tight. 'Do I look like a detective?' he asked.

'No, you look like a doctor.'

'Is that bad?'

Sue smiled and said, 'No, that is just fine.'

'Maybe I should wear a dirty raincoat and scratch my head a lot?'

'The nurses would probably give you a bath,' said Sue.

'All right,' conceded Jamieson.

'There was a murder in Leeds last night.'

'Not at Kerr Memorial I hope.'

'A prostitute in the city. It was on the radio.'

'Not the safest of professions.'

'I'll bear that in mind in case you don't take to your new job.'

Jamieson smiled and Sue said, 'You are nervous. I can tell.'

'A bit,' confessed Jamieson. 'I'll be glad when today is over and I've made a start.'

'I can understand that,' said Sue. 'You will call me this evening?'

'Of course,' said Jamieson. 'With a bit of luck this really shouldn't take too long.'

'This bug that's causing all the problems up there, what exactly is it?' asked Sue.

'It's called, Pseudomonas. It's a fairly common bug that likes to live anywhere where there's moisture. You often find it in flower vases and the like in hospitals but it becomes a problem when it gets in to open wounds and sets up an infection because it's difficult to treat. This one seems particularly bad.'

'It must be an absolute nightmare to go into hospital for something fairly simple and catch something much worse while you're there,' said Sue.

Jamieson nodded and said, 'It can happen all too easily and it's the sort of thing that erodes public confidence. That's why the Ministry are eager to see an end to it.' Jamieson picked up his bag and put his free arm round Sue. 'I'll call you tonight,' he said.

'Take care,' said Sue.