Donor

THIRTEEN

Dunbar went out for a late-night walk. The earlier rain had stopped, leaving the streets wet but the air cold, dry and mercifully still. He pulled up the collar of his overcoat and set out for nowhere in particular. He just needed to think. Darkness and quiet streets were going to help.

Lisa and Macmillan had given him the uneasy feeling that something was wrong with his whole train of thought. It was the feeling you got when, believing yourself to be on the right road to somewhere, you kept on picking up little clues that said you weren’t. At first, you were reluctant to acknowledge them because you wanted to believe nothing was wrong. You could even convince yourself that you were seeing the landmarks you were supposed to see. You simply altered or modified your expectation to suit. Even as evidence to the contrary mounted, you continued to hope against hope that everything was going to work out, because the alternative meant admitting that you were absolutely lost.

He was afraid the same might apply to his thinking about the use of animal organs for transplant at Medic Ecosse. He had come up with a get-out-of-jail card over that one by mooting a switch of organs after death so, in theory, he could still be right. But now, as he thought it through rationally and without emotion, he started to worry. The little clues were there. He had to steel himself to look at them dispassionately.

Lisa had stuck to her guns so tenaciously because Amy Teasdale’s reaction to her transplant had been so strong. As an experienced transplant nurse, she just couldn’t believe that Amy had been given the right organ. The same was true of Sheila Barnes and her patient, Kenneth Lineham — another strong reaction. What he had found it convenient to ignore until now was the inference that not only had the organs been unsuitable, but they had not even been close in terms of compatibility.

This was a major puzzle and one he’d have to face up to. Ross wasn’t some Mickey Mouse researcher who’d transplant any old organ into a patient to see what happened. He was an acclaimed expert in the field of transplant immunology. He’d know beforehand, through extensive lab work, exactly what the chances of success were. In fact, it seemed entirely reasonable to assume that he wouldn’t even contemplate carrying out experimental surgery unless he was pretty damned sure of success. Yet there had been two spectacular failures. Why?

This in turn begged the question of how many experiments there had been. Were the two failures exceptions to the rule? Had there been lots of successful animal transplants that hadn’t come to light? There was no way of knowing without access to Ross’s research records. There was, of course, the nagging possibility that he was completely and utterly mistaken about the whole thing. Ross had done nothing wrong. There had been no animal transplant experiments. The two kids had suffered from some unknown, non-specific form of tissue rejection, however unlikely the coincidence, and the whole damned investigation had been a mistake from the start.

Dunbar knew he’d have to decide soon which seemed the likelier; the decision about a break-in at Vane Farm was going to be his. He’d be putting himself and Sci-Med at risk, and he needed to feel easier in his mind about the justification for doing so. He sought some resolution of the problem in thinking about the other odd things that had happened at Medic Ecosse.

Going back to the very beginning, he still thought it peculiar and out of character that Ross had accepted the Scottish Office cuts in research funding without much more than a whimper of protest. He’d assumed at the time that Ross must have been promised alternative funding, but if that were so where was it coming from? The fact that he hadn’t been able to find any trace of it didn’t necessarily mean it didn’t exist, but if it didn’t — and even if it did — it was possible that Ross had some other reason for staying on.

Pursuing that line of thought, he wondered whether Ross had allowed himself to be humiliated in public because he had something going on at Medic Ecosse, something he didn’t want interrupted, something so important to him that he was prepared to lose any amount of face. Could research glory be that important to the man? Perhaps. But Ross already enjoyed an international reputation as a researcher. He didn’t need the extra kudos. He wasn’t some young, ambitious buck out to make a name for himself, who’d cut corners if need be.

The more he thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed that Ross would have risked his career and reputation, and killed two children into the bargain, for the sake of stealing a march on the opposition over the issue of animal organs for human transplant. Apart from that, he couldn’t publish the results of his work anyway without advertising his guilt. The best he could do would be to learn from them and start out on a legal programme of research, helped by facts he already knew. Seen in that light, the price seemed unfeasibly high — something Lisa had pointed out. So, if it wasn’t research glory that Ross was after, what could it be?

The obvious answer was money. There certainly seemed to be no limit to what people, at any level in society, would do if the price was right. This was a fact of life. But if money satisfied the question of motive, it obscured the crime. He couldn’t see how anything connected with animal organs for transplant could attract enough money for a man like Ross to risk everything. There was also the problem that Ross didn’t appear to be particularly wealthy. His lifestyle seemed to be roughly in keeping with his eighty-odd thousand a year salary, but of course that could be contrived. Ross was an extremely clever man. He wouldn’t do anything as crass as live beyond his means if he really was involved in something sinister.

Thinking about Ross’s earnings reminded Dunbar that he’d forgotten to ask Sci-Med for more information about Ross’s work in Geneva. It probably wasn’t relevant, but they hadn’t supplied details at the outset. He’d remind them the next time he was in contact. It was untypical of them to have left that unresolved.

Dunbar realized that if he were to implicate Ross in something steeped in self-interest he’d have to explain away Ross’s philanthropic record over transplants for NHS patients at Medic Ecosse. He’d taken on three such patients in three years when he’d been under no pressure at all to do so. The gesture would have significantly reduced profits for his unit and therefore his share of the payout under the old agreement. No one would have quibbled at Medic Ecosse drawing the line at free transplants, especially when they hadn’t been doing well financially, yet they’d taken on three.

Ingrid’s apparent ignorance about the funding of transplants for such patients was another puzzle. He’d thought she’d have been only too keen to confirm that the costs were set off against profits from Omega patients, but, although she’d finally agreed that this was probably the case, she’d behaved as if it were a novel suggestion. It would be worth investigating the funding of these patients further.

Dunbar reminded himself that he hadn’t yet got back to Clive Turner at the Children’s Hospital about the marrow puncture on Amanda Chapman. It wasn’t that he’d forgotten; he simply did not know what to tell him. Officially it had never happened. It was just another strange happening at Medic Ecosse, not terribly important in itself but, again, out of character in an organization that prided itself on efficiency. It would be silly to pretend that people did not make mistakes there, but it would be fair to say they made fewer than most.

The question he had to face up to now was the big one. Did he believe that there was enough reason to warrant a break-in at Vane Farm, with all its attendant risks? He could think of no other way of getting more information about Ross’s research work. The answer, he decided, was yes.

As he crossed one of the bridges over the Clyde, Dunbar paused to lean on the parapet and look down at the dark water swirling below. He was looking for inspiration. Would he attempt the break-in himself or would he call for assistance? He was still pondering this when he became aware of a car slowing down. He half turned and saw that it was a police Panda car; its two occupants were watching him. He returned to looking down at the water, hoping the car would move off. It didn’t. Dunbar heard the window being wound down as the car inched towards him. A Glasgow voice asked, ‘Not thinking of doing anything stupid, are we?’

Dunbar smiled at the irony of the question before turning. He said, ‘Nothing like that, Officer. Just getting some air.’

The answer seemed to satisfy the law. The car moved off.

Definitely not something stupid, thought Dunbar. He had enough egg on his face already over this assignment. He’d ask Sci-Med to arrange expert assistance. Macmillan had said he could stay on the case ‘a bit longer’. He wasn’t too clear what that meant.

Dunbar made his request for help to Sci-Med first thing in the morning. He also asked for information about Ross’s consultancy in Geneva. The reply simply acknowledged the requests and told him they would be dealt with as soon as possible. He should stand by.

When he got to the hospital, Dunbar told Ingrid he wouldn’t be needing her. He didn’t want her around while he investigated how the free transplant referrals had been funded. Confidentiality about the Omega patients was strict, but Ingrid, when pressed, had come up with the information that there had been three; she had also given net profit figures for their stays. Dunbar couldn’t remember whether or not she had included dates for them. He wanted to see if he could correlate these dates with the acceptance of free-transplant patients.

He found the information on Omega patients she had given him. The dates of their stays at Medic Ecosse were included. He then got out the list of free NHS referrals and checked one list against the other. He found exactly what he was looking for. The admission of each Omega patient coincided with the acceptance of a free transplant patient. This confirmed that it was possible that the Omega patients had provided cash for the transplants, but it did not tell him why Ingrid had been unsure about the correlation. She had always been fiercely protective of Medic Ecosse, so should have jumped at the chance to point out how philanthropic they had been in spending Omega cash on charity patients. It was out of character. He was missing something.

His mobile phone rang. It was the matron at The Beeches in Helensburgh.

‘Dr Dunbar, I thought that, being a friend, you’d like to be told that Mrs Barnes died peacefully at three o’clock this morning. I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you for telling me,’ sighed Dunbar. ‘I appreciate it, and thank you for all you did for her. Did her son manage to come and see her before she died?’

‘No, he stayed away. Perhaps you’d like details of the funeral arrangements?’

Dunbar said he would. He wrote them down.

Ingrid came in after lunch to check if he had any work for her. When he said no, she smiled her superior little smile and said, ‘You know, I don’t think you’re an accountant at all.’ She sat on a corner of the desk and rested both hands on one knee.

Dunbar felt himself go cold. He tried to appear calm as he asked, ‘What do you imagine I am, then?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Some kind of detective perhaps?’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘You pulled my personnel file.’

Dunbar was painfully aware that she was watching his reaction. ‘Did I?’ he said.

‘All personnel files record date and time of last access. It’s a data-protection measure. The last request for access to my file came from the computer in this office.’

‘I think it’s you who are the detective,’ said Dunbar with a smile that he hoped looked relaxed. ‘You’re quite right. I did access your file. I wanted to know a bit more about you.’

‘Why?’

‘When I asked you about some clinical tests on a transplant patient, you seemed to know all about them. I was curious. Having a computer beside me made it possible to satisfy my curiosity.’

‘And what did you discover?’

‘That you’re really a trained nurse,’ replied Dunbar. It was a gamble. He had simply told the truth.

‘I was,’ agreed Ingrid.

‘Then we’re two of a kind,’ said Dunbar. ‘I’m a doctor who doesn’t work as a doctor, and you’re a nurse who doesn’t work as a nurse.’

‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ said Ingrid. ‘Quite a coincidence, really.’

She left the room and Dunbar let out his breath in uneasy relief. It was short-lived. Almost immediately, he started to wonder how many of the other files he’d accessed had some kind of tag on them. He thought back. He’d been careful not to make any inquiries about either Lisa or Sheila Barnes on the hospital computer system, so that was all right. He’d certainly never tried to access anything at all about the dead children; that really would have been a giveaway. A lot of the information he’d used was on the disks originally supplied; there had been no need to access the mainframe so, again, no one would have been able to follow what he was doing unless… How did Ingrid know he’d pulled her file? To check the access record on it, she’d have had to examine her own file. Why had she done that? Or was there some other way she could have found out?

He was aware of the blood pounding in his ears as he started to check the back of the computer monitor. Please God, he was wrong but… There were a power-supply cable, a networking cable for connection to the mainframe and for access to printers — and a third cable. He stared at this third cable and felt his pulse rate rise. He couldn’t be sure, but a good guess said that this thin grey cable was supplying an auxiliary monitor. Someone was watching everything he brought up on screen.

The thought of it made him feel vulnerable until he thought it through calmly and came to the conclusion that he was still relatively safe. He’d played the role of a nosy accountant quite conscientiously, particularly at the beginning when he had constantly sought facts and figures to compile seemingly endless tables of income and expenditure. He had, of course, asked Ingrid to get him bits of information from time to time: estimated costs of transplants, a list of free referrals from the NHS, and more recently about the funding link with Omega patients.

So why had she let the cat out of the bag about his pulling her file? Had she been instructed to do it to see what his reaction would be? Had someone else been upset by something he’d asked about? He had the uncomfortable feeling that that might be the case. He suspected he’d come a little too close to something he wasn’t supposed to know about. It was all the more uncomfortable because he didn’t know what it was.

‘How is she, Doctor?’ Sandy asked as he and Kate were shown into Ross’s office for an update on Amanda’s condition.

‘All is not gloom,’ said Ross with a smile. ‘We’re now making considerable progress with Amanda.’

‘How so?’

‘I could give you the technical details but I suggest that you go up and see for yourselves,’ said Ross conspiratorially.

‘All right, we will,’ said Sandy, and without further ado a nurse took them up to Amanda’s room.

Amanda was sitting up in bed when they entered. She seemed alert and clear-eyed, and her smile when they walked in all but wiped out the despondency of the last few days and did more to raise their spirits than anything else that had happened in a long time. Sandy felt a lump come to his throat as he watched Kate hug Amanda and look up at him over the child’s shoulder.

‘You’re looking wonderful,’ she said to Amanda, holding her tightly. ‘You must be feeling better. Are you?’

‘I’m fed up,’ complained Amanda, but she said it in such a normal voice — so different from the tired whimper they had been used to in the past weeks — that Kate and Sandy burst out laughing.

‘Fed up?’ asked Kate, seeing the puzzled look that came to Amanda’s eyes and not wanting to hurt her feelings.

‘They won’t let me out of bed to play with the doll’s house,’ said Amanda.

‘Maybe tomorrow,’ said the nurse.

‘That’s what grown-ups always say,’ complained Amanda, to more laughter.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Sandy said to the nurse. ‘She’s looking so well today.’

‘The doctors have been making progress with the tissue-degradation problem and now they seem to have got the dialysis just right,’ she replied. ‘Much better than anyone dared hope. Everyone is very pleased with her. She’s quite a star.’

Sandy took over from Kate and hugged his daughter. ‘It’s just so good to see my little princess looking and feeling like her old self.’

The nurse went out and the three of them continued to chat happily about anything and everything. Amanda demanded to know how Sandy was getting on with the doll’s house he’d promised her. He assured her that plans for it had been drawn up and construction was under way.

‘With lights,’ she reminded him.

‘In every room,’ said Sandy.

As time went by, Kate noticed that Sandy had gone quiet. He seemed lost in thought.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked as Amanda leafed her way through a colouring-book to find an elephant she wanted to show them.

He shrugged and said, ‘I don’t know. I suppose I’d started to think this might not happen. I was on the verge of giving up hope and now…’

‘Let’s not analyse anything too deeply. Let’s just be thankful,’ said Kate softly.

He nodded and put his hand on hers.

‘What are you two whispering about?’ demanded Amanda.

‘Nothing,’ said Kate.

‘Didn’t look like nothing to me,’ said Amanda.

‘Oh really, young lady,’ said Kate. ‘In that case we were discussing which one of us was going to tickle your tummy first!’ She made a mock attack on Amanda, who broke into a fit of giggles. Sandy grinned broadly at the sound. No symphony could have sounded sweeter.

Later, as she and Sandy walked to the car, Kate asked, ‘What do you think?’

‘Same as you. Bloody marvellous.’

‘You don’t think it’s just one of these remissions you hear about, when patients suddenly seem to get better but it’s only a temporary thing?’

Sandy shook his head. ‘No. Cancer patients get those. Amanda doesn’t have cancer. I really think it must be the improved dialysis set-up they have here. Now that they’ve got it right, it must have cleaned her blood better than the other machines, got rid of more toxins. That’s what’s making her more alert and energetic.’

‘She was just like she used to be,’ said Kate.

He agreed, adding, ‘Better dialysis means more time between sessions; that’ll give them more time to work on stabilizing her. They won’t be struggling to keep her alive all the time and then, if they succeed in stabilizing her, there’ll be more time for a kidney to become available.’

He put his arm round Kate’s shoulders and gave her a hug. ‘A good day,’ he said. ‘Let’s eat out this evening?’

Kate nodded and returned the hug.

When he got back to his hotel, Dunbar found a message from Sci-Med waiting for him. He was instructed to meet a man named James Douglas in a pub called the Crane in Salamander Street at eight o’clock. There was also an apology for the lack of information about James Ross’s interests in Geneva. They’d had difficulties in obtaining it at the outset and, having assumed that it wouldn’t be relevant to the Glasgow inquiry, they hadn’t pursued it further. They’d try again.

Dunbar decided to leave the car in the hotel car park and take a taxi to the Crane. That way he wouldn’t have problems with parking and he wouldn’t have to bother finding out where Salamander Street was. As he climbed into the cab, he gave the name of the pub to the driver and asked, ‘Do you know it?’

‘Aye. Do you?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Dunbar.

‘If you turn up at the Crane in a taxi you’re gonna stick out like a sair thumb. They’ll figure you as a DHS snooper. You’re no’, are you?’

‘Nothing like that.’

‘It’s nane o’ ma business like, but if you want some advice, pal, you’ll get oot the motor a couple o’ streets away and walk the rest.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’

‘Nae problem. Shame aboot the accent. Still, there’s nothin’ you can do aboot that.’

‘True.’

‘Mind you-’

‘I know,’ interrupted Dunbar. ‘I could keep my mouth shut.’

‘An oldie but a goldie,’ laughed the driver.

The cab stopped in an area where street lights seemed an alien concept.

‘Place is dyin’,’ said the driver. ‘Bulldozers will be comin’ in at the end o’ the year.’

Dunbar thanked him, gave him the six pounds for the fare and added four more.

‘Cheers. Your place is along there on the left. You canny miss it.’

The cab did an about-turns and clattered off, leaving Dunbar to think how quiet it was. He was in a street with high tenement buildings on either side and yet he could have heard a pin drop. No voices, no radio or television sounds, no dogs barking, no cooking smells, only the smell of diesel exhaust left on the air by the cab. There were no lights in the buildings, either. They were empty black stone monuments, harbouring nothing but the ghosts of families past. Something flitted across the pavement in front of him and disappeared into the dark mouth of one of the closes. He wanted to believe it was a cat but knew otherwise. He quickened his pace.

He was beginning to have doubts about a pub existing in this area at all when he saw light spill out on to the road a hundred yards ahead. As he drew nearer, he could hear male laughter. The Crane was the only inhabited property in the street. Its unimposing exterior suggested it had not always been a pub. It had the flat frontage of a double-windowed shop with clear glass windows. Behind the glass, thick darkgreen curtains, heavy with years of accumulated grime, hung from two round brass rails three-quarters of the way up. Above the curtain line Dunbar could see only the ceiling, which seemed to have been varnished with nicotine.

He had to stoop to get through the door and was surprised to find that there were three steps down to the floor of the bar. He paused at the top for a moment to look around the room. Several customers turned to look at him. Not knowing how to recognize and make contact with Douglas, he thought he’d better just wait, so went to the bar and ordered a pint of lager. The barman complied without comment and placed the glass in front of him. He took the fiver and brought the change.

‘Before you ask, I don’t know.’

‘Don’t know what?’ asked Dunbar.

The barman leaned one elbow on the counter and said, ‘Listen, pal, there’s mair chance o’ the Queen Mother comin’ in here than me pickin’ up passing trade. You have a reason for comin’ here and it’s no’ that piss yer drinkin’. You’re after information. I’m just tellin’ you in advance, ye’ll no be gettin’ it frae me. Straight?’

‘Straight,’ agreed Dunbar.

‘That’s no way to speak to a pal o’ mine, Harry,’ said a local voice behind Dunbar. He turned and saw a slim, wiry man dressed in black jeans, a dark polo-neck sweater and soft leather jacket. He had close-cropped ginger hair and looked as if he might have been a useful lightweight boxer.

‘How you doin’, Steve?’ the man asked Dunbar.

‘Just fine… Jimmy,’ replied Dunbar.

‘Sorry aboot that, Jimmy,’ said the barman. ‘Nae offence, pal,’ he said to Dunbar.

‘None taken.’

‘Fancy a seat?’ asked Douglas.

He led the way to a bench seat with the stuffing protruding in several places. They put down their drinks on a table that was awash with beer slops.

‘Why here?’ asked Dunbar as an adjacent door opened and the smell of urine wafted out.

‘I had to be sure you weren’t followed. You weren’t.’

‘I came by cab.’

‘I know. You gave the driver a generous tip.’

Dunbar didn’t inquire how he knew. ‘Why all the precautions?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know who you are or what you’re into. The people who employ me don’t tell me things like that. They figure I don’t need to know. It’s all done through intermediaries so the customers can pretend they know nothing at all about it if things go wrong. I have to treat everyone the same. You could be the most wanted man in Europe, for all I know.’

‘What do you know?’ asked Dunbar.

‘You’d like to gain access to a place where the door might be locked. I’ve to get you inside and then out again.’

‘It’s a research lab. They work on animals. It’s at a place called Vane Farm, three miles north of the city on the Lomond Road.’

Douglas had brought out a notebook and was jotting information down. ‘What are you after?’

‘Information about what they’re doing. I think it’ll be in computer files in the building.’

‘University or private?’

‘Private.’

‘A pity. Probably means they’ve got proper security. Know anything about that?’

Dunbar told him what he’d learned from last year’s research budget records.

‘How about internal lay-out?’

‘Nothing.’

‘How much time have we got?’

‘Time enough. It’s more important that no one knows I’ve been there,’ said Dunbar.

Douglas pursed his lips and said, ‘In and out with no trace? That could be a bit more difficult.’

‘It’s important.’

‘I’ll take a look at the place and get back to you.’

‘When?’

‘I’ll do a full recce, day and night. Come here again the day after tomorrow. Same time.’

Dunbar left the Crane and found his way back to a main road, from where he took a cab to Lisa’s place. She looked more relaxed than he’d ever seen her.

‘How was your day?’ he asked.

‘Excellent.’

‘Do anything in particular?’

‘I walked for miles,’ said Lisa, ‘in any direction I fancied. I just walked and walked because I didn’t need to be here. I was free to do as I pleased, and it felt wonderful.’

‘Good,’ said Dunbar.

‘And you?’

Dunbar told her about his plans to get into Vane Farm and take a look at Ross’s research findings.

‘You’re going for it then?’

‘It could put an end to all the speculation,’ said Dunbar. ‘Any evidence of animal parts being put into patients at Medic Ecosse and the police can act immediately.’

‘When?’ asked Lisa.

‘In a few days. I’m not going to do it alone.’

‘You will be careful, won’t you?’ she said softly.

‘Of course.’

‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Lisa as Dunbar fell silent.

‘Tomorrow.’

‘What happens tomorrow?’

‘A funeral.’

The following morning Dunbar set off for the Clyde-coast town of Irvine where Sheila Barnes had been brought up. She had asked to be buried there in the graveyard of St Andrew’s Church where she and her husband Cyril had been married twenty-six years before. That was the one saving grace about being told you’d got a terminal illness, thought Dunbar. It gave you time to put your affairs in order and make arrangements, something most people put off until it was too late.

There was nothing pretty about St Andrew’s. It had a cold, austere look with iron railings surrounding it instead of low walls or hedging. Even the churchyard seemed unnecessarily bleak, lacking as it did trees and shrubbery to break up the lines of tombstones which stretched for more than two hundred yards behind the building. But it had obviously meant something special to Sheila, and that was all that mattered. As he’d heard some churchman say recently on the radio, ‘Churches aren’t about buildings, they’re about people.’

As he entered the building, Dunbar noted that the sky was darkening ominously. He hoped the rain would hold off until after the interment. Earth turning to mud did little to enhance a burial ceremony. Not wishing to intrude on family and friends, he sat down near the back of the section to the right of the main aisle. He noted with some pleasure that the church was nearly three-quarters full. He had liked Sheila Barnes; even in the debilitated state in which he’d known her, she’d struck him as a woman of fine character. It seemed fitting that she be mourned by many. Cyril wasn’t present but that was no surprise; he must be close to death himself.

The service was conducted by a Church of Scotland minister who had clearly known Sheila personally. His voice was deep and resonant and reached all corners of the church without difficulty. The result was an informative and affectionate biography of the woman and her work, so different, thought Dunbar, from the hastily cobbled together bits and pieces gleaned from relatives at the last moment that was usually the case in modern times. He learned that Sheila had spent long periods overseas in the early days of her nursing career, working in Third World countries. Her long, happy marriage to Cyril was held up as an example of the power of love. Her son, Peter, was mentioned but Dunbar got the distinct impression that the minister was back-pedalling on that issue. Like the matron at The Beeches, he was obviously aware of the family rift.

Dunbar could see in the front pew a man whom he took to be Peter Barnes. He stood slightly apart from the other main mourners, who might be Sheila’s brothers and sisters, judging by their age. It gave the impression that the rift went deeper than immediate family. Peter Barnes was tall and dark and, when he turned to look at the congregation, wore a slight smile as if amused at some private joke. Dunbar noted that his tie was not black but purple, as was the handkerchief in his top pocket. Although the colour was muted, it seemed strangely disrespectful.

Dunbar, who had kept well out of the way of close family and friends at the graveside, was almost the last to join the slow procession back along the gravel path leading to the churchyard gates. What appeared to be a general shunning of Peter Barnes meant that he too was on his own. Dunbar joined him and offered his condolences.

‘Thank you,’ replied Peter.

‘You didn’t manage to see your mother at The Beeches before she died, then?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ replied Peter. ‘My work takes me away a lot. It was a bit difficult to get up to Helensburgh.’

‘I see,’ replied Dunbar. He hesitated before saying, ‘I know it’s not really any of my business, but if it’s any comfort your mother mistook me for you on my last visit. I let her think I was you. She was very pleased. She died believing you two had made it up.’

Peter smiled and said, ‘Thank you for telling me that, Mr…?’

‘Dunbar. Steven Dunbar.’

‘That gives me a great deal of comfort. Can I ask what your business was with my mother?’

‘I had to ask her a few things about her time at the Medic Ecosse Hospital, just to complete some paperwork I was doing.’

‘Ah, paperwork,’ said Peter Barnes in a way that suggested a sneer to Dunbar. He could understand why people didn’t take to the man. What is it you do, Mr Barnes?’ he asked.

‘I work on the design of warships.’

‘That sounds interesting. All aspects or one in particular?’

‘Radiation containment.’

Dunbar swallowed hard. He felt the, hairs on the back of his neck start to prickle. ‘Really?’ he said then cleared his throat against the tightness that had crept in. ‘Might I ask what company you work for?’

‘Baxters, on Tyneside.’

As soon as he got back to his hotel, Dunbar called Macmillan in London and told him what he now knew.

‘I agree, it goes beyond the realms of coincidence,’ said Macmillan. ‘This Barnes character could have plotted the deaths of his own parents so he could inherit. He must have thought he was going to get away with it, too. It was damn nearly foolproof. Would you like me to arrange for all the information to be handed over to the Glasgow police?’

‘I’d be grateful,’ replied Dunbar. ‘I’ve no heart for it. The case has nothing to do with what I’m interested in any more.’

‘Don’t get too down about it,’ said Macmillan. ‘You’ve just solved a double murder, and an unusual one at that.’

‘But not the double murder I’m interested in,’ said Dunbar.

‘You’re telling me that Sheila wasn’t murdered to keep her quiet after all?’ said Lisa.

‘Afraid not,’ he said. ‘In retrospect, I suppose it was wrong from the outset. If you want to kill someone to keep them quiet, you don’t choose a slow death. That’s more the style of someone who wants to make the death seem natural, the perfect crime committed by someone who can afford to wait a little.’

‘Like her own son,’ said Lisa with disgust.

‘Take a look at life again soon,’ said Dunbar.

‘So now you have nothing at all to go on against Medic Ecosse,’ said Lisa.

Dunbar shrugged and said, ‘Nothing except the word of two nurses and one of them’s now dead.’

‘The remaining one knows what she’s talking about,’ said Lisa firmly.