Gallery Whispers

10

'St Martha's.' Andy Martin read the name aloud. That was all there was, picked out in gold lettering on the small green board, fixed to the gate-post at the entrance to the big red sandstone villa, in one of the quietest streets in the Grange, one of the wealthiest of Edinburgh's southern suburbs.

'Doesn't tell you a lot, does it?'

'No,' said Mackie, 'as private clinics go this one seems almost secret.'

'Let's go and find out what secrets they are keeping.'

The Head ofCID locked his silver Mondeo and led the way up the gravel path, holding a huge golf umbrella as shelter against the rain.

The storm doors of the clinic were open as they reached them, revealing a big grey-glass-panelled door inside. As Martin folded the umbrella in the wide vestibule, Mackie tried the door handle. It turned and they stepped inside.

The entrance hall was a study in mahogany. The polished floor shone, a heavy balustrade ran up the wide stairway which led to the upper floor, and a huge piece of furniture, all coat hooks and mirrors, stood against one wall, facing a varnished door, on which the word 'Reception' was etched on a brass plate.

Mackie tried the second door, but it was locked. As he frowned at the Head ofCID a woman appeared at the rear of the big hallway. 'I'm afraid our office is closed, gentlemen,' she said, sharply. 'In any event we do not receive representatives without appointment.'

'You will receive us, though, madam,' the detective chief superintendent barked back at her, producing his warrant card as he spoke.

'We are police officers.' Afterwards it occurred to Brian Mackie that Andy Martin normally would have seen the funny side of her remark.

'I see,' murmured the woman, examining his card, and Mackie's, closely. She looked to be in her early fifties, dressed in a severe grey skirt and pullover, which almost matched her hair. It was drawn back in a bun. 'I, in mm, am Miss Emma Pople,' she said, through thin lips. This woman has all the warmth of a mackerel, thought Mackie. 'I am the administrator here. What is the reason for your visit?'

'What services do you provide here?' Martin asked.

'We provide convalescent facilities for Roman Catholic ladies recovering from surgery, or other debilitating treatments. St Martha's is owned by an Order of nuns. Some of our patients are themselves sisters.'

'Who attends your patients?'

'Usually they are seen by the surgeons or physicians in whose care they have been.'

'Do you have surgical facilities here?'

'We have a small theatre, for emergencies. We don't have Health Board approval for everyday surgery.'

'Ah, I see. So is that why you obstructed our pathologist colleague when she called you earlier on today?'

For this first time, Emma Pople looked unsure of herself. 'You remember,' Martin went on. 'Her name's Dr Skinner. She called this clinic earlier today asking for information on a Mrs Gaynor Weston; more specifically whether she had ever been a patient here. You did speak to her, didn't you?'

The woman's mouth set even tighter. 'That is correct. I was unable to help her.'

'No, Miss Pople, you refused to help her. Told her to get a court order, I believe.'

'I may have done. I may tell you the same thing.'

'Just you do that, ma'am,' said the Head of CID, evenly. 'In that event, Mr Mackie and I will take you at your word. We'll go to the Sheriff, and he'll give us a warrant to search these premises. But we won't do it privately, or even quietly. We'll make a fuss about it in the media, and we'll make damn sure Lothian Health Board hears about it too.

'Is that what you want? Would the Holy Sisters appreciate the publicity? Would the Health Board like what we might find?'

Emma Pople looked at him, and realised that he would do exactly as he threatened. Her grey armour seemed to crack.

'Very well,' she muttered, defeated. 'Come through to my office.'