Body Line (26 page)

‘India and Pakistan.’

‘Oh, right – and South America. Nice work if you can get it. He’s also been Cabinet Special Adviser on Care Implementation, and Deputy Chair, Select Committee on GP remuneration. On the GMC website under his interests it’s listed he’s a member of the Labour Party, but we might have guessed that – he got his knighthood in 2003 for helping to shove through the new GP contract.’ She looked up at Slider. ‘You’d want to watch yourself, guv, tangling with that class of a player. He’s friends in high places.’

‘I eat people with friends in high places for breakfast,’ Slider assured her. He held out his hand. ‘Can I have that?’

‘Work away,’ she said, handing it over. ‘If you get into trouble, you can write a cry for help on the back and turn it into a paper aeroplane.’

‘Or fashion it into a pistol and frighten my way out?’

She considered. ‘Forget that,’ she concluded. ‘Just do a legger.’

THIRTEEN

Bedside Manor

T
his part of Middlesex was simply lovely: gentle inclines, rich rolling pastures, fine mature trees, old hedgerows and wide verges. In the grounds of the Cloisterwood Hospital there was a prettily-shaped small lake, reed-fringed, from which skeins of ducks rose with joyful clamour. It looked like an eighteenth-century landed gentleman’s idea of the Garden of Eden.

Part of the hospital building – the part you first came upon down the long drive – was a white-stuccoed early Victorian house of large windows, tall chimneys and gracious aspect, presumably the country residence of the original owner of this artful landscape. The modern, functional buildings that had been added to turn it into a hospital had been politely tucked away at the back, as was the car park, which was full of BMWs, Mercedes and Audis, not to mention a generous sprinkling of Rollers and Bentleys. In the corner a discreet notice pointed the way to the staff car park, and Slider, feeling his common old car would look less out of place there, modestly followed it. Ah, this was better. Minis and Micros and Meganes, Golfs, Fiestas and Focuses, and even a couple of MPVs, together with a fair and reasonable degree of scruffiness and dilapidation, allowed him to park with more confidence.

Webber’s office was in the old building, and he was shown into it by a slight, pretty girl in a lavender uniform dress and told that Sir Bernard would be with him very shortly. Slider anticipated a power-wait, but in fact it was only two or three minutes, barely time to take himself to the window and look out over the parkland to the lake, before the door opened behind him and a voice said, ‘Nice view, isn’t it? Even lovelier when the chestnuts come into bloom.’

Slider turned. Given Webber’s eminence, status, and connections, Slider had been quite prepared to dislike him. He had expected cold briskness, arrogance, finger-drumming impatience with Slider’s inferiority and the waste of valuable time he represented. But the Webber approaching him across the room was perfectly relaxed and smiling, holding out his hand with such an air of cordiality that Slider shook it without even a momentary shrinking.

‘One of the perks of my position here,’ Webber went on, joining Slider at the window. ‘I got to choose my own office. I’ve worked in so many modern buildings – and of course no one wants to house the medical side of things in old buildings. But an office like this was always my dream. We had to adapt the house to a certain extent, but I think we did it tactfully – don’t you? You see how we matched the mouldings and cornice – that’s actually a false wall there. And the door is a copy.’

While obediently looking at the things that were being pointed out, Slider was getting a look at Webber himself. He was a little taller than Slider, but not a tall man; fifty-six, as Slider knew, but well preserved, with only a little tell-tale thickening of the body to betray him. His hair was thick and wavy, brown sprinkled so attractively with silver it might have been deliberate. His face was firm-fleshed, authoritative and genial, and, if not exactly handsome, near enough to it to be deemed so with the aid of his fine clothes and immaculate
toilette
. The eyes, crinkled often in smiles, were a faded blue and very clear, as if their owner were a clean-living outdoorsman. With the natural-looking, light tan of the skin and the capable hands, it made Slider think of him at the helm of a racing yacht.

But the best thing of all was the voice, deep, warm and with a perfect accent – clean English but not over-posh – inspiring absolute confidence. It was the sort of voice you wanted to hear on a 747 saying, ‘This is the captain speaking.’

Architecture was one of Slider’s interests, and he was happy to allow Webber to tell him a little about the history of the house in the few minutes before the door opened and another slim, pretty girl in the same uniform came in with a tray.

‘Ah, tea,’ Webber said with an air of rubbing his hands. ‘I took the chance that you would have a cup with me. Unless you would prefer coffee?’

‘Tea is fine, thank you.’

Webber led the way to an armchairs-and-coffee-table configuration to one side of the room, where the girl was laying it out and pouring for them. Georgian silver teapot, fine china, and there was a plate of shortbread as well. Slider sipped his tea: it was good.

Webber, looking at him for his reaction, said, ‘Kenya. I alternate with Darjeeling, but you’ve caught me on my Kenya day. I take my afternoon cup quite seriously, you see. It’s the only way to treat the king of beverages.’

Slider put down his cup and smiled politely, suddenly wondering why all this charm was being expended on a lowly policeman. As if he had heard the thought, Webber let the smile go in favour of a serious look, and said, ‘Well, I’m sure you’re a busy man, and I know I am, so perhaps we should get on with it. Would you like to tell me why you’ve come to see me?’

Given that Slider was from Shepherd’s Bush, Webber must have known the subject for debate, but he said, ‘I’m looking into the death of David Rogers. I believe he was a friend of yours.’

Webber looked sad, but not heartbroken. ‘Poor David! It’s a shocking business. Yes, we were friends and colleagues some years ago. I was a mentor of sorts to him in the early days, and we worked together at one time, but we’ve rather drifted apart in recent years.’

‘Why would that be?’ Slider asked.

‘Why did we drift apart? What an odd question! Why does it ever happen? The human condition is fluid, friendships form and break, lives go off in opposite directions. One wakes up one day and finds oneself in a different place with different people.’

Slider cut through this happy horseshit. ‘Was it because of the trouble he got into? The scandal over a patient?’

Webber looked put out by the bluntness. ‘Not directly. I didn’t drop him, you know. In fact, I did everything I could to help him.’

‘You represented him with the GMC,’ Slider suggested.

‘Not precisely that, but I used my influence there. Otherwise the outcome could have been much worse for him.’

‘Why would you do that?’ Slider asked. ‘Why protect a doctor who molests a patient? Surely there are ethical considerations which must override friendship?’

Webber blinked and put down his teacup. ‘That’s very blunt. If not a touch hostile.’

‘I didn’t mean to be hostile,’ Slider said. ‘I’m trying to understand the situation.’

‘Well, I don’t see what it has to do with David’s death, but I’ll tell you: David vehemently denied any wrongdoing, and at the time I wasn’t convinced that the woman hadn’t made a mistake. She was only half awake, and may have misunderstood what David was doing, or she may have exaggerated, or even made it up entirely, to get attention. I have to tell you there are a lot of women like that – or perhaps I don’t have to.’ He looked enquiring. ‘I imagine policemen meet them as well.’

‘I understand you got him a job afterwards.’

The washed-blue eyes sharpened. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Someone who was a friend of his at the time.’

‘Who?’

Slider didn’t answer that. ‘Did you, in fact, get David Rogers a job?’ he insisted.

Webber seemed reluctant to admit to this act of kindness. ‘I – again, I used such influence as I had to promote his chances of obtaining a position. It couldn’t be directly in medicine, but there was a pharmaceutical company looking for someone on the PR side – someone who understood how doctors think, who could advise on advertising and promotional campaigns. David had all the right qualifications: he was young, personable, intelligent. Sadly, however, he didn’t stick at it. I think he was there about a year or eighteen months before he left. I don’t know what he did after that. I lost contact with him entirely. I’ve no idea what he’s been doing in recent years.’

‘So when did you last see him or speak to him?’

‘I can’t remember. Not for years.’

‘You disapproved of his leaving?’

‘I was – disappointed. I’d gone to some trouble to help him and I felt he should have stuck at it. But perhaps he had a better prospect somewhere, I don’t know.’

‘So you didn’t offer him a position here?’

‘Here, at Cloisterwood? No, he has never been on the payroll here.’

‘He seems to have told people he worked here.’

Webber looked grave. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. We depend greatly on our good name and – look, I’ll be frank with you. At the time of David’s trouble I believed his protestations of innocence. But since that time, I’ve rather changed my opinion. His reputation with women – his shabby treatment of his wife – his unreliability. It’s all of a piece. He didn’t seem to be able to resist women, and I’ve come to believe that that poor Mrs – what was her name? Lindsey? Leicester?’

‘Lescroit.’

‘That’s it. I’m afraid that she was probably right all along, and I feel bad about having persuaded her away from making charges. David wasn’t to be trusted, either with women or a job. It’s a great pity, because he was a talented surgeon. But I couldn’t possibly have someone so unreliable associated with my establishment here.’

‘I see,’ Slider said. It seemed he had stumbled into another dead end. Rogers had merely been boasting, borrowing his old friend-and-mentor’s success to make a rather dim bird. Shabby. Yet he had been doing
something
that pulled in the readies.

He tried a curve ball. ‘Can you tell me something about the Windhover Trust?’

There was no flicker in Webber’s face. He looked politely enquiring. ‘Windhover Trust? I don’t know it.’

‘It’s a branch of the Geneva Medical Support and Research Foundation.’

‘Ah. Well, I
have
heard of them, vaguely, but I’ve no idea what they do. I don’t have any dealings with them.’

‘In what way have you heard of them, then?’

‘I’ve seen the name somewhere – in a medical journal, perhaps. Usually these grand-sounding foundations are connected with the drugs companies. There is very large money to be made in pharmaceuticals, with government spending involved. Think of what was spent on Swine Flu vaccine during the last panic. Aids and malaria programmes run into billions. I expect that’s where you’ll find its activities concentrated.’ He put down his cup, empty now, with an air of finality. ‘Well, if there’s nothing more I can help you with?’

‘Not at the moment.’

The farewell handshake was being offered now. ‘If you have any more questions, don’t hesitate to ask,’ Webber said, guiding Slider gently towards the door. ‘I’ll do anything I can to help catch the killer. For all his faults, David was a very loveable man, and a good doctor. I’m sad and dismayed at what has happened.’

A good doctor gone bad: that was the verdict. So Slider thought as he made his way out through the luxurious surroundings, which bore no resemblance to a hospital – well, they weren’t supposed to, were they? The wide front hall, with its reception desk and seating areas and floral arrangements, looked like the foyer of a very exclusive country hotel. A man in fine Arab robes was standing impassively in the middle of the floor. A thin, anxious man who was obviously his assistant or courier was talking to a receptionist at the desk while three of his wives sat resignedly on the reproduction Empire chairs and a chauffeur carried in amusingly copious luggage from the enormous Rolls Royce just outside.

Slider stepped round the sheik, who did not deign to notice he was in the way, and made his way back to his car, which was looking more of a carbuncle every minute. There was money to be made in medicine all right, and it was evident the Cloisterwood Hospital had found one way of doing it. David Rogers had presumably found another, but what was it? Cloisterwood was a washout. But there had to be something, some connection, with Stanmore. If the answer wasn’t here, he didn’t know where next to look for it. He got in his car, reaching the exit at the same time as an MPV which, surprisingly, stood back for him to go first – not what you expected of MPVs, especially when they were black S line Audi Q7s with blacked-out windows. Surely there should be another word for this kind of four-by-four, some title to suggest their sleek, powerful and threatening street presence. MPV was too school-run-mum. Must be the staff motor for the Arab gentleman, he thought. Or maybe transport for inferior wives. A man of that wealth would want the best even for the last car in his cavalcade. What it must be not to have to count the cost of anything, thought Slider, who had never in his life even flown business class, let alone first.