Lost Causes (9 page)

At eleven p.m. a large Citroën Picasso drew into one of the car parking bays surrounding Charlotte Square. The driver, a
middle-aged
Asian man, got out and slid the passenger door back. ‘Ready?’ he asked the two younger men in the back.

‘Ready,’ they replied in quiet, tense voices.

‘Welcome to Edinburgh. This way.’

The older man led them across a busy street and paused at the west end of George Street, one of the broad thoroughfares in Edinburgh’s New Town that ran west–east, parallel to Princes Street. By day it showed a respectable Georgian façade to the world. On a Friday night it was a street full of light and noise. It was the time when the café bars and clubs, located on the ground and basement floors of buildings with banks and offices above them, came into their own. Business ruled the daytime, pleasure the evening. Their doors were so continually being opened and closed that the inside ambience spilled onto the street. On the street itself, laughter, yells and screams rent the night air as groups of people moved like multicellular
organisms
seeking ever-new sources of sustenance and entertainment.

‘Western society,’ said the older man. ‘Come see. Observe.’

The three men joined the throng on the streets, pausing only to allow drunks to stagger across their path or people walking backwards and sideways to do the same. One girl stumbled and fell as she exited a doorway. She rolled over onto her back, her legs spread, her underwear showing under the briefest of skirts as she laughed hysterically. Her two friends seemed too drunk to help her up but joined in the laughter. The three men skirted round the trio, only to come to a halt again when confronted with a group of youths arguing with a policeman.

‘Your last chance,’ the constable warned. ‘You either leave the street now or you’re bloody nicked.’

‘Fuck that, we’ve no’ done nothin’!’ argued one, struggling against his companions as they tried to pull him away.

‘You’ve annoyed me. Now, I’m going to count to three …’

The youths started to move off and the Asian men continued on their way. A hen party dressed as nurses came towards them, strung out across the pavement, singing loudly but out of tune. The imminent collision was averted by a group of businessmen emerging from one of the café bars. They wore suits and carried briefcases but were clearly drunk, having probably been in the bar since the end of the business day. They broke into raucous laughter at the sight of the ‘nurses’ and started making lewd comments.

It was more their accents than the comments that
antagonised
the girls. ‘In your dreams, tosser,’ said one.

‘I’ve seen better talent come out of a skip,’ added another.

The bride, wearing L plates on her front and back, brought her knee up sharply into the groin of one man silly enough to get too close.

‘Fucking cow,’ gasped the man, collapsing to the ground.

‘Whoops,’ said one of the bridesmaids, stepping on his fingers as she passed.

The Asians, who had moved off the pavement to stand between two parked cars, remained unnoticed observers in the night until, after another hundred metres or so, a drunken youth who had been urinating unsteadily in a doorway turned and saw them. ‘Looks like the Pakis have arrived,’ he announced to his waiting friends.

‘What do they fucking want?’ slurred one, who sported a trail of vomit down the front of his V-neck pullover. ‘Don’t bloody drink, do they?’

‘After our birds, I reckon. Can’t see what their bloody own look like under these bleedin’ blankets they put over their heads, can they?’

The Asian men did not respond but continued their walk.

‘That’s right, pal, get back to your corner shop.’

‘Poppadom, poppadom,’ chanted another.

The crowds began to thin and the noise faded as the men left the revellers behind. The older man stopped and turned. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘do you think that is the way Allah intended us to live?’

‘No,’ agreed the younger pair vehemently, one still shaking with suppressed anger at having to ignore the taunts of the youths they’d passed. ‘Disgusting,’ said the other, shaking his head, clearly affected by what he’d witnessed.

‘You have been chosen to sweep the filth away, my brothers, clean society of such depravity, bring truth and light to the darkness, spread morality and the rule of law – a law that cannot be flouted because it is
his
law. Allah is great.’

The younger men echoed his words before being led through quieter streets and alleyways back to the car. They drove to a small, detached bungalow in a quiet suburban street in Corstorphine, three miles west of the city centre, where they took care not to disturb the neighbours when closing the car doors.

In a room at the back of the house the older man sat down and indicated that the other two should do the same. ‘You are young. I took you there tonight to show you,’ he said. ‘Just in case you had any doubts. You were both born in this country but you did not fall prey to the evil you saw tonight. Your faith has kept you pure. Your brothers have always been with you. And now I must ask you. Are you ready to take your place in the fight?’ 

Both younger men agreed that they were, although they sounded nervous and a little uncertain.

‘It is a great honour to be chosen,’ they were reminded.

‘Only two of us are here in Edinburgh. There were eight when we started out,’ said one.

‘Evil is all over this land. Your brothers will act at the same time but not in the same place.’

‘What must we do?’

‘Read your Koran. Your training will begin the day after tomorrow.

Similar tours for another six young Asian men, illustrating the UK at play, were drawing to a close in Manchester, London and Liverpool.

On Saturday morning, Steven bade Tally a fond farewell as she left for work.

‘Are you going to stop over on your way back?’ she asked.

‘You bet. Why don’t we go out to dinner?’

‘A reason to live,’ she teased. ‘See you Sunday. Give my love to Jenny. Tell her I’ll see her soon.’

Steven tidied up and had a last cup of coffee before setting out for Scotland. He was about two hours into the journey when the phone rang, and he moved over to the inside lane, slowing down to hear the call through the car speakers on Bluetooth. It was Jean Roberts.

‘It’s Saturday, Jean,’ he joked. ‘Your day off.’

‘Yes, well, I found out last night that James Kincaid, the journalist you asked about, does have a relative. He has a married sister living in Newcastle. I thought, as you were up in Scotland this weekend, you might like to stop off there on the way back.’

‘Good thinking, Jean. I’m obliged,’ said Steven, already starting to do mental calculations about his return journey on Sunday if he were to include Newcastle in his itinerary. ‘I’m on the motorway right now. Could you email or text me the address and I’ll pick it up later?’

‘Consider it done.’

‘Daddy, you’ve got Tarty back,’ exclaimed Jenny when she saw that Steven was driving the Porsche again. The name was derived from the adjective her aunt Sue had used when she’d first seen the Boxster. ‘A bit tarty, isn’t it, Steven?’ For some reason the name had stuck. ‘I like Tarty,’ enthused Jenny. ‘I mean I liked Tin Drawers too’ – Sue’s name for the Honda, which she regarded as more staid – ‘but I think I like Tarty better.’

Neither Jenny nor her cousins Mary and Peter understood the connotations of the names, which made them all the more amusing for the grown-ups, whose only fear was that the children would come out with them in public. It hadn’t happened yet.

‘It’s ages since I saw you, Daddy.’ Jenny took Steven’s hand on the way into the house and announced, ‘He’s brought Tarty with him.’

‘So I see,’ said Sue, trying to keep a straight face as she came over to embrace Steven. ‘Richard’s in the study, catching up on paperwork. He’ll be down in a minute. The market’s been picking up a bit.’ Richard was a lawyer in Dumfries,
specialising
in property work.

‘And how has her behaviour been, Aunty Sue?’

‘Excellent.’

Jenny beamed.

‘And her school work?

‘Excellent too. Her teacher is very pleased, as to our
amazement
were Peter’s and Mary’s teachers too.’ Sue tousled Peter’s hair. ‘It was parents’ night last Tuesday.’

Steven swallowed and quickly smiled to conceal the
momentary
frisson of regret. ‘In that case, why don’t I take these three star pupils to the cinema in Dumfries this evening? We could catch the early performance and be home by … ten o’clock?’ 

The children’s eyes widened with excitement at the prospect of being up late, and enthusiastic appeals were made to Sue, who took her time coming to a decision.

‘After all, it isn’t a school night …’ prompted Steven.

‘Are you sure you’re not too tired after such a long drive?’

‘No, but now the bad news. I’m afraid I’ll have to leave early tomorrow morning, so we won’t be able to go to the swimming pool this time.’

It had become traditional that Steven took the children to Dumfries swimming pool when he came up for the weekend, and then treated them to a pizza and ice-cream lunch. ‘I could make it up to you tonight with popcorn and ice-cream …’

This attracted loud approval.

‘Oh well, I suppose,’ agreed Sue as Richard came into the room asking what all the noise had been about.

‘Good show,’ he said, smiling at Sue when she told him. ‘Let’s go down the pub. It’s been ages.’

Steven set off for Newcastle before eight on Sunday morning, hoping to have a word with Lisa Hardesty, James Kincaid’s sister. According to Jean’s notes, she was married to Kevin Hardesty, and had been expecting her first child at the time of her brother’s death. He was going to call on spec rather than phone ahead to arrange a convenient time. He often found that it worked better: it didn’t give people time to prepare what they were going to say or, perhaps more important, what they weren’t. He punched the Hardestys’ post code into Tarty’s satnav and let it take him there.

The Hardestys lived on a neat housing estate on the west side of Newcastle. It comprised a mixture of detached and
semi-detached
houses of the type found in the suburbs of any British city. The Hardestys lived in one of the three-bedroomed detached types. Steven found himself going into estate-agent mode as he looked at its neat garden and hedges. Desirable property in much sought-after area … double glazing, gas central heating … master bedroom en suite …

A three-year-old Vauxhall Astra was parked on the driveway in front of the garage door, so he thought his chances of finding someone in were looking good. Sure enough, the bell was answered by a fair-haired, smiling woman somewhere in her forties who struck Steven as being a round peg in a round hole. Suburban life clearly suited her.

‘Mrs Hardesty?’

‘Yes, that’s right. How can I help?’

Steven liked the way she said it. There was no suspicion that he might be selling something in her voice.

‘I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad moment, Mrs Hardesty,’ he began, going on to say who he was and showing his ID.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t see what you could possibly want with—’

‘I’d like to talk to you about your brother James.’

‘James died a long time ago.’

‘I know.’

Looking confused, Lisa Hardesty said, ‘Please … come in.’ She led the way through a tidy lounge into a small
conservatory
where she invited Steven to sit down on one of the cane armchairs.

‘You’re alone?’ he asked.

‘My husband and son are off to the football. They’re big Newcastle supporters. Now, what’s this all about?’

‘I’m interested in just how James came to die.’

‘He was shot, for God’s sake,’ exclaimed Lisa. ‘You must know that. He was murdered along with Eve, his girlfriend. She was a lovely girl.’

Steven nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I should have said I’m more
interested
in
why
he was murdered.’

‘After all this time,’ Lisa said sadly. ‘According to the police, he got caught up in a drugs war. Drugs war my backside.’

‘That was the official story,’ said Steven quietly, excited at what he was hearing and hoping for more.

‘Jim was in big trouble. He came to me for help. But it wasn’t from any “drugs barons”, as the papers called them. It was from the people at the hospital, the Londoners. He got on the wrong side of them.’

‘The Londoners,’ Steven repeated.

‘They’d set up a new health scheme, centred on College Hospital.’

‘And your brother got on the wrong side of them …’

‘I know it sounds stupid, but Jim was in fear of his life.’

‘You said he came to you for help. Did you help him?’

A look of regret come into Lisa’s eyes; maybe even guilt, Steven thought. ‘No,’ she said. ‘My husband didn’t want us to get involved. Jim asked if Eve could stay with us for safety’s sake, and I had to turn him down. I never saw either of them alive again.’ Lisa looked round for a box of tissues and dabbed at her eyes.

‘Do you have any idea who these people were?’

Lisa shook her head. 

‘You said he got on the wrong side of them. What did that mean? What did he do?’

Lisa blew her nose. ‘I only know Jim got friendly with a local GP called Neil Tolkien. They both thought something nasty was going on at the hospital. Jim thought our father died because of them and their newfangled health scheme. He was worried about his daughter too.’

‘Your brother had a daughter?’

Lisa nodded. ‘Kerry. She was brain-damaged after an
operation
when she was a baby, and lived in a care home. Her mother, Jim’s estranged wife, didn’t bother with her much – she’d built a new life – but Jim always thought she had the capacity to get better if she got the right treatment, bless him. Used to sit with her for hours when he was up here, but of course he couldn’t be here all the time.’

‘Is Kerry still … ?’

‘No, she died a couple of months after her dad. Pneumonia, they said. Maybe it was for the best, poor love. She didn’t have much of a life.’

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but I got the impression that everyone liked the new health scheme when it was introduced.’

‘You’re right, they did. There was no waiting around. Your doctor ordered up your treatment on the computer and it arrived within the hour.’

‘But Jim saw something else?’

‘I don’t think he trusted the people at the hospital. He and Eve thought they covered up the outcome of an operation that went badly wrong.’

‘The one where the surgeon died?’

Lisa nodded. ‘There was a lot of press attention over that, and Jim thought they wheeled out an actress with bandages over her face at a press conference to assure everyone that all was well and get rid of the reporters.’

‘Did he manage to prove that?’ 

‘I’m not sure. It never made the papers, maybe because he got sidetracked by something else. Then Dad got cancer – he’d been a miner and his chest was never right after that – and had to have an operation. Jim didn’t think he’d been given the right medicine afterwards. Maybe it was just anger and grief on Jim’s part, but on the other hand Dr Tolkien had doubts about what was happening to his patients as well. I think that’s why they teamed up. Eve had reservations too – she was a nurse – and they all ended up paying the price.’

Steven found it difficult not to react to what he was hearing. It was the script of a nightmare. He could see that Lisa was still upset but was reluctant to stop questioning her. ‘You said your brother and Dr Tolkien teamed up. Eve too. Was anyone else on side?’

Lisa thought for a moment before saying, ‘I think there was, now you come to mention it. Holland, somebody Holland. I think he had something to do with computers at the hospital. ‘

‘Anyone else?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Mrs Hardesty, I’m sorry for disturbing your Sunday and bringing back such painful memories, but you’ve been most helpful.’

‘It’s nice to know someone’s interested in Jim’s death after all these years. No one was at the time.’

‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ said Tally when Steven arrived at her apartment the wrong side of seven thirty.

‘Sorry, I had to go to Newcastle. A quick shower and I’ll be right with you. Where shall we go?’

‘Look, we don’t have to go out,’ said Tally sympathetically. ‘I can rustle up something here and you can relax and get your breath back …’

‘No, we’re going out.’ 

‘Oh, right,’ said Tally with a smile at Steven’s insistence, ‘but I’ll do the driving. You look as if you could do with a drink.’

They drove to a popular Indian restaurant where they had no trouble getting a table on a Sunday night. The place was about half full, and muted sitar music set the atmosphere as they sat under chandeliers, surrounded by red flock wallpaper.

‘Why did you go to Newcastle?’ asked Tally.

Steven told her about his trip to see James Kincaid’s sister and what she’d been able to tell him.

‘You know, this is shaping up into something really nasty,’ said Tally.

Steven agreed. ‘But at least I can now sort out the good guys from the bad among the dead.’

‘But as to what they were up to …’

‘I’m a way off that yet,’ said Steven. ‘The system was supposed to be foolproof but Kincaid thought they had killed his father by giving him the wrong treatment and Neil Tolkien thought the same about some of his patients.’

‘From what you’ve told me, there didn’t seem to be much margin for error,’ argued Tally. ‘If a doctor prescribed a certain drug, a computer checked that the treatment was appropriate, and only stipulated a cheaper alternative if it had been clinically proved to be as good. Then the automated pharmacy department was instructed to supply it. What could go wrong?’

‘You’d think it would be a safer system than the usual one,’ Steven agreed.

‘Mind you,’ Tally began thoughtfully, ‘I think you once told me that Tolkien was involved with drug addicts …’

‘What’s on your mind?’

‘What did Kincaid’s father die of?’

‘I understand he had long-term chest problems because of his occupation and he’d just developed cancer. They operated but he didn’t live for long afterwards.’

Tally topped up Steven’s glass. ‘I suppose we have no way of knowing that the drug addicts were the patients Neil Tolkien was worried about, but if they were … we could be looking at lost causes here.’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘An old man, chronically ill and now with cancer … a number of addicts with associated problems like HIV and AIDS … people who were costing the NHS a lot of money with no real prospect of getting better …’

‘God, I see what you’re getting at,’ said Steven. ‘Although I wish I didn’t … Kincaid was worried about his daughter too. She was brain-damaged and in long-term residential care. She died of pneumonia a couple of months after her father.’

‘Just a thought,’ said Tally.

‘And a brilliantly awful one too,’ said Steven quietly, his mind reeling with the implications. ‘I’m going to see if I can lay my hands on hospital and GP records at the time, if they still exist. See if I can spot a pattern along those lines. The early deaths of lost causes.’

‘It would be absolutely horrible if it were true …’ said Tally, pausing.

‘But?’

‘Sounds terrible to say it, but it would be … historical. This was all nearly twenty years ago and the perpetrators – if that’s what they were – are all dead.’

Steven looked at her, wondering for a moment whether to just agree or to tell her more. His natural inclination was always to keep things to himself, but this time he decided there had to be one person in his life he had to trust absolutely. ‘Maybe they’re not all dead,’ he said. He told her of his
suspicions
regarding the identity of the Paris bomber. ‘It could have been some kind of coup,’ he finished. ‘He was one of them.’

‘It could equally be they were planning to set up the same thing again and the bomber decided to put a stop to it.’ 

‘Maybe, maybe not, but my fear is it could be business as usual under new management.’

‘Okay, now I understand why you must find out everything about what happened twenty years ago,’ said Tally. ‘If we’re on the right lines, we know the crime and we know the motive – to save money. What we don’t know is how they did it.’

‘God, I’m tired.’

‘You look it. Let’s go home.’

Tally had to leave before Steven in the morning. ‘Last night was a landmark,’ she said after she kissed him goodbye.

‘How so?’

‘A landmark in our relationship. It was the first time we ever went to bed without making love.’

‘God, I’m sorry. I don’t know …’

Tally put a finger on his lips. ‘Don’t be. It was nice. You held my hand, told me you loved me and went out like a light. I believed you. I slept like a log.’