Gallery Whispers Page 8

'That's just not true, Mr Weston,' Brian Mackie exclaimed. 'You've

  seen her since then.' He lifted his briefcase on to his lap, opened it and

  took out a folder. 'Two weeks ago you removed a growth from her leg

  at St Martha's Private Clinic in the Grange; a procedure for which

  those premises are not authorised, incidentally. These are your notes,

  and the biopsy report, which confirmed that your former wife was

  suffering from a malignant melanoma.'

  'Where the hell did you get those?' Weston demanded angrily.

  'Those are confidential.'

  'Not in the context of an inquiry into a suspicious death, they ain't,'

  Martin retorted.

  'Suspicious death?'

  'Extremely,' Mackie went on. 'I have here also, a copy of our

  postmortem report, which comments on the procedure you performed, and says that secondary tumours were developing rapidly. If you read

  it, you'll see that your ex-wife's death was caused by a massive

  overdose of diamorphine. Does that surprise you?'

  Nolan Weston looked at him impassively. 'It saddens me. Superintendent,

  but no, to be frank it does not surprise me.'

  Andy Martin held up a hand. 'Perhaps at this stage, sir, you would

  like to consider legal representation. It might be better if this interview

  continued on a more formal basis.'

  52

  'No, no, no,' exclaimed the surgeon. 'Let's carry on. I want to hear

  where this is going.'

  'Let's go back to my first question, then,' said Mackie. 'When did

  you last see Mrs Weston alive?'

  'The last time I saw her at all, officer, was when I discharged her

  from St Martha's. I had a very difficult conversation with her about

  the biopsy report, and I offered to refer her case at once to Mr

  Simmers, a consultant colleague of mine. She refused to let me do

  that. She said that she wanted to go home for a couple of weeks to

  think things through and put her affairs in order.

  'I agreed to that on condition that if she experienced any growing

  discomfort she would contact me.'

  'Have you spoken to her since?'

  'I phoned her a couple of times of an evening, just to see that she was

  all right. I spoke to her last on Monday. She said that everything was as

  it had been, and she said that I would hear from her on Thursday.' His

  head dropped briefly. 'I understand what she meant now.'

  'Where were you on Wednesday night, sir? Specifically, between

  midnight and two am?'

  'I was at home, in bed, with my wife.'

  'And she will confirm that?'

  'If necessary. She is extremely pregnant. She kept me awake most

  of the night. But why do you ask me this?'

  Martin shifted in his uncomfortable chair. 'Because someone helped

  Mrs Weston end her life. Professor. She was injected, and a plastic

  bag was secured over her head.'

  'She couldn't have done it herself?'

  'No way. Whoever did it took away the syringe and the roll of the

  black tape which was used to secure the bag. She had help; no doubt

  about it.'

  'This man she saw from time to time? Futcher, the ad-man. Was it

  him?'

  'No. We don't think so.' There was a pause, as Weston looked from

  one detective to the other.

  'Why were you so secretive about treating your former wife,

  Professor?' asked Mackie.

  'Because I didn't want my present wife to find out about it,' came

  the retort, sharply.

  'Couldn't you have referred her to someone else from the very

  start?'

  'Gay didn't want that. She asked me to do the procedure; and I

  always did what she asked.'

  'Including divorcing her?'

  53

  Averting his eyes once more, Weston nodded.

  'Tell us about your relationship with her, please,' said the Head of

  CID.

  The man across the desk laughed, softly. 'How long do you have?'

  He leaned back in his seat, until his shoulders and the back of his

  head were touching the partition wall behind him. 'Gaynor and I were

  married for twelve years,' he began, 'and throughout that time we

  were extremely happy ... or so I thought. Then, on our twelfth

  anniversary, she told me she was leaving me; just like that.

  'She told me that there were things that she wanted to do with her

  life, and that she simply could not achieve them within the confines

  of marriage. There was no discussion; she just moved out, to a small

  flat in Barnton. A year later we were divorced by mutual consent. We

  had joint custody of Raymond, but it was agreed that he should live

  with me during the school term.

  'During our separation and immediately after our divorce we didn't

  see much of each other; nothing at all, in fact, if Ray wasn't the

  reason. I heard about her, of course; heard how her consultancy career

  was going from strength to strength. Raymond would mention the

  odd name too; men's names, gentlemen callers, I suppose you'd say.

  'Almost all of my life was work at that period; but not quite all. I

  formed a relationship with Avril, my second wife - at that time she

  was my secretary at the University - and five years ago, we married.

  To my surprise, Gaynor didn't like that at all. She didn't speak to me

  for a year. Then out of the blue, I had a call from her asking me to

  bring Ray out to Oldbarns, to which she had just moved, for supper.

  'I did that, and we had a good time together; it was like being a

  family unit again, almost. This became a weekly event, until one time

  whenRay had flu. I called her to tell her this, but she asked me if I'd

  like to come anyway, on my own.'

  Weston looked at the two detectives. 'You have to remember, I'd

  never stopped loving her. So I went out there, for dinner, on the

  excuse that we had to discuss Ray's schooling. Our relationship

  changed that night: I found myself having an affair with my ex-wife.'

  'Did she regret the divorce?' asked Martin.

  'No. Not for one minute. The thing about Gay, you see, was her

  craving for danger; yet conversely, she didn't like to feel threatened.

  Futcher, the ad-man, he was married too, like me. There was that

  element of risk of exposure, but safety too in that the involvement

  was purely physical.'

  'What about you? You still loved her.'

  'Yes, and she loved me. But we had defined our relationship long

  before.'

  54

  'So there was you, and there was Futcher,' Mackie intervened.

  'Was there anyone else?'

  A shadow seemed to pass across Nolan Weston's face. 'There may

  have been,' he replied. 'She told me once that Futcher and I weren't

  the only arrows in her quiver. Her phrase, not mine. But she never

  mentioned a name.'

  'Might your son have known?' asked the superintendent.

  'It's possible. I'll ask him, but not tonight. He's still in shock, poor

  lad; as are we all, to an extent.'

  'It's important, sir. If you can't, we may have to interview him

  ourselves.'

  'No, leave him to me, please. I'll have a talk with him tomorrow

  morning.'

  'Fair enough,' Martin agreed, 'but no later. When did he get home?'
<
br />   'Last night. He has a car up in Aberdeen, but I felt happier going

  up to collect him myself, rather than let him make such a long drive in

  an emotional state.'

  'You must have been fairly emotional yourself. Professor.'

  'I'm a surgeon, Mr Martin. I was emotional two weeks ago, when

  I realised that Gay was going to die. Yesterday I felt an element of

  relief that she. Ray and I had been spared the weeks and months of

  torment which we had all faced.'

  'You didn't give her the diamorphine did you. Professor?' the Head

  of CID asked quietly.

  'No sir, I did not. To be frank with you, had she asked me for it, I

  think I would have done. But she didn't.'

  'Just as well, then,' said Martin rising slowly to his feet. 'Thank

  you, Professor, for your help. Brian, give Mr Weston your number, so

  that he can call you directly once he's spoken to his son.' The

  superintendent's hand had already left his breast pocket, a business

  card held between the first two fingers.

  Nolan Weston walked his visitors to the top of the stairs. The two

  policemen made their way silently down to the ground floor, through

  the reception area, which was much busier than it had been earlier,

  and outside into the cold grey afternoon.

  'What did you think of him?' said Mackie, as the glass doors

  closed behind them.

  Martin stared at him, blankly, a shocked expression on his face.

  'What is it, Andy?' the superintendent asked.

  'You didn't see them then?'

  'Who? Where?'

  'In there just now, in the waiting area. They had their backs to us,

  but I'd know them anywhere: Neil and Olive Mcllhenney.'

  55

  16

  'So far, Inspector, there have been seventeen sightings of this man

  Hawkins across Europe.' Skinner glanced at the report on his desk.

  'Every one of them has been checked out, and at the end of every one

  there's been a wild goose.

  'Fake Hawkinses have been seen in Germany, France, Poland, Italy,

  Switzerland, England and Spain. Oh, sorry, I forgot Luxembourg.

  These have all been registered in the past twenty-four hours. The

  Polish contact turned out to be a tall blonde transsexual, who just

  happened to have a limp.' He smiled. 'I guess we'll hear about a right

  ... few more before we fasten onto the right man - if we ever do.'

  'It's not like you to sound pessimistic, sir,' McGuire remarked.

  'Realistic, Mario; I'd rather you said realistic. This bloke is a

  professional, just like us. Let me ask you something. If you wanted to

  go undercover for any purpose, how easy d'you think it would be for

  us to find you? Yes, even us, your close colleagues?'

  The swarthy detective laughed. 'You mean if I decided to do a

  runner from the wife? How scarce could I make myself?

  'I suppose I'd do the obvious things. I'd dye my hair and eyebrows

  another colour, as far away from black as possible .. . maybe red like

  Maggie. I'd wear glasses, dark wherever I could, to cut down the

  chance of eye contact with someone who might know me or might

  have seen a picture. I'd try to do something with my teeth; dye them

  too, perhaps, to make them less white and sparkly.' He paused,

  thinking. 'Yes, and I'd try to do something about my mannerisms as

  well; to eliminate recognisable things like, for example, the way I

  smile.

  'My ace card, though, would be to speak Italian everywhere I

  went.'

  Skinner nodded. 'Right. Now I don't think that all of those things

  put together would fool Maggie, or me, or Mr Martin or Neil: not the

  people closest to you. But someone else, even in the force, they'd

  have trouble.'

  'How many languages does Hawkins speak?' asked McGuire,

  suddenly.

  56

  'Hey,' the DCC responded, 'that's a good question. I'll get on to

  London and ask them. Maybe we're looking for a German, or an

  Italian.'

  'Not an Italian, boss. Even if he dyed his hair black, like mine, it

  wouldn't work. His features are wrong.'

  'I'll take your word for it. Anyway, it all leads into the point I was

  going to make. You and I, we're amateurs in the anonymity business.

  Hawkins is a pro. His life depends on it. If you can come up with a

  few simple dodges on the spur of the moment, he's going to pull

  something really special out of the hat. All that artwork in the

  envelopes I handed out yesterday, Mario; probably none of it's worth

  a damn.

  'We're blind, my friend, stone blind. As coppers we're used to

  events and people we can come to grips with, and we've got all sorts

  of toys to help us look for them. But in this task we're an extension of

  the intelligence community; groping about in the dark trying to catch

  a puff of smoke in our hands.

  'That's the way it is in their world. They deal in rumour and

  suggestion, not substance; they stand sightless in some damn great

  gallery, picking up each and every whisper, analysing them, giving

  them form and putting them together until the jigsaw picture is

  complete; or at least recognisable.'

  Skinner leaned back in his chair. 'So, inspector, what murmurings

  have you been picking up around your patch?'

  McGuire shook his head. 'So far, boss, the silence has been

  deafening.'

  57

  17

  Neil Mcllhenney stared out of the only window in the small consulting

  room. It looked on to a car park, in which every space seemed to be

  occupied. 'I never realised' he whispered, to himself.

  'What?' said Olive sharply, beside him.

  'Sorry love,' he replied. 'I was thinking out loud. The car parks

  here; there are so many of them, and they're all full. I never realised

  that there were so many sick people.'

  'You just concentrate on this one!' The strain in her voice tore at his

  heart; he reached across and took her hand, feeling the pressure as she

  squeezed his.

  'Sure, love, sure.'

  They had been in the clinic for just over two hours. In that time,

  Olive had been weighed, examined by a thin-faced girl who had

  introduced herself as Dr Berry, Mr Simmers' registrar, and sent for a

  scan. A few minutes before they had been called back into the

  consulting room.

  They looked over their shoulders, simultaneously, as the door

  opened. A tall, well-built, fair-haired, round-faced man strode into the

  room, wearing a white coat and with the tool of his trade, a

  stethoscope, hanging from his neck. 'Good afternoon,' he said. 'I'm

  Mr Simmers, your consultant. Sorry to have kept you waiting; I'm

  afraid that the first consultation always seems to take for ever. That's

  because there are so many things we have to do.'

  He sat, not behind his desk, but on it, and looked directly at Olive.

  At once Neil was struck by the gentleness of his eyes and by the

  calmness of his expression. From out of nowhere, an inexplicable

  feeling of relief swept over him.

  'The first thing I have to ask you, Mrs Mcllhenney, is this. Do you

  understand what is happening to you?'

  'Yes,
' she replied; the word was clipped, but controlled.

  'That's good. In these situations we can't afford to prevaricate. You

  have an incurable disease, Mrs Mcllhenney; we can't avoid that fact.

  You have a carcinoma of the right lung in the second stage of

  development. Now I use the word incurable because that in clinical

  58

  terms is what it is. However it is not untreatable; there are ways of

  attacking your tumour, and the secondary growth.

  'Surgery isn't an option here, not with the metastasis in the

  lymphatic system. But we do have the options of chemotherapy or

  radiation therapy or a mixture of both. There is a chance that if you

  react favourably, your cancer can be driven into remission, possibly

  indefinitely. Looking at your X-Ray, and on the basis of Dr Berry's

  examination, I would propose that we start you on a course of

  chemotherapy. Radiation might have a part to play later, depending on

  the rate of progress, but not just yet.'

  For the first time, the consultant looked at Neil, then back to Olive.

  His gentle blue eyes were unblinking. 'I'm not going to play anything

  down here. These treatments are aggressive, and the side-effects .. .

  at least initially .. . will be unpleasant. You'll experience a day or two

  of fairly violent sickness, but we'll do what we can to control that,

  using steroids.

  'However . . .' He paused. 'However; there is a further alternative

  which I have to put to you, and that is that we simply give you

  palliative treatments and concentrate on keeping you as well and as

  comfortable as possible, for as long as possible. The choice has to be

  yours.'

  To her complete surprise, she smiled at him. 'You mean I can give

  up?' she asked. Then, without waiting for a reply, she looked sideways

  at Neil, raising her eyebrows very slightly. He gave the briefest of

  nods.

  Olive Mcllhenney turned back to the consultant. 'As my husband

  would say, if I didn't have him so well trained,' she said, 'bugger that

  for a game of soldiers.

  'When do we start the treatment?'

  59

  18

  'Neil doesn't have the problem, Andy. It's Olive who's in bother.'

  'Cancer?'

  'Look, don't ask me about it, man. The big fella asked me for help

  and I got Sarah involved. If he wants to tell anyone about what's

  happening, he will. But until he does say something, you and Mackie

  forget about seeing them. Okay?'