Cold Steel (12 page)

'Why does he need the muzzle?' snapped the doctor.

At the sudden change of noise, from quiet and calming, to loud and angry, Kelly began to shake. He rocked his head, shook his legs and tried to stand up. He moaned. The restraining belt only frustrated further and he snarled a rasping, snorting noise that chilled those listening. The sergeant ushered the doctor out and the two engaged in angry exchanges, both trying to keep their voices low. As events were explained, the doctor's body language changed from enraged to stunned, from stunned to professional, from professional to caring. He walked cautiously back inside and began untying the muzzle, slipping the mask over and away from Kelly's entangled hair. Behind
the sergeant watched warily, hands ready to pull the smaller man away from harm.

'Mr Kelly, my name is Dr Hamilton, I am the prison doctor.' The voice was reassuring. There was no hint of threat or rebuke. 'I have to talk with you, do you understand? I'm going to call you by your first name, Michael, is that okay?'

Kelly's eyes stared but didn't register. The doctor's accent was Dublin, yet light years away from Kelly's territory. Cultured and educated versus deprived and drugged.

Hamilton noted the vacant gaze, the yellow tinge in the whites of the other man's eyes. 'Michael, do you know where you are?'

Pause. The eyes flitted, the froth-stained lips trembled.

'Michael, do you know why you are here?'

The gaze moved to an inch of the doctor's nose, yet seemed to fix about six inches further back.

Hamilton noted this too. He glanced down and for the first time spotted the blood on the floor. 'Michael,' he said, 'do you know what day it is, why you are here? Do you know who these men are behind me?' He pointed towards the duty sergeant and warders.

'This man has been sent by Satan. Kill him.'

'Do you know who you ar... aaaagghhh!' Hamilton just missed the lunging teeth by inches. He felt the heat of Kelly's breath, felt froth as it flicked across his own face, sensed the madness of the mind that wanted to take him. 'He's fucking insane,' snarled the professional Dr Hamilton as he wiped Kelly's saliva off his own lips. 'Strap him up again.'

The muzzle went back over the struggling head.

1.45 pm

That afternoon, while people basked in the warmth of the sun, opening shirts and blouses to catch any breeze, the
muzzled and manacled Michael Leo Kelly was carried along level two of the Bridewell holding centre. There was one warder to each limb, one to hold his head and one supervising in case of trouble. Kelly's saliva drooled onto the floors. He was wearing the same clothes he had been arrested in, denim jeans, black T-shirt and black trainers. It was many years since he had taken two journeys in a vehicle on the one day but just before two o'clock on the afternoon of Thursday, 14 May, he was transferred by secure van to Rockdale Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

17

2.53 pm

'Dan, I wanted you to be the first to know the police have arrested the man we strongly suspect to have killed Jennifer.'

John Regan sat in a front lounge of the Marks' mansion. Beside him on the sofa was his special advisor and spin doctor in the Department of Health, a reedy looking young man called Flanagan. Sitting opposite, composed and attentive, Dan Marks held both hands clasped together. His eyes were fixed at some spot on the polished rosewood coffee table between the three men. He was unshaven and wore an open-necked check shirt over denims.

'He was arrested early this morning.' Regan was unaware of the events that had occurred earlier, unaware that as he was speaking the man 'strongly suspected' to have murdered Jennifer Marks was stuck in a traffic jam on the north side of Dublin, awaiting transfer to the state's main criminal psychiatric hospital. 'I spoke with the Minister for Justice before I left government buildings and he told me the commissioner was in continuous touch with the investigating team and well pleased with progress. They feel confident this is the man involved.'

Regan had left government buildings forty minutes earlier in a three-car cavalcade with sirens blaring. He'd looked grim-faced climbing into the back of his black-windowed, chauffeur-driven Mercedes. He hoped the
waiting photographers and camera crews would catch his mood exactly. Another group waited as he stepped out from the Mercedes in front of the Marks' Victorian mansion, 'no-commenting' as he strode firmly towards the front door. They'd been tipped off by Flanagan and he made sure Regan knew which were local and possibly important, and which were international and vital.

'The government is treating this dreadful event extremely seriously. We are still completely shocked. Stunned.' He paused to see how he was progressing.

Dan Marks lifted his head slowly. His eyes were red-rimmed and Regan could sense deep sorrow through the professional composure. 'Thank you, John, I appreciate you coming like this.' Marks' voice had lost its usual strength. He sounded defeated, almost weary.

'How is Annie taking this?' Regan asked, uncomfortable with the warmth of the room and the overwhelming sense of gloom.

Marks shook his head sadly and his gaze dropped again. 'Not very well at all, John. I've had to sedate her she's become so agitated. It seems to have affected her multiple sclerosis, her hand and leg movements were very rigid this morning. I gave her something strong. She's upstairs asleep.'

Regan grasped at the opportunity to appear helpful. 'Would you like me to arrange a nurse to come in and help for the next few days?'

Marks came back quickly. 'No, not at all.' He was emphatic. 'That won't be necessary. I think we're better left to grieve alone, thanks all the same.'

The spin doctor Flanagan interrupted, 'Perhaps we could arrange for someone to come in for a few hours during the day and help with cooking or cleaning?'

Marks shook his head agitatedly. 'No, no, no. That won't be necessary. We get on much better on our own, any outsiders might just upset Annie. She's very temperamental and this has really tipped her over the edge.'
Marks' voice was suddenly back to its usual strength, his manner determined. 'I'm sure we're best left alone.'

Outside in the sunshine Flanagan briefed Regan before they walked to the Mercedes.

'Don't say anything other than the investigation is progressing rapidly. You were calling on Dr Marks to keep him up-to-date on events. Keep it tight, voice slow and steady, eyes fixed on one questioner only.' He acknowledged a waiting reporter with a brief nod. 'Let the cameras move after you, don't try and follow them and don't let anything distract you from the questions. The US media have taken a huge interest in this so choose your words carefully.'

Regan looked downwards, seemingly admiring Flanagan's high-polished black shoes. 'This could be as big here as the Louise Woodward trial in Boston.'

Flanagan brushed a piece of fluff off the back of Regan's jacket. 'Tell them we offered the Marks family every possible facility.' He interrupted himself, 'No, better still, say Dan and Annie Marks, not the Marks family. Okay?'

Regan nodded.

'Don't say he refused.' Flanagan paused and looked at the cluster of photographers and reporters outside the garden railings. 'Why do you think he was so goddamn adamant about not letting anyone in there anyway?'

John Regan began walking along the gravel path and to his next photo-opportunity. 'I don't know. He certainly doesn't want anyone in that house other than themselves.' He put on his serious, concerned face, the one he reserved for difficult occasions and funerals. 'Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, I've got time for a few questions.'

3.42 pm

Frank Clancy clutched the charts of Mary Hyland and James Murphy to his chest. He practically hugged them.
With a few lame excuses to his junior staff and ward sister he disappeared inside his office on level three of Mercy Hospital and locked the door. Breathing rapidly and feeling slightly shaky he sat down and rested the charts on the desk in front, turning each over, staring at them. He knew the contents could be disturbing, unsettling, yet he couldn't bring himself to read too quickly. It was as if he wanted to savour the moment. He thought over the previous few days' events, his discovery of the third case of agranulocytosis, his confrontation with Linda Speer and his concern that someone was interfering with patient records. Clancy worried some type of drug therapy was the cause of his three patients' blood problems, yet what he knew had been prescribed appeared standard. Except D/N Aspirin. But even that was quite standard in the States, although he was disturbed at the unusual manner this product was being distributed. The 'little blue tablet', as Mrs Morell had described, was being issued directly by the treating cardiologist. Most unusual, thought Clancy as he flicked at the edge of the first chart. Yet he was just as concerned about making a fool of himself, of jumping to the wrong conclusions and bringing the wrath of the Dream Team on top of his head. Equally he was very wary of confronting Minister for Health John Regan. He knew how much taxpayers' money, personal time and effort Regan had committed to establishing the Heart Foundation. For Clancy to bring this house down he recognised the need to be on very sure ground. He could see a minefield ahead, accusation and counter-accusation, losing his job, legal action against him, the hospital up in arms. No, he decided firmly, I need hard facts, then decent legal advice.

He opened the first chart, that of the deceased Mary Hyland, registered number 115CD346, and began reading. The chart itself was a thick, maroon-coloured, cardboard-backed, ring-bound mass of dog-eared pages. The front cover held the patient's name, address, registered number and known drug sensitivities. The back was also maroon
and listed the various speciality clinics the patient had ever attended. Clancy noticed DERMATOLOGY, GENERAL SURGERY, CARDIAC, then the final tick, HAEMATOLOGY. He couldn't help feeling guilty his was the last department Mary Hyland had attended and he had been unable to save her life. He turned the pages slowly, ignoring the dermatology and general surgery entries, stopping at the cardiac clinic writing. He recognised Linda Speer's copperplate style immediately and painstakingly followed every step of Hyland's progress. Symptoms, investigations, clinical observations, results, pre-surgery condition, sudden deterioration and emergency rescheduling of her coronary artery bypass procedure. Everything appeared straightforward. He turned to the special pink-coloured page where prescribed drug treatments were recorded. His heart skipped a beat and he stopped to fetch his glasses. He tried to peer through them and found his hands shaking. His mouth felt suddenly dry. There was no mistaking the entry: Capoten 12.5 mgs b.d. Nothing else. No D/N Aspirin.

Rummaging quickly through his pockets he pulled out a tattered piece of paper on which he'd recorded the data from the computer files. There it was, exactly as he'd read it off the screen, Capoten 12.5 mgs b.d.
and
D/N Aspirin 300 mgs daily. He glanced again at the drug entry on the pink page in the chart. It did not match the computer data. Quickly Clancy flicked through the rest of the pages until he came to the operation notes, this time written in a different hand, probably Dan Marks he decided. He scanned the scrub assistants and found Linda Speer's name. Almost without thinking he reached for the telephone and dialled the operating theatres.

'Sister,' he said innocently, determined not to raise undue suspicion, 'it's Dr Clancy from haematology here. I wonder if you could help me with a few queries?'

The theatre sister at the other end warned she had very little time. 'We're just about to start an aortic valve
replacement,' she said sharply. In the background Clancy could hear the clatter of instruments on stainless-steel worktops, the clip-clopping of wooden theatre clogs on tiles, the occasional shouts of instructions. He could almost feel the buzz of the busy cardiac theatre.

'This will only take a minute,' he reassured, anxious not to lose the contact, 'but I was wondering if Dr Speer - you know the one I mean, the cardiologist?'

'Yes, I know who you mean.'

'Does she assist at all cardiac operations?'

There was a brief pause. 'No,' replied the theatre sister, obviously mulling the question over. 'Now that you mention it. As far as I can recall she only asks to scrub for coronary artery bypass procedures.'

'Never valve replacements, resection of aneurysms, anything like that?' The words sounded so innocent, the question so uninteresting.

Another brief pause. 'No, definitely not.' Then the sister added, 'I can tell you she does ask to be notified when any patient on the bypass waiting list gets into difficulty and needs to be operated on urgently. Those are the only cases she scrubs for. Is there a problem, Dr Clancy?' she asked. 'Anything coming out from here you're especially worried about? I've watched her assist and she's very good.'

Clancy hurried to reassure there were no problems, no problems at all.

'She works very closely with Stone Colman on these cases though,' the sister added helpfully. 'He takes a blood screen before, during and immediately after surgery and every four hours during the intensive care stay.'

Clancy flicked quickly to the page on Mary Hyland's chart where the cardiology blood results were stuck in place. He noticed immediately there was nothing there ordered by Stone Colman. 'Any idea what he's analysing?'

'No, I'm sorry, Dr Clancy, I'm no help to you there. I mean, there's ongoing research in this department all the time. Perhaps they're involved in that.' Over the line
Clancy heard a shout and more clip-clopping of clogs. 'I'll have to go. They're calling me to scrub up. If you need any more information leave a message and I'll get back when there's more time, okay?'

She hung up, leaving Clancy staring into the earpiece, no wiser than before. He considered ringing one of the other nurses on the cardiac operating team but decided against, certain his queries would get back to Speer. Caution, he urged himself, proceed with caution. Through the partially opened Venetian blinds on his office window he looked to the ward outside, noticing the nursing and medical staff going about their daily chores. Patients were being examined, charts consulted, blood samples taken, observations monitored. He thought about dropping the whole paper trail and forgetting everything. You're losing the run of yourself, you're seeing conspiracy where probably none exists. Back off before you stir up unnecessary trouble. He studied his watch. It was now almost four thirty and he estimated he was ninety minutes behind time. He had a lecture to prepare, more blood films to inspect in the laboratory and three new patients requiring his immediate attention. He decided he needed time to think things through.

4.37 pm

'Rockdale?' Jim Clarke's face was white with fury. 'When?' He was in the Bridewell holding centre looking for his arrest.

The duty sergeant had explained earlier developments. He was still trying to stop himself shaking. 'About two o'clock. The prison doctor ordered the transfer.' The sergeant had set out the sequence of events and had the log book open in front to confirm each detail.

Tony Molloy scanned the entries, frown deepening as he read. 'Could you not have waited until I got here?'

The sergeant hitched at the belt on his trousers and ran a hand along his sweat-covered shirt collar. 'You don't understand, he's fucking insane. He nearly killed one of my men. We couldn't have kept him. He was a danger to himself as well as everybody else.' His voice rose to shouting level. 'He was like a mad dog. The doctor couldn't wait to get him outa here.'

Clarke shouted angrily. 'Could he not have given him something to calm him down?' The pain in his leg was making his temper even more frayed than usual.

'Ask him yourself,' the sergeant snapped. 'Hamilton had him out of here so fast his feet never touched the ground.'

Clarke spun on his heels and limped to a bench, fuming and cursing. 'Damn Hamilton,' he snarled. Molloy and Kavanagh exchanged glances. 'Mossy,' Clarke growled through clenched teeth, 'ring control and see if there's anything new on that girl's bag and clothes.'

Kavanagh moved to a quiet corner and began pressing buttons. 'Nothing, boss,' he announced.

'Tony,' Clarke stood up awkwardly, 'call on Joan Armstrong and put the pressure on. We've got to find that school bag.' He started towards the stairs leading to the street entrance. 'Mossy,' he beckoned, 'you and I are going for an afternoon in the countryside.'