Donor (3 page)

The house was cold when they got in; the heating had switched itself off some hours ago. The coldness added to the feeling of quiet and emptiness that met them.

‘Are you hungry?’ Kate asked as Sandy knelt down to light the gas fire in the living room.

‘Not really. But I could use a drink.’

Kate poured them both a whisky. They sat on opposite sides of the fire. They hadn’t yet taken their coats off.

‘Everything’s been going too well,’ said Kate. ‘Something like this was bound to happen.’

Sandy looked at her questioningly.

‘You get your job, then I get mine. We find the cottage in the perfect village. Everything has been going just too smoothly. It had to stop.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Sandy softly. ‘That’s a very Scottish thing to say.’

‘We’re very Scottish people,’ replied Kate.

‘That doesn’t mean we have to subscribe to the “Weary Willie, we’ll pay for this somehow” philosophy.’

‘I suppose not,’ agreed Kate with a wan attempt at a smile.

‘Anyone found enjoying themselves will be dealt with severely,’ mimicked Sandy in severe Presbyterian minister tones.

Kate’s smile grew broader. She got up from her chair and said, ‘I’ll make us some toast. We’ve got to eat something.’

Neither of them managed much sleep. Both were relieved when it was time to get up and busy themselves. They phoned the hospital and were told that Amanda had had a comfortable night and that it would be best if they waited till early afternoon before going in. By then the doctors would have the results of the tests they planned for Amanda and should have something concrete to tell them.

Kate phoned Isa Jenkins to tell her what had happened and that she would not be at school today.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Isa. ‘I rather thought that might be the case. The wee soul didn’t look well at all. I took the precaution of calling one of the supply teachers over in Ayr last night and warning her she might be needed today, so everything’s under control.’

Sandy called Charlie Rimington at home and was given similar assurances. ‘Nice people,’ he said when he put down the phone. Kate nodded.

‘Dr Grayson and Dr Turner will see you now,’ said the nurse who put her head round the door of the waiting room. Sandy and Kate followed her a short way along the corridor and were shown into a small, sunny room where the two men were sitting. Both got up when Kate and Sandy entered, and Grayson was introduced to them as the consultant in charge of the renal unit.

‘She’s looking better this morning,’ said Turner with a smile to Kate, who was looking anxious.

Kate nodded. ‘Yes, she is.’

‘She had a good night’s sleep, which I dare say is more than either of you two did.’

Sandy nodded his agreement.

With the pleasantries over, Grayson got down to business. He was a man in his mid-forties with thinning grey hair and a pepper-and-salt moustache. His dark suit looked expensive and appeared to have been made to measure with millimetric precision. The cuffs of his white shirt showed one centimetre on both sides and his gold cuff links seemed to rest at precisely the same angle on the table as he sat with his hands clasped in front of him. His shirt collar seemed to ride a little high and looked distinctly uncomfortable to Sandy’s way of thinking but it was the perfect foil for the dark university tie that hung below. The overall impression was of a man precise in all things.

‘Frankly, the news is not good.’

Sandy felt as if he had been hit by a train. He swallowed and looked at Kate, who seemed to be reeling too. He took her hand and squeezed it.

‘Amanda’s renal failure is quite severe, though we can see no reason for it. She has responded fairly positively to dialysis, although not as well as we expected. As regards prognosis, I think we should be looking at dialysis as a way of life well into the foreseeable future.’

Sandy rubbed his forehead. Grayson didn’t fool around with dressing up what he had to say. His worst fears were being confirmed at an alarming rate.

‘Can I ask what you do?’ continued Grayson.

‘I’m an MLSO at Dunnock District Hospital,’ said Sandy. He looked to Kate to see if she was going to reply for herself. She was looking down at her shoes. ‘Kate’s a teacher,’ he added.

‘Good,’ said Grayson. ‘Then, thinking ahead, I feel we should be considering a home dialysis unit for Amanda when one becomes available. You’re both obviously quite capable of dealing with its demands.’

Sandy raised his right hand slightly. It was a gesture designed to slow Grayson down. He was reeling from the onslaught. ‘You said, “foreseeable future”,’ he said. ‘What exactly does that mean?’

‘It means that Amanda will need dialysis until such time as a kidney transplant becomes available for her.’

The word ‘transplant’ seemed to have put Kate into shock. She sat with her eyes wide, staring at Grayson as he spoke.

‘A transplant,’ repeated Sandy slowly.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s that serious? But how? When? I mean, how long?’

‘Far too soon to start talking about that,’ replied Grayson. ‘We’ve lots more tests to do.’ He looked distracted, and almost before they could respond he had made his excuses and left, leaving them alone with Clive Turner.

Turner seemed more sensitive to their feelings and almost embarrassed at Grayson’s manner. ‘I know what you must be thinking,’ he said softly, ‘but these days kidney transplants are very common and very successful.’

‘But you need a suitable donor,’ said Sandy.

Turner nodded. ‘True, and that’s where the waiting comes in. Amanda will be tissue-typed and her details entered on an international register. As soon as a match comes up we can get the organ and do the surgery.’

‘How long?’ asked Kate. Sandy barely recognized her voice.

Turner shrugged uncomfortably. ‘It could be some time,’ he said.

‘Weeks? Months? Years?’ Kate persisted.

‘It could be a year or so,’ admitted Turner.

Sandy looked at Kate. He couldn’t remember ever having seen her look so unhappy. Her world was collapsing around her.

TWO

The convoy of three official vehicles accompanied by a police car swung through the gates of the Médic Ecosse Hospital in Glasgow and came to a halt at the entrance. Their drivers opened passenger doors and stood by respectfully as the eight occupants got out and waited around like camels at an oasis. They orientated themselves with their surroundings, straightened their ties and fidgeted with the buttons of their jackets until the official welcoming party emerged through sliding glass doors to greet them. The smiles were all on the welcoming side.

Leo Giordano, administrative secretary of the Médic Ecosse Hospital, part of the Médic International Health group, stepped forward and shook the hand of the junior minister from the Scottish Office, Neil Bannon. Giordano was tall, dark and good-looking with an olive skin that implied Mediterranean ancestry, although he himself was second-generation American. Bannon was short, ginger-haired and running to fat. He had recently grown a moustache in the mistaken belief that this would lend gravitas to his presence. Unkind observers thought it made him look more like a second-hand-car salesman than ever.

Bannon and Giordano had met on several occasions during the planning stages of the hospital and now exchanged a few pleasantries before Giordano commenced the formal introductions. These were dealt with quickly in deference to the drizzling rain and icy wind and the bowed huddle moved inside.

‘I thought we might have coffee first before getting down to business. It’ll give people a chance to get to know each other.’

Bannon nodded his assent without enthusiasm or comment and followed Giordano across the carpeted entrance hall to a long, low-ceilinged room with large picture windows looking out on to a formal garden. At this time of year the garden displayed all the starkness of winter in northern climes. Bare branches criss-crossed a grey sky and moss crept along stone paths, flourishing as nothing else could in the damp and cold. As a centrepiece, it boasted a lily pond with, at its head, a sculpture clearly influenced by ancient Greece. The hunting figure seemed pathetically far from home.

Coffee was brought in by waitresses carrying silver trays and wearing pale pink uniforms with the Médic Ecosse logo on them.

‘It’s no bloody wonder they’re in financial straits,’ whispered one of the visiting party, a local Labour councillor. ‘This isn’t a hospital, it’s a bloody gin palace. Look at it! Carpets everywhere, air-conditioning, tailored staff uniforms. Hospitals shouldn’t be like this.’

‘On the contrary,’ replied his colleague. ‘You may prefer Victorian slums smelling of disinfectant and echoing to the profanity of Saturday-night drunks, but frankly I happen to believe that all hospitals should look exactly like this, and the sooner they do the better.’

‘Privatization, you mean,’ sneered the councillor. ‘Fine for the rich, but what about the rest of us? Tell me that. And what about the chronic sick and the mentally ill? Who’s gonna look after them?’

The second man clearly had no heart to enter an old argument all over again, particularly one there would be no resolving. He put a stop to the tack they were on with a raise of his hand. ‘All right, I know the words of the song. Let’s not sing it this morning.’

‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ said the councillor. ‘If they think I’m going along with any plan to sink any more taxpayers’ money into this monument to privilege unconditionally, they’ve got another think coming. We were promised that this place would be self-sufficient within twelve months and making a handsome profit within eighteen. We were promised jobs and rates money to improve the district and here we are, three years down the line, and they’re looking for handouts again. It’s offensive. The public just won’t bloody well stand for it.’

The councillor moved off, to be replaced by a member of Bannon’s personal staff who had overheard what had been said.

‘I don’t know about you but I’m not sure I can see an alternative,’ said the newcomer. ‘Having committed twenty-seven million to the project already, we can hardly write it off and walk away. Apart from anything else, the opposition would have a field day.’

‘Quite so, but I remember the noise they made at the planning stage. They said it would never happen. They said there was more chance of setting up a distillery in Riyadh or a pork-pie factory in Tel Aviv, but up it went, an exclusive private hospital in the very heartland of the Glasgow Labour Party. Ye gods.’ The man smiled at the recollection.

‘It was only high unemployment in the building trade that swung it in the end. The prospect of losing a major building project was just too high a price to pay for the sake of anyone’s prejudice,’ said the official.

‘Principles have a habit of becoming “prejudices” when there’s money involved,’ said the man.

The official smiled. It was a worldly-wise little smile. The smile of someone who knew the game and how to play it.

‘How bad is the trouble they’re in?’

‘If you ask me, it’s nothing that couldn’t be solved with a bit of judicious marketing. Business has been a bit slower in appearing than anticipated and there’s a good chance that Médic International the parent company, are trying it on. They think the government can’t afford to let the hospital go to the wall with all the attendant publicity and loss of jobs, so they’re making a play for more public investment instead of underwriting the problem themselves. Rumour has it that Bannon’s hopping mad.’

‘So why has business been slow? Why didn’t all these rich folk and their families materialize to receive the best medical treatment money could buy?’

‘Hard to say. Maybe they prefer to go to London for their triple by-passes and hip replacements,’ said the official. ‘Down there they can always have their food sent over from the Dorchester and nip out to Annabelle’s for the odd alcohol-free lager when they start to feel better.’

The man smiled at the allusion to religious abstinence. ‘But I understand it’s different when it comes to transplants,’ he said. ‘Médic Ecosse has already built a reputation as one of the finest transplant hospitals in the country.’

‘No question,’ agreed the official. ‘And James Ross is acknowledged as one of the best transplant surgeons.’

‘I met him at a reception once,’ said the man. ‘Nice chap. Unusual combination, brilliance and niceness.’

‘I understand his research output is also phenomenal. His publication list in the journals is the envy of many a university department. Maybe the prestige thing will carry some weight in the decision.’

‘I think we’re about to find that out,’ said the man as he saw the Scottish Office minister and the administrative secretary start to move off. A tall man who had been standing beside them moved off too and the question was asked, ‘One of yours or one of theirs?’

‘His name’s Dunbar. He’s up from London,’ replied the official. ‘Don’t ask me why.’

The man in question was Dr Steven Dunbar, tall, dark-haired and dressed in a dark business suit that suggested a good London tailor. His tie told of a past association with the Parachute Regiment and he had dark, intelligent eyes that were constantly looking and learning. His mouth was generously wide, giving the impression that he was about to break into a grin, although he never quite did.

He had been sent by the Home Office, or more precisely a branch of the Home Office known as the Sci-Med Inspectorate. This comprised a small group of investigators with varied and wide-ranging skills in science and medicine. They were used by central government to carry out discreet investigations in areas outside the usual expertise of the police.

Although the police did have certain specialist branches, like the Fraud Squad and officers trained in the dealings of the art world, it was generally acknowledged that there were large areas of modern life where their understanding of what was going on was sadly lacking. Sci-Med inspectors provided an expert interface. It was their remit to investigate reports of possible wrongdoing or unusual happenings and establish whether or not there might be a problem deserving more detailed investigation. Dunbar was one of their medical specialists.