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
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
‘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.
He had to stop for petrol, and took the opportunity to ring the factory to see if anything had happened. ‘Yes,’ said Atherton. ‘Something has. A bloke rang, says he’s a solicitor and he’s got something to tell about David Rogers. Seemed a bit cagey about it. Wants someone to go round.’
‘Tell him to come in,’ said Slider. ‘Where is he?’
‘Harrow.’
‘Oh. Well, I’m practically there,’ Slider said. ‘I suppose I could drop in on my way past.’
‘You sound glum. Webber no good?’
‘He was perfectly charming, but he says Rogers didn’t work for him and he hasn’t seen him or spoken to him for years. Disapproves of his womanizing.’
‘Brings the game into disrepute, eh?’ said Atherton. ‘So it’s another dead end?’
‘Took the words out of my mouth.’
‘Then you need a bit of cheering up. I was going to see the solicitor myself, but you have him, with my
