It was ten thirty when they got into Tormo’s dark blue Peugeot estate car and set off for the Hacienda. Butterflies were beginning to think it was summer in MacLean’s stomach but Leavey seemed as implacable as ever. He gazed out of the window as if he were a passenger on a bus travelling a route he’d done a thousand times before.
The climb up the mountain road proved to be even more laborious than the last time, as the storm had washed mud and scree off the hillside to litter the road. In all they had to stop four times to clear obstructions from their path before reaching the great wrought-iron gates of the clinic. Tormo got out to ID himself on an entry-phone at the side. As he returned to the car an electric motor hummed into life and the gates swung slowly open.
They drove slowly up the drive and through the orchard to the house. The Hacienda looked even more impressive at close quarters although it had a brooding quality because of a large cliff overhang above it. MacLean had not realised that the house literally backed into the rock face. Leavey who had been thinking the same thing whispered, ‘No back door,’ as they followed Tormo up the fifty or so steps to the entrance. The nearer they got to the building the smaller they began to feel. It towered above them haughtily as if it and everyone in it were looking down on them.
Prompted by Leavey’s elbow, MacLean asked Tormo to pause at the head of the steps so that he could take a photograph of him entering the Hacienda. Tormo adopted a suitable pose but Leavey shook his head, maintaining that he was having difficulty with rain on the lens of the camera. He tried for the other side of the steps, crouching down as he’d once seen Patrick Lichfield do on television, but still looked deliberately doubtful. ‘A pity,’ he said. ‘This might even have made the cover.’
‘Maybe the weather will be better on Thursday,’ suggested Tormo, having taken the bait. MacLean agreed.
The door was opened by a frumpish woman in her forties whom Tormo introduced as Senora Seeler, the housekeeper. She nodded formally to Leavey and MacLean before leaving Tormo to lead the way to the clinic’s laboratory. Leavey and MacLean exchanged admiring glances as they walked through the Hacienda. This was a class act.
They passed quietly and unobtrusively through areas where residents sat, swathed in towels and robes, manicured hands holding glossy magazines, legs crossed languidly, resting on footstools which accompanied their lounger chairs. No one took notice of them; MacLean thought of the ‘invisibility’ of servants in times gone by. They paused in one of the empty rooms to admire the view from a panoramic window. They stood in silence but Chopin accompanied the vista from an unseen and unobtrusive sound system.
‘I think I want to stay here,’ murmured Leavey and MacLean agreed.
Tormo smiled and said, ‘The Hacienda is not for mere mortals Senors.’
‘Story of my life,’ said Leavey.
The small laboratory was superbly equipped but after what they had seen, they had not expected anything else. Tormo said that he was often tempted to bring up his other blood samples and run them through the automatic blood analyser; he couldn’t possibly afford one himself. The lab was the first indication that they were not in a luxury hotel because so far, they had not come across anything to suggest clinical nature of the place. There was no lingering smell of anaesthetics or disinfectant. There were no trolleys parked in the corridors and not even a nurse to be seen.
MacLean remarked on this and Tormo said, ‘All the medical and surgical facilities are downstairs. The patients don’t actually go down there until the day of their operation. The nurses on this floor do not wear uniforms. It keeps the patients relaxed.’
MacLean gradually built up a picture of the clinic and its internal layout through prudent questioning of Tormo. The patients’ suites, the communal lounges and recreation areas were on the main floor. There were two operating theatres, recovery rooms and post-operative care facilities on the floor below. All services from water to anaesthetic gases were furnished from a large basement complex. Offices and staff living quarters were on the top floor with the exception of the maintenance staff who lived in an annexe to the basement.
MacLean now had a clear objective. He had to get downstairs to the surgical and medical area where he felt sure he’d find the clinic’s pharmacy. If Cytogerm were here at all, that’s where it would be. He set himself a target for the day of finding out where the pharmacy was located. Leavey had ensured that they would be coming back on Thursday. That’s when he would try to lay hands on the stuff.
Leavey and MacLean watched Tormo carry out blood tests with Leavey taking the occasional photograph and MacLean asking the odd question as he considered what to do next. Eventually he had an idea. ‘If you are the only analyst employed by the clinic you must look after the theatres too?’ he asked Tormo.
‘I do routine monitoring of the surfaces for bacterial contamination,’ agreed Tormo. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I was just thinking we might get more dramatic pictures of you at work in a theatre. Labs are interesting but operating theatres are more… atmospheric, don’t you think?’
‘I see,’ replied Tormo thoughtfully. ‘I take your point. I’ll have to check the theatre schedules.’
Tormo left the room and MacLean crossed his fingers in a silent gesture to Leavey. They did not have long to wait for Tormo’s return. The little man was smiling. ‘We are in luck,’ he announced. ‘No theatre is in use this morning. We can go down there now, if you like.’
Leavey and MacLean followed Tormo down some well-lit stairs and paused at the foot where they came to a tray across the floor with some wet sponge-like material in it. ‘Routine disinfecting of our shoes,’ said Tormo. ‘We have to walk through it. We will have to gown-up too. These are the rules.’ They were led into a small ante-room where Tormo told them to leave their jackets and put on the green gowns he handed them. ‘Post-operative infection at the clinic is practically unknown,’ he said. ‘They like to keep it that way.’
Tormo led them along a corridor to the nurses’ station where three nurses sat at a curved desk. ‘I’m going to do some sampling in theatre one,’ said Tormo. ‘These gentlemen are from International Society of Medical Analysts, they are doing an article about me.’
The nurse smiled and nodded.
Tormo clicked on the theatre lights and MacLean stopped in his tracks. He had expected a well-equipped modern theatre but this one had an observation gallery. He was staring up at it when Tormo asked him if anything was the matter. ‘You don’t usually see these outside teaching hospitals,’ he said.
‘The Hacienda quite often has visitors from other clinics,’ said Tormo, making MacLean even more confused. How could the clinic be using Cytogerm and still inviting the world to watch?
Tormo was confused by MacLean’s preoccupation. ‘It’s quite usual for surgeons to watch other surgeons at work,’ he said. ‘The Hacienda is at the forefront of cosmetic technology.’
‘Yes, of course, ‘ replied MacLean quickly, then seeing his chance he added, ‘I wonder: do you think I could see an operation?’
Tormo frowned, unable to see the relevance of such a request but this was tempered by his desire to please the man who was going to bring him fame. ‘I really don’t know,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘It would be most unusual. Are you medically qualified?’
‘Yes,’ replied MacLean without further explanation.
‘I would have to seek the director’s permission.’
‘It would add depth to the article,’ said MacLean. If the surgeons were using Cytogerm, there was no way they could disguise it from him, of that he was certain.
‘Perhaps we might do the photographs?’ asked Tormo tentatively. MacLean was brought back down to earth. He organised a series of tableaux with Tormo heroically testing various surfaces in the theatre for contamination while Leavey clicked away with his camera.
On the pretext of having to use the toilet MacLean followed Tormo’s directions while Leavey insisted on taking a few more pictures. He took the opportunity to look around the floor. He found the Pharmacy down a corridor to the left of the nurses’ station.
‘Can I help you?’ asked a female voice behind him. It was a nurse. MacLean replied in French, the language of the question, saying that he was lost. He was trying to find his way back to the theatre where he was working with Senor Tormo. The nurse gave him directions and MacLean thanked her.
Leavey was still dutifully snapping away at Tormo when MacLean returned to the theatre. MacLean shot him a look of appreciation and asked how it was going.
‘I think I’ve got some good shots,’ said Leavey.’
‘I didn’t realise so much went into a simple magazine article,’ said Tormo.
