‘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.
As discretion was important when dealing with the sensibilities of often powerful and influential professional people, Dunbar’s credentials had not been announced. He was officially present as a London civil servant attached temporarily to the Scottish Office, where only Neil Bannon had been informed of his true mission.
Dunbar had been treated politely but coolly by his hosts since his arrival the previous day. This hadn’t worried him. He was used to working on his own as an outsider. He preferred it that way. The fewer people he had to confide in the better. It made his job easier. The perfect mission was one where he arrived at the job, found out what he wanted to know and left again without anyone realizing what he’d really been doing. No one liked having a snooper around, particularly when, as it often turned out, there was no real problem to investigate.
Keeping an investigation secret was perhaps the most difficult aspect of Dunbar’s job but it was also probably the most important. Any suggestion of incompetence or malpractice brought out the worst in the medical profession. No other section of the community did a better line in self-righteous indignation or closing ranks. He had to be awfully sure of his ground before breaking cover. At this early stage he had only the unsubstantiated allegations of two former nurses at the hospital to go on. He would need a lot more than that before revealing who he was and why he was there.
Dunbar settled himself into the well-upholstered chair in front of his name card on the oak table. He poured himself a little water from the crystal decanter and sipped it as he watched the others take their places. The thickness of the carpet made it a strangely silent operation. He knew little of the circumstances that had brought the visiting party to Medic Ecosse, only that the hospital was in some kind of financial trouble and was requesting more government help. His masters had seen it as an opportunity to get him inside the hospital unannounced. It had all been a bit of a rush. He had had a minimal briefing from the Scottish Office and had also managed to pick up snippets of what had been going on through listening to conversations outside while people had been having coffee. He thought he knew who the important players were, so now he was going to observe the in-fighting and blood- letting he suspected might ensue.
James Ross, consultant surgeon and director of the transplant unit, was one of two senior members of the Medic Ecosse medical staff present at the table. The other was Dr Thomas Kinscherf, medical director of the hospital, urbane, smiling and generally very much at home in dealing with people. Ross was seated opposite Neil Bannon, listening politely to what was being said around him and smiling at intervals. An occasional glance at his watch betrayed a slight impatience for proceedings to begin.
Ross was a pleasant-looking man in his early forties, of average build and with fair hair swept back from his forehead. His skin was smooth and tanned and he wore frameless glasses with large, square lenses. He looked like a man at ease with himself, self-confident, successful in his chosen career and with nothing left to prove to anyone. His suit was conservatively dark but he wore a pink bow tie with matching handkerchief in his breast pocket. The typical, give-away flamboyance of the surgeon.
The admin secretary, Giordano, was exuding charm as he spoke to the Scottish Office contingent. Any word uttered by the visitors claimed his rapt attention, any suggestion of humour brought a large grin and a hearty laugh. It was clear that the Medic Ecosse people were on their best behaviour. The day was all about good public relations.
‘Shall we begin?’ asked Bannon. He was one of the few people not smiling.
Giordano brought the meeting to order and requested that the ‘financial parameters for debate’ be established. This translated into the reading of finance reports both from Medic Ecosse’s accountants and from the financial officials of the Scottish Office team.
When they had finished, Bannon looked round the table at the gloomy faces and said, ‘Gentlemen, I think we should cut the Gordian knot and come straight to the point. It’s quite clear that this hospital cannot continue functioning unless it receives an immediate injection of cash. It’s a question of where this cash is going to come from.’ He paused. People round the table exchanged glances. ‘I understand that Medic International feel that they’re not in a position to invest any more at this time. This leaves public money and, frankly, this too is quite unthinkable at a time like this when we’re urging restraint on public spending and cutting back on even essential services.’ He paused again to let the buzz die down before continuing. ‘But there again, the alternative is equally unpalatable. The hospital would have to close down, with the loss of money already invested and the accompanying human cost in terms of jobs. This leaves us, as our American cousins might say, between a rock and a hard place. Personally I think it would be an absolute tragedy if an almost brand-new, state-of-the-art hospital with a world-class medical staff had to close its doors, but these are the bare facts.’
‘Not to mention politically embarrassing and bloody expensive for the Tory party,’ muttered the Labour councillor.
‘If it’s so state-of-the-art and world-class, why is it losing money?’ asked a distinguished-looking man who, unlike the others, favoured a light-coloured suit. He was a representative of a major Scottish insurance company which had invested at the outset in Medic Ecosse.
‘We feel it’s a problem we can deal with,’ replied Thomas Kinscherf. ‘We simply don’t have enough patients at this moment in time.’
‘Why not?’
‘It appears that would-be clients still prefer London hospitals, although we believe that with the right marketing this problem can be overcome. It’s just a geographical thing that we didn’t consider seriously enough at the outset and still haven’t taken the appropriate steps to remedy.’
‘There are plenty of patients not more than a mile from here,’ interjected the councillor. ‘It’s just that they don’t have the money to pay for all this fine treatment.’
‘I think we’ve been through all that,’ said Bannon rather testily. ‘The hospital’s being run as a business for foreign clients who bring money into this country. It’s a service industry, just like hotels and theme parks. There’s nothing wrong with that. It benefits us all in the end.’
‘Not if it doesn’t actually make any money.’
‘It will, sir,’ interjected Kinscherf. ‘We just need a little more time.’
‘And a lot more public money,’ added the councillor.
‘Frankly, there is no question of further unconditional funding,’ said Bannon. ‘Our people have carried out an in-depth analysis of the figures from each department and come up with projected figures for the next three years. Based on these we will be prepared to offer funding at a suitable rate of return but with conditions attached.’
Giordano and Kinscherf exchanged glances. Neither man was smiling any more.
Bannon continued, ‘Our money people have highlighted a certain problem area which we’d like to see dealt with. In fact, we would insist on it.’
‘I’m sure we would be willing to consider your findings,’ said Giordano.
‘We are disturbed at the very low profit margin being shown by the transplant unit,’ said Bannon.
