With hope rekindled, Steven collected an armful of files and took them back to the cellar entrance where he dumped them on the floor while he fetched a table and a chair from the pile, and set them up as an impromptu office where he could sit and look through the files. It only took a few moments to establish that the ones he’d picked up were all from patients who’d been in the hospital in 1975. There was order among the feared chaos.
Steven put back the ’75 files and started hunting for more pen markings on the shelves. He felt his pulse-rate rise as he came across ‘91 — ’. Another armful of folders and a few minutes sitting at his reclaimed dusty desk and he had established that he was looking at files from patients treated in the hospital at the time of the Northern Health Scheme. He now had to decide whether to make arrangements for people to come here to sift through the records or to organise transport to take the files back to London.
It only took a few moments for him to plump for London. Sci-Med had a network of consultants, agencies and contacts they could call in at a moment’s notice. Jean Roberts would be able to come up with a team of people with the necessary skills to analyse medical records and report on their findings. They could be doing that while he went to pay Gordon Field a visit in prison. He had phone calls to make.
Steven paused at the door to examine the metal light switches. He hadn’t seen these for years but they looked the same as the ones his grandmother had had in her house in Keswick. He was thinking about her and picturing the front room with its piano and lace curtains when he heard a sound suggesting that someone was outside in the corridor.
‘Hello, is anyone there?’ he called out.
There was no reply.
He couldn’t quite convince himself it had been his imagination so he tried again.
Nothing.
Steven shrugged and switched out the chamber lights before closing the door and crossing the cellar junction, preparing himself for the stooped journey back along the pipe corridor he’d come in through. He felt the heat on his face as once more he came into close proximity to the supply pipes, carefully steering a middle course so that he didn’t touch them. Maybe it was the slight unease he felt about thinking he wasn’t alone that heightened his alertness, but when he thought he saw a movement a few metres ahead he instinctively dropped to his knees and put his hands up in front of his face.
At the same moment a valve opened and high-pressure steam shot out, scalding the back of his hands and filling the tunnel with deafening noise and the sulphurous smell of a boiler-house. Steven cried out in pain as he rolled away. He crawled along the floor under the steam jet until he was past the open valve, where he was just in time to see a running figure up ahead.
‘You son of a bitch,’ he yelled out, as anger vied with pain and sent him off in pursuit. He could see it was a male figure, tall — like him it had to stoop to avoid hitting its head — dressed in denims and trainers… and getting away.
Steven stopped running. Get a grip, Dunbar, he thought. Think about your hands. He remembered seeing occasional taps set in the wall on the way in so he turned all his attention to finding one of them. When he did, he’d found a supply of cold water. He held his hands under the flow and experienced instant remission from the pain although he knew it would return when he removed them. He held them there long enough to catch his breath and regain rational thought. In spite of the pain, he’d been lucky. Had he not dropped to his knees so quickly the steam would have caught him full in the face. As it was, he needed to seek medical help as soon as possible to minimise the damage. At least he was in a hospital.
‘What the hell!’ exclaimed the clerk of works, Drysdale, when he saw the backs of Steven’s hands.
‘Steam burns,’ said Steven, hurrying past to get to A amp;E.
SIXTEEN
Drysdale appeared again in the company of Paul Drinkwater as Steven was finishing in A amp;E.
‘What on earth happened?’ asked Drinkwater.
‘Someone opened a steam valve in the tunnel as I was leaving.’
‘Christ, they were quick off the mark,’ said Drysdale, a comment that made the other two look to him for more.
‘The winos,’ said Drysdale. ‘And the junkies. They see the tunnels as a nice warm place to kip down. That’s why we keep the access doors locked, but of course they were left open while Dr Dunbar was down there.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Drinkwater. ‘You think one of them must have come across Dr Dunbar and seen him as the face of authority?’ He turned back to Steven. ‘How bad is it?’
‘They’ll mend,’ said Steven, holding up his bandaged hands and feeling slightly woozy because of the painkillers he’d been given. ‘It could have been a lot worse.’
‘Dare I ask if you found what you were looking for?’
‘I did. That’s why I’d like the doors to be locked and kept that way until I can arrange transport for the files I’m interested in.’
‘Of course,’ said Drinwater. ‘Dennis, can you see to that?’
Drysdale nodded. ‘No problem. Mind you, if there’s a heating problem somewhere in the hospital…’
‘No one goes down there alone,’ said Steven. ‘I’ll arrange with the local police for an officer to be present to accompany anyone who has to go down in an emergency.’
Drysdale nodded. ‘Very well.’
They were interrupted by the arrival of a well-dressed man in his late forties whose dark suit and silk tie suggested management. ‘Dr Dunbar? I’m so sorry. I’ve just heard what happened. I’m Clive Deans, the hospital manager. I’m sorry I couldn’t welcome you earlier, and now this. Absolutely awful. What can I say?’
‘You’ll excuse me for not shaking hands,’ said Steven.
‘Look, maybe you shouldn’t drive. Why don’t you use the hospital suite we use for relatives? It’s empty at the moment. You can get a good night’s rest, and if you need any more painkillers you’ll be in the right place.’
‘Thank you. I think I’ll take you up on that.’
He was shown to the suite and given a couple of internal telephone numbers to call if he needed anything. Deans left him alone, still apologising for what had happened, and Steven used his mobile to start making calls, phoning Jean Roberts first.
‘Jean, I’ve had a bit of an accident. There are a number of things I’d like you to do.’
‘Doesn’t sound like an accident to me,’ she said, after obliging him to tell her what had happened.
‘Be that as it may, I’d like to get the records back to London as quickly as possible. We’ll need a courier service and we’ll need a team of analysts to work on them when they arrive. I also need you to arrange with the local police to mount guard on the cellars in College Hospital until we get the records out. Anyone who has to go down there must be accompanied, and no papers are to be removed.’
‘Understood. Are you calling a code red on this?’
Steven hesitated for a moment. He’d often requested a code red — official approval for a full investigation with a number of Home Office powers being invoked — but never found himself in a position to actually sanction one. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Let’s request co-operation at the moment. If we don’t get it, we’ll start thinking about a code red.’
‘Very well. ‘I’ll keep you informed of the arrangements. Do you still intend to visit Gordon Field in prison?’
‘I’m going to drive over there in the morning.’
‘Take care, Steven.’
For some reason Steven found Jean’s parting words thought-provoking. He wasn’t entirely convinced that he’d crossed the path of a down-and-out in the tunnel. He wanted to believe it, because any other explanation implied that it had been an attempt to stop him or his investigation and indicated that someone had a powerful reason for ensuring that sleeping dogs were left that way. However, he had no wish to share these thoughts with anyone else at the moment — least of all Tally, because of the alarm he’d cause — so his injuries were put down to the accepted version of events when he phoned her.
‘Oh, you poor thing. How bad?’
