‘Did Kate Hampton go down?’
‘She was there five days later, although the morphine was kicking in and he was becoming addicted to it. In the end, she chartered an air ambulance and had him repatriated to England.’
‘Expensive?’ Larry asked.
‘Anywhere between eighty thousand pounds to one hundred and ten thousand.’
‘Who paid?’
‘Hampton came from money. All I know is that his wife paid for the trip.’
‘Can you transport a person in that condition?’ Isaac asked.
‘I have a copy of the form that Kate filled in, as well as a medical report from a doctor in Argentina. It was in Spanish, easy to translate online these days. According to the doctor, Hampton’s spinal cord had been severed, and that, apart from some pain, dealt with by the morphine, he wouldn’t walk again, and no further damage could occur.’
‘No need for an air ambulance, then,’ Larry said. ‘They could have saved the money.’
‘Commercial airlines aren’t set up for a man in a stretcher, and besides, medical advice in this country disputed the Argentinians. They had access to the x-rays, and one doctor had flown down from the UK to see Hampton. I’ve got his name, not sure how much he’ll tell you, but he felt that if the diagnosis weren’t correct, he’d go along, get the man out of the country and into his care.’
‘How do you know this?’ Isaac asked.
‘Most of it is common knowledge.’
‘Where’s Simmons while this is all going on?’
‘He was in Argentina with Kate Hampton, and then he flew back commercial.’
‘Why not on the charter?’
‘It was dependent on his need to be there. Kate Hampton flew on the charter, as did the doctor out from the UK, and it’s fair to assume Mike Hampton, if he hadn’t been semi-comatose on morphine and sedatives, wouldn’t want to see Simmons. The man, regardless of whether he was right or wrong about Kate’s affair, or whether he had tried to kill Simmons, or if it was the other way around, was still seriously ill. They wouldn’t have wanted any more trauma on the flight.’
‘McAlister?’
‘He stayed in South America for ten days, made sure all the equipment from the climb was packaged and shipped back to England, over two hundred kilos. Even if he’s a louse, as people seem to believe, he’s still competent and conscientious.’
‘Was the spinal cord broken?’
‘The medical reports in the UK are not so easy to obtain, although it has been reported that Hampton did have slight movement in his lower body.’
‘Conclusive?’
‘I’m not competent to comment,’ Bridget said. ‘From what I’ve researched, I believe that the damage to Hampton is not as severe as first thought. That doesn’t mean he’s regained the use of his limbs or ever will. I found another mountaineer on the internet, a broken back, spinal cord intact. Even so, it took ten months of intense treatment and considerable pain before he walked out of the hospital. Two years later, he climbed Mount Everest.’
‘And Hampton sits in a wheelchair, complaining about his lot in life,’ Wendy said.
‘The doctor, where is he? We need to contact him,’ Isaac said.
‘I’ve pre-empted you,’ Bridget said. ‘You have an appointment tomorrow morning, at 10 a.m. Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital, Stanmore, Middlesex. It’ll take you less than an hour to get there, assuming the traffic’s not too heavy. You’re meeting with Dr Matt Henstridge.’
‘Is he the doctor who went to Argentina?’
‘He is the most eminent in his field.’
‘You were right to make the appointment.’
‘I can’t guarantee how much he’ll tell you, patient confidentiality.’
‘We’ll deal with that after we’ve met with him. As for me, I’m off home and try to get some sleep.’
‘The joys of fatherhood,’ Wendy said.
‘Sometimes, I could do with a little less joy,’ Isaac said. ‘Larry, pick me up, 7.30 a.m. sharp.’
Chapter 21
The Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital, one of eleven centres in the United Kingdom specialising in spinal cord injury and rehabilitation, did not impress either Isaac or Larry. A modern building, but from the outside, it looked like a building site, surrounded on two sides by construction barriers, a crane hovering over the roof.
‘Expansion,’ the young lady at the reception said. ‘It’s not so easy, and the demand is increasing, too many fools in powerful cars showing off how good they are.’
‘They should keep it to a race track,’ Larry said.
Isaac felt the woman was talking out of turn; sure, she was right, but the hospital was there to heal, not express an opinion.
‘Dr Henstridge,’ Isaac said. ‘He’s expecting us.’
‘Is this about Mike Hampton?’
Too many questions, too nosy, the woman needed a session with the hospital’s human resources department. Patient confidentiality extended beyond the doctor.
‘It is.’
‘Dr Henstridge asked me to check. You’re DCI Cook and DI Hill, am I right?’
‘You are. The doctor?’
‘Five minutes. We’re busy, and the doctor’s been here since four this morning. If he’s not the most agreeable, you’ll have to make concessions. I’m sure you understand.’
‘We do,’ Isaac said. The two officers went and took a seat.
Larry picked up a magazine that was on a table. ‘It’s older than me,’ he said as he put it down.
Isaac looked around him, knowing that he and hospitals didn’t get along. In his youth, a broken arm, an overnight stay at the hospital. And then, at the age of fifteen, he had watched a childhood friend die in the hospital from a knife wound.
A weary man came through the double folding doors at the far end of the reception area.
‘Sorry about the delay. I’m Henstridge,’ he said as he shook hands. In his mid-fifties, balding, with bloodshot eyes ringed
