‘But surely some men would be on leave.’
‘We have contacted all of them.’
‘All of them?’ Elizabeth murmured incredulously.
‘Aren’t some of them mountaineering or caving or white water rafting in the wilds? I thought the army encouraged such activities.’
‘We do, Dr Santer. But all our personnel follow the basic rules. They always inform our rescue services of their projected positions and estimated time of return. We’ve had over twelve hours and in this day and age that’s more than we need to establish all of our personnel’s whereabouts. Every private, NCO and officer in the British Army has been accounted for. Whoever “John West” is, he’s definitely not a member of the British Armed Forces.
I’d stake my reputation on it.’
‘And his finger prints are not on police record,’
Major Simmonds added. ‘So he’s not a common criminal either.’
‘But he could be a past member of the forces,’
Dave persisted.
‘We paid special attention to the records of all ex-servicemen in his age group who’ve left the army during the past ten years. We placed him somewhere in the twenty-six to forty age group.’ Major Simmonds replied.
‘I think forty might be pushing it,’ Elizabeth sat back in her chair.
‘As you said yourself he is superbly fit.’
‘But you can’t just take a man into custody without having the slightest idea who he is,’ she protested.
‘In this day and age we can’t afford not to, particularly as the conference is imminent.’
‘Conference?’ Dave looked blank.
‘The World Peace and Disarmament Conference.
It was all over the news this morning,’ Elizabeth reminded him.
‘I must have missed it,’ Dave said uninterestedly.
‘Look, we’ve signed your Official Secrets Act, so we can hardly go running to the press. You wouldn’t even be here if you didn’t have some idea who he is. Can’t you tell us?’
‘We have no more idea than you, Mr Watson. But we cannot ignore the possibility that he might be a high ranking terrorist.’
‘Would a terrorist exhibit the inside military knowledge our man just demonstrated?’
‘The British Army has always been too open for its own good, Mr Watson. It wouldn’t be difficult for a terrorist organisation to acquire a thorough knowledge of our weaponry and training methods. There are highly organised, well-staffed camps in Muslim territories as well as remote areas of Europe and the USA that specialize in training guerrillas – and not only Islamic fundamentalists. The IRA used to regularly fly their top-ranking operatives to those camps for training until the ceasefire. And terrorists these days embrace many creeds and races. The warfare they wage is devious, sophisticated and – as we have discovered to our cost – ’ the Major raised his eyes, ‘ – deadly.’
‘As you pointed out earlier, Dr Santer, John West has the speech and mannerisms of a public school-educated officer,’ Heddingham shuffled the leaflets together and returned them to his briefcase, ‘but both could have been acquired elsewhere. It’s conceivable that his condition is the result of brainwashing – and, as we know, brainwashing techniques can go wrong.’
‘You think he could be a terrorist who’s been given an identity that’s overlaid his own personality?’
‘You suggested that, Mr Watson – not me.’
Simmonds picked up the copy of John West’s medical notes that Elizabeth had given him. ‘Dr Santer’s initial diagnosis is undoubtedly correct. His condition is almost certainly due to trauma. In my opinion suffered shortly after he murdered at least one person.’
‘If he murdered anyone, wouldn’t the police have found a corpse by now?’ Elizabeth said.
‘Not necessarily.’ Heddingham snapped his briefcase shut. ‘I believe John West is a trained terrorist and killer and, until someone proves otherwise, he should be held in a secure military institution.’
‘He has a police guard outside his door.’
‘National security is a matter for the armed forces.’
Heddingham rose to his feet, effectively ending the discussion.
‘But we don’t know for certain that this man does pose any threat to national security,’ Dave demurred.
‘We have contacted the Home Office and the Ministry of Defence. Neither we,’ Heddingham glanced at Simmonds, ‘nor the ministers concerned are prepared to take the risk that John West is innocent.’
‘I thought every man was innocent until proven guilty in this country,’ Elizabeth said flatly.
‘It’s a nice ideal, Dr Santer, but since 9-11 and the London bombings, one that could cost thousands if not tens of thousands of lives, if adhered to too strictly,’ the lieutenant-colonel warned.
Dave left his chair. ‘For the moment John West is our patient and in our care. And he will remain so until I have been instructed otherwise by my superiors. Until such time, he stays in this ward.’
‘The police guards will shortly be replaced by military guards. The actual transfer will take a little longer to arrange. However, within the next few hours, he will be sent to a military establishment, after you, Mr Watson, have been furnished with all the necessary documents and assurances. It only remains for us to thank you for the care that you and your staff have taken of John West, Mr Watson.’ The lieutenant-colonel opened the door. ‘If you have an office that we can use until the transport and escort arrive we’d be grateful.’
‘As I’m in clinic all afternoon, you can use mine.
I’ll show you where it is,’ Dave offered.
Dismayed by the cavalier way the officers were treating her and Dave, Elizabeth left the dayroom before the others. She saw two soldiers in full uniform, armed with rifles and handguns walking down the corridor.
‘We have orders to report to Lieutenant-Colonel Heddingham, ma’am.’
‘You’ll find him inside there.’ She pointed to the door and walked away, wanting to get as far away from the officers as possible. Psychiatry to her meant humanity, and she doubted that either the lieutenant-colonel or the major possessed that characteristic.
‘You took John West his tea?’ she asked the sister.
‘And a bar of dark chocolate. He told me to thank you.’
‘Sister?’ Dave left the day-room with the soldiers.
‘This is Sergeant Packard, and Corporal Summers.
They’re here to relieve the police guard.’
‘I see. I don’t like guns on my ward, Mr Watson.’
Tight-lipped, the sister looked them up and down.
‘Neither do I, sister.’ Dave headed for the lift with Simmonds and Heddingham.
‘Then John West is from the army?’ the sister asked Elizabeth, as soon as the others were out of earshot.
‘We don’t know, but it’s a possibility. He’s being transferred to a military hospital this afternoon.’
Elizabeth was angry at having a case she’d expended time and energy on being snatched out of her hands by two military automatons. A case, she suspected, she would now never discover the outcome of.
CHAPTER THREE
‘Dr Santer seems to be taking a personal interest in this case,’ Lieutenant-Colonel Heddingham commented as he followed Dave into his office.
‘Dr Santer is a dedicated doctor, and as such takes an interest in all her patients,’ Dave replied formally.
‘Really?’
Dave recognized, but chose to ignore, the scepticism in the lieutenant-colonel’s voice. ‘Really,’
he reiterated. If Heddingham had been more sympathetic he might have mentioned the tragedy that had led Elizabeth to concentrate on her professional life to the exclusion of all else.
The lieutenant-colonel moved behind Dave’s desk.
He picked up the telephone. ‘Nine for an outside line?’
‘Yes.’
He continued to hold the receiver in his right hand.
‘You can’t help me with anything else, Mr Watson.’
‘I’ve a clinic to run.’ Dave picked up a pile of files and left, resenting being dismissed from his own office. He took the lift to the psychiatric ward. The two soldiers were standing to attention outside John West’s door, no chairs and mugs of tea for them.
Dave couldn’t see their rifles and he wondered if the ward sister or Simmonds had insisted they leave them somewhere secure. But their hand guns were in their holsters. Like the sister he bristled at the thought of loaded guns on his ward. The thought had never crossed his mind that the police might have been armed. In retrospect he realised they probably had been, but at least they’d had the decency to carry their arms discreetly.
‘Mr Watson, I wasn’t expecting you. Do you want to see any of the patients?’ the sister wheeled a drug trolley into the corridor in preparation to dispense the afternoon medications.
‘I’m on my way to clinic. Have you seen Dr Santer?’
‘She told me to tell anyone who was looking for her that she’d be in the archives, Mr Watson.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Mr Watson?’ she hesitated. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m exceeding my authority, but this is
my
ward.’ The sister pursed her lips, and Dave steeled himself to receive criticism. The nursing officer wasn’t the easiest of people to get on with, but she ran a difficult ward efficiently and had done so for a number of years, which had earned her his respect. ‘I appreciate a case like John West’s can present difficulties, but is it really necessary to station armed soldiers outside his room? I persuaded them to leave their rifles in the lock up in my office but they insisted they be allowed to carry their handguns. I told them the main ward door is kept locked at all times and can only be entered with a pass key but it made no difference. Their presence is unsettling the other patients, not to mention the nurses.’
‘I find the sight of guns and soldiers rather unsettling myself, sister but you need to speak to Mr Trist. He gave the army permission to post guards outside John’s door.’
‘You’re the consultant, Mr Watson.’
‘My responsibility covers patients’ welfare, not ward security, and John West isn’t my patient any more. He’s being transferred to a military hospital.’
‘The sooner the better,’ she declared.
‘If anyone wants me I’ll be in clinic after I’ve tracked down Dr Santer.’
The “archives” was a grand name bestowed on a walk-in cupboard that housed a collection of photographs of various towns, cities, and well known locations in Britain. The staff used the postcards and snapshots to stimulate the memories of patients suffering from dementia, Alzheimer’s, or memory impairment due to brain injury. Dave walked up the stairs to the top floor where the cupboard was sandwiched between the canteen and administrators’
office.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ he asked, when he saw Elizabeth balance an enormous box on her knee so she could lock the cupboard.
‘Didn’t you hear it?’ She allowed him to take the box from her.
‘What?’
‘John’s accent.’
‘English, army officer, public school… ’
‘You didn’t pick up on the Anthony Hopkins lilt?’
‘You think he’s Welsh?’
‘I heard the dialect in one or two words.’
‘If it was there, it escaped me.’ Dave looked at the side of the box. On it was scrawled,
Welsh towns and
scenes
, in the thick black felt pen the librarian used for marking.
‘I thought it was worth trying to see if he recognizes something.’
‘Liz, it’s not our case any more.’
‘They’ve taken him away?’
‘Not yet, but it’s only a matter of an hour or two.’
‘In an hour or two we might know who he is.’
‘But the man’s no longer ours,’ he protested.
‘He’s my patient until the moment he’s escorted out through the ward door. He trusts me. You’ve worked with amnesiacs, Dave. You know how difficult it is to win that trust. I’ve built up a rapport with him. A change in his treatment now could set him back to where he was last night. Silent and withdrawn.’
‘I’m on your side, but the men in brass buttons aren’t. They’re running the show, Liz, and much as I hate to say it, their ideas aren’t that implausible.’
‘You think John’s a terrorist?’
‘He could be.’
‘Free Wales Army?’ she joked.
‘Any accent you picked up on could be the result of coaching by a Welsh or Asian tutor. You did say you only heard the inflection in one or two words.’
‘It’s worth a try,’ she insisted obstinately.
‘It’s time for clinic.’
‘Can’t you do without me, just this once?’ she pleaded.
‘I’ll give you half an hour.’
‘An hour?’
‘I’ll start without you, but you’re going to have to carry some of the load.’ He shifted the box in his arms and glanced at his watch. ‘We’re twenty minutes behind with the appointments already,’ he complained when she pressed the lift button.
‘I told you the army would take over,’ John said when Elizabeth carried the box into his room after one of the soldiers had rifled through it.
‘You’ve seen your new escort.’
‘Armed guard, you mean.’
‘Forget them. They’re outside the door. We don’t have to think about them.’ She dumped the box on to his bed. ‘Photographs,’ she explained. ‘I heard a slight accent in your voice. It may be nothing, but I thought it might be worth looking through these. You might recognize something.’ She lifted the lid from the box.
‘
Welsh towns and scenes
,’ he read. ‘You think I’m Welsh?’
‘Everyone has to come from somewhere.’ She flicked through the box. Because the photographs were mainly used with dementia and Alzheimer’s patients, most of them were of places as they had been thirty or more years ago. ‘What about this?’ She handed him a snapshot of a gleaming modern shopping mall.
‘A shopping centre. Do I get a reward for guessing right?’
‘The name of the town?’
‘It could be anywhere in this or any other country.’
‘Unfortunately you’re right.’ She tucked the view of the latest out of town shopping development on the Cardiff outskirts back into the box. ‘This?’
‘Would flummox nine out of ten people who can remember further back than last night. It could be any run down town centre in Britain.’
‘Right again. Perhaps we should start a campaign to preserve the differences between towns. But we have discovered something,’ she smiled. ‘If you have lived in Wales, you’re not an inveterate shopper.’ She handed him yet another photograph.