Cold Steel (9 page)

'Is this a cardiac problem?'

'No.'

'Anything to do with cardiology?' Speer's stare was now boring into him.

'No.'

'Well, what the hell are you doing here?' she snapped, the cultured accent now turned hard. 'I've a mountain of work to do.' She waved a gold-bangled arm across a pile of charts.

'Well, you see,' Clancy tried again, 'the patient started out in this department and…'

'Where is he now?' Speer snarled in exasperation. 'Don't tell me he's down in the dermatology wards. I know nothing about skin diseases.'

Clancy lifted the chart onto the paper she was working at. 'No,' he said quietly, 'he's in my department, in haematology. He's seriously ill. He's got agranulocytosis.'

Speer squinted at the chart for no more than a minute. 'He's deficient in white cells, right?' she asked.

'Yes. In his case deficient in both peripheral blood and bone marrow.'

'That's a haematology problem, though, isn't it, Dr Clancy?' Speer was beginning her dismissal mode.

'Yes.'

'And you're the haematologist, right?'

'Yes.'

'Well,' she closed over the folder and handed it back to Clancy, 'shouldn't you be back with
your
patient?'

Clancy refused the implied dismissal. 'I need to know why Morell has developed this,' he said calmly, eyes fixed on Speer. 'And I need to know why there have been three such rare blood disorders in this hospital in as many months.'

'You're the haematologist, Dr Clancy, with the greatest respect that is your job.'

'Indeed it is, Dr Speer, no one knows that more than me.' Clancy decided to treat Speer with the same contempt he was getting. 'But what's puzzling about these cases is they were all in this cardiac unit for one procedure or another about four weeks before their blood disorders set in. I was just wondering about any link? That's what a haematologist is supposed to do. Look for causes as well as treat.'

Speer lifted Harold Morell's chart as if it was a piece of dog dirt and flicked through until she reached the pages dealing with in-patient stay and cardiac procedures. She dropped it and returned to her paperwork.

'His cardiac procedures were standard. Routine stress ECG, followed by angiogram, followed by triple bypass surgery. His post-operative phase was completely uneventful.' She picked up another chart and began turning its dog-eared pages. 'What happens to these patients after they leave here is none of my business.'

For a moment Clancy was stunned. The dismissive manner in which Speer was treating his query was bad enough, but her total indifference to the patient's final outcome shocked.

'I find that attitude quite extraordinary,' he said, barely able to control, himself. He'd heard about her legendary coolness, her attitude towards patients, looking on them as merely interesting pieces of pathology which she could work on and turn around. 'But,' he continued bitterly, 'to think you can dump your patients out of this department,' he pointed towards the outside offices, hands shaking with rage, 'and then not want to follow them up is quite extraordinary.'

Speer continued at her paperwork. 'Think what you want. That's your problem, not mine.'

Clancy was not to be outdone. 'Well, it's more than just my problem, Dr Speer, a great deal more.'

Speer turned around slowly.

'The other two patients, a Mary Hyland and a James Murphy,' Clancy was reading from a slip of paper he'd pulled from a side pocket, 'both developed a sudden and dramatic and fatal agranulocytosis within six weeks of being discharged from this great cardiac unit.' He couldn't keep the anger out of his voice. 'I'm wondering this: what therapy were they on? What drugs, cardiac or otherwise, were prescribed that could have shocked their peripheral blood and bone marrow so violently?'

Linda Speer listened without blinking. 'Apart from drug therapies, what else can cause agranulocytosis?' she asked.

'Radiation or cytotoxic or antimetabolite therapy,' Clancy rattled off quickly, 'severe infections or sometimes associated blood disorders such as leukaemia.'

'Did you…' Speer began but Clancy cut in immediately.

'None of those conditions apply.'

Speer dangled a shoe off the tip of her right foot, brow furrowed as if deep in thought. 'Isn't there an idiopathic form, where we don't ever find a cause?' The question was offered more by way of helpful explanation.

'Yes, indeed there is,' agreed Clancy, 'but three cases of idiopathic agranulocytosis in the past few months is stretching coincidence too much, wouldn't you say?'

'Well,' sighed Speer as she stood up and stretched, the gesture implying the discussion was over as far as she was concerned, 'you're the haematologist, Dr Clancy. This is your department.'

Clancy walked to the door and leaned against it. Speer glared at him angrily. 'You're not going to try and hold me here until I solve
your
problem, are you?'

Clancy ignored the taunt. 'Were there any other drugs prescribed for these patients? Drugs maybe not entered into their notes?'

Speer slowly sat down, her eyes now as cold as ice. 'What exactly are you getting at?' The Boston accent was
clipped and hostile.

Clancy flicked through Harold Morell's chart until he came to the drugs treatment page. 'I see you use D/N Aspirin rather than the usual hospital formulary product?' He stopped and waited. No answer or explanation was offered. Linda Speer stared at him with a mixture of contempt and rage. 'I'm not that familiar with D/N Aspirin,' Clancy persisted, 'and was just wondering why you use it when we have equally good products in the hospital pharmacy here?' He raised his eyebrows quizzically.

'Because,' hissed Speer, her face twisted with irritation, 'that is what we used successfully in Boston. That's the aspirin we found gave the best sustained therapeutic levels compared to its rivals. That's the aspirin we've been using for the past five years and, as you must know yourself, doctors tend to stick to the products they know best.'

'But,' pressed Clancy, unpreturbed, 'D/N Aspirin isn't available in Ireland. I checked myself.'

'We brought our own stock supplies with us,' Speer screamed, the cool facade finally shattered. 'Goddamn it we brought a few boxes of the stuff with us. Jesus Christ, Clancy, get off my fucking back and go and do some work or I'll have security throw you out of here!' She stood up, and pulled the door open violently. A gold-bangled arm waved to the corridor. 'OUT!' she ordered.

Clancy gathered Harold Morell's notes up slowly, then paused, face furrowed. 'How exactly do you spell your second name?' he asked innocently.

Linda Speer was thrown momentarily. 'S… P… E… E… R,' she said in her strong Boston tones, then mocked by repeating the letters phonetically. 'SSS… PPP… EEE… EEE… RRR. Speer. Happy?'

Clancy brushed past her. 'S… P… E… E… R,' he repeated slowly and thoughtfully, shaking his head as if puzzled. Then he looked back at the cardiologist and smiled. 'Such an ordinary name for such an extraordinary woman.'

Linda Speer was left speechless with rage.

Outside in the corridor, Clancy was stopped by Stone Colman. His office door was open wide. The smaller man held a hand up. 'Wow, man. What's going on? What the hell's all the shouting about?'

Linda Speer came out. 'It's okay, Stone. Dr Clancy was just making an asshole of himself and I put him right.' She waved dismissively. 'It's no big deal. Leave it.'

Colman eyeballed Clancy. 'Lighten up,' he advised. 'This is a hospital, not some shanty house.'

Clancy walked away. He turned back at the lifts. Speer and Colman were deep in conversation.

12

11.07 am

During the coffee break Police Commissioner Donal Murphy had kept to himself, ignoring the small knots of conversation. In the earlier exchanges he'd contributed little to the discussion, apart from putting John Regan in his place. But he was a worried man. He had been last into the incident room, a deliberate decision as he had little time for overt political interference and wanted to see if any other government stooges might turn up. He knew this was going to be a high-profile investigation and wasn't surprised to find three TV crews waiting outside even before the conference had begun. News bureaux from Boston had been telephoning for comments since early morning. There would soon be a media pack following every move. He suspected Regan was milking the occasion, self-promotion wouldn't come much easier. Copy and photos of the Minister for Health personally involved in the murder investigation was a campaign manager's dream. Regan, he decided, would do all in his power to protect his own reputation and also his greatest asset, the 'Dream Team'. Jennifer Marks' murder could destabilise the Heart Foundation, dash his ambitions and put him back at the mercy of Ireland's home-grown doctors. John Regan, consummate politician, Armani socialist and media darling could be crushed by the murderous act of a small-time knife man and drug addict. Murphy knew
Regan would want Micko Kelly's head on a plate. And fast.

'What else do we know about Kelly?' the commissioner asked. 'How dangerous is he? How easy would it be to lift him without starting a riot?'

Murphy was acutely aware of the operational difficulties. Hillcourt Mansions was a no-go area and had been picketed by Concerned Parents Against Drugs on many occasions. A number of the picketers were subsequently attacked by drug dealers, unhappy their main customer base was coming under so much attention. The picketing stopped and the mansion residents got back to their daily business of shooting up, then going into the city to rob and mug to pay for their habit. The mansions also had its own early warning system. The crack-heads took turns guarding the only entrance wide enough for patrol cars or arrest vans. At the first sign of a blue uniform dustbin lids were banged against walls and within minutes the concrete jungle would reverberate to the clanging of tins and shouts of abuse. Rocks would be thrown at anything moving in the courtyard, toilets would be flushed with an unusual frequency as drugs were discarded. Hillcourt Mansions was the least likely place to start a conflict. No, decided Murphy, this would have to be thought through carefully.

'He's very dangerous,' explained Molloy, opening one of three thick files resting on his lap.

The team eased themselves into whatever comfort they could find. Some doubled up on the small seats. The air stifled despite all the open windows. The police commissioner motioned for one of the chairs to be vacated and sat down. He slipped off his jacket, resting it over the back. 'Go on,' he ordered.

'Kelly is a small-time criminal,' began Molloy, skimming through the sheets. 'His family lived in a tenement before being rehoused in the suburbs. They brought their social problems with them.' He stopped briefly to flick over more text, 'He's the third of four boys and three girls. The father
is dead, fished out of the Liffey after a drunken spree. The mother tried to pull the rest together and keep them out of trouble.' A hand at the back pushed a window open further and distant traffic noises filtered inside the crowded room. 'Kelly developed a reputation as a knife man after he pulled a few petrol station jobs brandishing Bowie blades. He was caught on video and arrested. He was out on bail awaiting trial when he got into an argument with,' here Molloy searched until he found a name, 'Dinny Johnstone from Finglas, another druggie. They started fighting and Johnstone ended up dead on arrival at hospital. Kelly had stabbed him twice, one cut right into the heart.'

'Anything else?' Murphy asked. His expression hadn't changed but he was analysing, processing, deciding.

'He did ten years for that but got involved in drugs again while in gaol.' Molloy closed the file. 'There was a raid one weekend and his cell was turned upside down.'

Murphy wiped beads of sweat from his hairline. 'Did they find anything?'

'The usual, packets of heroin, syringes, tin foil with crack cocaine, a few uppers. Nothing to set the place apart.'

'So what's the big deal?' Murphy's eyebrows shot up.

'Well, Micko kind of took the raid personally,' Molloy explained. 'He bided his time until he had one of the warders cornered in the print workshop, then pulled a makeshift knife and nearly cut the hand off him. Two others held him down while Micko sawed away. He was seven hours in surgery having it stitched back.'

'Jesus,' someone whistled.

'So he's a hard man.' The commissioner echoed everyone's thoughts.

'Yes,' said Molloy, 'and he's become meaner. Dirty syringes and knives are his speciality. He's a heroin addict and wouldn't think twice about cutting your throat if he needed money for a fix.'

The door opened and a young blonde secretary squeezed in. Every male eye in the room admired her, delighted with the pleasant distraction. The girl searched the faces until she spotted Clarke. Someone whistled softly, then stifled it. She handed two fax sheets over and they were passed across the table. Clarke read through quickly, then turned back to the first page. He frowned.

'Okay,' he announced. 'According to witnesses Marks and her friend Joan Armstrong did not get off the train at Sydney Parade. They both waited until the next stop and left together. They were seen later in Balfe's pub in Ringsend.' Balfe's was a notorious drug hangout, a dump where many dealers plied their trade and took their orders. 'Micko Kelly and Marks were seen leaving together sometime after six thirty, heading in the direction of Sandymount Park. There's no mention of the Armstrong girl being with them.' He stopped and held the second page at a slight distance to make out the smudged print. 'Marks was carrying a bag. She was not dressed in her uniform.'

Murphy stood up slowly and began edging towards the exit. He carried his jacket over his shoulder. Before he opened the door he turned back. 'It's over to you now, Jim. I'd say we go for Kelly. But for Christ's sake don't start a riot.'

'I want the word on the streets immediately.' Clarke rested one hand on the grip of his crutch. He wiped a handkerchief across his face and back over his hair. It only made him look more bedraggled than usual. 'We want Kelly. If he's seen, get him. We mustn't force him underground. If he gets wind we're after him he could hide for weeks.' Notepads fanned perspiring faces. 'Put out feelers among the scag-heads, find out where exactly he's shacked up and does he use the same room all the time? Use any favours you're owed. Knock a few heads if necessary.' He noticed he was breathing heavily, the adrenalin rush pounding him on. 'I want him by tonight.' He stopped, face
set rigid. 'Otherwise we'll drag the bastard out at dawn tomorrow.' A cheer filled the room.

'Talk to the Armstrong girl again,' Clarke pulled Molloy aside. 'Call after school while one of her parents is at home.' Molloy craned his head closer. 'Say you've learned where Jennifer went to after she got off the train. Don't mention Balfe's pub or anything to do with Kelly. Just say you'd like her to think real hard in case there's anything she may have forgotten. Leave it at that.' From outside came the whirl of cameras clicking. 'There's more to this than messing with drugs. There was no reason for her to lie. She's hiding something.' He blinked at the sunlight streaming in through the open door. 'And find Marks' schoolbag and clothes.'

The search for Micko Kelly began just after midday. Around inner-city police stations faxes and phone calls bounced back and forth. A number of unmarked cars and plain-clothes officers positioned themselves in the narrow streets and alleys around Hillcourt Mansions. Mobile phones kept each in contact.

Known dealers, junkies and informers were pulled aside and quizzed about his whereabouts. Did you see Kelly today? When did you see him last? Where did you see him last? What is he shooting up? Where does he get it? Where does he go when he's desperate? The information slowly filtered in and was relayed to Clarke as he waited at police headquarters. He'd despatched Moss Kavanagh onto the streets to work the prostitute scene. Many of the girls were on the game to feed their heroin habit and knew the drug scene backwards. The offer of a few clean twenty-pound notes without the usual discomfort opened mouths. More information came in than Clarke had hoped for. Everything except the whereabouts of Micko Kelly.

At that time, now after seven in the evening, Kelly was setting up a massive fix in the room he hadn't left all day. The junkie mother with her junkie baby had done him a
favour and gone out on the streets and bought him seventy pounds' worth of crack cocaine, two deals of heroin and sixteen Rohypnol tablets. She'd also bought two tablets she was told were Ecstasy. In return he'd given her seventy recently mugged pounds and a bag of cannabis. The two felt well pleased with the transactions, Kelly even forgetting his threats to slit the screeching child's throat. They went to their respective rooms to while away the night in a drug-induced stupor.