Scalpel (31 page)

Paddy Holland stared through the window into ICU, confused and concerned. 'Well I'm telling you it just doesn't fit in,' he said, his brow deeply furrowed. 'I know Tom Morgan, I went to college with him. Sure he's a bit of a bollox, always thinking through his dick, but a murderer? No. That doesn't make sense, that just doesn't fit in.'

The nurse giggled at his language. She had never seen him like this before, so concerned about something other than his children or his work.

If anyone had asked me I'd have said Dean Lynch, thought Holland. Now he even scares the hell outa me. That's who I would have picked if I was in the detective business.

'It can't be Tom Morgan,' he stated again. 'Tom's too fond of women. He might screw them to death, but kill them, never.'

'Well I'm only telling you what's going on,' the nurse said defiantly. She was no great fan of Tom Morgan. She considered him a randy, irresponsible, reckless, feckless bollox. And anyway he'd stood her up on a date once.

Paddy Holland poured himself another cup of tea, sipped and pulled a face. The tea was cold. While he waited for the blood results and the nurses monitored Gordon O'Brien's battle for life, he had time to think about it a lot. It can't be Tom Morgan, it just can't be. And what could they have found in his room? Slowly but pressingly a vision came into his head. He looked into ICU again, trying to dislodge the
image but the vision became stronger and he felt his heart beat slightly faster than usual. Oh my God, maybe that's it! Oh my God! Maybe that's it!

He pulled at the drawers furiously, throwing aside pathology forms and prescription pads until he found what he was looking for, the Dublin telephone directory. He flicked it open and tore at the pages until he reached G. 'Garda, Garda, Garda, where the hell are you? Gottit! Garda stations.' His finger ran down until he came to Store Street and he scribbled the number down on the back of his hand with a biro, then stood up quickly and went into ICU.

'Well?'

'No change.'

'BP okay?'

'So-so.'

'Okay, I have to make a quick telephone call. I'm just going down to my office. You can get me there.'

'Fine.'

In his office he shut the door and dialled.

'I'd like to speak to the duty officer.'

There was a pause, then apologies came back down the line.

'Okay, could I speak to Kate Hamilton, eh… Detective Sergeant Kate Hamilton. The detective in charge of the Central Maternity Hospital murder investigation.'

The cautious voice at the other end wondered why.

'My name is Dr Paddy Holland. I'm a paediatrician at the hospital. There's something I've just thought of that may be important and if you don't mind I'd prefer not to explain it over the phone. Is there anyone from the case there at the moment I could talk to?'

The cautious voice said no, but offered to get in touch immediately with Detective Sergeant Hamilton.

'Could you? That would be great, thanks very much. I'll be at the hospital all morning. Tell her to tell switch to put her through directly to ICU.'

The phone rang again three minutes later.

Kate Hamilton was sitting on the side of her bed, half-awake, half-asleep, half-dead from exhaustion. The Garda from Store Street Garda station with the cautious voice had rung and passed on the message from Holland. He also told her they had finally got a doctor to do the AIDS test on Tom Morgan. They'd tried all the previous evening but somehow each of their usual duty doctors became unavailable, or had the flu, suddenly developing anything and everything as soon as they heard it was a blood test on another doctor. The shutters had slammed down and a different policy of non-cooperation was enacted. This time it was no master plan, just that inbuilt sense of self-preservation inherent in the medical profession when one of their own is having trouble.

The Garda also relayed the news of a fax just in from LA, from a Mr Jan Pietersen, confirming he and Tom Morgan had been together all of the evening and night of Tuesday, 11th February 1997. The fax added that Mr Pietersen could confirm this by affadavit or in person, but that would take about a week. Mr Pietersen had asked for confirmation that his fax had been received.

'Damn and blast it,' ranted Hamilton. 'Ring me as soon as you get that AIDS result, call me on my mobile.'

'Could I speak to Dr Paddy Holland?' She could hear a lot of commotion in the background, a woman crying and what sounded like a man sobbing. God almighty, what's going on there?

'Detective Hamilton? Hi, it's Dr Paddy Holland here. Look something's just after coming into my head about this murder enquiry. It may or may not be important but I think you should know about it.'

'Know about what?' Hamilton was trying to speak gently so as not to waken Rory yet urgently so as not to let Holland feel his information wasn't important.

'I'm sorry, I can't go into it over the phone, it's too delicate and important. And we have an emergency going on here.
We've a very sick baby and the parents have just arrived. Could you come in and meet me?'

Hamilton was already fishing for her clothes. 'I'll be in in an hour, is that okay?'

More crying could be heard down the line and Hamilton sensed a hand going over the mouthpiece of the telephone. Then Holland was back. 'Yeah, that'd be great. I'll be in ICU or the Special Care Unit.'

'What's that?'

'That's where we look after the low birth-weight babies. Second floor, West Wing. Okay?'

'Okay,' said Hamilton as she turned to wake Rory.

'Come on Rory, time to get up. Come on sleepy head, wakey, wakey.' Kate Hamilton lifted the still sleeping child and cuddled him awake. He yawned and clasped her tightly, pushed his thumb into his mouth and snuggled against her chest. She stroked his hair, stroked his head, stroked his face and kissed him. For some strange reason, she held him tighter than usual. For some strange reason she didn't want that moment to end but for some strange reason she felt it would. Kate Hamilton, for some strange reason, had a sense of foreboding, of impending doom. A shudder ran down her back and she found herself shivering, even though the radiators were on full blast and the room was warm. The two staggered over plastic railway tracks and engines into the kitchen where Hamilton rushed to get the breakfast cooked and get herself ready for the day at the same time. She glanced at the mess around her feet, then decided to ignore it.

'Come on Rory, finish off your toast, I have to go to work.'

Rory cocked an eye at her, one hand resting his head, the other inspecting the toast. 'Mummy?'

'Come on, Rory, I'll be late.'

'Mummy?'

'What is it? I hope you're not going to ask about a puppy again. I told you we're not getting a dog.'

Rory's face dropped, the toast dropped, a tear dropped.

'Damn!'

Half an hour later she dropped Rory off at playschool. 'See you later, give me a kiss.'

'Mummy?'

'Yes?'

'When can we get a puppy?'

'I'll talk to you later. I must fly. I'll talk to you later.'

Paddy Holland was talking to Harry and Sandra O'Brien at that very moment, trying desperately to comfort them.

'Your child is seriously ill, dangerously ill. We're doing all we can but he arrived here a very sick baby. The next twenty-four hours will be crucial.' Sandra fell to her knees at the side of the incubator; she was white and silent, but Big Harry couldn't hold back the well of tears he had been suppressing for days. He leaned against one of the walls and wept. Holland motioned to a nurse who came up and put an arm around Sandra, trying to console her as best she could. When Big Harry finally regained some form of composure, Holland sat him down on a chair and looked him straight in the eyes.

'Mr O'Brien, your baby's very ill but he's not, let me repeat that,
not,
dead. We'll do everything we can, we'll move mountains if we have to. But we'll not let him go without a fight. You and Sandra have got to help us, you've got to help
him,
as well.' He paused to let that sink in.

Somewhere in Harry O'Brien's mind a light flickered and then glowed. 'Tell us what to do, Doctor.' He wiped at his eyes with a handkerchief, then blew his nose. He stood up and went over to his wife and gently lifted her to her feet. He gathered her to him and held her tightly. 'What do you want us to do?'

Paddy Holland pulled two chairs over beside the incubator where Gordon O'Brien lay. His tiny chest was rising and falling rapidly, his limbs barely moving. His colour had improved somewhat, though.

'Sit there,' Holland pointed and then physically directed the parents to the chairs. 'Sit there and talk to him, stroke
him, kiss him. Let him know he's back with his mother and father again. Let him know he's loved again. Give him something to live for. Make him want to live.' He turned to Sandra. 'Make that little boy want to live for his mother. Let him know you're beside him from now on. Let him feel your touch and hear your voice. Let him know he's home again.'

The change in both Sandra and Harry O'Brien was impressive. They turned back towards the incubator and began to fight for the life of their only child. Paddy Holland ushered the nursing staff outside. 'Keep an eye on his basic observations and let me know if anything changes. We've done all we can. It's up to God whether that child lives or not. But at least they…' he nodded inside, '… at least they can feel they're doing something. If that child dies they'll know they were with him right to the end, battling with him.'

8.32 am

Tommy Malone was lying in bed in Betty's Greystones house listening to the news on Morning Ireland. Betty came in, ashen faced. She had listened in on the radio from the kitchen.

'D'ye wanna try some breakfast?'

Malone flicked a cigarette out of a packet and lit up, deep in thought. 'Nah. Thanks Betty all the same. Nah. I've some thinkin' to do.'

Ye sure have, thought Betty.

40

9.03 am

Special Care Unit, Central Maternity Hospital

Some nurses called it the Life Chamber, their distinction from the Death Chamber in execution-happy states in the USA. It was a large room of about thirty-by-thirty feet with eight separate open-topped incubators on which rested those tiny babies born sooner than expected. Some of the babies were connected to whooshing ventilators which artificially breathed the oxygen they needed but did not have the strength to obtain themselves. Most were under special heating machines and oxygen-pumping machines. Each baby had parchment-thin skin stretched over bones and tendons.

Each baby shared one distinct challenge: the fight for life.

The Life Chamber was where Kate Hamilton found herself waiting for Paddy Holland.

'You can't come in. Would you mind waiting in the office?' a nurse had asked.

'No, of course.'

The office had large clear glass windows allowing staff to keep an eye on all activity inside the Special Care Unit. Kate Hamilton stood and watched. She could remember so vividly her own confinement and one day wandering lost along this very corridor, coming to ask for directions and stumbling across the Special Care Unit. She hadn't been able to take her eyes away from it then and she still couldn't that morning, the fight for life she witnessed was so dramatic, the balance so delicate.

'Will he be long?'

'Hard to say. There's one little baby in there we're not too happy about. She's just had a brain scan. He's waiting on the result.'

'Which one?' Hamilton strained to see in further.

The nurse squinted inside. 'See the incubator he's at now? Well the one to his left, as you're looking. That one, on the left and at the back.'

Hamilton watched as Holland stooped to listen through a stethoscope to a small bundle lying under glaring lights. He stood up and gave a slight smile and she noticed the anxious look on the mother's face. He seemed unaware of the power he commanded. The nurses seemed unaware of the power they commanded. Their knowledge, skills and experience were powerful forces that moved among the cots and incubators. The forces of life.

Holland moved towards the at-risk baby and Hamilton could see him murmuring to the mother. He took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose as he spoke. She noticed the woman's chest heaving, then watched her sobbing, clutching at a rolled up handkerchief. Holland then placed a hand on the shoulder of the father who was staring down at the incubator where his child lay, his face contorted.

'He's had a lousy day already and it's only just gone nine.'

Hamilton turned back to the nurse, now watching the drama as well. 'Why?'

'He's been in since about five, down in ICU with that little kidnap baby most of the time.'

'How's the baby doing?'

'Not great, from what I hear.' Oh God, thought Hamilton. 'Then we had this little girl deteriorating. He's been up and down between here and ICU since I came on duty.'

Hamilton looked back. Holland was now talking with one of the nurses who nodded as she drew something into a syringe, then double checked it with him. He turned around, noticed Kate for the first time and raised a finger, acknowledging he had seen her. Don't go away, the finger suggested.

'Then one of his children rang and gave out to him for
not being there when she woke up.' The nurse half-smiled. 'She certainly gave him a rough time.'

Hamilton smiled wryly. Don't I know all about that sort of pressure.

'Hi, thanks for calling in. Look I'm real sorry to keep you hanging around but things have got a little bit out of control here this morning.' He looked haggard and drawn, his face almost grey from tiredness and strain. Hamilton couldn't help but notice he was embarrassed about his appearance as he pulled self-consciously at the white coat he was wearing. His tall frame was slumped with worry and concern. He turned to the nurse.

'Call me when the scan result comes in. I'm going down to my office with Detective Sergeant Hamilton.'

'Kate'll do,' Hamilton interrupted.

Holland smiled and Hamilton found herself smiling back and being embarrassed at doing so, like being caught admiring a man and him suddenly noticing.

'Kate, you and I are basically in the same business,' Holland began, cleaning his glasses with the end of his tie.

Hamilton's eyebrows almost disappeared into her hair.

'We're detectives. You go around all day looking for little bits of information to try and piece together who did this and who did that and why they did it in the first place. You look for clues all the time.'

Hamilton nodded, not sure where this was all leading.

'I'm a detective too. When I'm dealing with some of my patients I look for little clues as to how they're progressing or why they're not progressing. I grasp at little bits of information, tiny scraps can give me an insight as to what disease I'm dealing with. Does this make sense?'

'I'm listening.'

'Okay.' He sat back slightly and then leaned forward suddenly and with an intensity that surprised her. His eyes were half-closed, the eye lashes fluttering as he recounted in the correct order his observations and conclusions. Both his hands were clasped together as if in prayer.

'You're looking for a murderer. I know many of the doctors here have been less than helpful and maybe held back from speaking their mind out of fear of leading you up the wrong path or incriminating one of their colleagues incorrectly and finding themselves in the High Court next year.' He stopped and looked directly at her.

Hamilton said nothing.

'So I'm going to come out and tell you, on the record, my thoughts on this whole dreadful mess, right?'

'I'm all ears.' She opened up her notebook and clipped a ballpoint pen into action. 'Fire away.'

'Some time ago one of the consultants who works here accidentally let his car battery go flat. He'd been called for a delivery in the middle of the night and forgot to turn the headlights off. When he finally came back to it, later on, I was pulling into the car park and he asked if he could get a set of jump leads onto his battery from mine. When he got the power back two sets of alarms went off at once in his car. Two
different
sets of alarms. The noise nearly lifted the heart out of me.'

He paused. Hamilton hadn't written a word yet, not sure she wanted a lesson in jump leads.

'Now I was real surprised at this. I don't know anyone who has two sets of alarms on their car, especially as the car itself was worth less than the cost of the alarm systems themselves.'

'How do you know?' Hamilton was taking a sudden interest.

'I checked. I was so surprised I made a note of who fitted the alarms and rang them. I wanted something like that for myself. I've had two cars broken into, one finally stolen. You get to be a bit fed up with that.'

'Don't I know.' Hamilton once had the embarrassment of having her Special Branch car stolen from right outside Store Street Garda station.

'Well the car alarm company remembered it as a special job. They told me they'd never had a request like that before, not even on a new Merc and especially not on an old BMW.
Like eight years old. The fella told me the alarm system almost cost more than the car itself. We had a good laugh at that. And then he said something strange.' He paused briefly, as if trying to collect his thoughts before proceeding.

Hamilton sat rigid in the chair, listening. 'What did he say?'

'He said he had never met anyone as unusual as this man. He said he was secretive and meticulous about tiny details, careful with every word. He said he thought he was a bit of a weirdo, hovering around while the alarms were being installed. He felt threatened by the man, and he was only doing a simple alarm job for him. Why should he feel threatened?'

Hamilton had a feeling of dread in her stomach as she listened. That earlier foreboding returned, the sense of impending doom.

'But he also said that when he was fitting the car alarm he accidentally dislodged a secret compartment in the door panel. He was threading some wires or something and the compartment came loose and fell apart. Now there was nothing inside the compartment when he looked but he couldn't help feel that compartment and the expensive alarms on the not-so-expensive BMW were linked.'

'Did he do anything, tell anyone?'

'No, that's the funny thing. He said that when he thought about it and weighed it all up he reckoned it was none of his business. But when I pressed him on this he finally admitted.' Holland paused slightly again.

'What? Admitted what?'

'That he was scared of this man. He said he was so frightened he preferred to keep what he'd discovered to himself and leave it. Life's too short, he said, to be stirring up trouble.'

Hamilton now knew this was it,
this
was the break they had been looking for.

'Then he asked me did I know who the guy was. And do you know what?'

'What?'

'I suddenly realised I felt the same way as the car alarm fella. I said no. And I said no because I felt threatened by him too. And I work with him, he's supposed to be a colleague. I couldn't for the life of me figure out why I should feel threatened, but I did. And that's why I said no, like the car alarm fella.'

And who is the man. Who is this consultant?'

Holland didn't hesitate. 'His name is Dr Dean Lynch.'

Hamilton tried not to show any emotion. 'With respect, Dr Holland, it's not a crime to have two alarms on a car, even if it is a banger.'

'No, I accept that. But it's like I said a minute ago, it's a clue. We're grasping at straws, I know that.'

'What do you mean?'

'I know you've got Tom Morgan in gaol at the minute under suspicion of committing those murders.'

Hamilton started to interrupt but Holland continued.

'Don't ask me how I know, just take it I know. And I know something else, I know Tom Morgan from way back. He's a bollox, a womaniser, a horny bastard who'd screw the top on a bottle if he thought it'd give him a thrill. But he's not a killer. I rarely read people wrong. Certainly not that wrong.'

'Dr Holland…'

'Call me Paddy, if I'm to call you Kate. We're in this together, we've got to help each other.'

'Paddy, I appreciate your information, I really do. But without giving too much away I've got more hanging over Dr Morgan than a double car alarm.'

'Yes, I know that. You discovered something in his room, I believe.'

Hamilton looked at him sharply.

'Don't ask me how I know that either. I just know. So let me tell you another little scrap of possibly helpful information. It may mean nothing, it may mean something. I'm going to tell it anyway.'

He stopped again, cleared his throat and inspected his hands. 'I was called in yesterday morning early as well. We
have a little pre-term baby girl who's not in good shape and I was asked to check on her. I slipped out of the house and was back within an hour, the kids didn't even know I'd been out.'

That wouldn't happen in my house, thought Hamilton. Rory would be clinging to me like a leech.

'I left the unit and went up to my office in the private wing to collect some paperwork. I didn't bother to turn the light on as there was enough from the corridors. I had just gone in when I heard a door close, the door next to mine and on the left as you come in. Now I don't know why I looked out but I guess I was surprised anyone else would be around at that hour of the morning. I just caught sight of enough of him to recognise who he was.'

'Dr Lynch?'

'Exactly.'

'So what's the big deal?'

'Dr Lynch doesn't have a private office. Dr Lynch makes a big deal about that. Dr Lynch makes a big thing about one thing and one thing only in this hospital, and that's that Dr Lynch does not see private patients at all. He's strictly a public patients' consultant only.'

'So he doesn't need an office in the private wing?'

'Exactly. He's just never in the private wing consulting offices.
Never.
He makes no bones about the fact that he loathes the place.'

'So why was he sneaking round them so early in the morning?'

'Well, Kate, that's what I was asking myself all day yesterday. And then it slipped my mind and only came back to me earlier when I heard about Tom Morgan. I do know Lynch was in early for a difficult forceps delivery, but that should have been it. He should have delivered the baby and quit. There was certainly no need for him to go up to the private wing.'

Hamilton frowned. She was getting nervous. This was sounding spooky.

'It was when I learned your team discovered something in Tom Morgan's room that it suddenly hit me.'

'What hit you?'

'That's where Lynch was so early in the morning.'

Her heart thumped. 'Are you sure?'

'Certain. You see Morgan's room is the last along that corridor. Lynch had to be coming out of it and nowhere else. There's nothing else along that corridor.'

Hamilton nodded quickly, remembering the geography of the private wing when she'd called on Morgan.