Dunbar spent the following morning at his desk in the hospital making notes from the figures on the computer disks and asking Ingrid to provide some more information about certain topics. He had identified a lack of information about catering costs at Medic Ecosse and thought that asking her to prepare a breakdown of meal costs over the past eighteen months should keep her busy while he concentrated on other things. He was relieved not to have stumbled on anything that had been missed from the disks supplied by Giordano’s office. The information given to him was on the whole pretty comprehensive.
Halfway through the morning he noticed something else. The patient records had at first seemed satisfactory in terms of listing treatment given and correlating this with itemized costing, enabling him to check billed sums against monies received but, in treating this as an academic exercise to fill in the time, he noticed an anomaly. The records of Omega patients’ bills were not itemized. There was no way of checking on their treatment.
He could see why Giordano’s office had thought he might well be satisfied with only the final sum — it was many thousands of pounds in all cases — but it was something he could ask Ingrid about. In the meantime, he rang The Beeches Hospice on his mobile phone and asked if he might visit Sheila Barnes that afternoon.
‘Are you a relative?’ asked the female voice.
Dunbar paused momentarily to reflect on how often that question was asked every day. ‘No, just an old friend,’ he lied.
‘I see. Well, I don’t see any problem there. We encourage our patients to live as normal a life as possible up to the very end. Shall we say three o’clock? I have to suggest a time so that we can adjust Mrs Barnes’s medication accordingly. It would be a wasted journey if she was asleep when you arrived. On the other hand, we have to keep her as comfortable as possible. It’s sometimes a fine line.’
‘I understand,’ said Dunbar, starting to feel guilty about what he was doing, though not guilty enough to call the whole thing off. ‘I’ll be there at three.’
Ingrid returned shortly before lunch-time with facts and figures about how much patient meals cost to prepare, what the clients were charged and what the profit margins were. ‘I’m sure you’ll find we haven’t been undercharging.’ She spoke pleasantly but managed to convey that she thought she’d been sent on a fool’s errand.
‘It’s as well to have all the figures to hand,’ said Dunbar, hoping he sounded like an accountant.
‘Is there anything else you’d like me to do?’ asked Ingrid.
‘As a matter of fact there is. I’m a bit puzzled about the information given to me on the Omega patients.’
Ingrid’s expression became serious. ‘Really? Why?’ she asked.
‘Well, basically there isn’t any.’
Ingrid looked puzzled. She came over to stand behind Dunbar and peered down at the screen. ‘I was sure I saw figures for them when I copied the disk for you.’ She leaned over and tapped computer keys until patients’ records came up, then kept one elegant finger on the down-key to scroll through them.
‘There,’ she announced, removing her finger and pointing at the screen. ‘There’s one. A ten-day stay, netting seventeen thousand pounds. Not bad, eh?’
‘But for what?’ asked Dunbar.
Ingrid looked at Dunbar in a way he found hard to interpret. She was either puzzled or seeing him as some kind of mental defective. ‘Forgive me, Doctor,’ she said. ‘I thought your interest lay in establishing that we were maximizing our income from clients and getting the best possible return for the investment of taxpayers’ money?’
‘That’s broadly true,’ agreed Dunbar.
Ingrid appeared to have difficulty in controlling her impulses which Dunbar, reading her body language, guessed were to throw her hands in the air, shake her head and shout, ‘Then why in God’s name do you want to know anything as irrelevant as that?’ Instead she said, ‘I suppose we thought that a profit of seventeen thousand pounds for a ten-day stay would be enough to satisfy you without itemizing the patient’s treatment.’
Dunbar mutely agreed that this was the case. He wondered for a moment just how far he should press this point. On the one hand, he wanted to establish that he had the right to ask for any information he wanted. On the other, he didn’t want to push his credentials as the village idiot when all he was doing was thinking up things to keep Ingrid busy. ‘It doesn’t even say what the patient was in here for,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ingrid. ‘It’s this confidentiality thing we have. I suppose we thought you’d be happy with the final income figures. If it’s any help, I can tell you that this particular Omega patient had a baby here. It was feared that there might be complications but in the end everything was fine. In fact, if I remember rightly, all three Omega patients we’ve had were in for obstetrics care. Very rich men are always anxious that their wives have the best of care during pregnancy when problems are thought possible. Would you still like me to organize an itemized costing of their stay?’
Dunbar shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.’
‘Is there anything else I can help with?’
‘Not for the moment,’ smiled Dunbar. ‘I’m going to take the afternoon off, see the delights of Glasgow.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ said Ingrid.
Why was a sneer considered by so many to be the basis of sophistication? he wondered idly as he watched the door close.
He set off for Helensburgh just after one o’clock after checking the route in the AA road maps thoughtfully provided with the car. It seemed straightforward enough, just a matter of following the northern shore of the Clyde down to where Helensburgh sat at the foot of the Gare Loch. As he drove along the Clydebank expressway and out along the Dumbarton Road he passed the turn-off to Lisa Fairfax’s place. He couldn’t help but think of her sitting there in the flat with her demented mother. It made him reflect on how people’s lives could be ruined by notions of filial duty.
The sun was shining when he drove into Helensburgh and parked down by the sea front. The matron of The Beeches had told him to follow the signs directing tourists to Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s famous Hill House; the hospice was located in Harlaw Road, the street running parallel to and a little behind Hill House, but he had time in hand so he decided to stretch his legs first and also find something to eat. He had given lunch a miss in Glasgow because he hadn’t been sure how long the journey down would take him. In the event it had taken under an hour. He watched the waves for a bit until the wind chilled him, then he went in search of a bar or cafe. He found an outlet of the Pierre Victoire chain, where he had a mushroom omelette and a glass of wine. He followed this with two cups of good coffee and a consideration of what he was going to ask Sheila Barnes — if, indeed, she was in any position to answer.
The Beeches was a large, stone-built Victorian villa with ivy clinging to its walls on the two sides Dunbar could see as he approached. In another setting it might have been forbidding but here, above the town and with views over the water, it seemed pleasantly neutral in the pale yellow, wintery afternoon sunshine. Dunbar rang the bell, and was led along to the matron’s office by a woman orderly dressed in a pink uniform and thick brown stockings. Her shoulders sloped dramatically from left to right. As he followed her he had to fight a conscious urge to emulate her posture. He was very aware of the warmth of the building and suspected that they must keep the heating full on.
‘Dr Dunbar, please come in,’ said a pleasant woman in her late forties in response to the orderly’s announcement of his arrival. She had prematurely white hair, suggesting that she had been blonde in her youth, and wore the kind of professional half-smile affected by senior nursing staff to put strangers at their ease.
‘Mrs Barnes is awake, although I have to say that she couldn’t recall you when I told her you were coming.’ The smile didn’t waver but her eyes asked the question.