There was a practical aspect to the theft, as well. Consider the circumstances. What was I supposed to do without boots? Wander into town in a pair of disposable slippers? Hospital footwear was good enough to get me to the admin wing, though. And, appropriately enough, the first office I came to belonged to the Head of Security. But there was a snag. His secretary spilled the beans within twenty seconds of me approaching her desk. It turned out the guy liked playing golf more than he liked doing his job. Specially when the weather was good. It was unheard of for him to show his face in the office when the sun was out, she said. That doesn’t happen all that often in England, particularly in late autumn. But it was everyone’s bad luck that for the second day running, the sky was blue. So, having verified that his room really was empty, I moved on to the next door in the corridor. It led to the Chief Executive’s secretary’s desk.
Only she was missing, too.
I’d imagine Chief Executives aren’t generally too concerned about pilfered footwear, unless it’s their own belongings that have gone missing, but the whole boot situation – robbed by one of the people I’d been hurt looking out for – was making my blood boil. So, I didn’t waste any time. I went straight for the inner sanctum.
For a moment I thought this office was empty, too, but then I saw the top of a bald head peeping out from above a huge computer monitor that sat on a desk at the far end of the room. The head was strangely pointed, and as I moved closer I could see that its owner was surprisingly young. Probably no older than his late thirties. He was tapping away at a wireless keyboard, and made no effort to look away from his screen even when I would have been near enough to reach out and wipe away the tiny beads of sweat that covered his shiny scalp.
“You’re in the wrong place,” he said after another fifteen seconds, still without even glancing at me.
I turned back, took hold of a wooden chair that was tucked under an oval meeting table by the right hand wall, brought it over to the desk, and sat down.
“What are you doing?” he said. He was looking at me now, and struggling to contain a slight tick in the corner of his left eye. “Don’t waste time making yourself comfortable. You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Why not?” I said.
“Because I’m not a doctor.”
“You think I’m looking for a medic?”
“Well, let’s see. You’re wearing Health Service pyjamas, which means you’re a patient. And you’re in a hospital. What else could you want?”
I took a moment to look around at the walls of his office. They were lined with motivational posters. Seventeen of them. All neatly framed. And all utterly nauseating.
“You’re the Chief Executive of this place?” I said.
“Well, let’s see,” he said. “This is the Chief Executive’s office. And my name’s on the door. So, the answer must be yes.”
“Then tell me something. To become the boss of a whole hospital, do you go through some kind of training?”
He nodded, very slightly.
“And when you were doing this training, did you pick up anything about making assumptions?” I said.
He didn’t respond.
“It’s a straight-forward question,” I said. “Did your tutors recommend assumption-making? Or not?”
“OK,” he said, after a long pause. “Point taken. You have another reason to be here. Let me guess. You want to complain about something. Another dissatisfied patient who thinks he knows best. What is it this time? The food not tasty enough? Pyjamas not comfortable?”
Before I could reply I heard a noise, behind me. It was the door opening. Someone came through. They were wearing heels. I looked round and saw a woman approaching. In her early fifties, I’d say, with a long blue skirt, cream blouse, and auburn hair cut into a neat, symmetrical bob. She held my eye as she moved, and couldn’t help drifting wide of my chair as she passed me, as if she was afraid I’d pass on some revolting disease.
“Found it,” she said, handing the manila file she’d been carrying to the man behind the desk. I could see a logo on the front - the words Human Resources formed into a circle around the hospital crest - but not anyone’s name.
“Sebastian had it?” he said.
“He did,” she said. “Just as we thought. He was off-site today, but I had to wait for his assistant - that useless Julie - to nip out to Starbucks.”
“They both denied having seen it. Idiots.”
“They always do.”
“It was in his bottom drawer?”
“Where else? And look,” she said, pointing to a coffee stain on the folder’s tattered front cover. “See the state it’s in? It wasn’t like that when we sent it back to them, last time.”
“Well, that’s the least of our worries,” he said. “Good work, finding it. And Mags? Keep your ears open. Any more complaints about you-know-who - any incidents at all, however small - I want to know.”
The woman started back towards the door, but stopped after one step.
“Your visitor,” she said. “He doesn’t have an appointment. Is he...? Or do you want me to...?”
“What do you think?” the man said, turning back to me. “Are you...?”
“Don’t worry,” I said, after a moment. “You clearly have bigger problems than me. Lost files. Coffee stains. The stuff nightmares are made of. I’ll be getting out of your hair now. So to speak. And I’ll find someone else to help me.”
“Good idea,” the man said. “Best of luck with that.”
“I think I’ll start with the police. I’m sure they’ll be much more interested.”
I wasn’t even half way out of my chair before the man spoke again.
“Wait,” he said. “You’re calling the police? Here? To the hospital? Why? What’s the problem?”
I lowered myself back down and met his gaze, but I didn’t reply.
“Look, maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” he said after a few seconds, then flashed me a sickly smile. “Why don’t we start this conversation all over again? If there’s a problem, I’d be more than happy to help. That’s what I’m here for, at the end of the day. There’s no need to go calling anyone else. So, please. Tell me what’s wrong.”
I didn’t answer. His change of heart wasn’t fooling anyone. I was inclined to just walk out and let him believe I was following through with the police. The local plod was unlikely to spring into action over a pair of stolen boots, obviously, but the prospect of a horde of uniforms descending on the place seemed to have got him pretty rattled. In another second I’d have been heading for the exit, but then my eyes were drawn to the poster above the man’s head. It showed a huge shark about to snap up a tiny minnow, with the caption, “AMBITION - If you can’t swim with the big fish, stay out of the water.”
“Can we at least start with your name?” he said.
I decided to stay. Partly to give him the chance to atone for the posters. But mainly because old habits die hard. I wanted to see why he was so worried about the police.