screen.
‘What on earth …?’ exclaimed Cassie as the sudden increase in volume startled her. Her annoyance faded when she saw the look on her husband’s face. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘Are you all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I have.’ Motram had gone pale. He sat down beside Cassie at the table, eyes still glued to the screen until the report concerning the death of a young Royal Marine in Afghanistan had ended. ‘I knew him.’
Cassie’s eyes opened wide. ‘How?’ she asked.
‘He was the donor I was asked to screen in London.’
‘Did you know he was a soldier?’
‘No. He wasn’t in uniform when I met him and the subject of what he did for a living didn’t come up. We were under instructions to keep everything on a professional level. No idle chit-chat.’
‘His poor family,’ said Cassie; then, as doubts entered her mind, ‘Mind you, I wouldn’t have thought there had been time to get back to Afghanistan … Are you absolutely sure it’s him? Did you get his name?’
Motram shook his head. ‘He wasn’t introduced to me at the hospital. It was part of the secrecy thing: the patient was Patient X and the donor was, well, the donor. But I’m sure it’s him. I liked him; he was a nice chap, a bit nervous about the procedure, ironic really when you consider what he was engaged in abroad.’
‘How bizarre,’ said Cassie. ‘How on earth did a Royal Marine serving in Afghanistan come to be donating bone marrow to a Saudi prince in South Kensington?’
‘It is bizarre,’ agreed Motram. ‘He must have gone back to Afghanistan almost immediately after donating his marrow … and been in action immediately after that. How unlucky was that?’
‘You know what I think?’ asked Cassie, leaning across the table conspiratorially and patting John’s arm.
‘What?’
‘Mistaken identity. You’re getting to an age when all young men start to look the same to you.’
Motram smiled but still seemed preoccupied. ‘You know, I think I’m going to give Laurence Samson a ring … Sir Laurence Samson of Harley Street, by the way.’
Cassie made a face to feign how impressed she was, and returned to reading her cookery book. ‘Give him my best …’ she murmured.
Motram retuned a few minutes later looking crestfallen.
‘Well?’
‘You were right. Mistaken identity.’
‘There you are then. Still, it obviously gave you quite a shock.’
Motram seemed deep in thought.
‘John, are you all right?’
‘I just can’t believe it wasn’t him,’ said Motram. ‘That marine was the absolute spitting image … I need to see his photo again, get some more details. Maybe the BBC News website will have something.’ He went off to turn on the computer he shared with Cassie while she, with a slight shake of her head, returned to her reading. She had made her decision about dinner and was in the early stages of making a risotto when Motram returned and said, ‘The report says he was wounded by shrapnel on the 8th: the wounds became infected and he died some days later in a field hospital … I saw the donor at St Raphael’s on the 8th.’
‘So it couldn’t have been him.’
‘I suppose not.’
After a long silence during which John fidgeted a lot, to Cassie’s annoyance, he suddenly said, ‘They said the dead marine came from Glasgow.’
Cassie looked at her husband, wondering why that should be significant.
‘The man I saw had a Scottish accent.’
ELEVEN
Drier weather moved in late on Sunday and there was even a glimpse of sun on Monday morning when Motram set off for Dryburgh in much better spirits. It was agreed upon his arrival that work should begin right away. Fielding and Smith checked their data from their ground-radar survey and placed stakes in the ground at appropriate intervals before firing up a miniature JCB and beginning the excavation. Motram and Blackstone exchanged smiles as its shovel scooped out the first bucket of
‘What on earth …?’ exclaimed Cassie as the sudden increase in volume startled her. Her annoyance faded when she saw the look on her husband’s face. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘Are you all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I have.’ Motram had gone pale. He sat down beside Cassie at the table, eyes still glued to the screen until the report concerning the death of a young Royal Marine in Afghanistan had ended. ‘I knew him.’
Cassie’s eyes opened wide. ‘How?’ she asked.
‘He was the donor I was asked to screen in London.’
‘Did you know he was a soldier?’
‘No. He wasn’t in uniform when I met him and the subject of what he did for a living didn’t come up. We were under instructions to keep everything on a professional level. No idle chit-chat.’
‘His poor family,’ said Cassie; then, as doubts entered her mind, ‘Mind you, I wouldn’t have thought there had been time to get back to Afghanistan … Are you absolutely sure it’s him? Did you get his name?’
Motram shook his head. ‘He wasn’t introduced to me at the hospital. It was part of the secrecy thing: the patient was Patient X and the donor was, well, the donor. But I’m sure it’s him. I liked him; he was a nice chap, a bit nervous about the procedure, ironic really when you consider what he was engaged in abroad.’
‘How bizarre,’ said Cassie. ‘How on earth did a Royal Marine serving in Afghanistan come to be donating bone marrow to a Saudi prince in South Kensington?’
‘It is bizarre,’ agreed Motram. ‘He must have gone back to Afghanistan almost immediately after donating his marrow … and been in action immediately after that. How unlucky was that?’
‘You know what I think?’ asked Cassie, leaning across the table conspiratorially and patting John’s arm.
‘What?’
‘Mistaken identity. You’re getting to an age when all young men start to look the same to you.’
Motram smiled but still seemed preoccupied. ‘You know, I think I’m going to give Laurence Samson a ring … Sir Laurence Samson of Harley Street, by the way.’
Cassie made a face to feign how impressed she was, and returned to reading her cookery book. ‘Give him my best …’ she murmured.
Motram retuned a few minutes later looking crestfallen.
‘Well?’
‘You were right. Mistaken identity.’
‘There you are then. Still, it obviously gave you quite a shock.’
Motram seemed deep in thought.
‘John, are you all right?’
‘I just can’t believe it wasn’t him,’ said Motram. ‘That marine was the absolute spitting image … I need to see his photo again, get some more details. Maybe the BBC News website will have something.’ He went off to turn on the computer he shared with Cassie while she, with a slight shake of her head, returned to her reading. She had made her decision about dinner and was in the early stages of making a risotto when Motram returned and said, ‘The report says he was wounded by shrapnel on the 8th: the wounds became infected and he died some days later in a field hospital … I saw the donor at St Raphael’s on the 8th.’
‘So it couldn’t have been him.’
‘I suppose not.’
After a long silence during which John fidgeted a lot, to Cassie’s annoyance, he suddenly said, ‘They said the dead marine came from Glasgow.’
Cassie looked at her husband, wondering why that should be significant.
‘The man I saw had a Scottish accent.’
ELEVEN
Drier weather moved in late on Sunday and there was even a glimpse of sun on Monday morning when Motram set off for Dryburgh in much better spirits. It was agreed upon his arrival that work should begin right away. Fielding and Smith checked their data from their ground-radar survey and placed stakes in the ground at appropriate intervals before firing up a miniature JCB and beginning the excavation. Motram and Blackstone exchanged smiles as its shovel scooped out the first bucket of
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