coming downstairs.
‘Shit.’ Dawn glanced towards the door. ‘No wonder he stays in most nights.’
Winter met Pete Lamb for a drink in Old Portsmouth – Pete’s suggestion. He was down there already sorting out some charts at the Sailing Club and he’d be happy to talk about Hennessey. Booze was cheap at the club but the bar didn’t open until eight, so they walked across to the Still and West, a pub at the very tip of Point, a finger of land curling in from the harbour mouth.
‘He’s gone missing,’ Pete said at once, ‘which is where I come in.’
They were sitting at a table outside, the sun still hot. Ferries churned in and out through the harbour narrows, and across the mouth of the Camber Dock, a couple of hundred metres away, there was a perfect view of the construction site that would soon become Gunwharf Quays.
Pete was talking about the new apartments.
‘
How
much?’
‘Half a million. That’s top whack, of course, for the penthouse suites on top.’
Winter turned to peer at the forest of cranes. Hard to imagine anyone paying half a million quid for a stake in that chaos.
‘Have you seen the plans?’
‘You’re joking. I live in a bungalow. In Bedhampton.’
‘Then you should. I’ll get you a brochure. Suit you down to the ground.’
He explained briefly about his deal with Mal Garrett, picking up the odd day here and there, background inquiries, relieved that Winter didn’t bother with the usual health warning. Of course it was dodgy taking work while suspended, but in a way it wasn’t the money at all. More the chance to keep his hand in.
‘And Cath?’
‘Won’t touch me with a bargepole. Thinks I’m potty.’
‘Potty, bollocks. She wouldn’t have suggested this if that’s what she thought.’
Pete hid a smile, not pursuing the point. They were here to talk about Hennessey. Where did Winter want him to start?
Winter told him what had happened at the Marriott. What was Pete’s interest?
‘He’s skipped the deadline on three of those flats. We’re talking way over a million and the management want Mal to find him before they foreclose on the option. That’s not the half of it, of course.’ He paused, looking at Winter. ‘You’re telling me you don’t know about this guy?’
Winter shook his head. ‘Should I?’ he grunted.
Pete held his gaze a moment longer, checking for the wind-up, then disappeared into the pub for refills. Back with another couple of pints, he settled down again.
Hennessey was a gynaecological surgeon. His speciality was hysterectomies and he had a reputation for whipping out middle-aged wombs quicker than anyone else in the business. He had a private practice in Harley Street and also did work for the National Health Service. In the eighties and nineties, he’d done very nicely for himself. Hence his interest in the real estate.
‘So what’s the story?’
‘You’re really telling me you haven’t heard of this guy?’
Winter shook his head again. Just the mention of the word ‘surgeon’ brought the blood pulsing to his head again and he took a deep pull at his glass to steady himself. He should have given the consultant a seeing-to while he still had the chance. There were some kinds of hurt that only violence could sort out.
‘So what happened? What did this guy do?’
Pete was warming up now. Hennessey had been in the papers only recently. Dozens and dozens of operations had gone disastrously wrong. According to the experts, hysterectomy wasn’t rocket science, yet Hennessey seemed to have been crap at it, cutting the wrong tubes, leaving damaged tissues unstitched, causing all kinds of post-operative mayhem in his race to get through the patient list. Perfectly healthy wombs had been chopped out after misdiagnoses. Women had been left incontinent for life. One or two had nearly died. And all because this butcher kidded them he knew what he was doing.
Winter nodded grimly. Bastard medics.
‘He’s up before the GMC for
‘Shit.’ Dawn glanced towards the door. ‘No wonder he stays in most nights.’
Winter met Pete Lamb for a drink in Old Portsmouth – Pete’s suggestion. He was down there already sorting out some charts at the Sailing Club and he’d be happy to talk about Hennessey. Booze was cheap at the club but the bar didn’t open until eight, so they walked across to the Still and West, a pub at the very tip of Point, a finger of land curling in from the harbour mouth.
‘He’s gone missing,’ Pete said at once, ‘which is where I come in.’
They were sitting at a table outside, the sun still hot. Ferries churned in and out through the harbour narrows, and across the mouth of the Camber Dock, a couple of hundred metres away, there was a perfect view of the construction site that would soon become Gunwharf Quays.
Pete was talking about the new apartments.
‘
How
much?’
‘Half a million. That’s top whack, of course, for the penthouse suites on top.’
Winter turned to peer at the forest of cranes. Hard to imagine anyone paying half a million quid for a stake in that chaos.
‘Have you seen the plans?’
‘You’re joking. I live in a bungalow. In Bedhampton.’
‘Then you should. I’ll get you a brochure. Suit you down to the ground.’
He explained briefly about his deal with Mal Garrett, picking up the odd day here and there, background inquiries, relieved that Winter didn’t bother with the usual health warning. Of course it was dodgy taking work while suspended, but in a way it wasn’t the money at all. More the chance to keep his hand in.
‘And Cath?’
‘Won’t touch me with a bargepole. Thinks I’m potty.’
‘Potty, bollocks. She wouldn’t have suggested this if that’s what she thought.’
Pete hid a smile, not pursuing the point. They were here to talk about Hennessey. Where did Winter want him to start?
Winter told him what had happened at the Marriott. What was Pete’s interest?
‘He’s skipped the deadline on three of those flats. We’re talking way over a million and the management want Mal to find him before they foreclose on the option. That’s not the half of it, of course.’ He paused, looking at Winter. ‘You’re telling me you don’t know about this guy?’
Winter shook his head. ‘Should I?’ he grunted.
Pete held his gaze a moment longer, checking for the wind-up, then disappeared into the pub for refills. Back with another couple of pints, he settled down again.
Hennessey was a gynaecological surgeon. His speciality was hysterectomies and he had a reputation for whipping out middle-aged wombs quicker than anyone else in the business. He had a private practice in Harley Street and also did work for the National Health Service. In the eighties and nineties, he’d done very nicely for himself. Hence his interest in the real estate.
‘So what’s the story?’
‘You’re really telling me you haven’t heard of this guy?’
Winter shook his head again. Just the mention of the word ‘surgeon’ brought the blood pulsing to his head again and he took a deep pull at his glass to steady himself. He should have given the consultant a seeing-to while he still had the chance. There were some kinds of hurt that only violence could sort out.
‘So what happened? What did this guy do?’
Pete was warming up now. Hennessey had been in the papers only recently. Dozens and dozens of operations had gone disastrously wrong. According to the experts, hysterectomy wasn’t rocket science, yet Hennessey seemed to have been crap at it, cutting the wrong tubes, leaving damaged tissues unstitched, causing all kinds of post-operative mayhem in his race to get through the patient list. Perfectly healthy wombs had been chopped out after misdiagnoses. Women had been left incontinent for life. One or two had nearly died. And all because this butcher kidded them he knew what he was doing.
Winter nodded grimly. Bastard medics.
‘He’s up before the GMC for
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