Cold steel, p.1
Cold Steel, page 1
ABOUT THE BOOK
The body of a teenage girl is found in a Dublin park. She has been brutally stabbed to death. For Dublin’s police and politicians, the nightmare is just beginning. The dead girl is the daughter of a high-profile American surgeon who heads the Mercy Hospital's new Heart Foundation.
When DS Jim Clarke and his team pick up the trail of a suspect, the pressure is on to close in quickly. America is baying for justice. But do they have the right man?
At the Mercy Hospital Frank Clancy, consultant haematologist, is concerned about two unusual deaths. But when he decides to take a closer look he places his own life in danger ...
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Paul Carson is a doctor based in south Dublin, where he runs an Asthma and Allergy clinic for children. He has published a number of health books and, as well as writing for various medical journals, he was editor of Irish Doctor magazine. His first novel, Scalpel, was published in 1997 and spent seventeen weeks at number one on the Irish Times hardback bestseller lists. Dr Carson is married and has two children.
Also by Paul Carson
Scalpel
Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Paul Carson
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
COLD STEEL
Paul Carson
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781446457511
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published in the United Kingdom in 1999 by Arrow Books
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © Paul Carson 1998
The right of Paul Carson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in the Republic of Ireland in 1998 by William Heinemann
Arrow Books Limited
Random House UK Limited
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA
Random House UK Limited
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA
Random House Australia (Pty) Limited
20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, New South Wales 2061, Australia
Random House New Zealand Limited
18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand
Random House South Africa (Pty) Limited
Endulini, 5a Jubilee Road, Parktown 2193, South Africa
Random House UK Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 0 09 927929 0
To my wife, Jean, and my children, Emily and David, for putting up with the stolen hours in the attic.
To my agent, Darley Anderson, in London, for his encouragement.
To my editor, Lynne Drew, at William Heinemann, for her astute and constructive criticisms.
To sales and marketing at Random House for their support.
Finally to my partner, Dr Conor O’Toole, for looking after my health.
All of the characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
The doctors
My thanks for technical advice to Professor ‘Jack’ Harbison, forensic pathologist to the Republic of Ireland; forensic psychiatrist Dr Art O’Connor; psychiatrist to the National Drugs Treatment Centre in Dublin, Dr John O’Connor; orthopaedic surgeon Paul McNamee and finally Dr Rory O’Donnell, haematologist.
The detectives
I am also grateful to Dr James Donovan, founder and current head of Ireland’s Forensic Science Department who still carries the scars of an attempt to assassinate him. Thanks also to the members of Garda Siochana, Ireland’s largely unarmed police force, who provided background information.
Prologue
* * *
8.15 am, Tuesday, 12 May
Mercy Hospital, Dublin.
* * *
Dr Frank Clancy, physician specialising in diseases of the blood, crooked a phone between right ear and shoulder as he scribbled notes on a patient chart in his office.
‘Hi, Clancy here.’
A youngish female voice came back.
‘Dr Clancy, this is the lab. We have a rather unusual blood film we’d like you to look at.’
Clancy flicked over a page and continued his hurried scrawl, glancing at his watch.
‘What’s so unusual?’
‘There’s no white cells. It’s a full blood count and we’re not finding any white cells.’
Clancy stopped scribbling.
‘Full blood count?’ he checked.
‘Correct.’
‘No white cells?’
‘Definite.’
‘At all?’ Alarmed, incredulous.
‘None.’
Clancy slipped the chart onto the desk in front and sat down slowly, disturbed by what he was hearing. He shifted the phone into his right hand, thinking furiously. The absence of white cells was extremely serious, they were the body’s vital defenders against infection. Without them no patient could survive. He ran a hand through his hair, then glanced again at his watch. Behind time as usual.
‘I’ll be down when I can. Get the medical history and any other blood screens.’
‘Right away,’ the girl replied.
‘Oh,’ Clancy cut back, ‘leave details and ward number. I’d like to examine the patient myself.’ His voice suggested urgency.
‘It’ll all be here in fifteen minutes.’ Calm and efficient.
Clancy forced a grin and stood up. ‘Okay, I’ll be down soon.’
‘Thanks, Dr Clancy.’
Frank Clancy pulled on his white coat and hurried out from his office to the bustling wards. He steered past a group of students squinting at films on an X-ray viewing box and along to his medical team waiting at the middle of a row of beds.
‘Hi, sorry I’m late,’ he announced, avoiding the disapproving frown of the ward sister. ‘Where do we start? Who’s going to tell me about this patient?’ He picked up a chart and skimmed the tattered, dog-eared pages until he found the most recent entry, then nodded to his second in command. ‘Off you go.’
As the monologue began Clancy’s thoughts were already elsewhere. The telephone call worried him. Yet another patient on the wards deficient in white cells. That’s two, maybe three in as many months. What’s going on?
CONCERN GROWS FOR MISSING US SURGEON’S DAUGHTER
Police are concerned for the safety of missing schoolgirl Jennifer Marks. The eighteen-year-old failed to return home yesterday and a search for her began late last night. Extensive inquiries failed to determine the teenager’s movements after she left school yesterday afternoon. The search continued until after dark, when it was finally called off. Officers resumed door-to-door questioning at first light this morning.
Jennifer Marks is the only daughter of Dan Marks, the top US cardiac surgeon appointed head of this city’s recently established Heart Foundation. He was unavailable for comment this morning.
Tuesday, 12 May, Dublin Evening Post
(morning edition)
* * *
1
8.55 am,
Tuesday, 12 May.
* * *
CLICK.
A gasp filled the lecture theatre.
‘It is not my intention to disturb you this morning.’ Declan Kelleher, trauma surgeon at the Mercy Hospital, Dublin, stood at a lectern studying the tiered rows of third-year medical s tudents. There was no mistaking the shocked expressions on each young face. A few had momentarily averted their eyes from the image on the screen behind him. ‘However in trauma you often see the worst side of medicine, the blood and guts.’ He paused, then half turned to the colour transparency on display. In his right hand a light source directed a tiny red blip onto the screen.
‘Let’s try and make out what we are looking at.’ The red blip stopped at a bend on a limb. ‘That’s the knee joint,’ he explained, then moved the blip slowly along the image, ‘that’s what’s left of the lower tibia and fibula and ankle joint.’ Whispers spilled down from the middle rows. At the back a much older man shifted uneasily in his seat and eased out his right leg for comfort. He did not look towards the front, eyes firmly closed, lids flickering. He listened intently to every word. Kelleher turned to face the group again and pressed a button on the lectern.
CLICK.
‘Before we go any further, maybe we should remind ourselves what a normal lower limb looks like on X-ray.’
As a silver-grey image slotted into place, Kelleher trained the red blip. ‘That’s the femur, the large, strong bone that connects hip and knee joints. That’s the knee joint itself and underneath you can see normal tibia and fibula, ankle joint, metatarsal bones and phalanges, what we recognise as our toes.’
He turned back to the audience. Most eyes were on the screen, the rest on him. His tall frame, with head of grey hair that always seemed combed into permanent disorder, blocked one or two and they craned to see past him.
‘Let’s look at that first slide and see how much damage this patient sustained.’
CLICK.
The transparency glided onto the screen and all eyes turned to inspect. This time none of the heads turned away, the initial shock had abated. The trainee doctors were learning to steel their stomachs as much as their nerves. In the very back row a set of eyelids momentarily flickered open then closed just as quickly. In that split second he saw everything and shuddered involuntarily despite the uncomfortable warmth of the room. The image was overwhelming. Against a green background of theatre drapes rested a leg. The slide captured a little of above-knee and all of the below-knee structures. The knee was bent at a thirty degree angle. From about two hands’-breadth below the knee the skin surface abruptly ended and was replaced by a mass of bloodied and bulging muscle and the distinct whiteness of freshly exposed bone. The visible bone was clearly shattered and slivers stood out like tooth picks.
‘To be completely honest,’ confessed Kelleher, ‘I’m not sure what I can identify here.’
The red blip picked out a white shard. ‘That might be part of the tibia.’ The blip settled on a reddened mass. ‘That could be gastrocnemius muscle, possibly part of soleus. I’m not sure which is which though.’
CLICK.
Another silver-grey image slipped onto the screen. As it did someone in the middle rows groaned loudly. ‘Yes, pretty ghastly, isn’t it?’ agreed Kelleher as he inspected the result. The red blip shot up and rested on a structure picked up on X-ray. ‘That’s femur,’ the blip slowly traced a path from normality to utter chaos, ‘that’s normal knee joint, that’s the upper third of the tibia and fibula and the rest is broken, smashed, crushed bone.’
He turned back to the audience and scanned the faces. Most were still riveted by the transparency, a few heads bent as hands scribbled notes, one or two stared directly at him. He noted the lowered head at the back.
‘As I said, I’m not in the business of shocking you, but in accident and emergency, you deal with what comes through the door, no matter how bad it looks.’ No one spoke, pens paused, all eyes now directed at him. ‘However I thought you might like to see how this patient fared, what was the outcome of that bloody mess we saw a minute ago.’
Kelleher flicked a switch on the lectern and the theatre lights flashed on. Eyes were rubbed to adjust to the change, heads moved closer as comments were exchanged. Pens returned to paper and notes were made. In the back row the man shifted his leg again, using his left foot to drag the other back slightly. He massaged the lower part of his right leg through his trousers, grimacing as he felt a twinge of pain.
Kelleher raised a finger. ‘I’d like to introduce the owner of that mangled limb. Can you come down to the front, superintendent?’
All heads swivelled.
A distinct Donegal accent answered. ‘Yes, if you give me a minute.’
‘I’d like to introduce you to Detective Superintendent Jim Clarke,’ Kelleher said.
Clarke struggled out of the cramped seat and settled his single crutch carefully in front before swinging his right leg into the aisle. It hit the floor with a thud. He took his weight on the left leg to stand up, then slipped his right arm through the crutch guide and grasped the hand rest before moving any further. Each step down the aisle seemed painfully slow. The students could not take their eyes off the slightly stooped figure. He was slim, almost thin, and one inch above a full six feet in height. He wore regulation police uniform. Those near the aisle could see the pain that flickered across his face with each step. Near the bottom he stopped and pulled a handkerchief from his side pocket to wipe his brow. Then he brushed fingers through the bit of straggling hair still left after fifty-two years of life, trying to present a better image.
‘I’m sorry, I’m a bit slow on steps.’
‘Take your time,’ encouraged Kelleher as he pulled a chair closer to the lectern. He unclipped the microphone from his jacket lapel and held it until the other man had settled again, then handed it to him.
‘Superintendent Clarke,’ Kelleher explained, ‘is a senior member of the Serious Crime Squad.’ Clarke looked at the rows in front and smiled awkwardly. He seemed embarrassed, like someone about to be given a medal at an awards’ ceremony and not sure how to handle the occasion. ‘On 25 July two years ago he was admitted to this hospital with the injuries you saw. I was on duty and involved in his immediate management.’ Kelleher half turned. ‘He’s here to relate how those injuries came about.’
Clarke acknowledged his comments with a slight nod.
‘Also with us,’ continued Kelleher, ‘is Dr Patrick Dillon.’ A tall, heavily built man stood up from one end of the front row and faced the audience. He was wearing neatly pressed flannel trousers under a navy blazer with a white handkerchief in breast pocket. He unfolded a pair of glasses and slipped them on, then shielded his eyes against the theatre lights. His hair was dark and slicked back in a duck tail.
‘Dr Dillon,’ explained Kelleher, ‘is a forensic psychiatrist, someone who deals with the criminally insane. He has trained in secure psychiatric units where staff are taught self-defence and carry Mace spray on the wards. He has also worked in Broadmoor, the main British hospital for such offenders. He has just been appointed head of the forensic psychiatric department at Rockdale Hospital in County Meath and can be called upon to assist police with their assessments of certain serious crimes.’ Kelleher was reading from notes on the back of an envelope. ‘As part of this series of early morning lectures,’ he went on, ‘I wanted you to consider trauma from angles other than medical management. Look behind the scenes, as it were.’ He paused briefly. ‘Often in casualty departments we see criminal violence. Rape, stabbing, shooting, bludgeoning. Severe, deliberate inflicted injuries. Frequently we ask ourselves “Who could do such a thing?” You’re about to hear how one such event happened, then have the background explained.’ Kelleher nodded towards Dillon and sat down in the front row to listen.
Patrick Dillon moved to the lectern and scanned the faces in front. ‘Psychiatry,’ he began, ‘is the study and treatment of disorders of the mind.’ His voice was quiet yet distinct, with a slight English accent. ‘Most psychiatrists spend their working lives dealing with conditions such as depression, anxiety states or schizophrenia. The forensic psychiatrist deals with the criminal mind. More importantly he deals with the criminal but mentally abnormal, those whose acts of violence, often murderous, cannot be presented to the courts in the usual manner.’ The audience was gripped, attention unwavering.
