Cold Steel by Paul Carson Page A

Marks' Florida tan had faded in the sunless Irish winter yet he still looked his casual and supremely confident self. Beside, and whispering occasionally to him, Linda Speer wore a linen blouse and beige slacks under grey checked jacket. Biochemist Stone Colman leaned against a wall listening and grinning. He'd kept his ginger crew cut and fondness for crumpled suits, but seemed more at ease than at his first public appearance. 'It will also,' continued Regan, purring with delight, 'permit monitoring of similar changes in the postoperative period of patients undergoing heart surgery.' His beaming expression was in stark contrast to the discontented audience, many of whom were being asked to scale back their budgets. The liver transplant team, the paediatric asthma research team, the geneticists, all knew only too well how much money was being lavished on Regan's cardiac unit. The three Boston specialists had become loathed throughout the hospital. Not that they seemed to care, neither mingling nor socialising with their colleagues. Apart from government sponsored cocktail parties they kept to themselves, engrossed in their work and vital results they knew they would have to produce to justify the massive budget following their wake. If they had private lives they were well-guarded secrets. No one ever spotted them out on the town.
    Linda Speer did not shift her head one inch from her work when Frank Clancy spoke. 'I'm sorry, I can't. I'm busy.' She sounded irked by the disturbance.
    Clancy glanced around the office, admiring the rosewood furniture, subdued lighting, green leather sofa and small drinks trolley tucked discreetly in one corner.
    'I'd like to talk with you now, if you don't mind,' he pressed.
    Speer gave him a jaundiced look, making Clancy feel even more uncomfortable. He sensed how poor his dress code was compared to the Gucci wonder in front.
    'Who are you?' she snapped, eyes back on the paperwork.
    'My name's Frank Clancy. I'm the haematologist here.'
    'So?'
    'I'd like to talk with you about a problem I have.'
    'I hope it's a medical problem,' grunted Speer, still not looking up, 'otherwise I'd suggest you check if the social workers are still in the house.'
    Clancy ignored the cheap jibe. 'No, in fact, it's about one of your patients.'
    Speer stopped writing and turned around. 'And what,' she said slowly, her accent more exaggerated than usual, 'would you be doing with one of my patients?' One eyebrow cocked up. The tone of the question almost suggested sexual impropriety and Clancy had to clear his throat to hide his discomfort. He noticed a smile curl at the edge of Speer's lips.
    'It's about a sixty-one-year-old man called Harold Morell,' explained Clancy, reading from the patient's chart which he'd been holding all the time. 'Perhaps you remember him?'
    Speer shook her head dismissively. 'No I don't, get on with it.'
    Clancy looked at her in surprise, then continued. 'Well, Mr Morell had a triple bypass operation up here about four weeks ago. Everything went very well, and…'
    'They usually do,' Speer cut across sharply. 'When our first six months' results are published next week you'll know just how well our work is going.'
    Clancy tugged at the glasses in the breast pocket of his white coat nervously. He'd read in the national press that a cheque for twenty million pounds, EEC money, would be handed over to John Regan at a government press conference on Wednesday, 20 May. He'd planned to be out that evening. He knew he wouldn't stomach all the crowing.
    'Yes, I'm sure we will. However there's one problem bothering me.'
    'And you want me to help?' Speer's attention was drifting, Clancy sensed that. Her eyes had started to wander.
    'Well, there's something I thought you might be able to shed some light on, certainly.' Clancy moved closer and set Harold Morell's chart down on the desk, quickly turning the pages. A whiff of expensive perfume reached his nostrils.

'Is this a cardiac