Lost Causes by Ken McClure

his breath as he saw the magnitude of his task grow. He didn’t know who ‘they’ were; he didn’t know how big the organisation was and he didn’t know what they were planning. He decided his only option was to learn from the past. He might be dealing with a case of history repeating itself if there was to be some kind of revival of the Northern Health Scheme, so he’d have to try to find out what Carlisle and his colleagues had been up to back in the early nineties. ‘A stroll down memory lane,’ he murmured as he called it a night.
     
     
    Markham House looked impressive, Steven thought, as he got out of the car to use the phone at the side of the gates. He only managed a brief look, however, before turning away from a bitter wind which was whipping sleet into his face. ‘C’mon, c’mon,’ he complained, as no one up at the house seemed keen to answer the buzzer. He pressed twice more before an upper-class female voice said, ‘Yes, who is it?’
    ‘Steven Dunbar, Sci-Med Inspectorate.’
    ‘You’d better come in.’
    ‘Yes, I’d better,’ murmured Steven, shrugging his shoulders in discomfort as rain-water found a way inside his collar to trickle down his back. The iron gates swung open and Steven drove up to the house.

TEN
     
     
    Melissa Carlisle’s expression could best be described as neutral, Steven thought, as she held the door open and gestured that he should come in. The fact that she kept her right hand on it suggested that she had no intention of shaking hands, so he stepped smartly inside and waited.
    ‘This way.’
    He followed her into the drawing room and sat down on the chair that she indicated to him by way of a languid hand motion.
    ‘I don’t have much time. I’m leaving the country tomorrow.’
    ‘Holiday?’ Steven asked.
    ‘South Africa. A period of recovery.’
    ‘Ah yes, your sad loss.’
    ‘I’ve never heard of the Sci-Med Inspectorate, but I assume it’s John you’ve come here to discuss; the woman who telephoned me made it clear I didn’t have much choice in the matter. We get more like a police state every day. What is it this time? Ye gods, my poor husband isn’t cold in his grave. What exactly does the great voting public want now? His eyes?’
    ‘As I understand it, your husband committed suicide after making a fraudulent expenses claim over a property he didn’t actually own, and being found out,’ said Steven.
    ‘A complete misunderstanding.’
    ‘Rubbish.’
    ‘I beg your pardon,’ exclaimed Melissa, assuming an expression of wide-eyed disbelief.
    ‘As you don’t have much time, Mrs Carlisle, I though we should cut to the chase,’ said Steven, who had decided before coming that his only chance of success might be to go on the offensive. ‘I’m not interested in expenses claims. I’m not the press, and I am not under any obligation to report our conversation to anyone. What I need to know is just how a man of limited intellect, by all accounts, reached cabinet rank, received universal acclaim for the design of a revolutionary health scheme he didn’t actually design, and then plunged into obscurity before topping himself over a seedy little expenses fiddle.’
    There was a long silence, during which Melissa stared at Steven unflinchingly. Just as he thought his gamble wasn’t going to pay off, she broke eye contact and said, ‘His suicide surprised me too. I didn’t think he’d have the balls.’
    Steven remembered that Arthur Bleasdale had said much the same thing. It set off alarm bells, but he maintained an expression that indicated he was waiting for more.
    ‘Christ, I don’t know how he ever became a minister,’ said Melissa. ‘He was unbelievably thick.’
    ‘But he had the looks and the right accent,’ said Steven. Another gamble.
    Melissa broke into a small smile. ‘You don’t mince words, do you, Dr Dunbar? But you’re right. It was something I learned too late. He was an empty shell, the mouthpiece of