The Trojan Boy (3 page)

Authors: Ken McClure

Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Medical, #Suspense, #Thrillers

BOOK: The Trojan Boy

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The hotel was all right but only in the way that many
hotels are all right, anonymous decor, anonymous guests.
But what it did have in its favour was its location. It stood
on the banks of the River Cam.

After a snack taken in the bar, Avedissian walked slowly
along the towpath and listened to the sound of talk and laughter coming from the houseboats moored against the
sluggish flow. He had to duck his head as he came to a bridge span that was in no hurry to rise, and heard his
footsteps echo on the damp stone.

There was a smell of lichen from the underside of the
arch. It awakened in him a long-forgotten memory from
childhood, a memory of summer days spent fishing beneath weeping willows. There had been a stream running through
his village and he and his friends had spent a great deal of
time on its banks. The underside of the bridge by the village
church had smelled like this one.

Across the water the patrons of a riverside pub had spilled
out into the courtyard to laugh and drink beneath the stars.
The symbolism of laughter and gaiety being on the other
side of the river while he walked alone in darkness did not
escape Avedissian but he felt embarrassed at having even
considered it. He continued his walk, leaving the towpath
and climbing some steps up to the road beside Magdalene
College. It had been a long time since he had been in
Cambridge. He decided to see if he could still remember
where Trinity College was. He could.

Avedissian awoke to the sound of bicycle bells and had the
feeling that the sun was itching to fill the room. He checked
his watch and relaxed; there was plenty of time. He felt
good because he had refrained from drinking on the pre
vious evening and the walk by the river had ensured that he
had slept well.

Analysing how he felt about the interview was a different
matter and not easy. His overriding feeling was one of
curiosity but there was an element of annoyance there too.
He was dancing to someone else's tune and that rankled, for
by turning up at all, without question, meant that he had
conceded the first round.

As Avedissian bathed, in preference to struggling with an
ill-fitting shower curtain and makeshift sprinkler that had
obviously been added for the benefit of the American
summer trade, he wondered what role he should play at the
interview. He could not appear as the eager candidate when
he did not even know what the appointment was and had
not applied for it in the first place. On the other hand he
would hardly be negotiating from a position of strength for he was almost on his uppers. He suddenly realised that this
had a lot to do with his feeling of annoyance. It stemmed
from the fact that his interviewers must know this.

Avedissian walked out into the morning sunshine and
crossed the road to look at the river as he walked towards
Trinity College. It was good to be able to walk somewhere
with purpose again. He opened the tall iron gate and en
tered the college grounds, pausing to admire the rolling
greenery that swept back from the river, before looking for the entrance that the letter had decreed. He paused again on
one of the bridges and watched the water slide slowly under
neath. A solitary punt was moored nearby.

The courtyard was quiet as he crossed it, looking up to see
the minute hand on the clock tower move on to three
minutes to the hour. As he entered the building a uniformed porter stepped forward to meet him and before he could say
anything, the man said, 'Dr Avedissian? This way, sir.'

The slowness of the lift's ascent obliged Avedissian to say
something. 'It's very quiet.'

‘
The vacation, sir,' replied the porter, without taking his
eyes off the floor indicator.

'Of course,' said Avedissian, ending the conversation.

The corridor smelt of dust, leather and floor polish.
Avedissian liked it. It had the timelessness of a library.

'In here, sir,' said the porter, opening a door and flattening
himself against it to allow Avedissian to pass.

Inside the room Avedissian was met by a smiling woman in
her early thirties. She held out her hand and said, 'How nice
to meet you, Doctor. I'm Sarah Milek, Sir Michael's
assistant.' Avedissian found the smile reassuring and was
pleased to hear a name at last, for his letter had been
unsigned.

'Sir Michael who?' he asked.

'Just Sir Michael,' replied the woman. 'Follow me, please.'

Avedissian followed the woman into a pleasant, sun-filled
room where four men sat waiting at a table. They had their
backs to the window. He would be facing it.

'Dr Avedissian,' announced Sarah Milek before turning to
leave.

A silver-haired man got to his feet and gestured to
Avedissian that he should sit. 'How nice of you to come,' said
the smooth, cultured voice.

Avedissian managed a smile but felt patronised.

'May I introduce Mr Bryant, Mr Stapleton, Mr Carlisle.'

Avedissian nodded to each of the three men in turn.
Stapleton and Carlisle said 'Good morning' but Bryant
looked through him.

The silver-haired man, whom Avedissian took to be 'Sir
Michael', opened a file in front of him and moved his glasses
to the tip of his nose before shuffling his way through a pile
of papers and apparently back again. 'Let me see now . . .'
he muttered, beginning the process all over again.

Avedissian noticed Bryant move impatiently in his seat
and saw him raise his eyes briefly to the ceiling. The other
two remained impassive but Avedissian was aware that they
were watching him. The knowledge made him determined to maintain a sphinx-like expression.

'Ah, here we are,' said Sir Michael. 'Mark Avedissian, age
thirty-seven, married with no children. Wife deceased.
Three years with Her Majesty's Forces, commissioned,
served with the Parachute Regiment, resigned commission
to enter medical school, graduated third in class in 1973,
specialised in paediatrics, last position, consultant
paediatrician, St Jude's Hospital, Southampton. Bit of a
change, army to medicine, what?'

Avedissian remained silent.

'Care to tell us why?'

'No,' replied Avedissian.

‘
Too tough for you, Avedissian?' asked Bryant, attracting
a sidelong glance from Sir Michael who cleared his throat in disapproval and continued before Avedissian felt obliged to
reply.

'Convicted of administering a lethal dose of barbiturates
to one Michael Fielding, a patient in your care . . . Parents
and judge sympathetic to your motives but law has to be
upheld . . . Short prison sentence and removal from the
Medical Register . . . Subsequent employment as a medical
representative with . . . several companies in fact. Would
you agree that that is an accurate, if superficial, account of
your curriculum vitae, Doctor?'

Avedissian agreed that it was.

Bryant said abrasively, 'You have been sacked from five
companies in the last two years, Avedissian.'

'Yes.'

'Is that all?' demanded Bryant. 'Just "yes"?'

'Why am I here?' asked Avedissian, seething inwardly but
outwardly remaining calm.

Sir Michael looked as if he were about to reply but Bryant
got there first. 'Good question,' he snorted and sat back in
his seat. He stared down at the desk pad in front of him.

Sir Michael looked briefly at Bryant before turning to
Avedissian and saying, 'We think that you may be able to
help us.'

'How?'

'First we have to ask you some questions.'

Avedissian sighed slightly but then nodded.

'Why did you leave the army?'

'It wasn't for me.'

'You were a first-class officer with a promising career.'

Bryant showed signs of impatience again and interrupted
Sir Michael's leisurely approach. 'You decided it wasn't for
you after you were sent to Northern Ireland. Isn't that
right?'

'I did serve in Northern Ireland,' agreed Avedissian.

'And you lost your nerve.'

'No.'

'Oh, became a pacifist did we? Got all moist-eyed over the
bleeding hearts in the Emerald Isle did we?' sneered Bryant.

'I did not become a pacifist,' said Avedissian with a
levelness of tone that seemed to annoy Bryant even more.

'Perhaps killing babies is more your style, Avedissian?'

'Why you son of a bitch I'll

Bryant leaned back in his seat and grinned with self-
satisfaction. 'So you're not a complete wimp after all,
Avedissian. Good to know.'

Sir Michael seemed embarrassed at Bryant's psychological
game. Stapleton and Carlisle remained impassive.

'Your wife committed suicide?' asked Carlisle.

'Yes.'

'How do you feel about that?'

'That's a bloody stupid question.'

Carlisle ignored the comment and asked, 'Any dependent
relations?'

'None.'

'How would you like to practise medicine again, Doctor?'
asked Sir Michael.

Avedissian was angry. 'Just what is this bloody farce?' he
demanded. 'You know damned well that I can never practise
again. It's against the law.'

Sir Michael took off his glasses and sat back in his chair. He
looked into the distance over Avedissian's shoulder and said,
'In any society, Doctor, it is essential that people be subject to
the law. However, there will always be a criminal element who
ignore it and, at the other extreme, there will always be the
necessity for a small group of people who are not entirely
subject to every nuance and letter of it.'

There was a long silence in the room while words kept
sticking in Avedissian's throat. When he did finally manage to
interpret what he had been told he cleared his throat and said,
in acute embarrassment, 'Am I being recruited into the In
telligence Services?' He thought it sounded like a bad line from a village hall play and was relieved when no one laughed.

'In a manner of speaking,’ said Sir Michael.

Avedissian felt as if he were alone on a tightrope, the butt of
some tasteless joke. In an effort to defend himself he said, 'I am,
or rather was, a paediatrician. I am thirty-seven years old,
heterosexual and I am not a graduate of this university. That, I would have thought disqualified me on all counts.'

The four men at the table remained impassive. Sir
Michael said, 'We have need of a doctor, you are a doctor and you are available. The fact that you have served with
the armed forces has some bearing on our choice.'

'Why do you need a doctor?'

'I can't tell you.'

'If you are looking for someone to feed Scopolamine to
Russian spies then it isn't me.'

'No Russian spies.'

'And if I say no?'

'Then you can go back to becoming an aimless drunk,' rasped Bryant.