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    Jamieson reached into his inside pocket and produced the ID card that he had been provided with by Whitehall. The man looked at the photograph and then at Jamieson. He repeated this operation three times before committing himself to reading what was on the card. This he did with a thoroughness that Jamieson felt sure would have been a credit to an accountant at the Bank of England. The man handed him the card back and stretched himself to his full height. 'Not in my instructions,' he said, putting his hands behind his back and standing tall like a human wall.
    'I beg your pardon,' said Jamieson when he felt that no more was forthcoming.'
    'My instructions are clear,' said the man. 'No one comes through these gates without a permit authorised and signed by the Hospital Secretary. You'll have to leave.'
    Jamieson looked at the man and the man diverted his eyes to stare into the middle distance which officialdom always finds so compelling. Jamieson bit his tongue and reversed the car out through the gates. The rain on the rear screen made it more difficult than it might otherwise have been and did nothing to improve his temper. 'What a start', he muttered. The "full authorisation of Her Majesty's Government" and I can't get through the bloody gates... '
    He found a parking place after a five minute hunt through the streets and switched off the engine with a sigh. He gave himself a couple of minutes to see if the rain might ease off before starting on the half mile walk back to the hospital but the slight lightening in the sky he thought he detected had disappeared. The rain got heavier and Richardson's mood grew blacker as his hair got wetter. He flirted with the paranoid thought that the man on the gate had been primed to make things awkward for him, part of the lack of co-operation he was prepared for but then he dismissed the thought. That would be just too childish. Wouldn't it? He avoided looking at the man on the gate as he passed through on foot, feeling like a captured soldier being forced to parade through the streets of his conqueror. He started to follow the signs for 'Administration'.
     
    'Do you have an appointment?' asked the woman in response to Jamieson's request to see the hospital secretary. She spoke with a nasal whine that made her even less attractive than the fact that she was decidedly round shouldered and had a parchment dry skin. Her hair was tied up in a tight, grey bun and her spectacles hung from a gold chain.
    'Not exactly but I think you will find he is expecting me.'
    The woman gave a humourless smirk as if she had caught Jamieson out and said. 'Mr Crichton does not see anyone without an appointment.'
    Jamieson, his hair still wet from the walk and his temper barely in check took out his ID card and put it down with slow deliberation on the desk in front of the woman. Struggling to keep rein on his tongue, he said. 'Just tell him I'm here ... please.'
    The complacent smugness of a minor minion began to waver and was replaced by uncertainty. 'I'll have to check,' she stammered and then turned on her heel to disappear through another door still clutching Jamieson's card. She returned a few moments later with a short man trailing behind her. He was holding Jamieson's card in his left hand while pressing a large white handkerchief to his nose with the other. Jamieson had to wait until the man had finished wiping his nose before he spoke. 'Perhaps I can help?' said the man.
    'Are you the hospital secretary?'
    The man gave a self-deprecating little smile and said, 'Actually no, I'm Mr Cartwright. I'm afraid Mr Crichton does not see anyone without an appointment.'
    Jamieson's frustration got the better of him as a small pool of rain-water built up around his feet. He leaned on the desk counter and said solicitously, 'Mr Cartwright, will you please inform Mr Crichton that I am here and do it now!'
    Cartwright's manner changed to one of barely suppressed outrage. His authority had been challenged