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been standing beside them moved off too and the question was asked, ‘One of yours or one of theirs?’
    ‘His name’s Dunbar. He’s up from London,’ replied the official. ‘Don’t ask me why.’
    The man in question was Dr Steven Dunbar, tall, dark-haired and dressed in a dark business suit that suggested a good London tailor. His tie told of a past association with the Parachute Regiment and he had dark, intelligent eyes that were constantly looking and learning. His mouth was generously wide, giving the impression that he was about to break into a grin, although he never quite did.
    He had been sent by the Home Office, or more precisely a branch of the Home Office known as the Sci-Med Inspectorate. This comprised a small group of investigators with varied and wide-ranging skills in science and medicine. They were used by central government to carry out discreet investigations in areas outside the usual expertise of the police.
    Although the police did have certain specialist branches, like the Fraud Squad and officers trained in the dealings of the art world, it was generally acknowledged that there were large areas of modern life where their understanding of what was going on was sadly lacking. Sci-Med inspectors provided an expert interface. It was their remit to investigate reports of possible wrongdoing or unusual happenings and establish whether or not there might be a problem deserving more detailed investigation. Dunbar was one of their medical specialists.
    As discretion was important when dealing with the sensibilities of often powerful and influential professional people, Dunbar’s credentials had not been announced. He was officially present as a London civil servant attached temporarily to the Scottish Office, where only Neil Bannon had been informed of his true mission.
    Dunbar had been treated politely but coolly by his hosts since his arrival the previous day. This hadn’t worried him. He was used to working on his own as an outsider. He preferred it that way. The fewer people he had to confide in the better. It made his job easier. The perfect mission was one where he arrived at the job, found out what he wanted to know and left again without anyone realizing what he’d really been doing. No one liked having a snooper around, particularly when, as it often turned out, there was no real problem to investigate.
    Keeping an investigation secret was perhaps the most difficult aspect of Dunbar’s job but it was also probably the most important. Any suggestion of incompetence or malpractice brought out the worst in the medical profession. No other section of the community did a better line in self-righteous indignation or closing ranks. He had to be awfully sure of his ground before breaking cover. At this early stage he had only the unsubstantiated allegations of two former nurses at the hospital to go on. He would need a lot more than that before revealing who he was and why he was there.
    Dunbar settled himself into the well-upholstered chair in front of his name card on the oak table. He poured himself a little water from the crystal decanter and sipped it as he watched the others take their places. The thickness of the carpet made it a strangely silent operation. He knew little of the circumstances that had brought the visiting party to Médic Ecosse, only that the hospital was in some kind of financial trouble and was requesting more government help. His masters had seen it as an opportunity to get him inside the hospital unannounced. It had all been a bit of a rush. He had had a minimal briefing from the Scottish Office and had also managed to pick up snippets of what had been going on through listening to conversations outside while people had been having coffee. He thought he knew who the important players were, so now he was going to observe the in-fighting and blood-letting he suspected might ensue.
    James Ross, consultant surgeon and director of the transplant unit, was one of two senior