‘Okay, guv, wanna tell me why I’m driving back out into the sticks again?’ Bryant asked, as they headed through Blakedown for the third time.

‘Need to find out why matey boy left Oakwood. He’d been top banana there for fifteen years.’

‘You think he pissed someone off at the clinic? Enough to do this to him on top of losing his job?’

‘Dunno, Bryant,’ she said, staring out of the window, her signal to her colleague that she didn’t want to talk any more.

The subtle, irrefutable link to Heathcrest and their last major investigation kept the shadow of Dawson right there in the back of her mind. His involvement with the school, his determination in following a lead and his eventual death in the place of a twelve-year-old boy.

She was honest enough to admit, if only to herself, that there were times she wished that hadn’t been the case. And then she smothered the thought with a blanket of guilt because the boy had been saved and her colleague was a hero. But he was still dead.

She spent the rest of the journey revisiting every aspect of the case, looking for the clues, wondering where she could have prevented it.

Maybe if she’d been paying more attention to the secret societies he’d been investigating she’d have seen what was going to happen, or if she’d pulled him off the line of enquiry earlier. And then a twelve-year-old boy would be dead, a small voice in her conscience shouted up. And if she was a better person she’d care more about that fact.

‘We all miss him, guv,’ Bryant said, quietly from beside her.

She didn’t bother to argue. He knew her well enough by now.

‘There’s just one thing I wanna say,’ Bryant murmured as they pulled on to the Oakland Hospital car park.

‘Go on,’ Kim said.

‘If I’m ever hurt, I wanna come here. I don’t care about the forty-minute drive. I’ll take my chances.’

Kim smiled and appreciated her colleague’s tact in leaving her and her thoughts alone, and in changing the subject.

Bryant eased to a stop at one of the many free car parking spaces in front of a row of planter troughs that were awash with daffodils, tulips and crocus blooms.

The four-storey red-brick building was attractive and a few planted window boxes had been added to the ground floor to further soften the exterior. Kim remembered that the ground level was for administration with a hydro pool, physiotherapy suite, restaurant, café and shop. The second floor housed the consultation rooms and the third and fourth were taken up with surgical theatres, treatment centres and en-suite rooms for patients. She could certainly understand Bryant’s point.

A maintenance guy surrounded by warning barriers and a mate footing the ladder, who was changing a bulb behind the letter ‘d’ in the Oakland sign above the door, were closing off one of the sets of automatic doors into the building.

Kim stepped aside for a young woman guiding out a small boy with red eyes, and a colourful plaster in the crook of his arm.

Beyond the foyer the space opened up into an area with individual soft chairs in groups around coffee tables. The wheat-coloured chairs matched the oatmeal carpet and Kim wondered if she’d been swallowed by a box of cereal. She couldn’t help but wonder if the interior designer had focussed his attention on just one colour card. Even the reproduction paintings had biscuity tones to be picked out.

She approached the desk, to a woman waiting with a ready smile and poised fingers.

‘I don’t have an appointment,’ Kim said showing her identification. ‘But I’d like to see the person who was Gordon Cordell’s boss,’ she added.

The woman’s smile never faltered as she picked up the phone receiver, pressed a few keys on the phone and explained there were police officers at the front desk. All done so quietly that no one waiting in the peaceful reception area heard a thing above the gentle, non-invasive instrumental music.

Within a minute a smartly dressed male in his late fifties appeared from the corridor to the right marked for authorised personnel only.

His hair was pure white and thick atop a handsome distinguished face.

He offered a hand and a smile. ‘Josh Hendon, Managing Director. How may I help?’

Kim took the cool firm grip briefly, his title reminding her that this particular healthcare facility was a profit-making business. His smile matched that of the receptionist; bright and open. She had a vision of slides being shown on initiation day. This is how you smile at Oakland. Even if you’re imparting bad news, maintain this level of smileyness.

‘We’d like to talk to you about Gordon Cordell,’ she said.

Immediately his face filled with tension. He nodded and guided them through the double doors. They passed closed doors on both sides as they headed along a carpeted hallway to the office at the end, the door bearing his nameplate in brass.

And a very nice office it was too, she thought, as he stood aside for them to enter.

‘Please come in, take a seat,’ he said, moving to the left of the room where there was a full percolator of coffee.

‘May I get either of you a drink? I can get tea if you’d prefer.’

‘No, thank you,’ they said together. They’d recently grabbed a cuppa and some lunch at the Little Chef in Hagley.

‘Is it true?’ he asked, taking a seat behind a teak-coloured desk. ‘The way he died, I mean?’

‘It would have been quick,’ Bryant said, rather than answering the question.

‘Poor bugger,’ he said, shaking his head.

Kim took a seat on one of the velvet upholstered chairs and glanced at the certificates on the wall behind the man. Nothing health or medical that she could see but a whole lot of business credentials.

‘May I ask where you went to school, Mr Hendon?’ Kim asked.

‘I started at Coldgrove Junior and Infant School in Hertfordshire before attending high school and sixth form college in Dorset and then Cambridge University for my masters in business and economics.’ He met her gaze. ‘I’m not from Heathcrest and I’m not in any secret society.’

‘But you know of them?’ she asked.

‘Not personally. I don’t know who the members are, at least I don’t think I do; the secret clubs were mentioned in the press following the murders at Heathcrest and the death of that police officer who—’

‘Dawson,’ Bryant interjected. ‘His name was Kevin Dawson.’

Hendon nodded. ‘I was brought in six weeks ago by the board of directors to repair the damaged reputation of the clinic following unproven accusations against Doctor Cordell.’

‘They weren’t,’ Kim said, now confident they weren’t dealing with a member of the secret club.

‘Weren’t what?’ he asked.

‘Groundless accusations,’ she answered. ‘Doctor Cordell did perform illegal terminations. I’ll rephrase. We know of at least one but there may have been others.’

‘As he was not charged or found guilty of any crime I’ll choose to stay on the right side of slanderous comments,’ he said with a hint of humour before frowning. ‘Aren’t you the detective that accused him?’ she heard for the third time in one day.

She briefly wondered if that’s what her career would come down to. Would she be remembered for the one charge she couldn’t make stick against the hundreds of charges that she had?

‘I am and was just sorry that the family wouldn’t confirm it. Although it’s immaterial now.’

‘Quite,’ he said, simply.

‘So, were you the person responsible for Doctor Cordell’s departure?’ Kim asked, wondering about new broom and all that.

‘Mr Cordell was the reason for his own departure,’ he said.

‘How so?’ she asked. The man had eked out a comfortable existence at the clinic for fifteen years.

Mr Hendon sighed. ‘You met him, Inspector, so you understand that he was not the most likeable man. His manner was often brusque, dismissive and altogether unpleasant. However, he was indeed a brilliant surgeon. Countless lives have been saved because of Doctor Cordell’s skill and for that reason his death is indeed a tragedy.’

‘Thank you for the official speech and now I’d like to hear the “but” that was attached to it,’ Kim said.

‘His skill would only excuse so much bad behaviour.’

He suddenly seemed to remember himself and his earlier words. ‘Not that I’m saying he was guilty. The hearing hadn’t—’

‘What hearing?’ Kim asked.

‘Doctor Cordell was the subject of an internal investigation at the time he left the clinic. He did not attend his formal interview and tendered his resignation immediately.’

Kim knew employment law well enough to understand that without that hearing taking place he was guilty of nothing.

‘What had he been accused of?’

‘Sexual harassment,’ Hendon said, with a look of distaste.

‘Any previous incidents?’ she asked. Some kind of trumped up complaint was not beyond the powers of the Spades to force him out.

‘I really shouldn’t discuss this any further without a member of the legal—’

‘Okay, Mr Hendon, I understand, but in your opinion was this complaint credible?’ she asked.

‘No, officer. It was no longer a single complaint. As is normally the case in these situations, one person’s bravery inspires others to come forward with their story.’

She had visions of the #metoo hashtag on Twitter where women had come forward in their thousands to speak out about sexual harassment and intimidation.

‘Mr Hendon, how many complaints of sexual harassment did Doctor Cordell have against him?’

‘The final count was thirteen.’