David Trevellyan 03 -More Harm Than Good Read Online Free Page A

belonged to the Head of
Security. But there was a snag. His secretary spilled the beans within twenty
seconds of me approaching her desk. It turned out the guy liked playing golf
more than he liked doing his job. Specially when the
weather was good. It was unheard of for him to show his face in the office when
the sun was out, she said. That doesn’t happen all that often in England,
particularly in late autumn. But it was everyone’s bad luck that for the second
day running, the sky was blue. So, having verified that his room really was
empty, I moved on to the next door in the corridor. It led to the Chief
Executive’s secretary’s desk.
            Only she was missing,
too.
            I’d imagine Chief
Executives aren’t generally too concerned about pilfered footwear, unless it’s
their own belongings that have gone missing, but the whole boot situation
– robbed by one of the people I’d been hurt looking out for – was
making my blood boil. So, I didn’t waste any time. I went straight for the
inner sanctum.
            For a moment I thought
this office was empty, too, but then I saw the top of a bald
head peeping out from above a huge computer monitor that sat on a desk
at the far end of the room. The head was strangely pointed, and as I moved
closer I could see that its owner was surprisingly young. Probably
no older than his late thirties. He was tapping away at a wireless
keyboard, and made no effort to look away from his screen even when I would
have been near enough to reach out and wipe away the tiny beads of sweat that
covered his shiny scalp.
            “You’re in the wrong
place,” he said after another fifteen seconds, still without even glancing at
me.
            I turned back, took hold
of a wooden chair that was tucked under an oval meeting table by the right hand
wall, brought it over to the desk, and sat down.
            “What are you doing?” he
said. He was looking at me now, and struggling to contain a slight tick in the
corner of his left eye. “Don’t waste time making yourself comfortable. You’re
not supposed to be here.”
            “Why not?” I said.
            “Because I’m not a
doctor.”
            “You think I’m looking
for a medic?”
            “Well, let’s see. You’re
wearing Health Service pyjamas , which means you’re a
patient. And you’re in a hospital. What else could you want?”
            I took a moment to look
around at the walls of his office. They were lined with motivational posters. Seventeen of them. All neatly framed. And
all utterly nauseating.
            “You’re the Chief
Executive of this place?” I said.
            “Well, let’s see,” he
said. “This is the Chief Executive’s office. And my name’s on the door. So, the
answer must be yes.”
            “Then tell me something.
To become the boss of a whole hospital, do you go through some kind of
training?”
            He nodded, very
slightly.
            “And when you were doing
this training, did you pick up anything about making assumptions?” I said.
            He didn’t respond.
            “It’s a straight-forward
question,” I said. “Did your tutors recommend assumption-making? Or not?”
            “OK,” he said, after a
long pause. “Point taken. You have another reason to be here. Let me guess. You
want to complain about something. Another dissatisfied patient who thinks he
knows best. What is it this time? The food not tasty enough? Pyjamas not comfortable?”
            Before I could reply I
heard a noise, behind me. It was the door opening. Someone came through. They
were wearing heels. I looked round and saw a woman approaching. In her early
fifties, I’d say, with a long blue skirt, cream blouse, and auburn hair cut into a neat, symmetrical bob. She held my eye as
she moved, and couldn’t help drifting wide of my chair as she