Free The Take by Graham Hurley

clinical malpractice and the victims are suing. Loads of them. Lots of individual actions.’
    ‘He’ll carry insurance,’ Winter said at once. ‘They won’t hurt him personally.’
    ‘You’re right, but he won’t work again, not after that kind of publicity. The guy’s history as far as cash flow is concerned. Which may explain why he’s trying to lay hands on three of these flats.’
    Pete explained about the other two proxy names. Like Mal Garrett, he’d tried to raise both Cape Town numbers and failed. Inquiries lodged with the South African telephone authorities had not yet been answered, but Pete had already concluded that all three would, in reality, belong to Hennessey. On a rising market, he could put down a ten per cent deposit on each apartment and sell on before they were even completed. Alternatively, if he could raise the capital, he could complete on all three and earn himself a hefty capital gain once Gunwharf Quays was a truly prestigious address. Either way, he’d be looking at a five-figure profit – easy money if you could afford to be in at the start.
    ‘So you don’t think he’s done a runner?’
    ‘Can’t see why he would. The publicity’s over until he has to appear before the GMC. He knows he won’t be working as a surgeon again, not in this country anyway. But he’d stick around for long enough to make a killing, wouldn’t he?’
    Winter’s gaze returned to the Gunwharf site. Pete was right. Make a killing. Dead right. Of course he’d stay. Anyone would.
    ‘Do you have any pics?’
    ‘I’ve got cuttings.
Guardian, Independent, Telegraph
. There are mug shots in all of them. Take photocopies if you want.’
    ‘Anything else?’
    ‘A couple of addresses. Apparently he lives in some huge pile in Beaconsfield, but he’s baled out for the time being and taken a rented place in the New Forest.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘He fancied the bird at the sales office. Tried to get her over for dinner. Here.’ He took an envelope from inside his leather jacket. ‘Address and phone number. I’ve been trying all day, but no joy.’
    Winter was thinking fast. Finding Hennessey would be a pleasure, one small act of vengeance. He’d do it for Joannie’s sake. For her.
    Pete was examining the bottom of his empty glass.
    ‘So how will you get all this past the management?’ he enquired.
    ‘Management?’
    ‘Cathy. How will you justify the time and effort? Given that the guy hasn’t actually done anything.’
    It was a good question. Winter sat back, watching one of the big cross-Channel ferries nosing out through the harbourmouth. In his experience, the best investigations started off like this, with coppers like him chasing shadows. You had to feel it in your bones. You had to sense opportunities, temptations, and know with absolute conviction that some bastard would be trying to square them away. That’s how the world worked. That’s what kept the country moving. People like Hennessey, backs against the wall, reaching for a big fat apple on someone else’s tree.
    ‘I think he’s probably dead,’ he said slowly, ‘though don’t ask me why.’
    Winter was back home by half-eight, his footsteps lightened by another couple of pints after Pete Lamb had left. His wife was in the lounge, curled up on the sofa in her dressing gown watching
Peak Practice
. There was a bowl of tomato soup, half-finished, in her lap and a small circle of crumbs on the carpet beneath her feet.
    Winter stood by the door. It was still sunny outside, a thin strip of light between the drawn curtains, but already the room felt like a tomb. On the TV, two GPs were arguing the toss about an X-ray of someone’s knee.
    ‘Leave it out, Joannie,’ he said softly. ‘Not more bloody medics.’
    She looked up at him, the unvoiced question all too obvious.
Where have you been
?
    ‘Work,’ he explained simply. ‘Never stops.’
    After the third glass of Rioja, Faraday felt better about screwing up the