Free 1990 by Wilfred Greatorex Page B

details of interest to the men in the car.
    There were three of them, as before. They even looked like their predecessors, the same neat, unimaginative clothes and features, unobtrusive faces for merging with crowds and wallpaper. Certainly none of them was likely to feel a twinge of heady seasonal vigour.
    Their car was parked near a single storey building, marked by the large sign, 'Maxton Community Health Centre.' A small boy hurtled yodelling past it and the first PCD inspector sighed impatiently, turning up the radio volume to drown the noise.
    A voice broadcast clearly, 'Right now, Wendy, deep breath please...' It paused, then continued, 'Good...Again now...Good...And again...That's splendid.'
    In his cramped surgery, Alan Vickers was applying his stethoscope in chess-like moves to the back of a child about the same age as his own daughter. The room faced north and was heated only by a single-bar electric fire. The child shivered and sniffed, as her anxious mother watched.
    'Don't look so worried, Wendy,' the young doctor said, reassuringly. 'One more deep breath. We'll soon have you right. You can get dressed now.'
    He began to fill in a prescription form and a small chit, directing the mother, without looking up, 'Two every night and morning and see that she...'
    'She's so run down, Doctor,' the woman said, fretfully. 'Could she have extra rations of meat extract and fruit juice? Only we can't afford the black market.'
    Handing over the chit, he smiled. 'Done already. That entitles her to more sugar and cheese as well.'
    He stood up and patted the child's head. 'No swimming for a week or two. Then you can try the Channel.'
    As she left with her mother, Wendy turned and waved, but the doctor had already flopped back into his chair and was passing a trembling hand across his forehead. He looked utterly exhausted.
    Another patient entered almost immediately and Vickers sat up, with an effort, to check his list. 'Ah Mr Grant, I've not treated you before, have I?'
    'I'm never normally ill,' the man replied.
    'But you think you are now?'
    'I think I've got a rupture...' About 28 years old, fit and very muscular, he looked more like a suitable entrant for a weight-lifting competition than a man with a rupture.
    Unexpectedly, he handed Vickers a piece of paper and continued, loudly, 'In fact, I know I've got a rupture,' as the startled Vickers read it.
    The doctor looked a little dazed, but said, automatically, 'Let's have a look, Mr Grant.'
    However, far from removing his trousers, Ian Cursley was already wandering round the surgery checking ledges, surfaces and corners.
    Alan Vickers sat at his desk watching, wide-eyed, as the other pushed his fingers into a narrow air vent and withdrew a small radio bug, then carefuly replaced it. He gestured to the doctor to continue speaking.
    'Yes, you do have a slight rupture. Very slight.'
    Outside, in the car, the three listeners heard Cursley's distinctly peeved voice answer, 'I wouldn't call it slight, doctor. It's giving me hell. And I'm also getting these pains round the heart.'
    'Take your shirt off,' the doctor instructed, then stepped back instinctively, as the stranger reached over and began patting down his jacket and reaching into his pockets. With silent urgency, Cursley prompted him to keep talking.
    'Your heart rate seems normal, Mr Grant.'
    'Not when I'm working, it isn't.' Finding nothing on Vickers, he had started to hunt through the GP's bag.
    As the reason for the search slowly dawned, and Alan Vickers began to appreciate that his every word was actually being overheard, his performance improved. 'I'm not here just to dole out sickness benefits, Mr Grant,' he asserted, severely.
    'I'm no scrounger,' whined Cursley, still rummaging. 'I'm not scared of hard work.' He brought out a small, metal object from the bag and held it up, mouthing, 'Radio location bug.'
    The doctor looked puzzled, so Cursley wrote on the prescription pad, 'It tells them where you are.'
    Vickers