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There were many anti-cancer drugs around, none of which were cheap. Ross had suggested bevacizumab, and a cytotoxic drug called irinotecan, to be given intravenously every two weeks for a six-week cycle.
But there they had a problem: each six-week cycle came with a price tag of £5,000.
NICE, the National Institute of Clinical Excellence, deemed the treatment not suitable for the NHS because of a lack of evidence for its effectiveness. And because it was too expensive. The local Primary Care Trust’s Exceptional Treatments Committee also made a similar decision, and so too had the hospital.
Not without influence, Sinclair was the chairman of the hospital’s Drugs and Therapeutics Committee. He realized that new treatments were usually expensive and had very little evidence behind them, but he also argued that you were in a chicken and egg situation. How can you obtain the evidence if you didn’t try them?
He made the decision to issue the treatment anyway.
That was three months ago, and the first six-week cycle actually saw a distinct improvement for Christine Close. Both mother and son were happy, until Gary had had his accident. The pressure and the love for her son proved too great and, much to the annoyance of Iain Ross, she missed one of the two-week cycles. Which, in his opinion, was why they were in the position they were in today.
He glanced across the desk and saw the picture of his beautiful late wife, Theresa. The photo had been taken before their son, Adam, had been born, nineteen years ago. How young and glamorous and carefree she had been then; a whole life ahead of them, to do what they wanted, when they wanted. No worries, no troubles. He soon grew bitter, as he had come to realize that life couldn’t stay that way, and hadn’t done.
No matter how much he hated losing, he simply had to accept defeat once in a while.
After all, neither he nor Ross had been able to save Theresa.
Chapter Twenty-one
Hobson tried to move, but found it impossible. Something was restricting him, even his head. Irritated and frightened, he studied his surroundings, realizing that the room he was in today was different from the one he was in yesterday. He had no idea if it was even the same building.
He was in a cellar or basement, an underground chamber of sorts, as there were no windows. The floor was concrete, the walls bare and unpainted. In one corner he saw a central heating boiler with pipes running up through the roof. He figured it must work, because he was reasonably warm. And he shouldn’t have been, because he was naked. He tried to move, succeeding only in twisting and hurting his back. He needed to quit worrying and start thinking.
His body was trapped in a huge wooden frame. His hands and legs had been fed through big thick beams that resembled railway sleepers. Above them, sticking out at angles, were a series of levers. Because of his limited vision, he could not see beyond that, nor how his hands and legs were restrained.
He glanced downwards. Underneath him was a large bucket, obviously for waste. In front of him was a computer monitor, which at that moment was not switched on. A tower unit and keyboard sat on a shelf built into the wooden frame. A foot away from his mouth he could see a microphone.
Who had him, why, and what they were doing, was a complete mystery. He hadn’t even seen anyone.
He thought back over the time he had been held captive. To his recollection, it had been approximately four weeks. The last thing he could physically remember was returning to his car at The Harrogate Arms, a beautiful old building on the outskirts of the town, ideally situated to conduct his business. He could not remember leaving, only waking up in a strange and uncomfortable room with a bed, and nothing else. He had been chained to the wall, and had a bucket for a toilet within easy reach. He had also been fed and watered, but not in vast amounts. All of which had been placed in the room while he’d been asleep.
Another thing that had concerned him was his state of health; he had grown progressively weaker in the time he had been imprisoned.
The first seven days had been fine. His problems had started during the second week, where he had suffered serious headaches, and pains in almost all of his joints. For a while he’d thought he’d been forced to take the drugs from which he’d made a prosperous living. He also worried that his food had been contaminated, or that he was coming down with something.
The last week, however, had made him take stock of how serious his condition was. He’d started vo
miting and, yesterday, he’d had to put up with bloody diarrhoea. Seeing where he was now, he doubted very much that drugs or food were responsible. Nor did he think he was coming down with anything natural. To top it off, during the course of the last few days, a constant hammering and banging and drilling had driven him almost to the point of madness, as apparently his captors must have been making the very thing he was trussed up to now. At one point he had heard conversation, indicating there was more than one person involved in his abduction.
Without any warning, he felt as if a red-hot poker had been shoved inside of him. Every nerve end burned as if he’d been connected to the mains. Hobson arched his back, his body pulling as taut as the frame would allow. He screeched, his voice hoarse and raw. As the pain subsided, his stomach started to rumble. He knew all too well what that meant.
He desperately wanted to know who had him, and why. The only connection he could make was drugs. There were enough dealers out there, all wanting a slice of the action, each as nasty as the next.
One thing Lance did know was that if the bastard ever made the mistake of letting him go, he wouldn’t live very long.
Jackie Pollard came to mind. That man had wanted his territory for some time now. And he also craved revenge for what had happened in Armley all those years ago. He’d never trusted Pollard.
But if Pollard had him, how had he done it? Who had he been working with? And did he have Alex and Sonia, or were they working with him?
No, he couldn’t see that. Couldn’t accept it. Neither of those two would ever sell him out, so the only conclusion he could count on was that Pollard had all three of them.
Hobson’s body had been so wracked with pain, he hadn’t realized that something within his environment had changed.
He raised his head a little. It was a small but very significant change.
The computer monitor had come to life.
Chapter Twenty-two
