Jemima Pepperdine took a brief swallow of plasticky coffee and pulled a slightly disgusted face at the cup before returning to her case notes. The view from the eighteenth floor of the Heart of Midlothian Hospital was breathtaking, encompassing the whole of Edinburgh, across Arthur’s Seat to the coast beyond, but Jemima found she rarely had time to take in scenery. As one of the youngest consultant neurologists in the UK, she had plenty to occupy her mind without pausing for trivialities such as a nice view.

The Lead Consultant made his habitual stately entrance and the small gathering of doctors and nurses visibly straightened up, shuffling papers and rearranging faces into serious expressions – other than Jemima, whose habitually solemn mien was something of an in-joke amongst the junior doctors and younger nurses on the ward. She removed her spectacles and stared glassily at the impressive frame of Mr Okonedo.

“Good morning, everybody. Thank you for taking the time to attend this case conference, which, as you will know, concerns Patient X.”

A light rustle of whispery remarks greeted this statement. Patient X was one of those exciting causes célèbres that can make a medic’s reputation; the kind of thing the national press love to pick up and speculate on. An amnesiac with no recall of any aspect of his past life, even his name. In this case, Jemima thought with fascination, there were even more bizarre mysteries and complications than were usually found in such a situation.

“Let me run through the case notes thus far, without pausing to bat far-fetched theories at each other, please.” Okonedo held a beat of silence and frowned. Patient X had brought out the naked conspiracy theorist in his underlings and he was growing somewhat fatigued with all the half-baked ideas being bandied around. Patient X was an alien from another planet. He was a superhero. He was a human terrorist weapon whose memory had been erased of all but a murderous plot. And so on. The universities and medical schools really needed to look closely at their admission procedures, Okonedo thought wryly.

“Patient X was discovered unconscious at the side of a mountain road in the Cairngorms by a group of hillwalkers. He appeared to them to be dead, but on arrival at hospital was found to have a faint pulse. He was suffering from advanced hypothermia, for which he was treated in the first instance. During this treatment, it was noted that Patient X had a wound in his neck, the puncture marks of which were consistent with a snake bite. And not just any snake – certainly not one indigenous to these isles. The Curator of the Reptile House at Edinburgh Zoo suggests it to be a King Cobra.

“However, when blood samples were taken from Patient X and submitted to Toxicology for analysis, it transpired that there was no snake venom present in his bloodstream. Notwithstanding the puncture mark, it appears that the bite of a King Cobra can be ruled out as the cause of the wound, although substantial blood loss had clearly occurred.

“Patient X was given a transfusion and taken to convalesce on Ivanhoe Ward. Pulse, blood pressure and temperature all stabilised within twenty four hours, though the patient did not regain consciousness for another two days.

“Patient X is a male in his late thirties to early forties. He appears to be in otherwise excellent health, although there are a number of scars on his body, principally on his back. No identifying information was found on his person; his name, age, nationality and background are unknown. His left forearm bears traces of what might have once been a tattoo, though it has possibly been laser treated at some time. He is just over six foot one, weighs around one hundred and seventy-five pounds, has all his own teeth and hair and appears well-nourished.

“So far, so mysterious. But here, ladies and gentlemen, is where we come in.”

The congregation hunched forward, hanging on Okonedo’s every word.

“Patient X recovered consciousness late last night. I received a call from Ivanhoe Ward asking for my professional opinion, as the patient had been complaining of memory loss. I visited the patient, who claimed to be suffering a form of retrograde amnesia, having no recollection of his past, although he was verbally competent, with all motor skills fully functional.

“Despite his confusion, it was clear from our brief conversation that the patient was an educated and articulate man, and that English was his first language. I arranged for an MRI scan this morning, the results of which are quite inconclusive. There is no evidence of any trauma to the head; no apparent damage to the hippocampus or the limbic system to suggest a neurodegenerative disorder. The patient’s flow of blood to the brain is perfectly adequate. Blood tests have shown that he is not an abuser of drugs and his liver has not been damaged by excessive alcohol consumption. All the obvious triggers of this kind of amnesia are absent.”

Okonedo paused to look around the room and assess the effect his speech was having so far.

“Could it be a dissociative amnesia?” suggested Jemima. “Brought on by psychological trauma?”

“I read a book about that,” offered Doctor Patel, a houseman. “The Bourne Identity.”

“Thank you for your contribution, Doctor,” said Okonedo. “And thank you, Ms Pepperdine. Yes, dissociative or psychogenic amnesia is certainly something we need to consider. I will be contacting our colleagues in Psychiatry later on today for their assessment. Further analysis of bloods is ongoing, though conclusive results will not be possible for another ten days at least.”

“How do you propose we treat Patient X?” queried Jemima.

“Well, this is where you come in, Ms Pepperdine,” said Okonedo, his gleamingly white smile contrasting startlingly with his coal black skin. “Until we can cancel out physical causes for his memory loss, we need somebody to form a therapeutic relationship with Patient X. As with all amnesiacs, we need to establish a sense of security and trust before we can proceed with a course of treatment. I’d like you to be his…confidante. Talk to him, try to draw out any memories, make an inventory of his abilities and skills, work out what he knows and doesn’t know.”

“I see,” said Jemima, slightly taken aback. If there was one point of weakness on her CV it was her ‘people skills’. She preferred to get on with things rather than waste time talking about them. She wondered if she was the right person for the job.

Okonedo sensed her reservations and held his charming smile. “From the conversation we had, I felt he would appreciate an intelligent person for the role. And a woman…of a similar age to his…might well do a better job than an old man like me.”

Okonedo was scarcely past fifty, but Jemima Pepperdine did not comment. She was too irritated. He wanted her to be…some kind of psychological honey trap. The promise of a bit of skirt might loosen the malingerer’s tongue.

“Mr Okonedo, I hardly think…” She stood up, shoving her spectacles back up to the bridge of her nose.

“I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job, Ms Pepperdine. Now, I must go; I’ve a golf appointment with the Trust Manager in half an hour. Good morning.”

Jemima shook her head and stalked out of the room. Dissociative amnesia, eh? Probably some spineless bastard trying to elude debt or the nasty consequences of adultery. But she should try to avoid jumping to conclusions, she cautioned herself severely. That was not what medicine was about.

She whisked back onto the ward and asked to see the Ward Sister in her office. If Patient X was being moved up here, she needed to give the nurses fair warning, and a strict interdiction from talking to the Midlothian Gazette.