Go Not Gently (16 page)

‘Maybe one, a bloke called Philip Braithwaite. He seemed to go downhill quickly, then they found a tumour, they did a biopsy but he got flu and died while he was here.’

‘So it could have been the tumour that complicated things,’ she mused. ‘And the others?’

‘Classic symptoms, nothing unusual, came here for scans, ended up in Kingsfield.’

We were interrupted by the nurse I’d spoken to earlier. She wanted to check Lily’s pulse and temperature.

Agnes asked how long Lily would be in hospital and whether she could tell us if the scans they had done had told them anything about her Alzheimer’s.

‘I’m sorry,’ she made notes on the chart and clipped it back on the bed, ‘I don’t know. You need to speak to Mr Simcock about that.’

At eight o’clock we left, along with the last of the other visitors, and I drove Agnes home. She wanted to speak to Charles and I was keen to find out what he knew. I followed her through to her back room where the phone was. It was bitterly cold and we both kept our coats on. The room was much more lived in than her lounge and still sported an old-fashioned creel suspended from the ceiling where clothes could be hung to dry. Edges of green lino showed around the large Indian rug that covered most of the floor. The wallpaper was some faded leaf design and here and there paintings and old photos hung. She lit the gas fire and left it on full. She found and dialled the number.

‘Charles? It’s Agnes Donlan here. I’ve just been to see your mother. Have you spoken to the hospital today?  That’s right, bleeding in the brain and the operation is to clear it up. Was it Mr Simcock you spoke to? Yes, and what did he say?  Good, and what about the Alzheimer’s? Really? Oh dear. When did they tell you about the fall? Well, I wish you’d let me know. I had no idea until I went to see her at the Marion Unit and she’d gone. It was an awful shock…Yes, I realise that but I really wouldn’t have minded. You can ring me at any time, I want you to…Pardon? Consent, what for?  Oh, I see. Well, I suppose they have to check…She was fast asleep but the nurse said she was doing as well as could be expected. Are you planning to come up?  I see.’ 

Agnes wasn’t best pleased by his answer. She looked over at me and raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Well, please let me know what you find out,’ Agnes was saying. ‘It’s hard for me to get any decent information and I would like to be kept informed. I’ll be going to see her again tomorrow.’ She said her goodbyes and put the phone down.

She sighed with exasperation. ‘They rang him about the fall as soon as she was admitted but he didn’t like to ring me late at night. Honestly!’ She shook her head impatiently. ‘When I’ve made it plain all along that I want to be told what’s happening. I’m the only friend she has left.’ She took a deliberate breath. ‘He says Mr Simcock said the operation had gone very well. She isn’t out of the woods yet but he said they were hopeful. But the scans confirmed she has Alzheimer’s and he said it was pretty advanced.’ She sighed again, massaged her temples with her fingers. She looked drained.

‘He’s planning to come up at the weekend and keep in touch with the hospital by phone.’

‘What was that about consent?’

‘Oh,’ she pulled a face, ‘they had to make sure Charles knew that Lily was an organ donor and see if he had any objections to her wishes.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘No, a precaution apparently, but as the doctor pointed out to him Lily is getting on in years and it’s better to think about it now than at the time of death. Lily always said she wanted to help others if she could. She gave blood for years.’ She stood up. ‘It’s so frustrating having to hear everything second-hand from Charles, when he’s miles away.’ She tutted. ‘Would you like some tea?’

‘No, I’d better be getting back. I’d like to know why Goulden was at the hospital with Mr Simcock today. I could do a bit of digging.’

‘Yes,’ said Agnes, ‘I’d like you to. And the tablets?’

‘I’ll try and talk to my friend again – she might be able to hurry things up a bit.’

The car had iced up again and the pavement glittered dangerously with black ice. I scraped the screen and turned on the fan. My shoulder ached with fatigue, I rolled it around, stretched my neck, leant my head back against the head rest. It was slightly more comfortable but I couldn’t see as much of the road surface as I needed to. I hunched forward over the wheel and drove slowly home.

Maddie was asleep, lying flat on her back, her arms flung above her head. I sat there for a few minutes gazing at her. In the other bed Tom snuffled with his cold, coughed now and then, but Maddie slept on undisturbed.

‘Moira. It’s Sal. Any news on those tablets?’

‘No. But I didn’t put them in as urgent so they wouldn’t hurry – and they’d certainly not have touched them over the weekend. Other jobs will get done first. I told you it’d be a few days.’

‘I know. Just impatient. What do you know about the neurosurgeon Simcock?’

‘He’s famous – brilliant reputation. Keeps threatening to leave and work overseas. Reckons the profession’s being bled dry. He’s had a lot of stuff in the Lancet – keen on the new technology: lasers, biogenetics too, if I remember right. Why do you ask?’

‘He’s treating the woman whose case I’m working on.’

‘The one with the tablets?’

‘Yes. She’s had a fall and a haemorrhage in the brain. They’ve had to do an operation. What about Dr Montgomery, up at Kingsfield, at the Marion Unit?’

‘Can’t stand him. This is all confidential I hope?’

‘Of course.’

‘Probably competent in his own way but he’s obsessed with drugs. Chemical answer to everything. Sort who gives Prozac out like Smarties. Pharmaceutical companies love him. I’ve not had a lot of direct contact but you get to hear about people. Has he been treating this woman too?’

‘Yes. She went from Homelea to Kingsfield and now with this fall she’s gone to the MRL’

‘Well, they reckon Simcock’s the best there is. If there’s anything to be done surgically he’s your man.’

‘How many psycho-geriatric beds are there for South Manchester?’

‘Is this a trick question?’

I laughed. ‘No. I think someone might be getting more then their fair share.’

‘I can’t tell you offhand. Fifty or so I think.’

‘Could you check for me?’

‘Yes.’

‘And they’re all based at the Marion Unit?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Thanks. And if there’s anything you can do to speed up the lab results on the tablets…’

‘I’ll see what they say. Don’t bank on it. Later.’ She signed off in the same old way.

I scoured the evening paper looking for anything about the Achebe case. There was nothing in. Was Jimmy still being held in spite of his alibi? How could they do that? The only way he could have killed Tina and also phoned me from work was if they’d been mistaken about the time of death but the neighbour’s testimony had sounded very precise. Perhaps they had released him but not in time for the paper to get hold of the story. Presumably they’d also interviewed the man I’d seen meet Tina at the hotel, if they could trace him. After all, if Jimmy was innocent he must be the next most likely suspect.

The only way I could get warm was to run a hot bath and lay there till the steam cleared. There was a hot, prickly feeling in the back of my throat. I made some tea with honey and lemon and sipped it while reading in bed. I woke deep in the night, shivering with cold, no covers on me at all. Maddie had crept in with me and snaffled them all. I was too tired to try moving her so I redistributed the duvet, rearranged her elbows and sank back to sleep.

Maddie woke at half-past six as usual, waking me too. My tongue had dried out and swollen up like a huge prune. I gulped down some water, provided Maddie with cereal, milk and television and crawled back to bed. I woke again to Ray calling me. It was time to get them ready for school. He was back on the conversion job so I couldn’t ask him to do it. My cold had come on with a vengeance, everything felt muffled, my head was swimming and the walk to school was exhausting.

I didn’t feel up to much but nevertheless set off for the library. In the research section I flipped through back copies of the Lancet till I found two articles by Matthew Simcock. One was about current developments in the understanding of Alzheimer’s, known and suspected changes in the physical tissues of the brain. The other article was a plea for more funding for research into biogenetics and neurology. I didn’t understand much of either, they certainly weren’t written for the layperson.

On the way to the office I mused over the connection between the doctors: Goulden the GP, Montgomery the psycho geriatrician and Matthew Simcock the neurosurgeon. Goulden and Montgomery dealt with Lily because they specialised in geriatric care. Simcock was only brought in when it seemed that surgery might help, although from the articles he certainly had an interest in senile dementia for which there was no effective treatment, surgical or otherwise.

I rooted around for any other connections – they all worked in Manchester?  My brain was too soggy to concentrate. I switched track. Suppose Dr Goulden was referring an unusually high number of patients through to Kingsfield – to what possible advantage? Would he or the consultant get some sort of piece-work bonus? It couldn’t work like that because the number of beds at the Marion Unit was limited and in great demand. Montgomery would hardly thank him for increasing the pressure on resources. It couldn’t be anything to do with legacies and inheritance either. Wills had to be drawn up while people were ‘of sound mind’, not altered while under the care of a psychiatrist. I finally admitted to myself that I couldn’t think of a single dodgy reason why Goulden might be sending people on to Kingsfield.

The answerphone light blinked. Moira had left me a message. ‘Sal, sixty beds at Kingsfield. Thirty-five continuing care, the rest acute, that includes assessment beds.’

It was bigger than I’d guessed but even so, Goulden’s patients had taken a tenth of the available beds in one year. On the other hand if they hadn’t stayed long perhaps it wasn’t that unusual. Then think of all the other GPs, all the other old people’s homes – there was one of them on every corner around Withington and Didsbury. The big redbrick villas that no one could afford to buy were ideal for conversion and there was no shortage of people looking for residential care. A lot of the homes had people with Alzheimer’s and continued to care for them. Was I making a mountain out of a molehill? Were six transfers in a year over the top, par for the course, or just a statistical blip?

I made a strong coffee and sat at my desk, feet up. I’d no motive, no connection. Why had my suspicions been aroused? The six referrals, the chance sighting of Goulden and Simcock together and the fuss around the tablets, Goulden’s tantrum and Mrs Knight’s lies. Innocent explanations could probably be found for any of those.

Connections. I sipped my coffee, it had no taste; catarrh had joined my list of symptoms…I could always try Harry. He was an old friend whose career in journalism and love for information had led him into the world of data bases, data retrieval and the supply of information. He was now a popular contact for investigative reporters and researchers. He specialised in the business and commercial sectors and could find out more or less anything factual about people, companies, deals and contracts. It was a long shot – I didn’t know whether his range covered the world of medicine but I’d no other ideas pending.

I got through straight away.

‘How’s it going with Sheila?’

‘Fine. I think she likes it here. She’s nice.’

‘She was over the moon when you offered her it, she rang us later. That place she was before – horrendous. So what can I do for you?’

I explained that I was looking for anything that might link any of the names Dr Kenneth Goulden, Mr Matthew Simcock and Dr Douglas Montgomery together. I already knew they were all in medicine and all worked in Manchester.  ‘There’s probably nothing,’ I warned him, ‘but I’m short on ideas.’

‘It’ll be a joy,’ he said. ‘I’m up to my eyeballs in share dealings in the major utilities so this’ll be a doddle. You sound terrible,’ he commented.

‘I feel terrible, a cold.’

‘Get to bed then,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

I took his advice. Before I left I tried to get hold of Sergeant Bell; she was busy. They asked if I wanted to leave a message.

‘Tell her it’s Sal Kilkenny. I’m ringing to see if there’s any news about Jimmy Achebe.’

They assured me that Sergeant Bell would get the message as soon as she was available.

I stuck my answerphone on, locked up the office and went home. Before getting into bed I rang Agnes and explained I was poorly and wouldn’t be up to taking her to see Lily. She was understanding and said she could easily get a taxi.

I set my alarm for three o’clock, drank half a pint of orange juice, swallowed two aspirin and snuggled under the duvet.

The rest of the day passed. About all you could say for it really. I went through the motions, muffled in cold, and escaped to an early bed as soon as possible. I woke once, rearing up from the dream where I was being suffocated. Someone was squashing my nose. At the time I put it down to having a blocked-up nose. Now, looking back, I wonder whether it was intuition.