Go Not Gently (19 page)

‘What about Ernest Theakston?’

‘Sorry?’ She narrowed her eyes as if to focus her hearing.

‘Ernest Theakston, he was here until he got transferred to Kingsfield. What medication was he on?’

‘I don’t know.’ She riffled through the card index on her desk and then stood up and opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet and pulled out another batch of file cards.

‘Was he on thioridazine too? Or anything from a different chemist?’

She found the card and scanned it. ‘No.’ She looked across at me puzzled. What was I getting at?

‘Mrs Palmer’s tablets, they were the first time Dr Goulden had supplied them directly?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘Now and again he’ll give us a free sample. Like I said, he gets so much from the reps.’

‘But not in the case of Mr Theakston?’

‘No.’

‘And you’ve not had any drugs from Malden’s before?’

‘No.’

‘How long was Mr Theakston here?’

‘Four years.’ Nothing like the quick sojourn that Lily had made.

‘And why did he go into Kingsfield?’

‘He’d deteriorated. Dr Goulden wanted an assessment.’

‘Deteriorated? In what way? What was wrong with him?’

‘Alzheimer’s. We can cope with the early stages but when it really progresses and they need twenty-four-hour care there’s better provision elsewhere.’

‘What happened to Mr Theakston?’

‘I don’t know.’

It was frustrating. I’d anticipated some dramatic pattern linking the fate of Lily Palmer and Ernest Theakston but their histories seemed quite distinct. Ernest Theakston, like some of the people from Aspen Lodge, had stayed several years in the home before going to the Marion Unit and he’d not had any dodgy drugs.

She obviously didn’t know about Goulden’s connection with Malden’s and I wasn’t going to enlighten her.

‘This is awful,’ she said. ‘We certainly won’t want to use them in future, not for anything like that. This is just…awful.’ She put away the cards and returned to her desk. ‘What’s Dr Goulden said? He must be furious.’

‘I haven’t spoken to him yet.’

‘Oh dear. I’ll have to tell Mrs Valley-Brown. Look,’ she swallowed and swung back her hair, ‘what I said, about the tablets being found again, that doesn’t need to come out, does it? I’d no idea then…I was just following Dr Goulden’s advice. If I’d known…’

And if he’d said jump off a cliff? I didn’t reply. She coloured.

‘I’ll see myself out.’

The clouds had opened and gusts of wind made cycling a feat of endurance. The battery in my back light had gone all weedy and I prayed the weak red glow was visible to the cars that raced past me.

Somewhere in the darker corners of my imagination I’d been expecting to uncover some major systematic crime – Goulden doing nasty things with drugs to his patients. But Ernest Theakston didn’t fit my theory. He hadn’t had any medication to speak of. One of the other patients, Philip Braithwaite from Aspen Lodge, the one with the brain tumour, he’d been on something, I could remember his daughter telling me.

So what? I kept coming back to the bloody great hole in the argument – why? What possible reason could there be for making people ill instead of well? For kicks? Stories like that hit the press every so often but it was a pretty remote possibility. I should find out what had happened to Ernest Theakston. Maybe that would shed some light on things, connect what had happened to him with Lily’s situation, or with Malden Medical Supplies.

The most plausible scenario so far was that someone at Malden’s had ballsed up the prescription.

And the most Ken Goulden could be accused of was nepotism, a short temper and failure to recognise an adverse reaction to the medicines he’d prescribed. But something else about the Malden’s link hovered just beyond my consciousness. I tried to focus on it, something Harry had mentioned when he’d given me the information, a little thing…It was no good, I couldn’t bring it into view.

I was sure Mrs Knight had known nothing about the link between the doctor and Malden’s or that there was any problem with the drugs. She hadn’t tried to hide anything. She’d been stunned by my revelations. Her fear for her own reputation, fear of litigation, were at the forefront, not a fear of being found out. Strange woman, prickly but obviously scared of Goulden – and how odd the way she never smiled. Why had she gone into nursing? She didn’t seem particularly caring of people. For all her shock-horror expressions of concern she’d never once asked me how Lily Palmer was.

Nana Tello had come for tea. She was holding court in the kitchen as I walked in. Sheila, Maddie and Tom were at the table. Ray was at the cooker.

‘Hello, stranger,’ she interrupted her story to greet me. ‘You been on your bike?’

‘Yes.’ I peeled off my cagoule.

She shook her head, tutted, pulled a face. ‘It’s not safe. I don’t think it’s so good. The cars these days, they are so impatient.’

It was a fair comment but given the history of our relationship it felt as though she were criticising my recklessness in still cycling rather than anything else.

‘They have no manners, no courtesy.’ She grimaced her disapproval.

‘I can curtsy, look.’ Maddie leapt up and performed a jerky bob. Sheila and Ray burst out laughing.

‘I’ll have a wash,’ I muttered, and withdrew.

When I tried to ring Agnes there was no reply. She was probably visiting Lily.

Tea was a strained affair. Ray had made a baked aubergine dish which only Sheila and I enjoyed. Maddie declared it was like ‘slugs and blood’ and refused to try it. Tom followed suit. Meanwhile Nana Tello embarked on her customary discourse on the need for meat (red meat at that) in the human diet, especially for young children. I’d been through the argument with her before, as had Ray, but she still managed to needle him.

‘Come on, Ma,’ he said. ‘How many times a week could people back home afford meat? They didn’t have it every day, did they?’

‘Can we get chips?’ Maddie whined.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Aw. Please. Be your best friend. Please.’

‘No. If you don’t want this then you can have a sandwich.’

‘There’s beans,’ Ray offered.

‘I hate beans,’ Maddie announced with passion.

‘Since when?’

‘I hate beans too,’ Tom said.

‘No, you don’t, you’re just copying me. Copycat, copycat, you don’t know what you’re looking at.’

‘Sandwich, then.’ I got up and made a round of Marmite sandwiches. I wasn’t even going to introduce the option of what particular type of sandwiches were acceptable on this particular Friday.

Sheila had managed to steer Nana Tello off meat and on to Italy. Sheila had spent several holidays there and was extolling the delights of the different regions she’d visited. Nana Tello was beside herself with joy to find that Sheila knew her home town of Reggio Calabria and went off into long rhapsodies about the market, the churches, the people, the climate, the soil and the schools.

We made it through apple pie and ice cream and coffee without further tantrums.

Later, comfortably ensconced in the pub, I let Diane’s conversation and two pints of Boddies wash away my tension. Diane was still full of the Cornerhouse exhibition and a little daunted by the amount of work she needed to do for it.  ‘And I’ve got to write one of those awful little autobiographies too. For the catalogue. That’s the pits,’ she said. ‘Can you imagine it? What do you say? What do you leave out?’

‘What do other people say?’

‘Well,’ she ran her hands through her hair, which had become a savage blue-black since we’d last met, ‘some of them go on about where they’ve trained, who’s influenced their work, then there’s the “loves crochet – lives with six cats” style . .

‘You could stick in a bit of both.’

‘It’s so difficult, you’ve no idea. I spent three hours last night trying to come up with something but everything sounded either totally boring or horribly pretentious.’

‘How long does it have to be?’ I took another satisfying swallow of beer.

‘They said up to two hundred words.’

‘You could try keeping it really short.’

‘What, like “Diane Davis lives in Rusholme”?’

I grinned.

‘What do people really want to know?’ She threw her hands wide as she asked the question. ‘I mean, if you go to an exhibition, you can see the work, what more would you want to know about the artist?’

I thought for a moment, took a swig from my glass, frowned in concentration. ‘How many cats they’ve got and if they do crochet.’

‘Sod off.’

Over our next drink I told Diane about the case of the dodgy tablets.

‘Someone’s for the high jump then. What a cock-up. Reminds me of those awful stories about keeping weed-killer in pop bottles.’

‘Oh, don’t,’ I muttered.

‘Bit embarrassing, eh? Use the family firm and they give you seriously shoddy goods. You reckon this doctor’s in on it, then?’

‘I’m sure he is, but it’s just a gut feeling. I can’t find a reason for him to be deliberately overdosing patients, in fact some of the patients he had transferred to Kingsfield weren’t even on medication. He seems to have pretty easy access for his patients to the Marion Unit there – his brother-in-law is the consultant.’

‘All in the family. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours?’

‘Possibly. You wouldn’t think they could get away with it, what with all these reforms and the Patient’s Charter and all that. And the bottom line is the woman’s got advanced Alzheimer’s anyway. She was ill in spite of the tablets, not because of them.’

‘But they can’t have helped.’

‘Oh, no. Moira reckoned they would have made anyone demented, especially when mixed with other drugs.’

‘Do you think he’ll get away with it, then, that sort of negligence?’

I nodded. ‘Unless something else crops up he’s home free. Everything points to the chemist, who will probably be suspended or whatever they do. I don’t think there’s much to be done about the doctor using samples from Malden’s – free market and all that. Anyway the police are looking into it now. And I need to find some more work.’

‘You could run an ad again,’ Diane suggested.

‘Yeah. It’s about time I did something like that.’

‘Hey, you could make one of those ads for the cinema, you know, stick it in with the ones about local jewellers and car dealers.’

‘Oh, spare me, please.’

‘Or one of those videos they show in taxis,’ she cackled, ‘or a bulletin on the Internet.’

‘You need a computer first,’ I replied, ‘and seeing as neither of us has one…’

‘I’m going to get one.’

I stared at her.

‘Yep, CD ROM, colour printer, the lot, fax as well.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘My own personal technological revolution. You ought to think about it, Sal, you’ll get left behind.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Besides, I have thought about it, like window shopping. I just can’t afford it.’

‘When you win the Lottery…’

‘Hah!’ I sneered. ‘You have to play to win. I never play, thought you knew that. Even if I did I’ve more chance of flying to outer space than winning that.’

‘But just think, all the things you could do with a good system, with so much less effort.’

‘I know. I know, technology’s a wonderful thing. Take my answerphone…’

‘Sal!’ she complained.

‘Listen. My answerphone got someone off a murder charge.’ I told her about Jimmy Achebe’s alibi, how it fixed him in time and place.

‘But how did they know he wasn’t ringing from home,’ she asked, ‘pretending he was at work?’

‘Ah! Because you could hear the yard in the back ground, all these vans and a Tannoy, really clear. It was brilliant. It proved he was at work, miles away at about the time of the murder. And now it looks like they’re on to the right suspect.’

We nattered on some more about what we liked and didn’t about the new technology.

‘Promise me,’ said Diane, ‘if I ever get obsessive about it, you’ll tell me.’

‘Promise.’

‘Hey, maybe you could be the first virtual private eye, shadowing people down the Information Superhighway, uncovering virtual crime.’

‘What, for virtual money? Give over.’

I slept late on the Saturday morning. My cold was receding and I’d enough energy to make a start on planting up the cold frame. Maddie and I made a trip to the local garden centre and bought a selection of packets of seeds. I limited myself to petunias and lobelia for tubs and baskets, I could supplement them with cuttings I’d taken from ivy and pansies. I got some asters for the border and Maddie chose lettuce and candytuft for herself and Tom.

On the way back I called at the office to check my mail. There was a handwritten envelope. I didn’t recognise the writing. I opened it eagerly though I should have realised that no friend would write to me at my work address. Inside was a cheque, drawn on the account of Mr J. W. Achebe. Jimmy, paying off his debt. The fact he’d bothered to sort it out in the midst of what he must be going through brought a lump to my throat. There was a small note with it; it just read ‘Thank you.’ I sighed, put it in my drawer to deal with on Monday. Poor Jimmy. Now he was free to start grieving for the loss of Tina. There’d be all the arrangements to make for her funeral once they released the body. He’d been transformed from murderer to widower. Had friends and family believed him guilty, how would they ever face him again?