Second Opinion (31 page)

‘Nor do I,’ George said. ‘I’ve got all I need from them. Thanks.’ She hesitated. ‘Will it be hard to put them back without anyone noticing?’

‘Mmm? Oh, not really.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I go when I know the office’ll be quiet. It’s pretty quiet now, I think. Lunchtime, you see.’

‘Good,’ George said briskly. ‘Then let’s take them back now, shall we? And Cherry, will you do something for me?’

Cherry looked dubious and George patted her arm. ‘It’s all right. I’m not asking for anything outrageous. It’s to save me time. I could track down what I need through the Registry if I had to, but you know how slow they can be. I just want the address of a patient — another one who had a baby who died. Like this one.’ She tapped Angela’s notes.

‘Oh, well, I suppose I could,’ Cherry said doubtfully. ‘As
long as no one’s there. If there is someone, I’ll have to make an excuse and not even put this file back. But it should be all right around now, like I said. Lunchtime. Will you wait here? Tell me what it is you want and I’ll be right back.’

‘I’ll come with you. Then I can keep people out of your hair if necessary.’ George grinned at her. ‘Anyway, it’s always easier for two people.’

Cherry seemed grateful for her company and led the way back towards Maternity, George falling into step beside her. George asked the question more to have something to say than anything else. ‘Those crumpled sheets of paper, the ones you found under this file in Harry’s room, they’re odd, aren’t they?’

‘Odd?’

‘Well, just rows of numbers and letters and so forth.’

Cherry shrugged. ‘All this medical stuff looks like that to me,’ she said. ‘I thought it was just, you know,
medical
. Isn’t it?’ She threw a sharp glance at George who remembered again how astute this girl could be.

‘I don’t think so,’ George said. ‘It’s not like anything medical I’ve ever seen.’

‘Oh.’ Cherry frowned. ‘That’s funny. I was sure it was. It’s like some other stuff I’ve seen, anyway.’

‘What?’ Startled, George stopped walking, and made Cherry do the same. ‘You’ve seen other pages like this?’

Cherry’s forehead wrinkled, ‘Yeah. Somewhere …’

‘Tell me about that,’ George commanded. ‘At once! Where? When? Who had the pages? And —’

Cherry shook her head, bewildered by George’s vehemence. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘Don’t know? How do you mean, don’t know?’

Cherry began to walk again and George perforce fell into step beside her. ‘As I said, I can’t remember. I saw some stuff like that somewhere. Just a few lines, not whole pages or anything. I can sort of see them. They were just the
same.’ She squinted at the floor. ‘But I can’t remember where.’

Again George brought herself and Cherry to a halt, holding on to her elbow. They were in the last little run of corridor before they reached Maternity proper, and it was empty. Just an expanse of red linoleumed floor and pale green-washed walls with a couple of rather grimy windows to give a little light. And themselves.

‘Listen, Cherry,’ she said with some urgency. ‘There’s a way of remembering and it’s important you try. Look at that blank wall, and then close your eyes.’

Cherry gaped at her and George shook her head impatiently. ‘Believe me, this works if you give it a chance. I’ve seen it work. Just look at the wall. Right? Now close your eyes and look at those pages you remember. See them in your memory. Can you do it?’

Cherry stood with her eyes crunched closed and concentrated. After a moment she said slowly. ‘Yeah, I sort of can. A little pile of ‘em. All crumpled up.’

‘Good,’ George said urgently. Her pulse had started to pound, she was so excited. ‘Great. Now, concentrate and let your mind’s eye sort of open out. There are the papers. What are they in or on? A table? An in-out tray? You look and tell me.’

The girl frowned, still with her eyes closed. ‘I can’t — oh! Yes, I think. Basket. There’s a sort of basket-weave alongside one of them.’

She opened her eyes and George almost shouted at her to close them again. Cherry looked offended for a moment but obeyed.

‘I’m sorry, Cherry. I didn’t mean to be nasty. I just need to know. Look again. Tell me what you see.’

Again Cherry concentrated and George stood there with her tongue-tip held between her teeth, willing the girl to remember; and then suddenly there was a sound of footsteps, and Cherry’s eyelids flew open and George whirled.

Didier St Cloud was coming along the corridor from the Maternity Ward, whistling softly between his teeth. He grinned when he saw them and called cheerfully, ‘Meeting of the Girls’ Club is it? The places you have to go to get a bit of peace in this hospital!’

George could have hit him, she was so furious at the interruption. She glared at him. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ she snapped. ‘I was just asking Cherry for some information.’

Didier lifted his brows and said mildly, ‘Well, sorry, I’m sure. I meant no harm! I often bring people out here if I need to talk quietly. It’s just about the only part of Matty where you can be left alone.’ He stared at her curiously. ‘No need to get so shirty.’

She relaxed, deliberately letting her shoulders slump. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to get so screwed up. It was just that Cherry was trying to remember something I need to know and I think she was almost there.’ She turned to Cherry hopefully. ‘Unless you already had remembered?’

Cherry shook her head. ‘Sorry, Dr Barnabas, but it’s all gone,’ she said a little mournfully. ‘It’s like I said, I sort of remember seeing —’

‘Well, that’s all right,’ George said hastily, suddenly aware of Didier’s close interest. ‘Not important now, we have to get on. So long, Didier.’ She put her hand on Cherry’s elbow as unobtrusively as possible and urged her forward and a few seconds later they were in the main Matty corridor, leaving Didier beyond the double doors which swung closed behind them. George took a deep breath of relief.

‘Let’s face it, Cherry,’ she said quietly. ‘We can’t know who might be involved in this, can we? The less we talk the better. We’ll try to remember again later. Right now, let’s see if there’s anyone in the office. If there isn’t, what I need is the address of the Popodopoulos family. Can you find it?’

‘When was she in here?’ Cherry was business-like again.

‘It was in the little red notebook,’ George said and closed
her own eyes to summon up a memory of the scribbled dates on the first page. ‘First of December it was, the day that baby died. So she’d have been admitted on —’

‘It won’t take a moment on the computer,’ Cherry said and moved along the corridor with George close behind her, making their way past the usual groups of chattering mothers, some with their babies cradled in the crooks of their arms, trying to be as unnoticed as possible.

The office was empty. Cherry darted in and had the Chowdary file stowed safely back in its place in no time. Then as George looked over her shoulder to check, Cherry slid into the chair behind the rather battered computer on the far table, and began tapping keys.

‘How do you spell it?’ she asked. ‘Popo — what?’ George rattled off the letters as Cherry hit keys and then peered at her screen. ‘Just round the corner really. One five three five Lansdowne House, on the Shadwell Estate.’

‘Fifteen thirty-five,’ George said, committing it to memory. ‘Lansdowne House.’

‘That’s it,’ Cherry said. ‘Anything else you need?’

‘Phone number?’ George said hopefully and again Cherry punched keys and then shook her head.

‘Not listed. Might be in the phone book.’

‘I’ll go there.’ George was talking more to herself than to Cherry. ‘I’ll just go right there and not tell them I’m coming. It’s worth the risk of there being no one at home.’

‘You’ll probably have a hell of a climb when you get there,’ Cherry said helpfully. ‘If it’s like most of the blocks of flats around here, the lifts’ll be out of order and you’ll have to climb up. All fifteen floors.’

To George’s intense relief, Cherry had been too pessimistic. The lifts were working, but she had to admit it would have been more agreeable perhaps to have climbed the stairs, even though the Popodopoulos family lived so high up. The lift cage stank of old tobacco, cats and human urine
and the floor was littered with garbage, while the walls were covered in some remarkably obscene but totally unamusing graffiti. Even the buttons on the call panel were sticky to the touch. Her heart sank as she imagined what lay ahead of her.

But the Popodopoulos flat was warm and welcoming and beautiful. The child who came to the door, a stunningly beautiful boy of about seven, with a head covered in rich black curls and eyes to match, grinned at her when she asked for Mrs Popodopoulos and went back inside, leaving the door open behind him, which she accepted as an invitation to come in. The narrow hallway inside was carpeted in deep crimson, the walls were hung with so many pictures it was almost impossible to see any wallpaper behind them and it led into a sizeable room that seemed to George to be stuffed with richly polished and plumply upholstered furniture, people who were almost as well upholstered and smells of food so strong they were almost like solids hitting her in the face.

There were five women sitting at the table, all as dark as the boy who had answered the door, and all turned handsome enquiring faces to her as she came in. The boy returned to the TV set he’d been watching with another child and turned up the sound. One of the women, clearly his mother for she shared his particular brand of handsomeness, leaned over and turned the sound down again without for a moment taking her eyes off George. The boy muttered but settled down to watch quietly.

‘Yes,’ Mrs Popodopoulos said. ‘Can I help you?’

George went straight in as she had done with Mr Chowdary. It had worked then. Why not now?

‘I’m the pathologist at Old East,’ she said. ‘Dr Barnabas. I’m — I — was most upset when your baby died, Mrs Popodopoulos,’ she said. ‘I offer you my condolences.’

The five women were all suddenly very still and silent so
that the TV set seemed all at once to be loud. They said nothing and just stared down at the table.

George caught her breath, very aware of Mrs Popodopoulos’s eyes fixed on her. She wanted to glance away to avoid that direct look of — what? Pain was too simple a word. There was depth of loss in her gaze that made the back of George’s neck crawl with pity and a sort of shared sensation of misery. But she held her gaze firm and looked at the handsome woman sitting there at her table with her hands crossed on the red plush cloth that covered it.

‘Thank you,’ Mrs Popodopoulos said at last. ‘I appreciate that.’ She bowed her head with dignity and the other women relaxed. One of them put her hand on Mrs Popodopoulos’s shoulder and another started to murmur softly in a sort of comfortable croon.

‘I want to do more than that,’ George said, now emboldened. ‘I want to find out why your baby died.’

‘My son died of a cot death,’ Mrs Popodopoulos said.

‘Who told you that?’

‘Ann Powell.’

‘Ann Powell?’

‘My midwife.’

‘Ah, yes.’ George shook her head. ‘I don’t deny that was what she was told. It was the only diagnosis I could make. It was my — it was up to me to …’ She let the words drift away and knew they understood. One of them shrank back a little, staring at her with huge dark eyes and George tried to see herself through those eyes; a woman who cut up dead babies, who pried into such dreadful matters, what sort of woman was that? She made herself look away from the staring eyes and back at Helen Popodopoulos.

‘I don’t like that diagnosis,’ she said. ‘It isn’t — it isn’t enough.’

Helen stared and seemed for the first time aware that George was still standing in the doorway. She got to her
feet with a surge of energy that made them all jump up and start to bustle.

‘I am ashamed. I have offered you no chair, no refreshments. Please take off your coat. It’s warm in here. And you’ll take some coffee, yes? And a little baklava perhaps, or …’

Chattering busily she divested George of her coat, who was glad for it was indeed warm in this crowded room. One of the others went off to the kitchen and returned rapidly with a small cup filled with thick, very hot and very fragrant coffee and a plate of honeyed baklava pastry. George was tempted, but decided not to accept. Talking on such a matter with her mouth full would not be right. The coffee tasted good, however, and she sipped it gratefully as Helen Popodopoulos came to the sofa where she had been ensconced and sat beside her.

‘Well, now. You think there was something else I should know about my baby son?’

‘I honestly don’t know,’ George set down her cup and saucer on the little table beside the richly upholstered sofa arm. ‘I can’t lie to you, I just can’t tell you more. I’m acting on a — I just have a suspicion that all is not as I — we have been led to believe. Mrs Popo —’

‘Call me Helen,’ the other woman said. She held out a hand and took George’s in it. ‘You are a good woman, doctor. I appreciate your coming here. It was a dreadful loss. I have already two sons, but this one was just as precious, just —’ She swallowed and shook her head and her eyes were glittering with tears. But she shed none.

‘I’m certain he was. And I pray that one day — well, who knows. But I must ask you, Mrs — Helen, do you have a photograph of your lost son? I mean, before he died?’

Again the room shivered into stillness, only the sound of the children’s TV breaking it. They seemed totally unaware of the conversation of the adults around them and for that George was grateful.

After a long pause Helen said, ‘My husband was very distressed. Very. A man and his sons — you understand.’

‘A man and his children? Of course,’ George said. She shouldn’t have made the distinction, not to a grieving woman, but she had been unable to stop herself and Helen looked at her sharply and for a moment her lips curled into a smile.

‘Yes, well, you are not, of course, Cypriot. You don’t understand our ways. Let me just say, he could not bear the thought of a photograph once our baby was dead. To him it was a sacrilege. A picture of a dead baby.’

George felt the plunge of her hopes as a physical thing, a hard thump in her chest and she caught her breath and closed her eyes for a moment to mark her disappointment. When she opened them again Helen was looking at her with a slightly quizzical expression on her face.