The Beauty of the End (19 page)

37

T
here are those who choose to remain silent. Even so, I speak to too many grieving, devastated people. Drink mugs of their tea; hear their stories; am humbled by their fortitude. Come away with notes of dates and consultants' names, know I can only begin to imagine their grief. And still, nothing stands out.

The breakthrough comes as I'm leaving the last family, the Miltons, whose quiet sadness leaves me strangely moved. Having thanked them as sincerely as I can, for making me so welcome, I'm walking down their neat gravel drive to my car when, behind me, the front door opens again.

“Mr. Calaway?”

I turn to see Tina Milton waving something at me, hear her soft, quick footsteps as she catches up to me.

“It may be nothing, but we thought we should tell you. It was after the last scan—before any possible treatment was discussed. Because our baby died, because we never went back . . .” Her voice wavers. “But we were sent a form to fill out. A questionnaire. We looked through it when it arrived, but because of what happened . . . well, it wasn't until recently I realized we'd both thought the same. For families who face losing their baby, the questions are, well, I thought, insensitive. And not relevant. Like I said, it might be nothing but you're welcome to take this with you.”

But she believes there is something. It's in her eyes, in the spark of anger that blazes there that's as quickly gone, in its place a resigned sadness.

I can't smile, just take it from her.

“Thank you.”

* * *

After a day of emotional range from anger to despair, I wait until I'm back at my B&B to look at what Tina Milton's given me.

As I read, I'm increasingly puzzled. The first questions are innocuous enough, asking about the pregnancy, the baby's birth, the health of both parents. But as I read on, there are more probing questions, about family history, schools, education, going on to ask about occupations and income, which in the case of an inclusive health service and a sick baby should be insignificant.

There's a note at the start, which states that completing the questionnaire is by no means compulsory, but will help with how ongoing treatment is specifically tailored to individuals, which sounds perfectly plausible. But as I read through the questions again, I'm not sure. I search the form for the doctor's name or medical department that's sent it, and find an address: Fairview Medical Centre, 78 Elm Street, Wandsworth.

I pull out my laptop and type it into the search bar. Fairview Medical Centre does indeed exist. I find a number of listings and then a website.

It looks impressive—a large, white double-fronted house that is no doubt worth a fortune. There are more photos of the interior, the grand reception, stylish waiting area, the consulting rooms. Other than describing the practice as a provider of state-of-the-art medical care and that appointments are by referral only, the website says little else but points me toward a contact form for e-mail inquiries.

I wonder if Will ever works there. Then I pause, deep in thought, because on first sight it looks genuine enough, but the questionnaire still niggles at me. Using the contact form, I send a quick e-mail. Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I don't tell them why, just that I'm interested to know more about what they can offer, asking if someone could contact me. But as I send the email, something else is on my mind. It makes sense to visit your nearest hospital, particularly when frequent appointments are involved. If you lived close to here, that hospital would be the Princess Royal. After all, why go farther when the specialist unit is on your doorstep?

I'm frowning as it comes back to me. One of April's clients, not far from here in Sevenoaks, had gone somewhere else. I reach for my list, and as I scan the names, suddenly I remember who it was. One of the first people I spoke to.

Nina Hendry.

Even though it's late, I call her, but she doesn't pick up. Resigning myself to having to wait until tomorrow, I leave a message, but only a few minutes later she calls me back.

“Thanks for getting back to me. I'm sorry it's so late, but it might be important.”

“It's okay. I'm curious. What was it you wanted to know?”

“Forgive me. . . .” I hesitate. “But your babies . . . I didn't want to ask before, but did they have heart problems?”

She pauses, then says, “Yes. Both of them.”

“I saw from April's notes that you didn't go to the Princess Royal last year. Was there a reason for that?”

I've considered practical reasons, such as the Princess Royal had been full, the hospital she'd chosen was closer to her parents and she needed their support, or she'd heard the best consultants were there.

She pauses, then says, “I took my first baby to the Princess Royal. But by the time my second was born, there were rumors.”

“What sort of rumors?” My heart quickens.

“I'm not sure I should say. The Princess Royal is a good hospital. But when I was pregnant the last time, I found this forum online. It was a kind of support system for mothers in the same boat as I was. Anyway . . . I read something. I could never be sure if it was accurate, but when you're pregnant, especially when you've already lost one baby, you don't take chances.”

“What had you heard?”

“Just that . . . Well, just that it was a bit of a lottery there. It was probably nothing, but someone posted that not all babies were treated the same. There was a whole thread dedicated to it. You can probably still find it if you want to. Anyway, for the record, I'd never had a bad experience there myself, but I thought losing one baby was bad enough. I needed to do the best I could for the next one.”

Then her voice changes. “Oh God. Are you telling me there is something? Is that why I lost him?”

I realize then, the guilt doesn't leave you. “As yet, there's no evidence, but as April's lawyer, I need to find out. If you can please keep this to yourself, at least for now, I can assure you I'm looking into it. If I find any proof, I'll go straight to the police.”

“And I'm sorry I've troubled you,” I say again. Sorry, a pitifully inadequate word for the guilt I've resurrected in her. “I really am. But what you've told me may be useful. And there's no way you could have known anything. There really isn't”

“Promise me,” Nina's voice is hard, “if there is something, you'll get to the bottom of it.”

Her words ignite a spark in me. No longer am I doing this just for April. It's for Nina, Daisy, Lara, and all the other mothers I've never met who have been to hell and are still caught there. Who deserve justice.

38

I
'm at the heart of a gathering storm, where clouds of confusion loom overhead and I can't see the way forward because the sunlight has dimmed. Easy then, for Detective Sergeant Ryder to find me.

He looks excessively pleased with himself as I get up from my breakfast table and, with a sinking feeling, because nothing to do with Ryder is ever pleasant, go out to where he's standing in the hallway.

Swiveling cold eyes in my direction, he stops talking to my landlady.

“There are some questions I need to ask you, sir.” Deliberately speaking loud enough that everyone stops, midbreakfast, to gawp, though I'm the only one who hears his smirk.

“Ask away.” I shrug, as his eyes shift.

“It would be helpful if you'd come down to the station,” he says more quietly.

“I've told you everything I know.” I'm irritated, because I know his game. He must be more stupid than I thought. “If you have enough evidence, come and arrest me.”

I'm bluffing, trusting my instincts that he hasn't.

“Mr. Calaway, you will be coming back, won't you?” My landlady hovers, more anxious about my bill than my well-being.

“I'm not going anywhere.”

For once at a loss for words, Ryder glowers.

Hiding my anger under a veneer of calm, I turn to go back to my breakfast. Feeling all eyes on me, the wave of Ryder's fury as he leaves, sitting down, only to find that my eggs are congealed and bacon is cold.

* * *

Again, I go to the hospital, but instead of the familiar police presence just inside, April's room is empty.

“Hello . . .” I'm holding on to the door frame, fearing the worst, as I turn to see the friendly nurse standing behind me.

“Where is she?” I feel the blood draining from my face, because I can't let April down, not this time. She can't
die
.

“She's been moved,” the nurse says quietly. “If you come with me, I'll show you where she is.”

I follow her farther along the corridor through another set of swing doors, where she shows me into a larger room divided into several cubicles with a door into another much smaller room, which is where she is. Through the glass, I can see a police uniform.

“I'm afraid she's not responding to the antibiotics as well as we'd hoped. She'll have more nursing care in here.”

My ears are assaulted by an orchestra of electronic noise. I glance around, taking in the inert figures in each of the beds, wondering how it is that no one wakes.

“She's quite poorly. Is there anyone who should be told?” Against the background noise, the nurse's voice is quiet, but my ears make out each syllable, the intonation of every word.

“I don't think so.” As far as I know, April has no family.

Then suddenly I'm thinking hard, because if I'm on the right track and my investigation is discovered, there's the risk that whoever's involved will immediately destroy all the evidence. And because I don't know who else to ask, I turn to her. “Look, would you have a moment to talk?”

“Of course . . . Is it about Ms. Rousseau?”

“Yes, but not directly.” I glance around. “Is there somewhere quieter?”

“Come with me.”

I follow her round a corner of the corridor, where she gestures toward a group of chairs. “We shouldn't be disturbed here.”

“I think I told you I was acting as April's lawyer?” Hearing my voice echo along the empty stretch of corridor, I lower it.

She nods. Her brown eyes are full of compassion and her name tag is pinned to her dress. Luisa. I've been here almost every day, but until now, I haven't seen that.

“I think she discovered something.” My words fast, my voice quiet. “If I'm right, she'd found out something to do with newborns who had heart problems. She collected all this data from hospitals around the country—but at two of them, mortality rates were significantly higher.”

She frowns. “You're sure about this?”

I nod. “The question is, why? But what seems odd is that one of them was giving families a questionnaire to fill out.”

“That happens sometimes,” the nurse says. “If we're following up on the patient experience, that sort of thing.”

I nod slowly. “Okay. Well, these were handed over before any treatment was carried out—questions about educational background, occupation, income.” Watching her closely.

She looks puzzled. “But what would that have to do with anything?”

“That's exactly what I thought.” My brain is whirring faster.

“Do you know which hospitals?”

“St. George's, in north London. And here. The Princess Royal.”

“You're sure?.” Her horrified look reflects the churning feeling in my gut. “And you said this was before any treatment was carried out?”

I nod. “The only other thing I have is a list of specialists' names.” Luisa hesitates. “Mr. Farrington . . .” She sounds uncertain. “Is he on your list?”

I'm frowning. “Why d'you ask? I mean he is, but what about him?”

She shakes her head. “I'm not sure why, exactly, but there's something about him I don't trust.” She glances over her shoulder, suddenly anxious. “I shouldn't have said that—it's probably nothing. You won't tell anyone, will you?”

“Of course not.” Hastening to reassure her, curious to know why she's said this. But there's something else I have to ask first.

“One more thing . . . Have you heard of the Fairview Medical Centre? It's where these questionnaires get sent to.”

She shakes her head. “I haven't.” Then she leans forward. “But I have a friend who's a nurse in neonatal. If you get the names to me, I'll see what I can do.”

Our voices have dropped to a whisper as I type Luisa's mobile number into my phone, hoping my gut is right and I can trust her. Feeling in the silence between us, it's tangible: Hope.