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.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The weather had warmed up again and there were even patches of fresh blue sky here and there. I didn’t particularly welcome the change; my temperature was all over the place, sweaty one minute, chilled the next. To my teary eyes the bright sky was painful to look at. My cold was now in full spate, swallowing no longer hurt but breathing was difficult. I was in a diving bell, sound echoed and distorted and all the colours were too vivid. With pockets stuffed full of hankies I walked Maddie and Tom to school. I wondered about another day in bed but it seemed excessive for a cold, lousy though I felt. I compromised, telling myself I’d see how I was by lunchtime.
At the office I opened my heap of junk mail. I was exhorted to borrow money, install a new security system, send away for a free gift (matching towels or handy holdall), order two pizzas for the price of one and have my carpets cleaned half-price. I binned the lot. Even resisting the temptation to use the scratch card that would reveal whether I’d won £10, £50 or £10,000. Fat chance.
There were no messages on my answerphone. I jotted down notes on the Lily Palmer case and recorded visits I’d made, entering time and mileage on separate sheets. I sat and pondered for a while, letting the coincidences and questions nibble away at me.
The small basement window was filthy. It occurred to me that I could probably double the amount of light in the place if I cleaned it and took down the broken blind. All the Dobsons were out but I knew they wouldn’t mind if I borrowed a bit of window cleaner and a cloth. They had a cupboard under the sink with cleaning stuff in. I found what I wanted and proceeded back downstairs. I stood on my chair and pulled at the roller blind, the whole thing came away easily. I dropped it on the floor, gave the spiders time to run for cover, then squirted the glass. The grime came off in satisfying swathes but the outside needed doing too.
I went upstairs and outside, knelt down by the window and stretched across the gap to swipe away the webs strewn with debris, fragments of curled leaf, scraps of paper and seeds. I wiped the dust and rain marks from the pane. By then I was running with sweat and trembling with exhaustion.
I put the cleaning stuff back, washed my hands and sat down to rest. I was hungry. Feed a cold and starve a fever. I felt as though I’d got both but there was no contest, appetite won out. I couldn’t taste the sandwich I made myself back home but it stopped the growling in my belly. I napped on the sofa for an hour and felt human once more.
I called Sergeant Bell again. She was still busy. I wasn’t content to leave yet another message. I asked whether I could speak to Inspector Crawshaw. He was busy. I could leave a message.
‘Is there anyone who can give me some information?’
‘Concerning?’
‘Jimmy Achebe. Is he still in custody? Have any charges been brought?’
‘You could try the Press Office.’ He gave me the number. It was busy.
Instead, I called Agnes to find out the latest. Lily had not been very well when she’d visited. She’d had a high temperature that they were concerned about and they suspected an infection. She was asleep all the time that Agnes was there. Agnes was worried. ‘At our age these sort of things can be so much harder to shake off.’