‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. Got quite nasty.’
‘Sal, you didn’t tell him about the police?’
‘No. But he knows about the lab results.’
‘How?’
I felt sheepish. ‘Well, I went to see the matron at the home, after I’d spoken to you on Friday. I didn’t mention the police or anything. Anyway, she must have told Goulden.’
‘Well, I shouldn’t think DS Wignall will be best pleased.’
‘Maybe not but I don’t think Goulden realises how far it’s gone. He’s not about to flee the country or anything. As far as he’s concerned I’ve had an analysis done which threatened his precious reputation and he came to warn me off.’
Maddie and I spent a couple of hours sorting out the toy boxes. While she rediscovered lost treasures I ended up reuniting Lego, removing rotting fragments of crisps and apple and chucking obscure bits of plastic and broken toys in the bin when I was sure she wasn’t looking. It all looked neater and cleaner when we finished. It was now possible to tell which box held jigsaws and games and which was Duplo and other little figures. It’d stay like that for all of forty-eight hours until Tom and Maddie had time to redistribute it all thoroughly.
By then I was ready to put my feet up. There was a feature in the Sunday paper which highlighted the shortage of NHS beds for people with Alzheimer’s and the lack of psycho-geriatric units. Most people were being cared for in private homes, many staffed by inexperienced workers. Manchester and the Marion Unit was one of the examples. A local GP was quoted: ‘It’s now virtually impossible to refer a patient to the Marion Unit and have any hope of their getting a place. There’s a ridiculous waiting list. The unit only has sixty beds, twenty-five of those are for acute cases and short-term stay where people need to see a consultant and have proper assessment. We’ve a growing elderly population and shrinking resources. No one’s suggesting a return to the old days of the large psychiatric hospitals but we desperately need more facilities. It’s an intolerable situation.’
But Dr Goulden managed to get his patients in, six in one year. It stank.
First thing Monday morning I rang the registry office, got put through to deaths and gave them Ernest Theakston’s name and date of birth. Asked them to search for a death in the last six mouths. Normally they want you to make a written application, or go in and spend hours there yourself searching through index cards, but with recent deaths they can call them up on the computer.
He was there. He’d died at the Manchester Royal Infirmary, about ten days after he’d left Homelea.
‘I can’t verify that for you,’ said the clerk. ‘You’d need to come in for verification.’
‘No, it’s OK,’ I said. ‘That’s him. I’m sure that’s him.’
I didn’t know what had killed him. But it sure as hell wasn’t old age.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Lily died that Sunday night. Agnes rang me mid-morning. The hospital had notified Charles and he’d let her know. The pneumonia had failed to respond to the antibiotics.
‘I want to go see her,’ said Agnes, her voice remarkably firm.
‘I’ll take you,’ I volunteered. ‘I’ll be there soon.’
I tried Bootle Street before leaving, but DS Wignall was out.
The sun glanced off the wet road, making me squint as I drove. I fished in the glove compartment for my sunglasses. They were there in amongst half-empty packets of crisps and tourist leaflets.
Agnes smiled when she opened the door. She was impeccably turned out, white hair carefully brushed, a touch of lipstick, small navy studs in her ears which matched her coat. ‘Thank you for coming. I could probably have managed on the buses but all that waiting around is so tiring.’
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I wanted to come.’
Once in the car Agnes began to discuss the funeral arrangements. Charles had already organised that. ‘It’ll be Southern Cemetery, the crematorium. She always wanted her ashes on the rose garden. That’s where they took Olive, her daughter. That was March too. Easter time.’ She seemed remarkably composed. If my closest friend, Diane, had just died I’d have been in bits. Did emotions dull with age? Had Agnes prepared herself for this or was she still in shock at the news?
We were just turning into the hospital car park when she spoke again. ‘Have you talked to the police?’
‘Not yet. I tried to get through this morning but the person I need to talk to wasn’t there. I wish we had something more substantial to go on, some sort of evidence to give them. A crime to report.’
‘Lily’s dead.’ Measured voice.
‘Yes, and the cause of death will be bronchial pneumonia. It’s very common amongst old people, isn’t it? Harder to fight infection.’
‘So no one will think twice about it.’
‘Only us.’ I climbed out of the car.
‘Sal,’ she stood beside the passenger door, ‘you will keep trying, won’t you? You will talk to the police?’ She wasn’t pleading and her gaze was steady.
‘Yes. But don’t hold out too much hope.’ I locked the car. ‘They can investigate the tablets but the rest may just sound like we’re being paranoid. You know, we could ask about a post mortem, on the grounds that the excessive medication might have contributed to her death.’
‘Yes.’ She was decisive. ‘Who do we ask?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll find out.’
We arrived at the ward and explained at the nurses’ station that we’d heard about Lily Palmer, we wanted to see her. Consternation. Glances flew between them and there was an awkward pause. The tallest nurse blushed but took charge of the situation.
‘I’m afraid we didn’t realise you’d be coming in today. Mrs Palmer’s been moved already.’
‘To the funeral home?’ Agnes asked.
‘No, she’s still here at the hospital.’ She cleared her throat. ‘She carried a donor card. We have permission to use her organs for medical research. I’m sorry,’ she looked at each of us, ‘you shouldn’t need to think about it at a time like this. But I’m sure you’ll be able to see her. Take a seat in the waiting room and I’ll ring round and find out where she is.’
‘We want to know if we can have a post mortem done.’
‘Really?’ She looked startled. ‘That’s not usual where it’s a death due to natural causes.’
‘But if we want it done – who do we have to see?’
‘Let me check for you.’
We sat in the TV lounge, which was mercifully empty. The minutes ticked by. Agnes closed her eyes. I got up and went for a wander up and down the corridor, reading the notices. In the background the curious cheer that’s endemic to places of illness rang out in the calls and comments of staff and patients. There was the clatter of a dinner trolley making its rounds. The scent of onion and cauliflower wafted through the building. I went back and joined Agnes.
The tall nurse appeared. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. We should be able to go down now. You asked about the post mortem. Now the certificate was issued giving a natural cause of death, she didn’t die during surgery, as the result of a fall or anything like that, so you’ll need to talk to the coroner and explain why you want a post mortem, and of course the next of kin will have to give their permission. I’ve notified pathology to wait until they hear before they do anything else.’
I asked her about Lily’s personal belongings.
‘Her son said he’d pick them up on Friday when he comes backup for the funeral. I’m so sorry about the mix-up. You can see her now; If you’ll come this way.’
We took the lift up and walked the length of the corridor before taking another lift down to the basement. On the way the nurse commiserated with Agnes. ‘I don’t know if it helps but it was very peaceful. There was no pain. She just stopped breathing.’
We turned left through double doors: the pathology department. The nurse led us to a door on the right. She opened it and we filed into the small anteroom. In the centre, on a trolley, lay Lily. Her face was soft in death. They’d removed her glasses, folded her arms across her chest. She wore a white hospital gown, a sheet covered her from the chest down and a towel was tucked round the back and sides of her head. There was no sign that they’d started recovering bits from her body. Thank God they hadn’t been halfway through removing her eyes or something.