‘It seemed unusually busy today,’ she said.
Gordon told her about the woman pretending she couldn’t speak English in order to be seen by Julie rather than him.
Julie grimaced. ‘I didn’t think it had gone that far,’ she said. ‘But don’t let that old harridan upset you; Meg Richards was born miserable. If there’s a bad side to anything she’ll seek it out and see it as her Christian duty to expose it. Compassion is as much a stranger to her as humour.’
Gordon nodded: he didn’t tell her about the electrician’s note but Julie could see that the things were getting to him.
‘You look as if you’ve had a bad day,’ she said.
‘You could say,’ replied Gordon wearily.
‘Problems?’
‘John Palmer insists on continuing to plead guilty when he’s not and now he’s refusing to see anyone, even his wife.’
Julie paused as if editing what she wanted to say so as not to cause offence. ‘Tom...’ she began, ‘Have you even considered the possibility that John Palmer might actually be guilty?’
Gordon shook his head. ‘No, I haven’t,’ he said flatly. ‘Because he isn’t.’ He realised immediately that his reply needed some expansion if only in the interests of harmony. ‘If I’m perfectly honest,’ he said, ‘there was a moment when I did wonder if Lucy might not have had some kind of relapse and killed Anne-Marie in a fit of depression but now I’m convinced she had nothing to do with it either.’
‘So where does that leave you?’
‘Looking for the real killer, the possibility of which no one else is even considering, including the police.’
‘No one could fault your credentials as a loyal friend,’ said Julie, ‘but I do wish for your sake that you’d leave the investigating to the professionals. You have neither the time nor the background to carry out a criminal investigation on your own.’
‘I haven’t been too impressed with what the professionals have done so far,’ said Gordon. ‘I have to do what I can.’
Julie shrugged her acceptance. ‘What does that involve now?’ she asked.
‘I want to visit John in prison if they’ll let me.’
Julie nodded, more in resignation than approval. She changed the subject. ‘How did the meeting at the general go last night?’
‘Pretty much as expected. They’d really just like us to go through the motions of an inquiry, conclude that there was nothing basically wrong and that it was all just one of these things.’
‘Something tells me the Griffiths won’t be thinking along these lines,’ said Julie.
Gordon nodded. ‘I think the hospital know that. They’re resigned to having to make a pretty hefty pay-out at some point,’ he said, ‘but they want to limit damage to the hospital’s reputation. I think they’d like it if it could be shown that neither mismanagement nor professional incompetence played any part in the proceedings and that the whole thing was just a low-level mix-up.’
‘God, it must have been awful for Mr Griffiths,’ said Julie. ‘By all accounts, it was bad enough for Prosser, the undertaker. I hear he collapsed on the floor when he saw what was in the coffin. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for the child’s father.’
‘How come?’ said Gordon suddenly.
‘How come what?’
‘Gordon frowned and remained deep in thought for a few moments. ‘When Prosser opened the coffin,’ he began hesitantly, ‘he shouldn’t have seen anything more sinister than a plastic bag.’
‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at,’ said Julie.
‘If it was all down to a simple mix-up, as the hospital are keen to claim, it would suggest that both the child’s body and the biological waste must have been in the same kind of disposal bag. Yes?’
‘I suppose so,’ agreed Julie. ‘I hadn’t really thought about it.’
‘That raises a question on its own,’ continued Gordon.
‘Quite.’
‘But presumably sealed, otherwise they would have realised their mistake right away.’
‘Yes...’
‘So why should Prosser faint at the sight of a plastic bag?’
‘Presumably he opened it.’
‘But surely his first thought would have been to realise that there was something wrong and that he should stop Griffiths coming anywhere near it?’
‘Maybe he got such an awful shock when he looked inside it,’ said Julie.
‘He’s an undertaker,’ said Gordon, ‘he’s been in the business for years. He shouldn’t shock that easily.’
‘I take your point.’
‘There’s something not right here,’ said Gordon. ‘I smell a rat.’
On Thursday morning Gordon planned his house calls so that the one nearest to Caernarfon would be the last. It turned out to be at Plas Coch Farm, a hill farm about three miles south east of Caernarfon. The farmer, Glyn Edwards, had taken a fall from his quad bike while out on the hills and had gashed his leg. His wife had phoned the surgery to say that he was in pain and hadn’t managed any sleep for two nights.
Ellen Edwards came out into the yard to meet Gordon as he parked the Land Rover and tried to find a dry line of approach to the house. Two sheep dogs stalked him on the flanks as he tiptoed cautiously through the mud, sending hens clucking off in all directions. ‘I should have put on my wellies,’ he joked. ‘How is he?’
‘You know Glyn, Doctor, he keeps on insisting I’m making a lot of fuss about nothing but I can see he’s in great pain. He didn’t even try to go out on the hills this morning: it’s just not like him.’
Gordon did his best to scrape the mud off his shoes on the metal scraper bar by the door before entering the warmth of the kitchen and following Ellen through to where Edwards lay with his bandaged leg stretched out along the couch in front of him. He grunted when he saw Gordon come in.
‘Fell off the quad I hear,’ said Gordon. ‘That’ll teach you to play Michael Schumacher at your age.’
The comment got a grudging grin from Edwards whose complexion after a lifetime on the hills almost matched the reddish orange of the curtains in the living room. Gordon could tell from his eyes that Edwards was in considerable pain. ‘Let’s have a look, old son,’ he said, opening up his bag and taking out scissors to cut away the old dressings. The leg felt very hot and there was an unpleasant smell coming from the bandaging. ‘When exactly did this happen?’ he asked.
‘Three days ago,’ said Edwards. ‘Didn’t seem too bad at first but it’s giving me merry hell now.’
Gordon examined the exposed wound closely and made a face. ‘It’s infected,’ he said. ‘That’s what’s giving you the pain. Do you know what caused the cut?’
‘Sharp stone,’ said Edwards.
‘You’re sure no metal was involved? No rusty nails or barbed wire?’
‘It was a stone, I’m sure,’ said Edwards.
‘Good, I’m just going to take a swab for the lab then I’ll write you up for some painkillers so you’ll get a sleep tonight and I’ll give you an antibiotic to fight the infection. You should notice a big difference by Saturday. If you don’t, give me a ring.’
‘I will, Doctor,’ said Ellen, ‘and I’ll see that he takes his medicine.’
Gordon took a swab from his bag and slid off the outer tube, taking care not to touch the sterile tip against anything else before rubbing it gently along the gash to absorb a sample of the exudate. He placed it back in the tube and wrote Edwards’ name on the outside before dropping it back into his bag. He put a fresh dressing on the wound then stood up saying, ‘There you go, you’ll be right as rain by next week.’
‘Thanks Doc.’
Gordon tore the prescription off his pad and handed it to Ellen. ‘This should do the trick,’ he said, then turning to Edwards, he added, ‘Easy on these fast corners, boyo.’