Cath Staincliffe - Go Not Gently

‘He’s treating the woman whose case I’m working on.’

‘The one with the tablets?’

‘Yes. She’s had a fall and a haemorrhage in the brain. They’ve had to do an operation. What about Dr Montgomery, up at Kingsfield, at the Marion Unit?’

‘Can’t stand him. This is all confidential I hope?’

‘Of course.’

‘Probably competent in his own way but he’s obsessed with drugs. Chemical answer to everything. Sort who gives Prozac out like Smarties. Pharmaceutical companies love him. I’ve not had a lot of direct contact but you get to hear about people. Has he been treating this woman too?’

‘Yes. She went from Homelea to Kingsfield and now with this fall she’s gone to the MRL’

‘Well, they reckon Simcock’s the best there is. If there’s anything to be done surgically he’s your man.’

‘How many psycho-geriatric beds are there for South Manchester?’

‘Is this a trick question?’

I laughed. ‘No. I think someone might be getting more then their fair share.’

‘I can’t tell you offhand. Fifty or so I think.’

‘Could you check for me?’

‘Yes.’

‘And they’re all based at the Marion Unit?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Thanks. And if there’s anything you can do to speed up the lab results on the tablets…’

‘I’ll see what they say. Don’t bank on it. Later.’ She signed off in the same old way.

I scoured the evening paper looking for anything about the Achebe case. There was nothing in. Was Jimmy still being held in spite of his alibi? How could they do that? The only way he could have killed Tina and also phoned me from work was if they’d been mistaken about the time of death but the neighbour’s testimony had sounded very precise. Perhaps they had released him but not in time for the paper to get hold of the story. Presumably they’d also interviewed the man I’d seen meet Tina at the hotel, if they could trace him. After all, if Jimmy was innocent he must be the next most likely suspect.

The only way I could get warm was to run a hot bath and lay there till the steam cleared. There was a hot, prickly feeling in the back of my throat. I made some tea with honey and lemon and sipped it while reading in bed. I woke deep in the night, shivering with cold, no covers on me at all. Maddie had crept in with me and snaffled them all. I was too tired to try moving her so I redistributed the duvet, rearranged her elbows and sank back to sleep.

Maddie woke at half-past six as usual, waking me too. My tongue had dried out and swollen up like a huge prune. I gulped down some water, provided Maddie with cereal, milk and television and crawled back to bed. I woke again to Ray calling me. It was time to get them ready for school. He was back on the conversion job so I couldn’t ask him to do it. My cold had come on with a vengeance, everything felt muffled, my head was swimming and the walk to school was exhausting.

I didn’t feel up to much but nevertheless set off for the library. In the research section I flipped through back copies of the Lancet till I found two articles by Matthew Simcock. One was about current developments in the understanding of Alzheimer’s, known and suspected changes in the physical tissues of the brain. The other article was a plea for more funding for research into biogenetics and neurology. I didn’t understand much of either, they certainly weren’t written for the layperson.

On the way to the office I mused over the connection between the doctors: Goulden the GP, Montgomery the psycho geriatrician and Matthew Simcock the neurosurgeon. Goulden and Montgomery dealt with Lily because they specialised in geriatric care. Simcock was only brought in when it seemed that surgery might help, although from the articles he certainly had an interest in senile dementia for which there was no effective treatment, surgical or otherwise.

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.