Sisters of Mercy (28 page)
He
’d been on the working party that set up the computer system — and the flag that showed when someone was using a password they shouldn’t … That’s how he’d spotted her, using a lab worker’s password while they were away; also the program she’d used, and the time of day she’d used it.
It
was he who was in collusion with Enfield — maybe it had happened as Tom suggested — Enfield directing organs to the paying donees as they became available naturally … Cannock remarking one day:
Old
Bloggs
here
has
got
the
right
tissue
type
,
pity
he
couldn’t
die
… and then spotting Susan.
Cannock,
who because of their joint research, would know as well as Miss Shenstone the tissue types of the patients, pick the ones required and then, using Mary’s password, alter their notes for Susan to find.
Tom
had been wrong that Sunday at the cathedral: the third lady was a man …
He
said quietly to me: ‘You could never prove anything, Sister. Never.’
I
stared at him, transfixed …
He
said: ‘If you try, I swear I’ll have you killed, like Susan. If you keep quiet, I promise I won’t harm you. There’s no reason for me to harm you. Think about it.’ He strode away to the lab entrance.
‘
Are you all right, Jo?’ Mary, touching my shoulder … ‘You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘
I think perhaps I have …’ I shook my head and pulled myself together. ‘I don’t feel so good, to tell you the truth.’
‘
I’m not surprised, after what you’ve been through. You shouldn’t have come back so quickly. Come on, lean on me.’
‘
No, it’s all right. I’ll be OK.’
I
struggled on for another hour, then gave up and went home. The break-in indicator on the door was still in place. Inside, the whisky bottle beckoned, but I resisted. Lit up instead.
Then
I rang the number Tom had given me.
‘
Tom, it’s Jo,’ I said when he came on the line.
‘
What’s happened?’ He’d caught the panic in my voice.
‘
It was C-C-Cannock,’ I stuttered.
‘
Cannock?’
‘
Yes.’ Now it was out, I could tell him the rest of it.
‘
Oh, my God,’ he said tiredly, when I’d finished. ‘I’ve been so stupid … Mary Tamworth — why didn’t Cannock notice her password was being abused? Answer — because he was doing it himself.’
‘
Can we do anything about it? Won’t the police …?’
‘
I don’t know. They aren’t going to want to reopen it after the last fiasco.’
‘
Then he was right,’ I said dully. ‘There’s no way of proving it. Tom,
what
…
am
…
I
…
going
…
to
…
do
…?’
‘
He’s not going to do anything, Jo, not yet. Probably never.’
‘
Probably isn’t good enough. He could decide at any time that I’m too great a risk and —’
‘
Perhaps we’d better get you away from there.’
‘
And it could never be proved …’
‘
Jo, try not to panic. Let me think. Jo, I swear he isn’t going to harm you. Let me think about it …’
He
rang off to do his thinking.
I
succumbed to the whisky bottle and did some thinking of my own.
He
had me. He could arrange my demise, go abroad on holiday or something and nothing could ever be proved, even if I did leave a ‘To be opened in the event of my death’ note.
Even
with Tom’s knowing …
Colin …
?
But
what would he think if I told him? And in the unlikely event he believed me, what could he do?
I
’d have to leave the area. Change my name.
And
wonder for the rest of my life when the sword would fall …
And
why
should
I leave Latchvale, my parents, my home … ?
My
little house, so recently exorcized of its ghosts …
Why
should
I?
West
Midlands
Morning
Post
: LATCHVALE PATHOLOGIST KILLED IN CAR EXPLOSION. Police ‘cannot rule out terrorist attack’.
Dr
John Cannock, Medical Director of Pathology at St Chad’s hospital, was killed in Latchvale yesterday afternoon when his Jaguar XJS exploded outside St Chad’s cathedral. No one else was hurt, although the cathedral sustained slight structural damage. Superintendent Rayment of the West Midlands Constabulary told the
Morning
Post
: ‘We are quite certain that this explosion was caused by a bomb, although we don’t know yet whether it was detonated manually or by a timing device. Unless and until we are able to discover a motive for the killing of Dr Cannock, we cannot rule out a terrorist attack, especially in view of the similar killing of a transplant consultant in London earlier today. This would not be the first time that eminent doctors have been targeted by terrorists.’
An
eyewitness, Mr Leonard Sutton, who was knocked from his feet by the blast, described it as: ‘Like the door of a furnace opening. It must have been appalling for the poor bloke inside.’
Mr
Sutton did not require medical treatment.
If you enjoyed
Sisters of Mercy
you might be interested in
Death Before Time
by Andrew Puckett, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from
Death Before Time
by Andrew Puckett
As Fraser gazed down at the old man’s body, tiny as a London sparrow beneath the hospital sheets, he was swept by a wave of desolation, and then by a fury so intense that he could feel the blood pricking at his eyeballs …
Pneumonia
–
again
. They were wrong –
again
…
“’Scuse
me, Doc –” Wally the Trolley, the mortuary technician, come to collect the body.
He
turned and walked quickly away, out of the brightly lit ward, out of the hospital. He found a bench, sat down and breathed deeply as the breeze rustled the leaves of the young tree beside it.
Somebody
had deliberately killed the old man. Not just let him die, but quite deliberately put him to death, murdered him. And he was not the first. All the others, they’d been murdered too and now he, Dr Fraser Callan, was going to have to do something about it.
But
what? Tell someone? Philip? He wouldn’t believe it. The police? They’d ask a lot of questions, find nothing and leave him to stew in the resulting acrimony.
It
came to him that there was only one thing he could do. He didn’t like it, but he’d have to.
He
stayed there on the bench until he’d calmed down enough to control himself, then went back inside, hoping that no one had noticed him. He went to his room, shut the door and looked up the old man’s medical record on the computer.
Friday
:
Chest
infection
,
put
on
ampicillin
…
Saturday
:
Stable
…
Sunday
:
Developed
into
pneumonia
,
erythromycin
added
…
But
too late, all too late. He’d died early this morning.
He
sat back in his chair and thought, his mind icy calm now.
To
know that murder had been done wasn’t enough, you had to be able to prove it, or at least show evidence for it.
Aye,
gey and easy – when he hadn’t the least idea who was doing it, never mind how it was being done …
Figures.
It would come down to figures.
He
spent the next two days gathering them, and then keyed in the phone number he’d never thought to need again. If Marcus was surprised to hear from him, he didn’t show it and told him to come up the day after tomorrow, Friday.
He
begged the day off from Edwina, saying his sick mother needed him again, and caught the early train to London on Friday morning.
As
the fields of Wilts and Berks slid by, he thought about Marcus, and Tom …
Marcus
Evans was a civil servant with a difference. He ran a small section in the Department of Health whose purpose was to investigate allegations, or even rumours, of wrongdoing in the NHS that couldn’t be looked into in any other way. Not many people knew about it. Fraser only did because he’d been on the receiving end of its attentions the year before.
He
was shown into Marcus’ office in Whitehall at 9.30. Tom was there as well. They both stood and Marcus came across and shook hands.
“Fraser,
come and sit down. Would you like some coffee?”
“Aye,
I would please.”
As
Marcus busied himself pouring it, Fraser glanced round the room … It somehow managed to be both light and formal at the same time, the lightness accentuated by the cream carpet and pale walls, the formality by the dark furnishings and prints of old London.
“Before
anything else,” Marcus said as he handed him a cup and saucer, “May I say how sorry we were to hear about your wife.” Tom nodded and murmured his agreement.
Fraser
had to clear his throat before he could reply. “Thanks.”
Frances
had died six months earlier of leukaemia. He knew they’d both been at the funeral, but they’d left without speaking to him.
“Now,
how can we help you?” Marcus said.
No
point in pussy-footing around it … “I’ve been working as a locum staff grade at a hospital for older people in Wansborough for the last couple of months, and I think…” he broke off, then continued, “I know fine well that someone’s systematically bumping them off.” His accent, noticeably Glaswegian, became more pronounced as he finished.
In
the silence that followed, the curious thought went through his head that Marcus had been held in a time machine since he’d last seen him; he seemed to be wearing exactly the same dark suit and tie, with the same shine to the bald dome of his head above the heavy walrus moustache.
“I
see,” Marcus said at last. “You say you
know
– d’you mean you have evidence?” He spoke softly as always, with a faint London twang to his voice.
“Statistical
evidence,” Fraser said.
“You
know what they say about statistics?” said Tom, speaking for the first time. He hadn’t changed much either, Fraser thought – leather jacketed, sharp featured and hard – and there was nothing faint about his London accent.
“Lies
and damned lies, you mean? I’ve no reason for either.”
Tom
didn’t reply and he continued, “I’ve compared the death rate at Wansborough with other community hospitals and it’s higher, significantly higher.” He reached down to undo his briefcase. “If you’ll just take a look …”