‘Don’t let yourself be cowed,’ Ellen advised. ‘Some of these people think they’re God Almighty, and they’ll try to push you. Don’t you let them.’
‘Look at me,’ George said. ‘Is it likely?’
Ellen chuckled. ‘That’s why I wanted you to help. If I’d thought you couldn’t stand up to whatever they throw, I wouldn’t have risked bringing you in.’
George looked at her curiously. ‘There’s more to you than I thought there was,’ she said candidly. ‘I just thought you were a meddling – Well, I don’t mean to be unkind, but –’
‘I know.’ Ellen was serene. ‘A boring old fart, really. Well, I’m not. I care a lot about this hospital and the patients in it. And I’m here to make sure no one comes along and ruins it. That’s why I took the job. I could be earning a lot more in industry. I’ve got a hell of a training in economics, you know.’
‘I didn’t,’ George said as they reached the Admin. building, which was the remains of the original Victorian foundation lying in the middle of the tangle of additions and battered buildings which was today’s Old East. ‘I was beginning to suspect it, though.’
Ellen laughed and led the way up the flight of well-polished mahogany stairs, her neat navy blue shoes twinkling as they went, and George followed her, for the first time feeling a little apprehensive. The place smelled of beeswax floor polish and flowers and authority. There was none of the comforting reek of the main hospital, with its overtones of disinfectant and unwashed humanity and urgency; here all was quiet and controlled. She wasn’t sure she liked it. She rarely came here – there was seldom any cause – and never before had she found it as intimidating as it felt today. But she swallowed and lifted her chin and looked at Ellen’s back, straight and self-confident, as she led the way along the first-floor corridor towards the Board Room. She’d be all right. She had an ally.
The meeting was a tough one. First she had to absorb the names that were thrown at her. Some of the people she knew. The Chairman, Sir Jonathan Sprue, a tall bulky man of around sixty who had a background in banking and scant knowledge of the way hospitals ran, though he was a wizard, she had been told, on such things as business strategies, she had met at one or two of the more formal hospital events. He nodded amiably at her as she and Ellen came into the room with the minutes secretary, a harassed-looking man in his fifties with an expression that suggested he knew everything and was already bored by it, and then introduced his colleagues.
‘Matthew Herne, of course, your CEO, you know.’ George smiled and nodded and remembered suddenly how high he’d been on her list of suspects in a previous case, and wanted to giggle. ‘Professor Hunnisett, our Dean and Clinical Director,’ Sprue went on, ‘and Margaret Cotton, our Finance Director and of course Business Manager …’
She let his voice roll over her as she covertly studied the faces of the people she had never met before. There were five of them and she thought: they’re the non-executives. They don’t have jobs here, not proper jobs, but they’re brought in from outside businesses to run the place like a business. Just like an American hospital, really. And she felt a sudden pang as she realized just how much she preferred the old NHS system here to the more commercial approach she had grown up with.
Sir Jonathan interrupted her thoughts. ‘Now our non-executives, Dr Barnabas. Mr McCann, Mr Harlow, Mr Lester, Mrs Broad, Miss Hammond.’
They smiled and nodded and she returned the salutes. The three men, she estimated, were somewhere between fifty and sixty, give or take a few years on each side. They looked what she would have expected; prosperous and self-assured. The women seemed more interesting. Mrs Broad was a classically middle-aged woman, grey haired, large and uncompromisingly neat in a navy suit and George thought: I’ll bet she’s a medical type. She just looks it. The other woman was much younger, very elegant and neat and with a sharpness about her that George found a little alarming.
‘Now, Dr Barnabas,’ Sir Jonathan said. ‘We’ve asked you and Miss Archer to talk to us about the pathology service. The hospital service, that is. I understand that you are also contracted to work with the police as a forensic pathologist.’
‘Yes,’ George said guardedly. ‘That was agreed when I first came here.’
‘And very happy we are about it,’ one of the non-executives said suddenly, and she shifted her gaze to see who. Mr Harlow, was it? A large man, rather oily skinned, with sleek hair that was a very unlikely black, and a tendency to wheeze. ‘I ’eard the talk about the work you done down my market, doctor, and I’ll tell you this much. The local people think ’ighly of you. You’ve done some good jobs and been in the papers.’ He nodded sagely. ‘And they notice, indeed they do.’ He looked sharply at the man on his left, Mr McCann. ‘As the local representative on this ‘ere Board let me say I admire the reputation you’ve given the ‘ospital, I do indeed.’
‘Well, thank you,’ she said, a little startled. A local reputation? She’d never really considered the possibility.
‘Indeed,’ Sir Jonathan said. He looked at McCann, who smiled.
McCann was a thin man with a few wisps of hair on an otherwise naked head, and was very expensively dressed. ‘I am sure that there is no need for us to disturb your forensic work, Dr Barnabas,’ he said. His voice was a high thin one, a little surprising from a man of such presence. ‘But we are considering the possibility of removing the hospital part of your responsibilities. Would the police service extend their use of your time, do you think?’
‘I can’t say,’ she said. ‘But that isn’t the point at issue, is it?’
‘What is, then?’ This was the middle-aged woman in navy, Mrs Broad. She sounded incisive and sensible, George thought.
‘The service the hospital gets. My police work is nothing to do with that.’ George was very definite. ‘What matters as far as Old East is concerned is that the patients here get the best possible pathology service. That means getting what tests need doing done as soon as they need doing and that the medical staff – and therefore the patients – get rapid results. Clinicians can then plan their patients’ care much more successfully.’
The ideas she had been rehearsing with Ellen Archer on the way over began to crystallize into passionate words. ‘I know that there is a plan to remove the path. work here and centralize it at St Dymphna’s, where they have spare capacity, but that seems to me a very dangerous step. First of all, the staff there have a different sort of expertise. My technicians are highly trained, very much part of the lab and work unbelievably hard to ensure the top-rate service you get here.’
She looked accusingly at Professor Hunnisett. ‘Have there ever been any complaints about the quality of path. work and reporting among the clinical staff, Professor?’
‘No,’ said the Professor, ‘absolutely not,’ and smiled benignly. He’s on my side, she thought, elated. That makes two.
She looked at Matthew Herne, a little sternly.
‘And have our costs been excessive, Mr Herne?’ He shook his head and at once she switched her gaze to Margaret Cotton, the Director of Finance for the hospital. ‘Miss Cotton?’
‘Not at all,’ Margaret said. ‘Far from it. I’ve done some comparisons with other hospital units and, as I told you all before, I –’
‘Yes,’ Sir Jonathan said. ‘Thank you, Miss Cotton. We have indeed heard that already.’
Great, thought George. That’s another couple on my side. She warmed to her theme. ‘I think I have been delivering, with Ellen’s help, a top-rate service at cut price,’ she said firmly and looked at Ellen, who showed no emotion at all. That was a good sign, George thought.
‘But St Dymphna’s might do even better.’ This was McCann again. ‘I have figures here that…’
The next half-hour was tough. They batted figures at her and she replied as best she could, knocking down their hypotheses with all the skill she had, defending her position hard, and slowly became aware that she was winning more of them over. Harlow was definitely uninterested
in McCann’s figures; Mrs Broad – who, it appeared, had once been a hospital matron, so George had been right about her – was interested, but suspicious. Miss Hammond, like Mr Lester, a small round man in a magnificently cut Italian-style suit, said nothing, but listened carefully. And the executive directors, especially Margaret Cotton and Andrew Pickles, who was the head of Marketing (and what a job for a hospital to have on its staff, George thought disgustedly at one point, listening to him speak passionately about the savings he was sure they could make if they went to St Dymphna’s) showed their colours clearly. Much to Sir Jonathan’s unease, for at length he held up his hand.
‘I think we have used enough of Dr Barnabas’s valuable time, colleagues,’ he said. ‘I do feel we must let her go and continue this discussion among ourselves. Dr Barnabas, thank you so much.’
She lingered for a moment, sitting tight even though Ellen had got to her feet. ‘Will I be thrown out at a moment’s notice, then?’ she said with a degree of flippancy she didn’t feel.
They tittered in an embarrassed sort of way and smiled widely at her in their different ways. ‘Of course not, Dr Barnabas,’ Sir Jonathan said in what was meant to be a hearty voice. ‘Of course not! These things take a long time to implement, if we implement them at all. We are just at the exploratory stage, no more. Don’t give it another thought. Just you go on and continue with your excellent work and stop fretting. There really isn’t a thing to worry about.’
‘Not a thing to worry about,’ George said to the closed door, when the minutes secretary had ushered them out into the corridor. ‘Go and get on with your work and don’t worry your little head about it, is that it? Ye Gods, Ellen, how do I manage to do that, tell me?’
11
‘A fat lot of good that was!’ she said to Ellen as they emerged into the sunshine of the courtyard. ‘Do I start looking for another job then? And where do I find one that suits me as well as this?’ Gus, she thought. Aren’t we ever to work together again?
‘Oh, I wouldn’t start panicking yet,’ Ellen said matter of factly. ‘Sir Jonathan was right in saying these are early days – even if they vote to go for the St Dymphna’s plan, it’ll take months of talk before they come up with a scheme and then it has to be agreed by the centre.’
‘The centre?’
‘The Department of Health. Maybe even the Minister. And there can be protests and all sorts to delay it. This is a long-term plan, believe me.’
‘It’s a horrible plan,’ George said with some violence.
‘I agree. That’s why I wheeled you out to argue against it. You can’t start the battle too soon. You did awfully well. There’s a very good chance that Lester will be outvoted and we’ll hear no more of this, thanks to you.’
‘Lester? Who was he? The little man in the ultra-trendy suit?’
Ellen laughed. ‘That’s the one.’
‘But he hardly said a word, any more than the younger woman and that other man – McCann? – did. I wondered why they were there.’
‘Oh, don’t underestimate them! They mayn’t talk much but they carry a lot of weight. Reggie Lester is a bookmaker – you’ve seen his shops everywhere, surely. Leg it with Lester and so forth.’
‘Oh, those!’ George said. ‘I know them. But how on earth does a bookmaker get to be on a hospital Board? What does he know about –’
‘He knows all there is to know about running businesses on a tight budget,’ Ellen said. ‘Apparently it’s a multi-million business, sixty betting shops. And he’s a powerhouse. Got excellent political contacts too. This St Dymphna’s thing was his idea, or rather he suggested it.’
‘Oh?’ George was puzzled. ‘Why? What’s in it for him?’
‘Nothing. There can’t be. If they have a personal or company interest in any of the hospital’s dealings they have to declare them. No, it’s just that he met someone who talked him into the idea. Or so I gather.’ She grinned. ‘I listen hard to all I can and pick up what there is to pick up in the way of talk. But I can’t know everything! I do know, though, that this notion came in via Lester.’
‘He can’t be that keen or he’d have said something, surely,’ George objected.
‘Not he. He puts up these things and leaves it to everyone else to talk their heads off and then comes in at the end and sorts ’em all out, or as much as he can. Cynthia Hammond usually does all she can to block him.’
‘Hammond? Another strong silent one?’
‘That’s her,’ Ellen said. ‘She’s very good news for us. I like her a lot. Lawyer, a senior partner in a big practice in the City, seconded for a couple of years by her firm to the Board as part of their social development commitment. They’re one of those left-wing groups that are more interested in their pro bono work than in making a fortune. Not that they do so badly! Anyway, she’s not at all keen on our Reggie – doesn’t like his political friends – so she tends to be suspicious of almost everything he says. Fights him every inch of the way. It’s fun in there sometimes.’ She looked amused.
They had reached the far side of the courtyard now, and their paths were about to separate. George stopped and looked at her curiously. ‘How do you know know so much about what goes on in Board meetings?’ she asked. ‘Do you sit in with them or something?’
Ellen became a little flustered. ‘I? Oh. No. No, not at all.’
‘Then how do you know all this?’
‘Um … Well, between ourselves …’ Ellen looked more uncomfortable than ever, yet at the same time curiously pleased with herself. ‘I – er – It’s Tony. Tony Bentall. He’s, um, a friend.’
‘Tony Bentall? Which one was he?’
‘The secretary. Showed us in and showed us out. Does the minutes and so forth.’
George dragged him out of her memory: a thin man, a little stooped, who looked rather bored.
She grinned. ‘He’s your guy,’ she said almost accusingly. ‘Jeez, Ellen, you keep on pulling these surprises on me. I thought you were so proper and schoolmarmish, and here you are in a torrid affair!’
‘Hardly a torrid affair,’ Ellen said and laughed herself. ‘But why not? We’ve been close for about three months now. His wife went off with his son to live in Australia when the boy got married there and she won’t come back, and Tony gets lonely. So do I. So, we’re – well, why not? And it’s interesting to get all the news!’
‘Pillow talk,’ George said.
‘Like you and your policeman,’ Ellen said, and now it was George who became a little flustered.
‘Well, why not? I’m not –’
‘Precisely,’ Ellen said. ‘Anyway, I have to get back to my office. I’ll keep you posted on all that happens, but try not to worry. There’ll be no locking of the path. lab doors in the next year or so, believe me.’
‘I’ll try not to,’ George said a little gloomily. ‘But it won’t be easy.’ She turned to go.
‘Dr B.,’ Ellen called her back. ‘One detail. I wouldn’t talk about this too much to your staff. It will only unsettle them.’
‘I’ll think about that,’ George said. ‘Maybe getting them upset’ll be no bad thing. Encourage them to protest too.’
‘Not too soon,’ Ellen warned. ‘You might harden the Board’s will. They’re not the sort to be happy if they think they’re a dog that’s being wagged by the tail.’
‘OK,’ George said non-committally. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
She went back to the lab, thinking hard. She wouldn’t say anything to her staff yet – Ellen had a point that talking too soon could cause more trouble than it prevented. They’d fuss now about possible closures in a year or two, maybe go jobhunting so as to be safe before the threatened axe fell, and that would make life in the lab very difficult indeed. They were a good team, and she had them all pretty well trained to her liking, except perhaps for Alan who still needed some pushing. Going off half cocked now could blow the whole group up in her face. But she had better be aware. If they heard from any other source what was in
the wind, they’d be very unhappy that she had not told them herself. It isn’t easy, she thought as she slammed her office door behind her, to run a department and do the work she wanted to do while playing politics at the same time.
Sheila came in with her messages as George pulled the first file of paperwork towards her. ‘A PM this afternoon from Cloudesley Ward,’ Sheila reported. ‘Man admitted last night after a fall at home, died seven hours after admission. Not seen his GP in the last week.’
‘Tell Alan I’d like a word, will you?’ George said. ‘That can be one for him.’
‘Right.’ Sheila looked happy at that. ‘Then there were calls from the coroner’s office and from that barrister about the case that was adjourned – you remember, the Fletcher affair. And some stuff from the other solicitors about that child’s death. And then there’s this one.’
George was leafing through the little pile of notes Sheila had given her and didn’t look up. ‘What’s that?’
‘I didn’t want to be accused of getting anything wrong,’ Sheila said with a triumphant edge to her voice. ‘So I took it down word for word. Verbatim. Here it is. Would you like some coffee?’
‘Mmm? Please,’ George said absently as she looked down at the sheet of paper and the carefully written lines on it, and Sheila went. Rather quickly.
CALLER [George read]: Is that you, Sheila? How are you, ducky?
SHEILA: Fine, thank you. Who’s that?
CALLER: Who do you think it is, you daft ‘aporth? Gus Hathaway, that’s who!
SHEILA: Oh, good morning, Chief Inspector.
CALLER: Is her nibs there, love?
SHEILA: Sorry, Chief Inspector, no. She’s gone to a Board meeting with Miss Archer.
CALLER: Bugger it. Sorry, ducks. But it’s – Oh well, I’ve been trying to get a chance to call her and this is the first one I’ve had and now she’s – Oh, well. How long will she be?
Third Degree Page 11
