Death Before Time

by Andrew Puckett

  “Who actually set up the junta to deal with it?”

  “Junta, I like that – your own? It was George Woodvine,” he said without waiting for an answer. “Although Patricia was the front woman, so to speak. But I’m sure you know this already.”

  “But it was you who discovered Dr Armitage, wasn’t it?”

  “Discovered, now there’s an interestin’ word. It was me who suggested we approach him, but it was Nigel who brought him to my attention in the first place.”

  “Nigel Fleming, the General Manager?”

  “The same.”

  “But I understood from Ms Matlock and Mr Woodvine that it was you who actually found out about him.”

  “Probably, to be candid, because I allowed them to think that. But it was Nigel who showed me the article Armitage had written in Community Care, the one in which he said you could save money by giving older people better treatment.”

  “It didn’t occur to you that it might be too good to be true?”

  “No, that didn’t occur to me,” he said, his eyes fast on Tom’s face. “What is occurrin’ to me now, however, is that you, Mr Jones, give Dr Callan’s story a soupcon more cred than you’ve led me to believe.”

  Tom said slowly, as though still thinking about it, “I did begin to wonder, when Dr Armitage and Sister St John were killed so soon after Callan came to us.”

  Fitzpatrick’s brow furrowed. “But I thought Dr Armitage killed her and then himself?”

  “That’s what the police say, and who am I to argue with them?”

  “Would you like to argue with them?”

  Tom shook his head. “No, it’s what the evidence seems to say.” He continued quickly, “You didn’t lose your job in the fallout from St James’?”

  “I thought I would.“ He let out a sigh. “You know, in retrospect, perhaps it would have been better if I had.”

  “Why d’you say that?”

  He met Tom’s eyes. “Because I’m sick to death of the whole damn business, Mr Jones.”

  “Well, if Dr Callan were to be successful in stirring up another scandal, you probably would lose it this time, wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh, I expect so. But I wouldn’t be losing any sleep along with it.”

  “What about your pension?”

  “What about it?”

  “You’d lose a chunk of that, wouldn’t you?”

  “You know something, Mr Jones?” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’m beginning to think it might be worth it.”

  “So if I were to tell you that Dr Callan is still convinced that Dr Armitage and Sister St John were bumping off their patients and is threatening to say so at the inquest, it wouldn’t bother you?”

  “Is he?”

  Tom nodded slowly. “And he claims he has new evidence.”

  After a pause, Fitzpatrick said, “You know, what really interests me is what you think of it, Mr Jones. Do you think they were bumping off their patients?”

  Tom paused for effect before saying, “No, I don’t think so. But as I said, some of the facts did make me wonder.”

  “Such as?”

  “It’s a funny thing, but when I came in, I thought it was me asking you the questions …”

  “Humour me.”

  “Well, as I said just now, Armitage and St John’s deaths. Then there’s the device Dr Callan found and the statistics he produced.”

  “Ah yes, the statistics ... ” He lingered long and lovingly over the word.

  “You’re not a believer, then?”

  “Oh, I’m a great believer when I can get them to say what I want them to say. Otherwise …” He shook his head – “No.”

  “It may interest you to know that Ms Matlock referred to you as a clown.”

  “And I don’t imagine she intended flattery … ”

  It was Tom’s turn to shake his head. “I don’t share her opinion, though.”

  “Ah, now that would be the Celt in you, Mr Jones. You are Welsh, I take it?”

  “My grandfather was. The other three quarters is English.”

  “Never mind, there’s still hope for you. Don’t give up.”

  Tom laughed. He realised that they were going round in circles, so he stood up said, “On that happy note, I shan’t keep you from your work any longer.”

  “You weren’t.”

  He insisted on coming down to the front door to see Tom off.

  Chapter 31

  His network on full song now, Marcus rang Tom later in the afternoon with the low-down he’d gleaned on the junta.

  “First Patricia Matlock. She’s up for a junior minister’s post in the next re-shuffle and the grapevine suggests that any new scandal in her constituency would dish her.”

  “Which gives her a motive.”

  “It does,” Marcus agreed, “But does it for two years ago, when – if you’re right - this must have been set up?”

  “I don’t see why not. You’re the one who made the crack about ambitious, politicians.”

  “Hmm, all right. Next, Nigel Fleming …”

  It seemed that the General Manager’s contract finished at the end of the year and, by mutual agreement, was not being renewed. It was rumoured he was going to for a management post in Lisco’s, the supermarket chain.

  “Bit of a comedown, isn’t it?” said Tom. “A management post in a supermarket, after being top honcho here?”

  “A management post with a salary of 250 grand instead of the 120 he’s on now.”

  “Ah …”

  “So I don’t imagine a new scandal is what he wants either.”

  “No,” said Tom, scribbling.

  “George Woodvine is up for a K in the next honours list when his period of office finishes.”

  “A K … Now that is a bauble of some pulchritude, isn’t it?”

  “Have you been at that dictionary again?”

  “Yeah. Is he really worth a knighthood?”

  “He already had an MBE for various services,” Marcus said; “he was a chief magistrate, President of the Wiltshire Conservation Trust and Chairman of Governors of the local comprehensive.

  “The Chairmanship of the Health Trust is the jewel in his crown, so to speak. He’s also got plenty of money and friends in high places.”

  “What sort of high places?”

  “Governmental.”

  “Would that be political or administrative?”

  “Both, but mainly civil service.”

  Tom drew a box round Woodvine’s name and connected it to another with a £ sign and the word clout in it. “What about Fitzpatrick?”

  The Original Irish Joke, it seemed, wasn’t up for anything, except perhaps the order of the boot. He was generally regarded as a waste of time and space and would certainly be the first to go in any new scandal.

  “However,” Marcus said, “He’s got money of his own as well, so maybe it wouldn’t bother him too much.”

  “How much? Money, I mean …”

  “He’s said to be comfortable.”

  “How comfortable?”

  “Comfortably comfortable.”

  Tom repeated the money box sign for Fitzpatrick. “That changes things, doesn’t it?”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, we thought that Woodvine had the weakest motive and Fitzpatrick one of the strongest. Now, it’s the other way round.”

  “Only if you think a K’s as strong a motive as Fleming’s supermarket job, or Hawkins’ ministerial post. And whereas comfortable might be fine for you and me …”

  “Mm,“ Tom mused … “It’s funny, isn’t it, the way some people collect a reputation. Everybody seems to think Fitzpatrick is a complete tosser, but when I was with him an hour ago, I thought he was as sharp as …” He searched for a word …

  “Greek Chardonay?”

  “I had something more intellectual in mind.“

  “Ah, but people with money are like that sometimes, aren’t they? Clever but unambitious, even lazy.”


  *

  Nigel Fleming had been tempted to refuse to see Tom at all when Marcus first rang him, but then he’d sensed Marcus’ own clout and reluctantly agreed.

  He’d been tempted to cancel the appointment after Patricia had rung him the day before and told him what it was all about, but then thought better of it.

  Now, as he watched from his window Tom smoking a cheroot outside his irritation bubbled over – the bloody gall of it … they’d sent someone who wasn’t even properly dressed …

  So when his secretary rang through to say that Tom had arrived, he made him wait for a quarter of an hour.

  His feelings were not soothed by Tom’s explanation of his presence.

  He said coldly, “Why are you telling me all this now?”

  “Because as I explained, Dr Armitage and Sister St John’s deaths –“

  “I mean, why wasn’t I informed earlier about these allegations of Dr Callan’s?”

  “Because we didn’t give much credence to them. If we raised the alarm over every story we – “

  “Are you saying that you do give credence to them now?”

  “No, I’m not saying that.” Pause. “Not necessarily. But we do have to look into them, especially in view of the deaths.”

  “Isn’t that the job of the police?”

  “Not in this case, no. They’re not looking for anyone else in connection with the deaths, and they’re not interested in Dr Callan’s story.”

  “But you are?”

  “We have to be, it’s our function.”

  Fleming stared back at him a moment more, then said, “All right, what do you want to know?”

  Protest registered … thought Tom. He said, “I’d like to go back, to the St James’ crisis and the junta you set up to deal with it.”

  “Why? What relevance does that have?” Patricia had told him about the J-word, and he ignored it.

  Tom patiently explained why he needed to understand the background and Fleming briefly and factually described the setting up of the committee and its subsequent actions. His account didn’t differ much from those of the others.

  Tom said, “Whose idea was it to sell St James’ and use the money to build a new hospital?”

  “Mine, originally. I have contacts in the construction industry and I put them to use.”

  “So you’d done all your sums and were about to spend twenty million on a new hospital, and then St James’ was listed. Hadn’t it ever occurred to you it might be?”

  “It most certainly had not – it’s a hideous building.”

  “Granted,” said Tom, who’d seen it. “But the Euro conversion, surely you knew about that?”

  “We did, although the actual cost was a huge shock to us. Even so, it wouldn’t have been a problem but for the Grade II listing.”

  “So you were in trouble?”

  “We were at risk of a considerable overspend.”

  “Which following the St James’ scandal, would have been something of an embarrassment?”

  “We wanted to avoid it, if possible.”

  “Whose idea was it to employ Philip Armitage?”

  “Fitzpatrick’s,” Fleming said. Then: “I know you spoke to him this morning and I imagine he’s told you that I showed him a journal article by Armitage. And so I did. At the time, we were all searching for ideas and that was one of many.”

  “How did you come to see the article?”

  “By coming across it in the journal, I imagine.”

  “It was published in Community Care, which isn’t the most widely known of journals. I was wondering how this particular article came to your attention.”

  Fleming shrugged. “The Trust takes all journals that might have relevance to our work.”

  “The Trust didn’t take Community Care, not at that time, anyway. I’ve checked.”

  “Then I don’t know…” Or care, his expression added - “We’re always leaving articles and such like on each other’s desks and I can only assume that’s what happened here.”

  “Didn’t anyone say anything to you about it later, ask what you thought of it?”

  “Not that I can remember.”

  After a pause, Tom said, “I imagine that the last thing you want now is another scandal.”

  “You imagine correctly.” He paused. “Before you came here this morning, I had no reason to think there would be. Are you telling me now that there is?”

  Tom took his time answering and Fleming felt his gorge rise again ... “The only answer I can give you,” Tom said at last, “Is that I don’t know.

  “As I told you earlier, it was only at Dr Callan’s insistence that we investigated this matter as thoroughly as we have. We haven’t found any hard evidence to back up his story.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that, at any rate.”

  “However, he still doesn’t accept this and intends to make his allegations public at the inquest.”

  “But surely, he won’t be taken seriously?”

  “Oh, I’m sure the other witnesses such as Dr Singh, Dr Tate and Dr Stones will do their best to refute him, but …” Another pregnant pause … “He does claim to have more evidence.”

  Fleming asked quietly, “And does he? Have more evidence, I mean.”

  Another breath … “Well, the only evidence we know about is the statistics and the doctored aerosol device I mentioned earlier. On their own, they’re refutable, but – “ He shrugged … “It all depends on what this further evidence is. Since he refuses to tell us, we have no way of knowing.”

  “So you’re saying that he might?”

  “Yes,” agreed Tom. “He might.”

  *

  When he got back, Tom ordered a pot of coffee, sat down and thought.

  Then, before starting on a tabulation of everything he’d heard, he wrote each of their names down and tried to think of a word or phrase that summed each one up.

  Matlock. Coquettish with Hauteur.

  Woodvine. Bonhomie with Bullshit.

  Fitzpatrick. Bullshit with Bonhomie.

  Fleming. Fleming… Imperious? Pompous? Arrogant? All of these, certainly at first, although not so much latterly …

  He smoked a cheroot while he thought about it, twiddled his thumbs and then called Marcus.

  “Well, I’ve seen them all now.”

  “And sown the seeds of doubt?”

  “Yes. I’ve got no idea which of them it is, though.”

  “But?”

  “How did you know there was a but?”

  “Because I know you.”

  “All right, there is a but.” He tried to pull his thoughts together. “It’s just that I’m finding it hard to believe either that the motives you found out about are strong enough, or, now I’ve met them, that any of them have got the sheer balls for something of this scale ... ”

  “So you’re thinking it’s none of them, or all of them, or what?”

  “No, I still think it’s one of them, but … “ He took a breath … “Could there be someone else beyond that?”

  “Wheels without wheels, you mean?”

  “Yeah … oh, don’t tell me, you’d already thought of it - you had, hadn’t you?”

  Marcus took his time answering.

  “You know how it is at meetings,” he said at last, “People say all sorts of things, things that are obviously meant to be taken as a joke, but then afterwards, you wonder: joke or kite? Maybe, they’re not sure either … anyway, I’ve been aware lately of one or two people saying that if we go on living longer and filling up the care homes and hospitals the way we are now, then we’ll have no choice soon but to start bumping a few off. That sort of thing.”

  “And what you’re wondering,” Tom said softly, “Is whether someone decided to take it seriously and try an experiment?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “Possibly.”

  With which answer Tom had to be satisfied.

  Chapter 32

  Fr
aser, more or less incarcerated at Mary’s, was bored stiff. He was also, although he and Mary were very fond of each other, conscious of the fact that guests, like fish, tend to go off after a few days.

  He had to get out for both their sakes, so he phoned Tom and asked if it was all right to go to his own house to pick up the post.

  “Mm … not sure about that,“ Tom said.

  “They might have sent me a note or something … “

  “Can you get in the back without being seen?”

  “Easy.”

  “All right. In and out, don’t hang around and don’t let yourself be seen from the front.”

  It was a relief just to be outside again. The sun was shining, so he dropped the hood, savouring the feel of even the city air on his face.

  He parked in the road at the back of his house, slipped down the alley and climbed over the gate into his garden.

  He’d already knelt down to pick up the letters in the hall when he heard the board creak upstairs. Not very loudly, but he knew that floorboard – it was in the main bedroom, between the bed and the door and always made that noise if you trod on it …

  And the book by the phone had been moved, he saw as he rose to his feet …

  Get out, quick …

  Not too quick, don’t let them know that you know …

  He was moving now, walking as fast as he could without seeming to hurry … back along the hall, though the kitchen, listening…

  No sound.

  Through the back door, pull it shut, across the lawn to the gate ...

  What if there was someone on the other side?

  No, they wouldn’t have had time – would they? He slid back the bolt, slipped the latch, eased the gate open … nothing.

  He ran lightly back up the alley to the car - phone Tom now?

  But they could already be out looking for him ...

  He got into the car, started up and drove to the junction, turned left. Mirror … nothing, he’d beaten them – then a dark saloon pulled out …

  But cars pull out all the time. He turned right, accelerated … and just as he thought he was clear, it reappeared …

  Got to lose him but make it seem accidental.

  He drove to the city centre. With the hood down, he felt completely exposed – it would be so easy for anyone in a car to stop beside him and lean over with a gun … he kept glancing in the mirror, but the dark saloon always stayed two or three cars behind.