Lifting Suspicion

by Gill Sanderson

  LIFTING SUSPICION

  BY

  GILL SANDERSON

  All Dr. Megan Taylor wants is to carry on with her work as a SHO in the Obs and Gyne department of her hospital. She knows that on occasion people take advantage of her good nature, but she can cope with it. Then her happy world seems to be about to collapse when her former consultant is accused of a crime he cannot defend himself against, and Megan is named as his co-conspirator.

  New consultant Christian Firth is her complete opposite – while she is calm and docile, he enjoys a fight, but Megan finds herself drawn to him. When he shows an interest in her, he is more wary than she is – while they are falling in love with each other, he can’t fully trust her until she clears her name.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter One

  Christopher Firth was a tall man. When he frowned he hunched his shoulders forward in an almost aggressive movement. There were deep lines on his face because he frowned so often. At present he was peering through the glass panel in the door at the end of the ward. It was Maternity Two, the low-dependency postnatal unit.

  Staff Nurse Cat Connor wasn't exactly afraid of him. In her twenty years as a nurse she'd seen doctors and consultants come and go. They might have been good at their jobs – she was certainly good at hers. But she thought that she wouldn't want to cross this man.

  He was dressed very formally in an obviously expensive dark suit. His brilliantly white shirt was set off by the subdued colours of the tie of the Royal College of Surgeons. His shoes were highly polished. Cat usually didn't like the look of men she called suits – accountants, personnel officers, others who asked her stupid questions and got in the way of the smooth running of her ward. But this man didn't feel like a suit. He seemed far too young to be a consultant.

  He didn't look like a consultant either – far too young for a start. But he was one. Cat thought of their previous consultant, Charles Grant-Liffley, and sighed. Charles had been a consultant of the old school, in some ways perhaps too much a consultant of the old school.

  ‘Who’s that, Staff?’ the man asked. His voice was gentler than his appearance. It was soft, polite, and she thought she could detect the musical vowels of the North East. But there was a thread of authority running through his words. It had been the same when he’d introduced himself. Very properly he had showed her his ID card and had explained what he’d been doing there so late in the evening. He had been courteous – but had made it clear that he wasn’t to be trifled with.

  ‘That’s Dr Taylor, Mr Firth. Megan Taylor. She’s one of your senior house officers. She should have finished her duties a while ago.’

  They both watched. The woman had dropped a folder, and papers had spilled from it. For a moment she looked down, then wearily bent down and started to collect them together.

  She was wearing the usual doctor’s white coat and under it a plain blouse, and ordinary skirt with flat shoes. Her dark hair was cut short and she wore no make-up. She stooped a little. She should have looked dowdy, because her clothes did nothing for her, but there was something, perhaps the determined expression on her face as she picked up the papers …

  ‘Dr Taylor looks tired, Staff.’

  ‘Things haven’t been easy in the department recently,’ Cat said firmly, ‘as I’m sure you’ll know. There has been a real shortage of medical staff. But Megan has been a star. She doesn’t just do her job, she does it really well.’

  His frown deepened but she went on anyway. ‘Megan would have been a really good nurse.’

  When he heard this he smiled, and she could hardly believe the difference in him. His face changed, became alive, and she felt that he liked her, wanted to be with her. ‘Being a really good nurse is high praise, is it, Staff?’

  He wasn’t making fun of her. Or, if he was, it was gentle fun. She smiled back. ‘Yes, I think having the qualities of a good nurse is high praise. In fact, I think Megan did some nursing in her holidays when she was a student. It made her a better doctor.’

  ‘I see. And I think I agree.’ He tapped the papers he had in his hand and went on, ‘I only came down to have a quick look at these. I don’t officially start till tomorrow. But could you find me a white coat to borrow? I’d like to go on the ward and have a word with Dr Taylor.’

  ‘No trouble at all,’ she said, leading him back to her office. ‘And tell her that it’s time she came back here, sat down, and had a coffee. She’s been on her feet for too long.’

  ‘I’ll tell her that. D’you think you could make it two coffees?’

  She had to make time for it. Megan Taylor stood and leaned backwards, pressing her arms out sideways. She felt the muscles stretch, the blood run a little faster. Carefully, one muscle group at a time, she stretched each leg, her back, the tight muscles running up to her neck. It only took a couple of minutes. And it refreshed her, made her – just a little – less tired.

  The work she was doing was routine, so as she busied herself ticking off forms, she thought of other things. There was a meeting scheduled for tomorrow and she wasn’t looking forward to it. She’d be meeting her new boss. A new broom sweeping clean, and all that sort of thing. He would probably make changes. And she knew who would have to work hardest on those changes.

  A new, very young consultant. Actually, acting consultant, for Charles was still technically in charge. But Charles was in a coma, and even if he did recover … She shook her head angrily. There was no way she could worry about that yet.

  A new consultant and head of department was bad enough, but a young one made it worse. She was young herself, but she thought that senior staff, no matter how brilliant, needed some life experience. The older consultants she’d met had tended to be calmer, to take more time over things. There was often a brashness in younger doctors that she didn’t like. Or did she just not like younger men?

  She’d heard rumours on the hospital grapevine – nowhere did rumours spread more quickly than a hospital. This new young man was supposed to be something of a troublemaker. He’d come from a famous hospital in the north-east, and there was some story about a court case where he had been a witness. She shuddered, for no medical staff liked court cases. And this new man was supposed to be hard on his staff, too. Not like the gentle Charles, who had never bothered too much about details.

  There had been so much more work recently. The Obs and Gynae wards at Emmy’s – the Emmeline Penistone Women’s Hospital – were always busy. There were three shifts – red, yellow, and blue – each having its own medical staff. For blue shift they had one consultant, a senior and a junior registrar and four SHOs – senior house officers. There were no house officers, doctors who had just finished training, Obs and Gynae was considered too taxing for them. So all the trivial, boring but necessary work was done by the four SHOs. It made things hard.

  Not only had there been no Charles, but over the past few weeks senior members of the staff had been called away often from the ward to meet executives, vague men with vague, important jobs which had nothing to do with actual medicine. The staff had returned from the meetings, white-lipped and angry, refusing to talk about where they’d been. It hadn’t been a happy time.

  So she was expected to work even harder. No matter, she was here to learn and she was fascinated by the work and enjoyed it. Two of the SHOs, Annette Bean and Judy Saint, she hardly ever saw. She was usually partnered with Will Powers, a vast young man who, because he was so big, was always called Little Wil
l. Will didn’t like the extra work, so he grumbled.

  The next patient. Megan swished the curtains to one side, smiled at the crimson-pyjamad person sitting up in the bed, and asked, ‘How’s it going, Dolores?’ To Megan the name Dolores had always suggested someone buxom, an exotic dancer from somewhere warm. Not at all like the skinny figure in front of her.

  ‘I’m fed up, Megan, really fed up. But at least I’m going home tomorrow. How you stick it day after day in this place I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s not too bad, and we meet interesting people. How’s baby Doyle?’ Megan peeped in at the tiny pink form in the crib by Dolores’s bed.

  ‘He’s asleep. Megan, I’m working at the breastfeeding but it still takes time. Are you sure I wouldn’t be better off with a bottle? Then I’d know what he was getting.’

  ‘You’ll get to know when he’s fed properly. And it’s still your decision, Dolores. You’re your baby’s mother – you must decide.’

  ‘But like they say – you think breast is best? Would you breastfeed your baby?’

  Megan sighed. It wasn’t for medical staff to tell mothers that they had to breastfeed their child. A mother who felt she had been forced into doing something she didn’t want could become aggressive towards her baby. All staff could do was ensure that the mother’s choice was an informed one.

  ‘To answer your second question, I’ve not had a baby yet so I don’t know. And I’ve seen dozens of healthy bottle-fed babies. But if you give it time, I think you might get quite to like breastfeeding. Why not give it a while longer?’ As she spoke, Megan wrapped the cuff of the blood pressure meter around Dolores’s arm.

  ‘All right. Breastfeeding it is.’ She watched as Megan inflated the tube, and then gradually let the air escape. ‘How’s the blood pressure, then?’

  ‘You’re doing fine. Just a few more tests, there’ll be a final check-up in the morning and then you and Doyle can go home.’

  ‘Great. We’re going round to me mam’s for a party.’

  Time to be careful again. ‘Your body’s had quite a shock, you know, Dolores. You need to take things easy for a time, get plenty of rest, good food inside you. If you start partying again too soon, well, you might find yourself back in here.’

  ‘Yes, yes, my social worker said that, and apparently I’m getting a health visitor, too. Lots of people taking an interest.’ Dolores leaned over and studied the face of her sleeping child. ‘Don’t worry, Megan, I’ll look after him.’

  ‘You will pay attention to what you’re told? They only want the best for you and young Doyle.’

  ‘I’ll pay attention. I’ve always listened to my social workers.’

  Not quite enough, Megan thought, but said nothing. ‘How’s your … man getting on with his new son?’ Megan knew better than to say ‘husband’. And she didn’t much like the word ‘partner’.

  Dolores was indifferent. ‘He’ll just have to get to like the idea of being a father, won’t he? If he doesn’t then he can beat it. Don’t worry, me mam’ll look after me. Eek! Can’t talk with that in my mouth.’

  Megan had taken the electronic thermometer from the wall, slipped the plastic cover on the red probe, and placed the probe under Dolores’s tongue. She watched the screen as the figures flashed up and waited for the machine to beep three times to say the reading was accurate. Then she filled in the chart.

  ‘You’re a healthy girl, Dolores.’ She had met many of Dolores’s extended family. The man in question had come in, glanced at the baby, and had said hardly anything at all. He didn’t seem to be a doting father – or partner. And Megan had wondered about the bruises on Dolores’s body. Laconically, Dolores had said that she had fallen. It had been her own fault.

  When she’d first come in ‘me mam’ had seemed barely older than the eighteen-year-old Dolores. She’d worn a short skirt and a big smile, and had told Megan that she’d had Dolores when she was just sixteen, and it was good to get these things over with quickly. Megan had smiled politely and agreed.

  She remembered Charles’s early words. ‘It is seldom a doctor’s job to judge her patient. Never let your prejudices affect your professionalism. And that includes not letting the patient know what you think. Remember, not only nice people have babies. And they pick their own partners – your opinion of them isn’t important.’

  Megan wrote the last observation on Dolores’s chart. ‘You’re fine, Dolores. Look after yourself and you need never come in here again. There’ll be a final check-up tomorrow morning from one of the senior doctors, and then you can go.’

  ‘Will I see you again?’ Dolores sounded anxious.

  ‘No. I’m afraid this is goodbye. I’m not on the ward tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Ah. I shall miss you, Megan.’ Dolores looked a little embarrassed and fiddled with the edge of her pyjamas. ‘Look, I’m sorry about the way I … shouted at you earlier. I was a real cow, I know, and you were only trying to help me.’

  Megan patted the thin shoulder comfortingly. ‘I told you, it was only hormones. They do strange things to women having babies. And they still can. Your body can play tricks on your mind.’

  ‘Yes, I know, you told me,’ Dolores said impatiently. ‘But I feel rotten now, and you’ve been so kind. Now, do you remember I told you about those dresses I saw in Thorpe’s? Said how nice you’d look in one, with your colouring?’

  ‘Yes, I remember. But they sounded a bit pricey for me. And I don’t go out very much.’

  ‘Wear the right clothes and you get invited out more. Anyway, like I said, you’ve been good to me so I got you one as a thank you present. I got me mam to get it for me.’

  Dolores reached down at the side of the bed and brought up a brown paper bag. She shook out the contents, and inside was a glorious blue silk dress. ‘You’ll look ace in this,’ she said, ‘and it’s your size, too.’

  Megan was horrified. A lot of the mothers gave little presents, and although the staff didn’t think it necessary they were happy to accept them. There were boxes of chocolates, packets of biscuits, even the odd bottle of wine or sherry. Usually they were handed around the rest of the staff on the ward.

  But this was far more than the usual gift! Megan knew that Dolores’s emotions could still be on a knife-edge so she had to say something without upsetting her. She took the dress and stroked the fine fabric. It felt good. Tentatively she started, ‘Dolores, I’m very touched, but I’m paid quite well and I know you’re going to need every penny you can get. This dress must have cost a fortune and …’

  The dress fell out of the bag. Still attached to it was a large plastic security tag.

  ‘If you could see your face, Megan!’ Dolores screamed with laughter. ‘Of course I didn’t pay for it. I got me mam to shoplift it for you. How d’you think we get our clothes?’

  ‘But the security tag …’

  ‘Sorted those out straight away. Take it,’ said Dolores. ‘Don’t worry, the shop has plenty more.’

  Megan opened her mouth to protest, then changed her mind. ‘Well, thank you,’ she said weakly. ‘And look after yourself, Dolores. And young Doyle. He’s a lovely baby.’

  She closed the curtains again and stopped to shake out the dress. It was lovely. But she felt like a criminal and she wondered what the ethics committee of the BMA would say. She knew so much more than Dolores. But in some ways the younger girl made her feel like a child.

  The next patient was Ellen McKay, and Megan knew she’d have a hard job. Ellen had had a premature rupture of the membranes and needed to be given a massive dose of antibiotics straight into the vein. But Ellen’s veins were tiny. It was hard to find one where Megan could introduce the cannula, the device whereby the drug could be pumped straight into the bloodstream. There were some things she was better at than others, and this was one of the things she was less good at. Still, if Ellen could be patient so could she. She thought she nearly had it when a voice said, ‘Mind if I join you, Doctor?’

  Irritated, she turned. L
ooking through the curtains was a large man in an ill-fitting white coat. His expression was sardonic. She’d never seen him before in her life. This was just too much to cope with! When she didn’t say anything, or move, he crooked a finger and beckoned her out.

  ‘May I help you?’ she asked in her frostiest manner.

  He humbly replied, ‘If I could just have a moment of your time, Dr Taylor.’ Then he beckoned again.

  He knew her name. She’d better go to see what he wanted, though she was not accustomed to strange men who called her from her patient’s bedside by waving their index finger.

  They faced each other in the centre of the ward, and after a moment she took out her black-framed glasses from her pocket. When she had put them on she felt more confident. She could hide behind them. ‘Yes?’ she asked.

  ‘My name is Christopher Firth. I’m to be the new acting consultant in Obs and Gynae. Here’s my pass.’ He produced the ID card, with his name and title written across the bottom of the picture.

  ‘You’re not expected till tomorrow,’ she said, ‘but I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Megan Taylor.’ Flustered, she offered her hand to shake.

  He took her hand solemnly and shook it. There was no excessive squeezing, but she had the impression of strength held in reserve. And it was a large hand.

  Perhaps she should be a little nervous. But the day had been too long for that. Vaguely she was aware that, physically at least, he was a very impressive man. Under the white coat he was well dressed, every inch the consultant. But she wasn’t in the mood for being impressed. ‘Did you want something special?’ she asked.

  She knew he was looking at her in that assessing manner she’d seen other consultants adopt. Charles used to say that an expert consultant was often able to make an informed guess as to what was wrong before he’d spoken a word to the patient. But she wasn’t ill!

  ‘I’d like to offer to help you with that patient,’ he said. ‘You don’t seem to be doing too well. But if you want to carry on, then please do so. Are you tired, perhaps?’