She would phone, and it would be convenient. Now the decision had been made she would think no more about it.
She ran herself a bath. In spite of the heat from the infrared bulb, her neck hurt more than ever. Perhaps it had been a foolish idea to go out.
No, it hadn’t been. She’d had a wonderful time. For a while she’d forgotten the sheer hard graft of work and had enjoyed doing nothing very much. It had relaxed her. And she’d been out with Christopher. Whatever it was between them was growing. And she loved it.
And there was the way Christopher had kissed her. He’d kissed her several times now. All leading towards what? Now, that was another question. And what was she doing, lying in her bath, smiling?
Next morning Megan managed two hours’ work on the ward before going to the cloakroom to wash her face, put on a touch of make-up, and brush her hair. When she came out she was surprised to find Christopher waiting for her. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you had a clinic.’
‘I have got a clinic. This is a coffee break.’ He leaned forward, and before she knew what was happening he kissed her. ‘Listen, whatever they say, you’re a good doctor. You’ve got my support and the support of everyone in the department. And here’s an order. The minute you get out of that room, I want you down at my clinic. I want to know everything that’s happened. OK?’
‘OK,’ she said.
She remembered when she’d been doing her medical finals. There had been short examinations and long examinations. The examiners hadn’t been known to her – they’d been from other medical schools. There had seemed to be a difference between them. All, of course, had been impartial, dispassionate, but some had given a little encouragement. There had been a little smile, a nod of approval. Others had seemed unpleasant. They’d acted as if they’d wanted to trap, to catch someone out. And there had been no need for it. She wondered what sort of a man this auditor would be.
The CEO’s secretary sent her straight into his office and there she was introduced to a pleasant, nondescript man, Albert Furby. He was aged about fifty, and wore a blue suit with a blue shirt, and a blue tie. His eyes were grey and alert. Megan wondered if he cultivated the vague look to fool people. She guessed he was much shrewder than he appeared.
Once again Malcolm Mallory asked her if she wished to be represented, and she said she thought there was no need. She had nothing to hide and she would answer any question fully. Then she was conducted into the boardroom with Mr Furby. They sat facing each other at one end of the long, shiny table.
‘If you don’t mind, I’ll take a few notes,’ Mr Furby said courteously. ‘No recording, of course. This is a purely preliminary hearing, but if things go further then I strongly suggest you obtain a professional advisor.’
He looked round the room. ‘I’m going to start by explaining what I do. It’s simple stuff, but it clears the air and we both understand where I’m coming from.’ He peered at Megan. ‘Is that all right?’
‘Perfectly all right.’
‘In Britain we pay National Insurance and then get medical attention more or less free. There are small charges, such as for prescriptions and dental care. Occasionally people want private medical care. They need to see a consultant, perhaps in a hurry, and the consultant agrees. But if those patients use hospital facilities – hospital rooms, hospital services, hospital staff – and they pay the consultant for them, then the hospital should be paid in turn.’
‘That seems eminently fair to me,’ Megan said quietly.
‘Good. Twenty years ago it was all done on an honour system. We knew that a few – a very few – consultants took advantage of that system. But then many more worked far in excess of what they should, and more than a few earned fees and gave them to their hospitals. However, the system has now been tightened up, and I’m part of that process.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘I know what the clinical staff think of people like me. You do the work, I just interfere. But part of my work is to see that money goes to the places where it’s needed, and I enjoy that.’
Strangely, she found herself coming to like the man. In his way he was as dedicated as she was herself. And she didn’t think he was trying to trap her.
‘Now, a few questions just to make sure of your status.’ He leafed through a folder. ‘You have been an SHO here since August this year. You qualified a year earlier and did six months as a medical houseman. Then, most unusually, whilst still just a houseman, you were allowed to come here and work for six months on the Obs and Gynae ward. Why was that?’
Suddenly the questions were coming. She licked dry lips and said, ‘I know you usually have to wait until you’re an SHO before you’re allowed into a hospital like this. But … I’d worked for Mr Grant-Liffley as a student. We got on well together. When I told him I wanted to specialise in this field he thought it would be a good idea if I started at once. He said he’d see if he could arrange things.’
‘Hmm. We money men tend to think that “arranging things” is always a bit dubious. Dr Taylor, I have to ask this. Was your relationship with Mr Grant-Liffley just a professional and friendly one?’
Perhaps he did have to ask it, but she still didn’t like the implication. She said angrily, ‘Do you mean did we have a sexual relationship? No. In no way whatsoever. But I was happy to call him my friend.’
Mr Furby seemed as embarrassed as she was. ‘I didn’t think so. I’m glad we’ve got that over.’
He turned over more pages of his folder. ‘We have three cases here – Mrs Kate Driver, Mrs Emma Gee, and Mrs Chloe Lawrence. I have the dates of admittance, the dates of treatment, and your signature on requests for bloods, a scan, and so on. Do you remember the cases?’
‘Just about, though I couldn’t go into any detail. I see a lot of births. Mrs Lawrence I do remember – she had triplets, the only triplets I’ve ever had to deal with.’ She smiled as she remembered. ‘All perfectly healthy. I helped in Theatre and watched Mr Grant-Liffley, He was great.’
Mr Furby smiled at her enthusiasm. ‘It must be very rewarding,’ he said. ‘I can imagine. But these three patients were Mr Grant-Liffley’s private patients. He billed them and was paid. The hospital should have been paid but wasn’t. Now, I have to tell you, Dr Taylor, that in the past Mr Grant-Liffley had been a little … cavalier about this kind of thing. So much so that the CEO had to give him a warning – a friendly one at first, as one colleague to another. Then, when things didn’t improve, there had to be a proper, official written warning. The CEO had to ask for money back. He didn’t get it. I suppose you’ve heard rumours to this effect?’
‘You can’t keep a secret in the hospital. Yes, I heard rumours.’ She knew she had to explain to Mr Furby that it wasn’t quite as black and white as he was suggesting. ‘But Mr Grant-Liffley was ill already. He’d had warnings, a couple of transient ischaemic attacks, and he should have slowed down. But he wouldn’t. And then, before he could sort things out, he had this massive stroke. And now he’s in a coma.’
‘I know. And I do agree. If I could talk to him I’m sure we could sort something out. But otherwise … we have to go through this procedure. And I’m so sorry. Now, you did know these patients were private?’
‘Yes, I knew they were private.’
‘They had paid for treatment. Didn’t you think that the hospital should have been reimbursed?’
She shook her head. ‘It never crossed my mind. To be honest, I never thought about money.’
He pursed his lips. ‘Not a good way to act, Dr Taylor.’
He pushed a sheaf of papers across to her. ‘Will you look through these papers carefully and confirm that in each case your signature is at the end?’
She saw order forms for a variety of hospital services. And she had signed every one. Listlessly she said, ‘They’re all my signature.’
‘Why did you sign them?’
This was the all-important question. After a pause she said, ‘Because my consultant, Mr Grant-Liffley, asked me to.’
&n
bsp; ‘Ah. I’m glad you gave that answer.’
She watched him writing his notes. She felt battered by the interview, although Mr Furby couldn’t have been kinder. She felt she’d betrayed her friend who was in a coma. She felt that never would she sign a form again without reading it through twice, but even as she thought it she knew she was wrong. On the ward, forms came and you signed them. There was no time to do anything else.
Mr Furby looked up and smiled. ‘That is all for now, Dr Taylor. I hope it wasn’t too unpleasant. I’ll write my report and forward it. My own view is that you haven’t acted with any criminal intent. Everyone in hospital knows that you just do what your consultant tells you to. But your signature is on the documents. And the man who could clear you may never speak again.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘I’m afraid it’s out of my hands. What makes things worse is the report in that dreadful newspaper. Now everything has to be seen to be absolutely proper. There could be a full-scale enquiry. But I hope not.’
‘So do I,’ Megan said.
She didn’t need to go down to the clinic. Christopher was waiting outside. ‘I wanted to talk to the man myself,’ he said. ‘I can at least give a character reference.’
She managed a sour smile. ‘You’d better not. One of the things he asked me was if there was anything sexual between me and Charles. Of course, I said no, but I couldn’t say that about you. You’ve kissed me. And I’ve kissed you back.’
Christopher grew dark with rage. ‘He asked what?’
‘It was a fair question. A lot of people will wonder the same. He had to ask. Now I’d better get back to the ward.’
‘No, there’s something I have to tell you first.’ He grabbed her by the arm and marched her down the corridor until they came to a tiny empty waiting room where they could talk.
‘There’s something I want to say to you. I know this isn’t the right time or the right place, but it never is. You mean a lot to me, Megan. We’ll get this thing sorted out but, remember, you mean a lot to me.’
‘Is that a declaration of love?’ she asked him.
He looked shocked but then a smile spread over his face. ‘Well, yes, I suppose it is,’ he said. ‘A very cautious one, a very tentative one, but I suppose it is. I’ve been hurt, and I know you have, too. But think about me.’ His grin grew wider. ‘In my absence, I’m afraid. I’ve got to go to London this afternoon, coming back late tomorrow.’
‘I’ll miss you,’ she said.
Chapter Seven
The call came just after midnight on the following night.
Megan was now happily back in her own room in Challis. It was good to be among friends again. She’d been happy enough in the residence. People had been good to her and there had always been Christopher quite close. But this room was her own.
The only thing she could do about her problems was wait and see. She’d liked Mr Furby, thought he was fair. So, whatever came up, she would deal with it. But not yet. She had work to do.
She’d phoned St Leonard’s and spoken to Jack Bentley about Charles. He’d been guarded. In one way there had been little change. But then he’d said, ‘I don’t think it will be long now, Megan.’
So be it. She would think about something else.’
What about Christopher and his wonderful, non-romantic declaration of ‘You mean a lot to me.’ Without embarrassment she’d asked him if he’d meant that he loved her. How could she have? For cautious, man-wary Megan that was an amazing thing to have asked. But she’d done it, and now she knew why. She loved him. She loved Christopher Firth. For the first time in her life she was truly, happily, fully in love. However, she wasn’t going to tell anyone. She would see how things progressed.
Christopher was coming back from London tonight. In fact, he would just have arrived on the midnight train. She’d offered to pick him up, but he’d sternly said no.
‘It’s a lovely idea, but I know the kind of day you will have had. You need your beauty sleep. I’ll get a taxi. I’ll see you in the morning. Love you till then.’
Love. He had actually said love. Well, that was some kind of a declaration.
She had just nodded off when the call came. The clock by the side of her bed showed five minutes past midnight. Perhaps it was Christopher. Who else would call her at this time of night? She smiled sleepily. ‘Hello?’
It wasn’t Christopher. The voice was a woman’s, clipped, efficient, with the slight accent of the district in which she’d been born and had her schooling. ‘Is that Dr Megan Taylor?’
‘Yes, I’m Megan Taylor.’
‘This is the South Border Hospital.’ The voice was gentler now. ‘Your parents are George and Mary Taylor?’
There was a sudden coldness round her heart. ‘Yes … What … what’s happened to them?’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I’m afraid your parents were involved in a car crash earlier this evening. They were brought into A and E an hour ago.’
A soft moan escaped her. She knew the South Border Hospital, had worked there for a time while still at school. It was a country hospital, but had a good reputation. ‘Are they …? How badly are they hurt?’ she asked hoarsely.
The person on the other end of the line adopted that soothing voice she had used herself so many times. ‘They’re both still being assessed. Your father is less badly injured, and was able to give us your telephone number. But your mother has skull injuries.’
Skull injuries. Megan knew what that could mean, and she knew that she’d get no further details over the phone. ‘Could you come down tomorrow?’ the voice asked.
‘I’m coming down now! Which wards are they in?’
‘Wards Seventeen and Twenty-three. But are you sure you’ll be all right? We don’t want another accident. Perhaps you could make an early morning start?’
‘I’ll be all right!’ she snapped, then pulled herself together. This woman was being kind, trying to be helpful. ‘I’m sorry, this is just a shock. I didn’t mean to be rude. Thank you for your concern.’
‘That’s all right. I know you must be dreadfully worried.’
‘But I am coming down now. Will you tell my father I’m on my way?’
‘I’ll see he gets the message. And do be careful.’
Megan sat up in bed and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Two minutes ago she’d been asleep. Now she felt as if she would never sleep again. Her parents in a car crash! Her mother with skull injuries. Being a doctor sometimes meant that she knew too much.
She had to talk to someone and, almost without realising it, she lifted the phone and dialled Christopher’s number. She could have woken either of her two friends and they would have provided instant sympathy, but it was Christopher she rang first.
‘Megan! Good to hear you. I would have phoned you but I thought you’d be asleep. If I’d known –’
‘My mother and father have been in a car crash. My mother’s badly injured. They want me down there. You know what that means!’ She knew her voice was rising. So far she’d been in control, but now the full horror was coming through.
‘Megan!’ His voice was sharp. He’d heard the note of hysteria. ‘All it means is that you can be of help to your parents. Now, calm down. Try deep breaths.’
She did, and she felt a little better. ‘I want to go there at once.’
‘Of course, it’s in the Borders, isn’t it? Are you sure you’re all right to drive?’
‘I’m a doctor. I’m used to going without sleep.’
‘Possibly. Which hospital are they in?’
She told him about the South Border Hospital. ‘It’s near where I used to live. It’s a good place – in the country, but good.’ She knew she was trying to reassure herself.
‘I’ve heard of it,’ he said absently. ‘Look, get off as soon as you feel up to it, but be careful. I’ll sort out everything at work. You’re to take the rest of the week off.’
‘But what about my –’
&
nbsp; ‘Few doctors are as indispensable as they think,’ he said drily. ‘What’s wrong with your mother?’
‘It’s her skull.’ That was all she knew. But it was enough.
‘Phone me when you can. Definitely not later than tomorrow morning. I’ll be carrying my mobile, expecting a call. You OK?’
‘I’ll manage. Bye, Christopher.’
She dressed, hastily packed a bag with a change of clothes and some toiletries, and wrote a note to Sue and Jane. Then she ran out to her car. She hadn’t been to see her parents for the last seven weeks. Perhaps she could have managed somehow, but she’d always seemed to be too busy. She should have gone after that article had appeared in the newspaper but …
She backed onto the road and drove off far too quickly. There was the squeal of tyres on the first bend. After that she made herself slow down. Another accident would be no use to anyone.
At this time of night the roads were quiet. She drove along the well-known route, passing through villages and small towns she’d come through regularly over the past eight years. Her parents had lived in the same place since she was born. She’d gone to university in one town and had then worked in a hospital twenty miles from it. All their lives seemed to have become static. If – no, when – her mother recovered, perhaps there could be some changes made.
After a couple of hours she drew up at an all-night cafe and went inside for a cup of coffee. She didn’t think she needed it, but she knew she should have a rest. Her eyes were starting to feel itchy. After the twenty-minute stop she felt a little better.
She arrived at the hospital at half past three in the morning. She parked and carried in her bag. She was a doctor, and had been in many hospitals at this time of night. But this was the first time she felt how eerie it was, a building usually throbbing with life now strangely quiet. The long corridors were well lit, but silent and lonely. The occasional rattle of a fast-walking nurse’s feet only made the place seem more desolate.
Lifting Suspicion Page 12