Murder and Malpractice

by Mairi Chong

  ‘OK,’ said Suzalinna. ‘So, when Mark came up, who made the coffee?’

  Cathy turned to her friend. ‘No, that’s just it. Mark never came upstairs; he always had his coffee brought down to his room. I think it was a bit of an ego trip, having one of the office girls fetch and carry for him. I always found it a bit old-fashioned. Even James made the effort to come up and talk.’

  ‘So,’ continued Suzalinna playfully. ‘Who’s in the frame then? Which girl took him his coffee that morning?’

  Cathy grimaced, suddenly realising the horror of what they were implying. ‘I feel awful talking like this really,’ she said. ‘He was my partner and this isn’t a game of Cluedo. He died. I know that I didn’t like him a great deal at times, but I respected him and now he’s dead.’

  Suzalinna placed a hand on her friend’s arm. ‘We’ll shut up about it, shall we? I was being insensitive. I’m a bit disconnected, you see? I see trauma every day. You become a bit immune.’

  Cathy smiled once more. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m all over the place at the moment. Anyway, let’s talk about you guys. It’s been ages since I saw you both. Saj, tell me about this fabulous curry we’re eating.’

  When Cathy finally took her leave, Suzalinna held her close.

  ‘I know you’re thinking this over, darling. I can see the way your mind works, but leave it to the police, OK? Your own health is too important.’

  Cathy had smiled and nodded.

  It was only when she was sitting in the taxi, going home that Cathy really thought about her friend’s words. It was close to home, admittedly. But the more she considered it, the more she wondered how it could have happened. If Mark hadn’t intended on poisoning himself, and still Cathy couldn’t understand why he might, had there been some kind of dreadful accident? Cathy found herself imagining Mark unintentionally drinking a cup of cleaning fluid or bleach. But the very idea was ridiculous. One had to face the facts that deliberate poisoning was the only plausible alternative. If that was so, the practice had a killer in their midst. Was that what Suzalinna had meant about leaving it to the police and her own health being too important to risk? Cathy had thought she meant her mental health, but perhaps she, along with the other members of staff, might be in actual danger.

  Arriving home, Cathy found herself jittery. She paid the taxi fare and walked quickly up the path to her front door and fumbled with her keys. It was ridiculous really, to be this way. Cathy moved through her house, turning on all of her lights and calling out to her cat, who would usually greet her when she returned.

  A murderer in their midst, she repeated. How appalling. Cathy wondered if the police had made any progress and if they suspected anyone even now. With all of her strength of mind, she braced herself for what was to come.

  18

  The practice was shut to emergencies, with only a skeleton service in place for the time being. This mopped up the few patients who had already been booked in, and allowed the GPs to deal with urgent paperwork. The neighbouring practices were helping, and the out-of-hours team were staffing the emergency cover. Cathy sat in her room, feeling unsettled.

  Outside, a local news-team had begun to set up, keen to get an interview or even a short quote from a member of staff. Bert had ushered them away holding a broom, rather comically, and when Brenda had seen them hanging around still asking patients for their thoughts on the events, she had marched out of the building, and threatened to call the police to have them removed. She shouted that they were breaching patients’ right to confidentiality asking questions when they were on the practice doorstep. The news crew had moved respectfully further down the road to appease her. But their cameras were still on the building. Cathy had watched it all from her window and then Brenda in near-hysterics, had come through and recounted the morning’s events to her. It seemed that all of the staff were on edge.

  The small town was buzzing with the news. It sickened Cathy, that they could delight in the practice’s misfortune so readily. It seemed that the handful of shops on the street were doing excellent business because people wanted to be out, and wanted to talk. Michelle said that some of the more elderly residents who had been almost housebound, appeared to have found a new lease of life and were speaking to people they hadn’t seen in years. The general mood of the town was of upset of course, and this had led to an outpouring of stories of Dr Hope’s heroic rescues, his selfless tending to the ailing members of the community over the years. Most people had a personal story, or had a relative who had one. As often happened, when someone died, the less worthy characteristics of the person were forgotten, although someone in the shop did wonder how the floozy he had hooked up with recently was going to cope. What a disgrace that had been, him carrying on with someone so young. Cathy had overheard the last of these sentiments as she had stood in the queue at the post office. Granted, she had thought much the same when Mark had been alive, but to talk about it so openly after he had just died, seemed somewhat callous.

  And now, the so-called floozy sat before her. Cathy watched as the practice nurse settled herself in her chair, folding her leg under her, and smoothing the fabric of her uniform trousers. Cathy noted Tracy’s immaculately manicured nails. Tracy shifted, and the cushioned seat sighed beneath her.

  Cathy had wanted to have a word. It seemed to her madness that the girl had come into work as it was that day. She had said as much to Brenda, but the practice manager seemed to be having a bit of a time of things rearranging appointments and fielding calls, so Cathy had said she might say something.

  Tracy seemed to have established a carefully considered role of grief that would not have looked out of place on a film set. She swept her hair back, and then seemingly unhappy with its arrangement, pulled the tortoiseshell clasp free of the golden strands. Cathy wondered if the girl had any female friends, she doubted it. Tracy leaned back in the chair and scraped her hair quickly back from her face, pulling it high, drawing her forehead taut, and then snapping the clip in place. She probably was bravely getting on with things as best she could, but externally it all came over as a little untrue.

  ‘So, how are you doing, Tracy?’ Cathy asked, sitting herself down also, having closed the door. ‘I just wanted to have a quick word and to see that you were alright.’

  The girl smiled wanly. ‘Getting there, Dr Moreland. It’ll take me a while, though. Every time I go past his room, it sets me off, and I need to go back to the house and sort some things. That’ll be hard.’

  Cathy nodded. ‘I can imagine.’ ‘It’ll take all of us a while. You know you’re entitled to leave of absence? It shouldn’t be an issue at all, if it would help.’

  Tracy shook her head.

  ‘I thought I would feel useful here,’ Tracy said. ‘Better than being alone at home.’

  ‘Yes, I can understand you want to keep busy.’ Cathy paused, and then taking a deep breath, continued. ‘Listen, Tracy, I’m sure the police have quizzed you enough already …’

  ‘We’ve all been interrogated,’ said Tracy strongly.

  ‘Yes, it seems so,’ continued Cathy. ‘I suppose I just wanted to ask, as we are in the dark really, the police not having told us much. But was there any reason for Mark to take his own life? You being one of the closest people to him, I thought you might know. Did he confide in you at all? Were there any worries?’

  ‘It could only have been an accident,’ the nurse said with feeling. ‘That’s what I said to the police too. There’s no way Mark would have done it deliberately, he had so much to live for.’ The girl leaned in and showed Cathy the ring. ‘We were all but ready to set a date if it hadn’t been for that bitch of an ex-wife,’ Tracy said, and without warning, began to cry most genuinely. ‘She dragged it out for all she could get,’ she said between sobs. ‘He told me not to worry. He said he’d take care of me.’

  ‘Were you actually engaged then?’ asked Cathy, barely able to disguise her incredulity.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Tracy. ‘That was sti
ll to come. But it was a declaration of his commitment. I agreed that marriage was outdated too, and he had already had his fingers burnt, so I couldn’t blame him for wanting to go slowly. When I think of him, lying on that carpet … Oh God, it’s too much to even …’

  Cathy got up. ‘Tracy, I think you should get yourself home. There’s no point in being here right now. We have no patients booked in until tomorrow morning. Why not go home now, and in the morning, you can see how you’re feeling? It’s been a dreadful shock for you. You’re still staying with Irene, aren’t you? So, head back and try to get some rest.’

  Tracy nodded and said that perhaps she should go. She didn’t want to be in the way, and certainly didn’t want to make a nuisance of herself. Cathy walked her back to the nurses’ room, where Irene was sitting typing at the computer. Beside her was the presentation handout that Fraser must have distributed. Cathy’s copy was probably sitting in her pigeonhole, along with a mountain of other work. That evening meeting seemed like a lifetime ago to Cathy now.

  ‘Catching up on my paperwork,’ Irene said, smiling. ‘Have you told her to go? I don’t think she should have come in at all today, should you Tracy?’

  Tracy grimaced. ‘I need to go back home. To our home, Mark’s and mine,’ she said.

  Cathy and Irene exchanged looks.

  ‘I don’t think it’s such a good idea,’ Cathy started tentatively, but Irene waved her away. ‘We’ll have a talk, Dr Moreland, won’t we Tracy, about things? It’s probably not a good idea to go back to someone else’s house …’

  Cathy left them to it. As she closed the door, she could hear Tracy’s voice rising, and Irene’s remaining low and calm. Thank goodness for Irene, Cathy thought. Without her, that silly girl really might make a fool of herself.

  Having safely dispatched Tracy, Cathy walked back through reception and slipping behind the desk, found Michelle their junior office-girl, leafing through some files. Michelle had worked for the practice for a comparatively short time. It seemed to be the norm for office staff to come and go. Perhaps the doctors weren’t paying them enough. Cathy had raised this concern at a practice meeting months ago, before she had gone off sick herself, but Brenda had been adamant, saying that it was a job with high rewards in other areas, and a greatly sought position. Few young girls coming out of college these days could expect to earn more, and certainly the training and prestige that the job offered could not be denied. Since then, office girls had come and gone. Cathy supposed that it would always be the same.

  ‘Michelle, hi. Quick question. I’m sure you’ve been asked by the police already anyway, but how was Dr Hope that morning when you took him his coffee? It was you wasn’t it, or did Julie do it that day?’

  Michelle straightened up. She was probably in her early twenties, and Cathy guessed that she would have been unlikely to have ever encountered death before, certainly not a sudden, violent one. Despite the situation, Michelle seemed to be remarkably composed. ‘The police asked that too and I told them,’ the girl said simply. ‘It was a strange one that day. Everyone was a bit all over the place with Brenda, Linda and Irene being away at that asthma meeting, oh, and Fraser too. I was late actually. You know he always liked his coffee bang-on ten forty-five?’

  Cathy smiled. ‘So, he gave you an earful, did he? For being late? That was typical of Mark.’

  Michelle smiled. ‘No, he would have been mad though I guess, if it had been me, but it wasn’t. Like I told the police, it wasn’t me or Julie that day.’

  Cathy waited for more, but it didn’t come. Michelle flicked through the notes she still held, now apparently disinterested.

  ‘Michelle? Who then?’ Cathy asked, unable to hide her exasperation. ‘Who took Dr Hope his coffee?’

  ‘It was Dr Longmuir,’ the girl said, as if Cathy was stupid.

  Cathy stared at the receptionist. ‘Dr Longmuir? Are you saying James took Mark his coffee the day he died?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what I said. The police thought it was a bit funny too. Can I get on?’

  Cathy stepped back without speaking, and the girl passed, her heels, ridiculously high for working in a doctor’s practice, clipping on the thinly carpeted reception area.

  19

  Cathy tortured herself that evening, replaying the circumstances over and over. She had seen James several times in passing in the corridor, and had smiled but not spoken. Both of them had been working side-by-side all afternoon, but both had had their doors firmly closed. Cathy wondered what James was thinking in his room. Had he spoken with Mark that dreadful morning, and what had been said when he had taken him his coffee? More importantly, why had James taken the cup from Michelle that day anyway? As far as Cathy knew, he had never done such a thing before.

  She tried to keep busy. There were all the laboratory results to go through and now that Mark’s patients would have to be redistributed equally between her and James for the time being, Cathy found that she had more than enough work to keep her occupied. Still, despite all of this, she found her thoughts returning to James, who sat just metres from her in the neighbouring room. What must he be thinking? What had he done? She stopped herself from going any further. It was too awful to contemplate James having anything to do with Mark’s death. How could the idea even occur to her? She should simply knock on his door and go and see how he was. Perhaps she should admit that she was feeling confused and helpless. Maybe he’d say the same.

  But Cathy knew with it being six o’clock, she had left it too late to speak with him that day. She heard the door next to hers open, and the light switch being flicked. Part of her desperately wanted to go out into the corridor and to stop James, knowing that she would be unable to sleep for thinking about him. Her heart rate quickened as she mentally prepared to get up and go to the door. But something stopped her. All she needed to do was to ask about the coffee. James wouldn’t be offended and it would be cleared up in seconds. But instead, Cathy sat in her chair and listened as her senior partner walked to the back door and left. From her window, between the blinds, she watched James slowly cross the staff carpark and get into his family car. How different James and Mark had been in many ways, and most definitely in their car choice. Mark had driven a sports car and had always arrived at the surgery with a flourish. James was far less brazen. He had driven the same car for years and showed no interest in such material things, it seemed.

  As she watched the car reverse and then turn smoothly, the tyres whispering on the damp tarmacadam, she wondered if James knew she was looking. If he did, he chose to ignore her. He stared straight ahead as he left, his car sweeping out into the main road that headed into town. His home was almost a mile on the other side of the shops; a grand old Victorian mansion that had been divided years before. Cathy had been invited over a couple of times. She had never met Maureen; James’s wife, who had died only months after Cathy had herself taken on the GP partnership. Her illness had been swift, Cathy had heard. Mark had mentioned that in the past the partners had often met regularly for evening meetings and James’s house had been used. This had changed after the death of his wife, however. Since then, James had held no dinner parties and there had been no invitations to visit. Cathy wondered how the man could live on where he did still, without his beloved wife, but then perhaps leaving would be even greater torture. Anyway, if ever the partners had needed to meet outside the practice since Maureen’s death, Mark’s farmhouse had been chosen. But there hadn’t been a social occasion in a long time.

  She thought once again of Tracy and how odd a situation she must find herself in too. She had been surprised to hear that Mark had asked her to move in. Where did that leave Tracy now? Would she have some entitlement to the house? Cathy thought not. Only a month of living together and Cathy assumed, no financial contribution to the house or bills from Tracy. No, surely the girl would have no rights whatsoever.

  For the first time, Cathy considered then who might inherit Mark’s money. Perhaps Mark’s ex-wife, or maybe even,
a distant relative. Cathy knew that his parents had died many years ago, and that he had no siblings. She hoped that he had left some sort of a will. Perhaps he had left everything to the practice. Cathy had snorted out-loud thinking of this. Mark certainly wasn’t altruistic in that way.

  She had spoken briefly to Brenda before leaving for the night. The practice manager had been unable to help fill in many details of that dreadful morning, now that Cathy found herself attempting to piece things together. Brenda hadn’t even arrived at the practice on the day of Mark’s death until gone eleven, accompanied by Linda and Irene, and followed closely by Fraser, as the four of them had been at an asthma meeting in the next town. Brenda explained what a horror it had been to walk in and find Mark lying there and Tracy collapsed at the door.

  Now home, and having pondered the matter a good deal, Cathy got up from the kitchen stool, and took the near-empty bottle of wine and the glass with her through to the living room. Suzalinna would be furious if she knew how much she was drinking again. It had been a point of contention in the past.

  She had an addictive personality. She must have. Since she had returned to work, the temptation was most definitely still there. In the back of her mind, Cathy knew was being watched. Sometimes Brenda hovered a little too long, or even Bert, who she doubted knew about the drug-taking, was present in the corridor for longer periods of time. It was understandable. She had betrayed her partners, and Brenda.

  Cathy had noted that some things had changed since returning. The drug procedures had been tightened, and going into the store to restock her doctor’s bag, she saw that now two members of staff were required to be present when withdrawing an injectable control drug from the stockpile. The drug logbook had been removed and there was a sign in the drug store saying that it was now kept in Brenda’s office and that the keys to the control drugs could be obtained from her. To be fair, and Cathy knew this was dreadful to say, but they hadn’t been that rigorous in their measures. Granted, they had protected the abuse of the injectables and the high-dose morphine tablets, but Cathy saw that along with the other emergency medications that the doctors used in the practice and in their work bags, she could still easily remove codeine-based capsules, the weaker form of morphine, without having to sign or check with another practitioner.