Chapter Nine
The Mistake
“How the hell could you get the two bodies mixed up?” Dr Peter Clarkson demanded in a raised voice.
“I didn’t!” Dr Anders replied. “They were identified incorrectly before I came on duty.”
“Who was the attending?”
“It was Dr Askwith. He dealt with Mrs Williams and Miss Sorenson when they came in.”
“Get him back here!”
“I’ve tried. But he’s gone off duty and he’s not answering his phone or his pager.”
“This is ridiculous! Of all the incompetent, idiotic...”
Dr Anders listened as Dr Clarkson ranted on. He was the senior consultant in charge of the Accident and Emergency department at Manchester Royal Infirmary, and he was obviously very angry. Dr Anders felt that he was being unfair to her, placing her under severe pressure when she had only just come on duty herself, and had hardly had a chance to get familiar with the case. And what made it worse was that they were standing together with WPC Foster in the Accident and Emergency department, with other doctors and nurses nearby who couldn’t fail to hear his raised voice.
Just then, Eric Barrett, the hospital General Manager, came rushing down the corridor towards them with another man.
“I came as soon as I could,” Eric Barrett said hurriedly. He was a short man, slightly overweight, and he was losing his hair. He had been at home when the call had came, settled and relaxed after another hard day. Now he looked dishevelled and panic stricken. “This is John Stanley,” he said, introducing the second, younger man. “He’s our Legal Advisor. Now, quickly, tell us the whole story.”
Dr Clarkson turned to Dr Anders and said, with a sarcastic flourish, “Go ahead! I think this honour belongs to you!”
Everyone stared at her. Dr Anders cleared her throat. “Two victims of a road traffic accident were brought in just after seven o’clock this evening. Both had severe head injuries. One of them was dead on arrival, the other was pronounced dead shortly after. Dr Askwith was the doctor on duty. He handled both patients. They had been identified by the police as a Mrs Sarah Williams and a Miss Katja Sorenson.”
“So it’s the police’s fault,” Barrett interrupted quickly, looking accusingly at WPC Foster.
“Let her finish,” Dr Clarkson said sternly. “Go on.”
Dr Anders continued. “Miss Sorenson was identified by the contents of her handbag as well as the registration of her car. The identification of Mrs Williams, on the other hand, was only based on the car registration, as she was carrying no other form of identification with her. The car was traced to her husband, who the police have now brought in to formally identify her body. He says it’s not her.”
“So, someone else was driving her car,” John Stanley said. “So what’s the problem?”
WPC Foster cleared her throat. “Miss Sorenson has also not been formally identified,” she said as everyone stared at her. “She has no living relatives in this country, and her flatmate wasn’t in when officers called at her address.”
Dr Anders quickly added, “We suspect that it was Miss Sorenson’s body that Mr Williams saw when he was brought in to identify his wife.”
There was a brief silence while Barrett and Stanley absorbed this information, both of them looking at WPC Foster with some concern. It was obvious from their expressions that they wished that they could have the rest of this conversation without her presence. Tough! Jill Foster thought to herself. She had no intention of leaving.
“I think we should get out of this corridor,” Stanley said.
“Good idea,” Barrett replied. “Let’s find a less public place for this discussion.”
Dr Clarkson led the way down the corridor to a side room. It was an unoccupied single bedroom. WPC Foster squeezed in last of all as Dr Clarkson tried to close the door behind them. They all stared at her. She decided to stake her claim before the protests began.
“I think it would be beneficial for all concerned that I continue to be present,” she said. “Particularly if this should come to court later.”
Barrett looked at Stanley. He nodded. “It would help in verifying that nothing underhand was done, or intended,” he said.
“Alright then,” Barrett said with a sigh as he turned to Dr Anders again. “You said that they were identified at the scene of the accident. How could they get mixed up by the time they got here?”
“They both looked very similar,” Dr Anders replied. “The mistake could have occurred after they were freed from their cars. Or Miss Sorenson’s handbag could have been dropped and put back next to the wrong body. It could have happened here, or at the scene of the accident.”
“And there were no photos in the handbag?” Stanley asked.
“Not as far as I know,” Dr Anders replied. “But it wouldn’t have mattered. They both had severe head injuries. There was a lot of blood, contusions and lacerations. Trying to determine who was who from just a photograph wouldn’t have been that easy in the circumstances.”
Stanley sighed. “Okay,” he said. “It’s a big embarrassment, but I don’t think it warrants mine or Eric’s presence here tonight. As far as I see it, you just take Mr Williams to look at the body of Miss Sorenson. If that is his wife as you suspect, then it’s just a simple mistake that, in the circumstances, Mr Williams is not likely to pursue. He would be more likely to sue if he had faced the trauma of his wife’s death only to find her alive and well. He’d have been outraged. But for that to happen, someone else would have had to have been driving his wife’s car. So if that was the case, it would have been an acceptable mistake to have made. That’s why the police brought him in here in the first place, isn’t it? Either way, the panics over.”
It was then that Dr Clarkson dropped the bombshell. “Yes, that’s all perfectly reasonable, Mr Stanley,” he said, glancing briefly at WPC Foster. “Until you find out that Miss Sorenson was carrying an organ donor card.”
There was a long pause which was only broken when Stanley said, “Oh, shit.”
“What was removed and where did it go?” Barrett quickly demanded.
“Just her heart, one eye, and both kidneys,” Dr Clarkson replied. “The heart’s already gone to Wythenshawe, but we put a hold on any further transfers as soon as we learned of the mix up. Everything we took out except the heart is still here in cold storage, but they won’t last much longer. We’ve also subsequently received calls for the other remaining organs as well.”
Eric Barrett went over to the nearest telephone. “Nothing else is to be removed from that body,” he said over his shoulder. “In fact, I think we should put everything back. Even if we do lose the organs. We have to be sure.” He picked up the phone and rang the Cardio-Thoracic Unit at Wythenshawe.
WPC Foster didn’t listen to his conversation. She was far more concerned with something else. “Did you say her eyes?” she asked Dr Clarkson, with a certain amount of unease in her voice.
“Yes, one eye and both kidneys,” he replied. “The other eye was too badly damaged in the accident. But, as I said, they’re all still here, so it is possible to put them back in before Mr Williams gets to see her.”
WPC Foster was horrified by the casual tone in his voice. He didn’t seem to care about the effect all this was likely to have on Alex Williams. She had seen the way he had reacted and how he had looked when he had learned of his wife’s death. He had been absolutely devastated. And now all she could think of were those dazzling blue eyes in the painting she had seen at the house earlier that evening. How would Alex Williams react when he found out what they had done to his wife? What would he do?
Barrett came off the phone. “The recipient’s heart is already out,” he said. “It’s too late to stop the transplant from going ahead now, not without putting the recipient at too much risk. Especially as we aren’t yet sure that a mistake has been made in the first place.”
“I think we’re pretty sure,” Dr Clarkson said.
“We n
eed to have the other body identified as soon as possible,” Barrett said to Dr Clarkson. “Get those organs replaced and have the husband in there as soon as you can.” Dr Clarkson nodded and walked quickly away. Barrett now turned to Stanley.
“John, how badly exposed do you think we are?” he asked the legal advisor.
John Stanley took a deep breath. He looked far more worried than he had done before. “If it is his wife,” he said carefully. “And we’ve removed organs without his permission, and she didn’t leave any written authorisation either, then we really are going to be in deep trouble.”
“Do you think he will sue?” Barrett asked.
WPC Foster answered his question before Stanley could reply.
“He’ll sue.”
Chapter Ten
Waiting
Dr Jones sat with Gina Carter in the waiting room. They were alone in the silence and the stillness. They sat opposite one another, their half finished coffee cups sitting on the table between them. Other empty cups were also scattered about on the table. Some of them were overturned.
Dr Jones knew that this was always the worst time for Gina. It was the one time when she couldn’t do anything to help her daughter. All she could do was sit and wait. And pray.
“It’s going to be alright, Gina,” Dr Jones said. “You know that Bloomfield is a damn good surgeon. And he’s done this operation many times before.”
“But not on my Rachel, he hasn’t,” Gina replied quickly. She stood up and paced around the room, moving between the other easy chairs and low tables. She stopped briefly to pick up and leaf through one of the dog-eared magazines that were scattered about. Then she discarded it, and slowly worked her way back around the room, until she came back to Dr Jones and sat down again.
Dr Jones sighed. It was not the first time she had been on a tour of the waiting room. So far, she must have picked up and discarded every magazine in the room. He wished that there was something that he could do to stop Gina’s torment. Anyone would worry at a time like this; it was quite understandable and expected. But for Gina it was different. She always wanted to do everything for Rachel, to always be there for her. Now she was locked out, at the very time when Rachel might need her the most.
“Rachel’s in good hands,” he told her. “You know Bloomfield, you know what he’s like. In fact you two get along so well, anyone would think that you were an old married couple.”
“I know,” Gina replied in a quiet voice. “But this isn’t like the other operations Rachel has had. I worried just as much then, so I’m bound to worry all the more now. And I won’t stop worrying until I can see her, and hold her in my arms again.”
Dr Jones was right, of course. She did know Ronald Bloomfield very well. He was one of the few people who were not phased by Gina’s forceful personality. And just like her, he was not shy when it came to voicing his own opinions, either.
Gina Carter and Ronald Bloomfield very often had what they themselves called spirited discussions. To anyone else, they were knock down, drag out fights. They would scream and shout at one another until they were both red in the face. And the next moment they would seem like the best of pals. They both had their own points of view, and neither of them liked to back down. At the moment, honours were about even. But the day was not quite over yet.
Gina liked Bloomfield. He was straight up, honest. If he thought that you were going to die, he would tell you straight out. Gina liked that. When Dr Jones had introduced them for the first time, Gina had thought that he would be pompous and arrogant. She was wrong, and it was less than five minutes before they had their first argument. She had felt a lot happier after that. And they had quickly got to know one another, and what was most important to each of them. Now there was no one else in the world who she would trust to do the transplant operation on her daughter other than Bloomfield.
“I hate waiting,” Gina said with sudden emotion. “I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!” She sat with her head down, ringing her hands.
“Do you remember what Rachel said to Ronald when they first met?” Dr Jones asked her.
“Yes,” Gina replied. “She asked him to put in a zip. Just in case anything went wrong.”
“That’s right. It made Ronald smile.”
Gina looked up, staring Dr Jones in the eye. “Nothing is going to go wrong, is it?” she asked him. “I don’t just mean now, but afterwards, as well?”
“No! Of course not!” Dr Jones insisted. “It was a good, healthy heart we got from the donor. And she was a perfect match for your Rachel. Believe me, once this transplant’s completed, all your problems will be over.”
Chapter Eleven
Out of the Frying Pan...
When Bloomfield came into the waiting room to tell Dr Jones and Gina Carter that the operation was over, Gina didn’t even wait for him to open his mouth. She just took one look at his face and shot out the door.
Bloomfield’s smile broadened. “It went like a dream!” he told Dr Jones. “Everything went like clockwork. It was as if that heart couldn’t wait to get in there and start working again.”
Dr Jones took a deep breath. “I’m glad,” he said, and he smiled too. “How is Rachel?”
“She’s fine! They’ve taken her into the ICU. She’ll probably stay in there for the next day or two. But I’d bet that she’ll be back in her own room, sitting up and talking, by Friday! Now we’d better get to the ICU before Gina causes complete havoc!” He slapped Dr Jones on the back and went out the door, not waiting to see if the doctor was following him.
Dr Jones was left on his own in the waiting room. He was so relieved. He hadn’t expected everything to go so well. There was always some kind of complication, no matter how tiny, that caused concern. But if Ronald Bloomfield said that everything went like clockwork, then everything had gone like clockwork.
“Come on, Jones!” he heard Bloomfield calling from halfway down the corridor. “Stop dawdling!”
Dr Jones smiled as he went out of the waiting room, closing the door carefully behind him. Rachel was going to be fine.
Chapter Twelve
...into the Fire
Dr Jones had been surprised when Andrea Walker, the Chief Executive of South Manchester University Hospitals NHS Trust, which included Wythenshawe hospital, had summoned him to her office. He was even more amazed when he got there. Not only were she and the Medical Director present, but Ronald Bloomfield and two other people he hadn’t seen before were also there. They all looked very serious when he entered.
“What’s this? A lynching party?” he said with mock humour as he closed the door behind him.
“Not quite, Philip,” Andrea Walker said. She gave him a weak smile that worried Dr Jones far more than the thought of any lynching party. “You had better sit down,” she went on.
Dr Jones did as she asked, sitting down in the one remaining empty chair in the room.
“You obviously know Ronald Bloomfield and Gordon Murray,” Walker said to him, indicating the surgeon and the hospital Medical Director. Dr Jones nodded and greeted his two colleagues. Andrea Walker then indicated the two people he didn’t know. “This is the General Manager of Manchester Royal Infirmary, Mr Eric Barrett, and his Legal Advisor, Mr John Stanley.”
Dr Jones stood up and shook hands with the two men, one short and slightly fat, the other tall and lean. He was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. Something was going on, and whatever it was, it had to be unpleasant for somebody judging by the people who were gathered in this room.
“Gentlemen, this is Dr Philip Jones,” Walker continued with her introductions as the two men shook hands with the worried doctor. “It’s his patient that concerns us.”
“My patient?” Dr Jones repeated in a questioning manner.
“It’s Rachel Carter’s heart transplant,” Bloomfield replied. “It seems that someone has made a cock-up of the authorisation from the donor.”
“Now, see here!”
“That’s not exactly true!�
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Bloomfield’s reply seemed to spark sudden life into the two men from Manchester Royal Infirmary, who quickly protested at his choice of words. Andrea Walker had to calm them down.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen! Please let’s not argue about that now!” she said. “Remember that this has serious implications for the patient, not just for us, or our staff.”
“What implications?” Dr Jones demanded.
“I’ll explain,” Gordon Murray said, his slight Scottish accent still noticeable even after fifteen years in Manchester. “And donae worry, I’ll do it in a way that doesnae offend anybody.”
Andrea Walker sighed and nodded her agreement. “That would be a good idea, Gordon,” she said.
“The heart transplant that Mr Bloomfield carried out on Rachel Carter three days ago involved a heart taken from a donor at Manchester Royal Infirmary,” Murray began. “It appears that, through some strange accident, the donor’s identification got mixed up with that of another deceased patient. Suffice it to say that authorisation to proceed with the removal of the heart wasnae obtained from the correct relative. Nor was there any written authorisation from the deceased herself. Regardless of the fact that the transplant operation was carried out very successfully, this now leaves us with a somewhat tricky problem. We’ve now been notified by the solicitors acting on behalf of the donor’s husband, a Mr Alex Williams, that he intends to sue both hospitals and Miss Carter.”
Dr Jones was speechless. He just sat there in silence, staring at Gordon Murray as if he had been speaking a different language.
“Can’t we put him off?” Andrea Walker asked. “There must be dozens of other negligence cases ahead of this one.”
“Normally, yes,” John Stanley said. “There are probably hundreds of cases ahead of ours. But Williams has got a lot of money, and he’s not going to be shy about spending it. That solicitor of his is already pulling strings to get the case heard early.”
An Affair of the Heart Page 3