‘Oh, I didn’t realise.’
He’s lying, but I let it go and quickly run upstairs to change into jeans, a sweatshirt and my old coat. There are half-empty boxes on the landing and bulging bin-bags. Downstairs again, I ask him what he’s doing.
‘Cleaning.’
‘Don’t go into my room.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
We collect the dogs from the garden and Poppy leads us towards the park.
‘That was weird,’ says Lilah.
‘Did he say something?’
‘No. Why don’t you like him?’
‘I barely know him.’
‘But he lives with you.’
‘Only since last Friday.’
‘Where was he before that?’
‘Away.’
She knows I’m being secretive but keeps pushing. ‘Why did you point to his ankle?’
‘Did I?’
‘You said he wasn’t allowed to leave the house.’
‘He’s wearing a monitor because he’s just been released from Rampton, the psych hospital.’
‘My God! What did he do?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Is he going to be staying long?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’
59
Cyrus
The two men who meet me in the foyer of St Jude’s Medical Centre are dressed in charcoal-grey suits, white shirts and silk ties. Both have a military bearing, and project their voices as though marshalling troops on a parade ground.
The older of the two introduces himself as Walter Farquharson, the hospital’s in-house counsel. His colleague, who could be his son, only gives me his first name: Richard.
We talk in a boardroom which has a long table set out with a dozen water glasses, jugs of water, and pristine notepads with a pen centred on each. Their first questions are perfunctory. Did I manage to find a parking spot? Is the room too warm? Would I like to sit near the window? Everything appears scripted and stage-managed, right down to the choice of seats.
‘How can we help you, Dr Haven?’ asks Farquharson.
‘I’m seeking information about an historic legal action against the hospital. One of your nurses was charged with manslaughter. The case collapsed.’
The lawyer appears surprised, although the only outward sign is the lifting of a grey unkempt eyebrow.
‘Somebody has already called from Nottinghamshire Police requesting the same information – a detective chief inspector.’
‘DCI Hoyle?’
‘Yes.’ The men exchange a glance. ‘We’re seeking instructions from the board of trustees before releasing any of our files.’
Clearly, they’re worried about negative publicity.
‘One of your nurses is missing,’ I say.
‘Which is highly unfortunate, but could be completely unrelated,’ says Farquharson. ‘It goes without saying that we’ll do everything we can to assist the police, but her disappearance has nothing to do with St Jude’s.’
‘And if it were to be related?’ I ask. ‘And if the hospital was shown to have delayed or hindered police attempts to find her …’ I don’t finish the statement, but the implications are clear. ‘Gentlemen, I’m not seeking to damage the reputation of your hospital. I want to find a young woman, who is possibly in great danger.’
There is a moment of silence. The men look at each other. The younger man speaks first. ‘My name is Richard Hawkins. I’m the CEO of the St Jude’s Medical Centre Trust. What is it you wish to know?’
I suddenly realise that he’s the one in charge. Until now, he’s been hiding behind the older man’s gravitas, before deciding which way to jump.
‘There was an incident eight years ago. Two premature babies were given the wrong medication. A nurse was charged with manslaughter and two others with criminal negligence, but the cases collapsed. The hospital was sued for negligence.’
‘We settled both cases. One family received a lump sum payment of ?400,000. The second case was decided twelve months ago in the High Court.’
‘Why did it take so long?’
‘We had to wait for the police investigation and the inquests and our internal inquiries.’
‘That didn’t take eight years.’
‘The negotiations were sensitive in nature,’ says Farquharson, who is choosing his words carefully.
‘Why?’
‘The Rennie baby was born at twenty-four weeks. His chances of survival were sixty per cent at best. He lived for less than three days. The hospital admitted limited liability and the settlement reflected our desire to compensate the family for the hurt caused.
‘In the case of the little girl, Daisy Thompson, we knew that she would need round-the-clock care. She suffered from intractable epilepsy and cognitive impairment. We agreed to pay a substantial lump sum and index-linked payments to cover the cost of her ongoing care.’
‘How much?’
‘Three million pounds and an annuity of ?250,000 to cover the cost of her future care.’
‘Was her family happy with the settlement?’
‘They agreed,’ says the lawyer, as though it should be obvious.
Something is being kept from me.
Hawkins is more open. ‘We were putting a price on a child’s life. Nobody is ever completely satisfied. And given the circumstances …’ He doesn’t finish.
‘What circumstances?’
The two men exchange a glance. ‘Daisy Thompson died earlier this year. Pneumonia. Medical complications. It was very sad.’
Suddenly, it makes sense to me. ‘You dragged out the settlement because you suspected Daisy would die.’
‘That’s an outrageous suggestion,’ splutters Farquharson. ‘We paid the family three million pounds.’
‘Did you backdate the annuity payments?’
‘No.’
‘Which means the hospital saved two million pounds. That’s money that could have been used to improve her quality of life.’
Hawkins is equally angry, his face turning a puce colour. ‘Be very careful, Dr Haven. The board of trustees will not hesitate to sue if you defame this hospital.’
‘What happens to the annuity payments now?’
‘They will cease,’ says the lawyer. ‘As per the deal.’
‘Another saving,’ I mutter under my breath.
There is a knock on the door. A young man has a message.
‘I have another meeting,’ says Hawkins.
I suspect a signal was involved – a secret text message to arrange the interruption.
Both men get to their feet. Farquharson speaks. ‘We reached very fair and equitable settlements with each family. The trust cannot be blamed for subsequent events.’
‘What happened to the nurses who were involved in the mix-up?’ I ask.
‘One resigned. Two were suspended. And we dismissed the pharmacy technician responsible for putting the wrong medication into the ICU cabinet.’
‘Lilah Hooper and Daniela Linares were re-employed.’
‘They are both good nurses. Diligent. Caring. Given staff shortages in the NHS we couldn’t afford to lose them.’
60
Cyrus
It isn’t difficult to locate the Thompson family. A Google search throws up a local newspaper story about the settlement. It mentions a street name, Inglewood Road, and a suburb, Clifton. After that I simply knocked on doors until someone pointed me to the right house.