Hospital Politics Ch. 02

We lay, side by side on that towel. She held my hand. I kissed her ear. Then I turned onto my side and threw my arm and leg across her, cupping her breast and nuzzling into her short hair.

"Was that us getting filthy?"


"Oh no, not at all. That was us getting happy. Filthy comes later." Oh, good.

It wasn't until I was outside, waiting for an Uber (walking at night wasn't so attractive post Foster), much later, that I found it. A small piece of paper in the pocket of my aged trench coat. It had, written in blue ink, a mobile number and the following words: 'There's far worse at the hospital than bullying. Call me.'

Where had that come from and what did it mean? 'Far worse?' Then I remembered the woman in the woolly hat and the way she'd looked when we bumped into each other. I tried to remember her face but all I could bring to mind was a look of fear, which, at the time, I'd taken for apology.

It was too late to call. I'd left Benny after a shower because she had to work on the Sunday, the following day and she needed sleep. It was almost midnight when I got home so I waited until the following morning to call the number from the office, as I prepared for the Monday edition. I was finishing off a story about homeless figures in the city; a shaming tale that vilified the city council's abject failure to help, and named a couple of particularly inept councillors allegedly charged with solving the problem.

I called the number. It was picked up and I said, "Hi, this is Wanda Daniels from the Clarion."

Silence. Then, "Wait, I'll call you back in ten minutes."

It was more like twenty minutes when my mobile vibrated on my desk. "Hello."

"Hi, can I trust you?" I didn't answer. What was the point? I'd have said yes whether she could or not. "Can I?" There was fear in the voice. Okay then. "Yes, yes of course you can. Who are you?"

"I work at the General." That was the city's second largest hospital. "There's something very wrong."

"What is it?"

"Old people, dying."

"Old people die."

"But these are being killed. I have to go. I'll call you."

"Wait, what's your name?"

"Not yet." The phone went dead. Fuck!

Not enough to start asking questions. Where do I start? I decided all I could do was wait. But then I thought, waiting could be fatal for someone, maybe I need help.

Margaret Connell, the editor, was a dragon with a warm heart. I went into her office without knocking and sat in the chair in front of her desk I offered her a cigarette. I smoke about three a year but I knew she was desperate and, with few people around, a ciggy would calm her. "What?"

So, I told her. She listened, although it didn't take long. She sat back in her chair, taking a contented drag on her fag and looked at me. "So, it's nothing, just a voice?"

"I know. But it's weird, no? I wondered if you thought there was anything, anything at all I could do."

"How did she sound?"

"Scared."

"Look, you got your name in lights over the Foster thing. It could just be the crazies coming out to play. It happens."


"I know. But why the note, the brush pass, the phone call? Do you have anyone in the hospital?"

"You're political, not crime or investigative."

"But you know I can investigate."

She mulled, taking small drags. "Get me a coffee. Black. Get one for yourself too."

When I returned with the cups, she had a bottle of Scotch on her desk. Without asking, she poured shots into both our cups. "You haven't seen this, okay?" I nodded. "Give me another cigarette." I did and, unusually, took one myself.

"I fucking hate things like this." She didn't look as though she hated it. "You never know. Revenge, madness, paranoia; what drives them? And anonymity is infuriating. But, as you said, doing nothing sort of makes us complicit if there is any truth to it. Have you spoken to Virginia?"

Virginia Laing was our health editor. Why hadn't I thought of her? After the Foster story she'd been a bit miffed that I'd written it and not shared it with her. It had been a mistake, I realised. This could be an olive branch.

"I will."


"Do. I will too. She'll get over it, you know."

It was the Monday by the time I found Virginia in her office. "Can I come in?"

"Sure."

I proffered a bag of doughnuts. "Guilty conscience with sugar and jam in them." She smiled and took one. "First, I"m sorry. I should have told you about the Foster story."

"Yes, you should. What's second?"


So, I told her about the brush pass, the piece of paper, the scared voice.

"Fuck," she said. Virginia was older, maybe 45. She had grey hair that was long and wild. She was shapely, in a curvy, almost blousy way but very, very clever. "I've heard nothing. Want to work together?"

"I thought I should give it to you."


"Like hell. Your informant probably wont speak to anyone else so you're stuck with her. Not that she's given you much. But that's where you have to be imaginative. She said she'd call you?" I nodded. "Well, give her a couple of days then try again. I'll do some quiet digging in the meantime."

"Has Margaret spoken to you?"

"Yes, she has. Thanks for the doughnut."

"Have another." I left the remaining doughnut in the greasy paper bag on her desk.

It was two days before I heard from woolly hat again. I was at home, having just eaten my supper and considering an early night with my vibrator. Thoughts of my afternoon and evening with Benny had got me a bit steamed up.

"Is that Wanda Daniels?"

"Yes."

"I want to help you but I don't know if I can trust you."


"Look, you are obviously worried about something at the hospital and scared too. Why don't we meet and talk?"

"I don't know."

"Somewhere where you feel safe, somewhere where nobody knows you."

"I'll think about it."

"You obviously want to tell me or tell someone. If you won't talk to me, what about the police?"

"No, no definitely not the police." The fear level in her voice rose. There was a pause and I was determined not to be the one to break it. "The cafe opposite the station. Come alone, twenty minutes." The call ended. I could make that in 5 minutes so I called Virginia.

"Will you come and watch. If she's a crazy I don't want to be alone."

"Sure. Go alone. I'll go into the cafe by myself before you get there and read a book. Don't try to get close to me, just sit and be natural. You'll be okay."


I got to the cafe a few minutes early, ordered a coffee and found a table. Virginia was, as she'd promised, already there and reading a book. I stripped off my coat, sat and waited, checking my phone constantly. It was the woolly hat that I saw first, its pompom wiggling as she made her way from the station across the road.

When she sat down, I said hi and asked if she'd like a coffee. She would, so I went to the counter, trying to be as calm and normal as possible. I took it back to the table and sat, facing her. "There you go. How are you?"

She looked around, furtively. About 30, I guessed, she had nice eyes, green. She was wearing the same coat but, now it was open, I could see she was slim and small. Wisps of blonde hair escaped from under the hat. "You're alone?"

I didn't answer, just held my hands open as if to say, well, what does it look like?

She nodded, as if she'd reached a decision. "I'm a nurse. At the General." Every sentence was as if she had to drag it out of herself. "Geriatrics. I think someone is killing patients." Okay, I thought, either crazy or delusional or, horribly, right. I kept silent. I had no idea how to handle this. "Nobody seems to care. A lady died last nigh and the sister on duty just said, 'there goes another of Dr Morten's. Like it was expected. Dr Morten's lovely. She cares so, so much."

"Why do you think it's suspicious?"

That seemed to be a bit like a slap to her face. "Because," she hissed, "they shouldn't be dying. They aren't terminal."


"They?"

"The patients," she said, almost rolling her eyes at my stupid question.


"I meant how many."

"Too many. It's just not right."

"Who've you spoken to?"

"Colleagues."

"What do they say."

"Keep your head down. It's the consultants' job to raise concerns, not yours. But the consultant's aren't saying anything either."

"So, what do you think is happening? Is it incompetence, or murder?"

She looked at me, her eyes wide. "I don't know but...."


"But?"


"I think someone may be killing them."

"How can you help me to find out what's happening?"

"I could give you names, dates. I could copy some notes."

"Don't copy anything for now. Keep yourself safe. Have you considered leaving?"

"Hundreds of times. But if I do nobody else will care." Then, in a rush. "You got that bastard Foster and all he did was a bit of bullying. This is something else."


"Yes, yes, I know. What can I call you?" I held my breath.

"My name is Maggie."

Progress. "Okay, Maggie. Look, we can meet here as often as you like. Get me some names and dates but don't put yourself at risk. Oh, and don't wear the hat again."

"Why not?"


"You're too recognisable. Wear a hood or a scarf. Think about yourself, stay alert and tell me all you can, when you can. Let's have a fixed date for coffee like, say, every Wednesday."

"My shifts vary."


"Then call me once a week. Any time. I'll meet you any time you want. We'll do this together, okay?"

Smiling weakly, she said, yes.

"Why were you at the rugby club?"

"My boyfriend plays there. I saw you, recognised you. It was an impulse."

"Well, let's make that impulse into something. The club might be a good place to meet."

She left abruptly. No goodbye, no 'I'll call you.' She just left.

Virginia and I walked back to the office together. She'd been busy since we'd first spoken about it.

"I had one of my girls do some open-source digging. What she has found is quite odd. Deaths at the General aren't much different from other, similar hospitals, except.." She left it hanging.

"Except?"

"In geriatrics. The numbers alone don't mean much but it may make her story more convincing."


"Have you heard of Dr Morten?"

"No, why?"

"Apparently one of her Sisters said of one patient, 'there goes another of Dr Morten's.' Morten is a woman. Maybe she's helping the patients to shuffle off. Another Shipman?"

"Or maybe someone's got a grudge against Morten. Who knows?"

TO BE CONTINUED