Death Before Time (25 page)
From the Commons, it was only a step to Whitehall, so he walked over and told Marcus about it.
“So employing Armitage was all Fitzpatrick’s idea,” Marcus said, “According to her, anyway. Is it really going to be that easy?”
“I somehow very much doubt it.” Tom paused. “Have you found anything on them yet?”
Marcus shook his head. “I have found something about Philip Armitage, though …”
He’d managed to track down someone who’d actually worked with him when he’d been a junior registrar.
“It seems he was always a rather intense person, but what must have pushed him over the edge was the illness of his wife.” He paused. “Motor Neurone Disease.”
She’d been 25 when she’d been diagnosed and 32 when she’d died.
Tom grimaced. “Enough to push anyone over the edge …”
During the last years, she’d been almost completely paralysed and in constant pain. Incapable by now of doing it for herself, she’d begged her husband to release her. Loving her, mindful of the Hippocratic oath, he’d demurred. By the time he changed his mind, it was too late – she was being kept alive in hospital ...
“So when she got pneumonia,” Marcus continued, “He made it clear he didn’t want her treated, but she was, and lived a further miserable month.”
“I don’t like to think what that would have done to me,” Tom said softly.
What it had done to Philip Armitage was to give him a complete nervous breakdown. On recovering, he’d specialised in Community Medicine, eventually becoming director of St Margaret‘s in Southampton, “…Where, as we now know, he and Helen St John started
releasing
their patients,” Marcus finished.
“So how the hell did he manage to become director at Wansborough?” Tom asked.
“You ought to know the medical profession by now, when they decide to hush something up, it stays hushed. Meanwhile, he’d got a reputation for the excellence,
and
the
efficiency
, of his treatment of older patients, and published a lot on it, as we know. So he was a shoo-in for Wansborough, where he soon assembled his old team ...”
Tom went back to his own home in Chiswick for the night. He phoned Fraser, who gone to stay with Mary now that the interviews had begun, and told him about Armitage.
*
From the window of his small manor house set in a hollow in the downs outside Wansborough, George Woodvine watched the figure of Tom the next morning as he emerged from the mini cooper and walked up the path. He stopped at the pergola and sniffed at the roses before continuing to the front door.
Cool looking cove, Woodvine thought ... hard looking, too, although not particularly tall, and dressed rather casually for an investigator from London.
He heard the bell ring and Annie, his maid, go to answer it. A moment later, she tapped on the door and told him Mr Jones had arrived.
He went into the hall to find him perusing the portraits of his father and grandfather and, for some reason, the sight irritated him.
“Mr Jones?” he said a little more sharply than he’d intended.
The figure turned. “That’s right.”
“Do come through – would you like some coffee?”
“Please. Your father?” Tom said, indicating one of the portraits.
“Yes.” He asked Annie to bring them coffee, then led Tom into a light and airy drawing room.
“I was admiring your pergola,” Tom said. “They
are
roses, I assume?”
He had a distinct London accent which for some reason sharpened Woodvine’s irritation … he suppressed it and smiled back at him.
“Old English Roses. They may not look as sensational as the cultured varieties, but the scent – well, I imagine you caught it yourself.” He ushered Tom to a chair. “Now,” he said, sitting opposite him, “How can I help you?”
Tom had sensed the irritation and wondered if he could use it … no, no point at this stage ...
He explained why he was there, taking in the ruddy face, thick white hair and moustache of his host as he did so - Yes, he’d certainly captured the bluff countryman effect, except perhaps for the watchful grey eyes.
“I met Dr Callan several times,” Woodvine said, irritation firmly under control now, “And I have to say I was rather impressed by him. Is it possible that there’s any truth in his story?”
“Well, we didn’t think so at the time and subsequently found nothing to change our minds – until, that is, the deaths of Dr Armitage and Miss St John. That did make us wonder.”
There was a knock on the door and Annie came in with a tray of coffee. Woodvine thanked her and got up to serve it. He did, as the MP had said, Tom thought, look slightly clownish in his baggy tweeds.
He handed Tom a cup and saucer. “You were saying?”
“That the deaths were rather a coincidence, coming so soon after Dr Callan came to see us. However, the police seem sure that Dr Armitage killed Miss St John, and then himself.”
He told him about the forensic evidence. “The question is,” he said, “Why? Why did they do it? Was it star crossed love, as the police think, or something worse, as Dr Callan claims?”
“What do you think, Mr Jones?” The tone was casual, the eyes shrewd ...
“I think that the police usually know what they’re talking about. However, Dr Callan still maintains they were involved in a euthanasia plot and I have to look into it. So what do
you
think, Mr Woodvine?”
That the police usually knew what they were talking about, Woodvine replied with a smile. “But I’m sure it’s not just my opinion you’ve come here for?”
Tom hesitated, as though trying to decide what to say “…I need to understand the background,” he said at last, “I believe it was you who set up the junta after the St James’ scandal broke?”
Woodvine smiled again. “Junta, I rather like that – it’s exactly the right word.”
“I’m gratified you should think so. Ms Matlock was quite offended by it.”
“Oh, take no notice of Patricia.” He drank some coffee. “The purpose of a junta is to get things done quickly, without dissent or red tape, which is exactly what we had to do if we were to restore any confidence in the Trust. We all had a strong motivation to find a solution as quickly as possible, which is what we did - ” He explained the decision to demolish St James’ and make a fresh start.
“Nigel got the finance sorted out, Patricia used her clout over planning regs, and when the going really got rough, it was Patrick who head hunted Philip Armitage.”
“When you say the going got rough, you mean the Grade II listing and the Euro conversion?”
“Indeed I do. Of course, we ought to have been more prepared for the cost of the Euro, but I’d gladly garrotte the good citizen who suggested the Grade II listing – if you’ll forgive the figure of speech,” he added with a grin.
Tom grinned back “You said that it was Fitzpatrick who discovered Dr Armitage – d’you know that for a fact?”
“I suppose not, strictly speaking - I just assumed it was when he came to me with the idea.”
“You mentioned that the other three had a strong motivation to overcome the crisis, but what about you? What was your motivation?”
He raised his eyebrows. “I’d have thought that fairly obvious – I’m the chairman of the Trust and have responsibility for it.”
“But you’re
non
executive
chairman, no one could have really blamed you.”
“Couldn’t they?” He looked quizzically at Tom. “I think they could, and would have. And they’d have been right - my job is to oversee the affairs of the Trust, to anticipate problems such as this.”
“How long have you been Chairman?”
“It’ll be six years at the end of this year. I’ll step down then.” He hesitated, “…I’d like to leave things tidy if possible – d’you really think there’s a chance of another scandal raising its head?”
Tom pursed his lips as though in thought ...
“It comes down to what Dr Callan says at the inquest,” he said at last. “If he just raves about a euthanasia plot, he’ll be discredited by the experts. If he
were
to have any evidence, though …”
“Has he?”
“He
says
he has. You’ll gather our relationship with him has become rather difficult of late, so we don’t really know.”
“From what you tell me,” Woodvine said slowly, “I wonder if he’s really fit to give evidence … couldn’t he be stopped?”
Tom shook his head. “Difficult, since he’s the one who found Miss St John’s body.”
“I mean stopped from expressing his wild theories?”
“The coroner could order him to confine his evidence to the discovery, I suppose …”
“Then I wonder if perhaps someone ought to have a word with the coroner,” mused Woodvine, then: “Sorry, forget I said that.”
Marcus’ delving into Home Office records, meanwhile, had brought forth fruit - bitter fruit, in the form of Helen’s past, or at least, her mother’s. He phoned Tom with it after he’d got back from seeing Woodvine.
Tom felt he had to tell Fraser face to face. He phoned him at Mary’s and said he’d be with him in an hour.
Fraser had given Mary an abridged version of what was going on and she greeted Tom rather warily before leaving them alone.
“I needed to talk to you about Helen anyway,” Tom started, then paused … “The thing is, Marcus phoned me just before I left with some information about her. Do you want to hear that first?”
“It would be bad, I take it?”
Tom nodded.
“Aye then, maybe I should.”
“All right.” Tom paused. “Well, some of your guesses about her were remarkably accurate ... ”
Helen’s mother, Ruth, had indeed been from a wealthy county family. She’d been precociously artistic and also a sixties wild child. Both talents had been nurtured at art college. She’d become pregnant, although unaware of the fact until it was too late for an abortion.
Her parents had tried to make her to have the baby adopted, but she refused – they were convinced it was just to spite them rather than from any maternal feelings. They’d responded by refusing to support her at college or to help with the baby, although they had later helped with the child’s education.
“Jesus, what a brew,” said Fraser.
Ruth had been always been manic depressive; this had worsened after Helen’s birth and had not been relieved by Helen going to boarding school. She’d hanged herself during the school holidays when Helen was fourteen. Helen had been the one to find the body.
“With an upbringing like that,” Tom finished, “It isn’t so hard to understand her take on life. Nor to imagine what happened when she and Armitage met and started mixing philosophies.”
“Poor wee girl,” Fraser said softly … he could remember as though she were standing in front of him how she’d prevaricated over her past, her contrived gaiety, the fact that she’d loved him ... “She needed help,” he said, “And all she got from me was pretence.”
Tom could see from his face that it wouldn’t do any good telling him not to blame himself. He waited, wondering how, or even whether he should broach the other business now, then Fraser spoke again -
“What was the other thing you wanted to talk about?”
Relieved, Tom asked him if he could remember anything Helen had said about any of the gang of four … “Now I’ve started interviewing them, I need everything I can get on them.”
Fraser thought for a moment.
“She knew Fitzpatrick and Woodvine a lot better than the others,” he said.
He told him about Patrick and Fleming’s loathing for each other and the reasons, how Patrick had left his first family for the pregnant Marie, also his world weary cynicism.
“I haven’t met him yet,” said Tom, “He’s tomorrow. What about Woodvine?”
He smiled as Fraser described the chairman’s extrovertism at the party, his later concern about Philip and what Helen had said about his father and grandfather.
“Interesting,” said Tom, “I wonder if that’s a sensitive point …” He told him about Woodvine’s irritation when he’d found him staring at the family portraits.
“She never mentioned anything like that to me,” Fraser said.
“What about the Hon. Patricia Matlock, did she say anything about her?”
Fraser shook his head. “I had a funny experience with her, though … “ He told him about her curious behaviour and enigmatic remarks at the party and later. “I got the feeling she’s a bit of a power freak.”
“Yeah, that was my impression.”
“Any ideas which of them it is yet?”
Tom laughed. “I’m not even thinking about it until I’ve seen all of them.”
After Tom had gone, Fraser went up to his room and shut the door. He sat on the bed and thought about Helen.
“Poor wee girl,” he said again.
*
Patrick Fitzpatrick realised who Tom was the moment he saw him from his window the next morning, striding purposefully up to the Trust HQ.
No
point
in
putting
it
off
, he thought, and when the receptionist called to say that Mr Jones had arrived, he went downstairs to meet him.
He was standing in the entrance hall, smiling as he looked round at the elegantly proportioned ceilings, the polished furnishings and the pictures on the walls.
“Mr Jones? Patrick Fitzpatrick …” He pumped his hand. “Would you like to come up?” He added quickly, “And would you care to share the joke?”
“Oh,” said Tom, still smiling, “I was just reflecting on how administrators always seem to bag the best buildings for themselves.”
“Along with the best salaries to go with them, I expect? But then, I’m thinking that you’re in the way of being an administrator yourself, Mr Jones. In a manner of speaking.”
Tom laughed as they reached the stairs. “And you’d be right. In a manner of speaking.”
Patrick took him to his office and offered him coffee, which he refused.
“Then of what service can I be?”
Tom, as he gave him the story, could see what Patricia Matlock had meant about him, his clowning and his clothes. He went beyond being merely smart, his soft grey suit looked brand new and his shirt so crisp it could have shattered, if Tom had been able to get a grip on it through his ripe plum of a tie.
“So you’re tellin’ me that you decided to investigate Dr Callan’s story even though you didn’t believe it?”
“Oh, we had to – the one we ignored would be the one that turned out to be true. Murphy’s Law would see to that,” he added.
“Ah yes, Murphy’s Law,” Fitzpatrick said, still smiling faintly. “You know, I’ve always wondered why it shouldn’t be Smith’s Law, or even Jones’ Law.”
Tom grinned back, not displeased with the reaction, then explained how he needed to understand the background to the affair. “You remember the business over St James’?”
“Now, if you’ve done your homework, as I suspect you have, Mr Jones, then you’ll know that I’m not likely to forget.”
“Who was actually in charge of St James’? Medically in charge, I mean.”
“The late and quite unlamented Dr Peter Holway. And now you’re goin’ to ask me how it was that
I
didn’t know what was goin’ on there, aren’t you?”
“Something like that.”
“After all, it was my responsibility and I should have known, shouldn’t I?” He paused, then continued more quietly.
“I did know it was bad, although not quite
how
bad. I’d been saying for some time to anyone who’d listen that we had to do something about it, but it was put off, and then put off again. Always something more urgent.” He shrugged. “I should have put it in writing, of course. Then the scandal broke and we
had
to do something. Which as you know, we did.”
“Who actually set up the junta to deal with it?”
“Junta, I like that – your own? It was George Woodvine,” he said without waiting for an answer. “Although Patricia was the front woman, so to speak. But I’m sure you know this already.”
“But it was you who discovered Dr Armitage, wasn’t it?”
“
Discovered
, now there’s an interestin’ word. It was me who suggested we
approach
him, but it was Nigel who brought him to my attention in the first place.”
“Nigel Fleming, the General Manager?”
“The same.”
“But I understood from Ms Matlock and Mr Woodvine that it was
you
who actually found out about him.”
“Probably, to be candid, because I allowed them to think that. But it was Nigel who showed me the article Armitage had written in
Community
Care
, the one in which he said you could save money by giving older people better treatment.”
“It didn’t occur to you that it might be too good to be true?”
“No, that didn’t occur to me,” he said, his eyes fast on Tom’s face. “What is occurrin’ to me now, however, is that
you
, Mr Jones, give Dr Callan’s story a soupcon more cred than you’ve led me to believe.”
Tom said slowly, as though still thinking about it, “I did begin to wonder, when Dr Armitage and Sister St John were killed so soon after Callan came to us.”
Fitzpatrick’s brow furrowed. “But I thought Dr Armitage killed her and then himself?”
“That’s what the police say, and who am I to argue with them?”
“Would you
like
to argue with them?”
Tom shook his head. “No, it’s what the evidence seems to say.” He continued quickly, “You didn’t lose your job in the fallout from St James’?”
“I thought I would.“ He let out a sigh. “You know, in retrospect, perhaps it would have been better if I had.”
“Why d’you say that?”
He met Tom’s eyes. “Because I’m sick to death of the whole damn business, Mr Jones.”
“Well, if Dr Callan were to be successful in stirring up another scandal, you probably would lose it this time, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, I expect so. But I wouldn’t be losing any sleep along with it.”
“What about your pension?”
“What about it?”
“You’d lose a chunk of that, wouldn’t you?”
“You know something, Mr Jones?” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’m beginning to think it might be worth it.”
“So if I were to tell you that Dr Callan is still convinced that Dr Armitage and Sister St John were bumping off their patients and is threatening to say so at the inquest, it wouldn’t bother you?”
“Is he?”
Tom nodded slowly. “And he claims he has new evidence.”
After a pause, Fitzpatrick said, “You know, what really interests me is what
you
think of it, Mr Jones. Do
you
think they were bumping off their patients?”
Tom paused for effect before saying, “No, I don’t think so. But as I said, some of the facts did make me wonder.”
“Such as?”
“It’s a funny thing, but when I came in, I thought it was me asking you the questions …”
“Humour me.”
“Well, as I said just now, Armitage and St John’s deaths. Then there’s the device Dr Callan found and the statistics he produced.”
“Ah yes, the
statistics
... ” He lingered long and lovingly over the word.
“You’re not a believer, then?”
“Oh, I’m a great believer when I can get them to say what I want them to say. Otherwise …” He shook his head – “No.”
“It may interest you to know that Ms Matlock referred to you as a clown.”
“And I don’t imagine she intended flattery … ”
It was Tom’s turn to shake his head. “I don’t share her opinion, though.”
“Ah, now that would be the Celt in you, Mr Jones. You are Welsh, I take it?”
“My grandfather was. The other three quarters is English.”
“Never mind, there’s still hope for you. Don’t give up.”
Tom laughed. He realised that they were going round in circles, so he stood up said, “On that happy note, I shan’t keep you from your work any longer.”
“You weren’t.”
He insisted on coming down to the front door to see Tom off.
