Chapter Six

Shortly after Jonathan Wickshaw’s death…

Philippa Haven took a few deep breaths and unfolded a sheet of paper from her dress pocket. She read the sentences three times over and felt her throat begin to swell up with horror. The riddle continued to make no sense except for the final, haunting line – one which revealed the intention of the caller, that death was going to play a part in these tests.

It had come moments before Davina returned from her coffee-binge – a second external call.

Philippa had exited Resus to look for Dr Balsack and give him a piece of her mind about Mary Surrey’s condition and care. She narrowly avoided a collision with two paramedics wheeling another patient into the department, when the haunting number appeared on her bleep: 88888.

‘You have less than an hour to go before your first test, Dr Haven,’ the caller had said to her, in the same eerie voice.

‘What do you want from me?’

‘Have you told anyone about your predicament?’

‘No.’

‘Good, because if you do, there will be consequences – serious consequences.’

‘I haven’t.’

‘Then in that case, you shall receive a reward for your good behaviour.’

‘Meaning?’

‘A clue.’

‘For what?’

‘You’ll make a tracing if you’re smart, and uncover the test, where it will start. I’m four before V and three after S, it would help to know, how to prevent a death.’

‘Please, if this is some sort of -’

But the killer did not give her a chance to finish.

Philippa managed to jot down the riddle in time before that exchange regarding another sensitive matter, with Davina. Discussions about resuscitation were difficult enough without the constant harassment of bleeps and a madman on an external line…

The conversation had definitely not rebuilt any bridges between her and Davina. Philippa Haven was fast realising that our society had become a selfish, greedy and ignorant one. Some people just could not accept no for an answer, even if it meant an undignified death for their loved one. After all, being able to see a relative in a nursing home with no quality of life was more a testament to the visitor’s interests than the visitee’s.

Usually, it bothered Philippa for hours on a shift when things did not go to plan but she was given no time to reflect, for after she had taken matters into her own hands, by filling out the red form, the cardiac arrest call for Jonathan Wickshaw had come through her bleep; a switchboard operator yelling at the top of her lungs: ‘Cardiac arrest, Surgical Four!’

So here she was on that very ward and when it seemed as though the bay was clear of staff, Philippa took out her pen-torch and headed towards the crime scene. For a second, she had a feeling someone was watching her. She whisked around and stared down the ward. Not a flicker of movement.

Come on, Philippa, don’t start getting paranoid…

The bay was full with six patients including Jonathan’s nuisance neighbour Bill, who had claimed to be in agony during his interruption of her attempt to save him. Bill was now sound asleep, as were the other occupiers.

The curtains to Bed Sixteen remained drawn – dignity after death… Perhaps she should have invited Davina along to the cardiac arrest call and let her witness the true trauma CPR entailed.

She snooped into the cubicle and recognised the morbid silhouette of Jonathan Wickshaw amidst the darkness, his rigid body tucked under the covers with his arms, heavily inked and bloodstained resting upon them. This young man was alive and reportedly well less than an hour ago…

There was a faint hissing, which confused Philippa at first. The fine beam of light that she relied on in here darted around the cubicle until it located the source; someone had left the oxygen tap on. The oxygen label had faded from the tap so the staff had improvised by scribing 02 and an arrow on the wall, in marker pen. She shut the valve, leaving her in complete stillness save the occasional snore from elsewhere.

She banished a few loose strands of brown hair behind her ear then knelt on the linoleum and searched underneath the bed; nothing except for general dirt which now clung to her tights.

The bedside cabinet had a single drawer which was stiff to open and the runners squealed as she uncovered the contents within.

There were two items. The first was a plastic bag. Its lime-green colour made it instantly discernible.

Philippa rattled it gently. It weighed only a few pounds. This contained Jonathan’s take-home medications. It had been readied by Pharmacy for his planned discharge tomorrow.

The bag was sealed in a way which allowed it to be opened only once. Someone would know the bag had been tampered with but that was low on her priority-list. Besides, the drugs would probably be recycled anyway.

The dry air tasted piquant as the bag fizzled open.

Philippa checked the medications thoroughly – one box was the antibiotic co-amoxiclav and two were for pain relief: paracetamol and codeine.

The second item in the drawer was a baby blue scarf which would not have looked out of place in her own wardrobe at home. She rubbed the silk between her fingers. It felt expensive. There was no identifiable brand or rather the label had been resected.

Then her bleep went off. It always sounded louder the less it was welcome. The alarm pierced the silence.

Philippa tried to muffle it as quickly as possible to avoid waking up the other patients – in particular, she did not want that nurse Maria suffering a second dose of Bill’s obscene manner.

It was A&E again.

She sighed. Philippa eyeballed the corpse one last time. Her pen-torch highlighted several tattoos; a raven, the name Kerrie and a grim reaper. How apt, she thought and a chill swam up her spine.

As she walked to the nursing station to answer her bleep, Maria rose and greeted her. The nurse-in-charge had been sitting next to the only other nurse on the ward; a woman whose uniform struggled to embrace her obese frame. She was breathless from merely transcribing some digits from a folded sheet of tissue onto an orange chart. To compound matters, she gorged simultaneously upon a selection of crisps and thank-you chocolates.

You’ll become my patient one day if you don’t cut down on the sweet treats…

‘Jonathan’s parents; they’re here now doctor – in the Relatives’ Room,’ Maria said.

‘I’ll see them now – oh and please, call me Philippa,’ she replied. ‘Are you okay, with what happened?’

‘Still in shock to be honest but I… I just don’t know if it was anything I did.’ The poor nurse could barely finish her own sentence and now had to toil through the night with that painful worry.

‘Don’t worry, I’m sure it was nothing you did. You got us here as quickly as possible; that’s all you could have done.’

Maria smiled but it was a brave face more than one of genuine reassurance.

‘Where is the Relatives’ Room?’

The nurse directed her to the place. However, as Philippa tried to locate the room, she was menacingly obstructed by two men wearing crimson scrubs. Aside from their identical attire and similar length dark hair, they contrasted on many other levels.

One was Mediterranean, over six feet tall with battering ram shoulders that acted as blockades to the artificial light from the ceiling. He had an overconfident gait, walking with his fists clenched and his back as straight as a ruler.

‘Medical reg?’ he said, aiming a pistol-barrelled finger at Philippa.

‘Yes, and you are?’ she asked, though from his scrubs and even more so, his manner, it was easy to hazard a guess.

‘Surgical registrar: Mr Arisan.’ He had an abyssal voice and extended a prickly hand. Behind him, his clean-shaven bespectacled compatriot who was far shorter stood with a reserved, almost bowing posture.

Might as well try and keep this civilised, she thought, knowing it would not last. Philippa reluctantly took the hand and replied with an air of sarcasm: ‘Lovely to meet you. I’m Phi…’ she paused and narrowed her eyes before saying: ‘I’m Dr Haven.’

‘Rob the anaesthetist spoke with us. He mentioned something about a cardiac arrest – one of my consultant’s patients?’

The nonchalance with which he talked made her blood boil. This was about an innocent patient dying. And if he referred to himself as Mr Arisan, shouldn’t the anaesthetist be Dr Gadra?

‘Who is your consultant?’ asked Philippa.

‘Mr Khan.’

‘Then yes; one of his patients had a cardiac arrest some forty, forty-five minutes ago.’

‘You couldn’t bring him back?’

Philippa’s jaw dropped. Did this registrar think it was her fault? ‘No, he didn’t make it.’

‘So, you couldn’t bring him back,’ corrected the surgeon, ‘And cause of death?’

‘We’re not sure; he will need a post-mortem,’ Philippa replied through gritted teeth.

‘And you couldn’t figure it –’

‘But as you’re already well aware, as a surgeon, there are many post-operative complications that can lead to death…’

Mr Arisan pulled a face. ‘I believe the surgery was uncomplicated,’ he replied, with a smirk. ‘The family; do they know?’

‘They’ve just arrived. I was going to speak with them but do you –’

‘Good. I will inform Mr Khan in the morning. You speak with the family. Any problems let me know. If you want to get hold of me, you can bleep my lackey over here on 161,’ he responded turning his back on Philippa.

‘Actually,’ said Philippa suddenly, ‘He was under the care of your team when he died and you should at least explain how the operation went even if it was uncomplicated, as you describe. It might be worth explaining your consultant’s plans as a recap for his mourning parents, seeing as his death was completely out of the blue. Don’t you think that would be a good idea?’

Her words stopped the surgeon in his tracks.

She spotted his quieter accomplice swallow hard. With his hands behind his back, his faded scrub top blended seamlessly into the background.

Mr Arisan turned at last and sniggered. He took a sweeping glance at her ID badge.  ‘Philippa… you believe that I have the time to sit down and have chats and cuddles with families?’

‘You believe I have? Want to swap bleeps and find out?’ proposed Philippa. ‘That’s fine if you don’t want to but I’m not sure how your consultant Mr Khan will feel about that in the morning.’

Mr Arisan paused and took a step back. In doing so, the light that he had been obscuring now showered Philippa and she noticed that the surgical registrar had an untendered moustache.

‘Where are they?’ he growled.

‘In the Relatives’ Room. Oh, and the notes are in the trolley.’

It was at that point in time when Philippa’s bleep confirmed she was by far the busier of the two registrars. However, it was neither A&E nor an external line, but a bleep that would change the entire course of the night.