Chapter Seven

‘Hi, it’s the medical registrar. You called?’

‘Yes, my name is Effy, I’m a nurse calling from the Chartwell Unit.’

Philippa Haven had no idea where that was. Hospital tours were noticeable for their absence at inductions. Honestly, the lack of common-sense was mind-boggling.

‘One of our patients is unwell. Justin is doing a blood gas now but he asked me to contact you to see if you could come and review him also?’

‘Sure.’

‘His name is Shinji Nyarko. He’s in Bed D. Do you need a hospital number?’

‘No; Bed D is fine,’ Philippa replied. ‘I’ll come as soon as I can.’

It was not ideal to have another patient added to her jobs list amidst her drifting helplessly towards the next attempted murder, but at least it demonstrated that Justin knew his limits and wasn’t charging around the hospital like an addict in a drug store.

She replaced the receiver and simultaneously felt the force of Jonathan Wickshaw’s notes crash to the table, beside her. They landed inches from her hand.

‘Your turn,’ howled Mr Arisan. ‘That’s time I won’t be getting back… ever.’

Philippa chose not to add fuel to the fire on this occasion and watched as the surgical registrar departed the ward with steam ejecting from his ears and his junior following him like a pesky sidekick.

But Mr Arisan was right about one thing; it was her turn to speak with Jonathan’s parents, only this was not going to be an ordinary doctor-to-relative conversation; she would be seeking as much information as she would be giving.

‘Don’t worry, he’s known to be a bit of a douchebag,’ a voice muttered next to her.

She gasped. ‘Karan? What are you doing here?’

The senior house officer had sneaked in without noticing.

‘I was on my way to A&E to see the next patient on the list but just got bleeped so thought it would be quicker to come back and use the phone here. Sorry, just going to get this quickly. Can I use the phone?’

‘Go ahead.’

He dialled the number then exhaled melodramatically. ‘Goddamit, I don’t know why people bleep then walk away from the phones,’ he whispered to Philippa.

She understood his frustration.

He waited a little longer then reset the call and dialled through to switchboard. ‘Hi, can you tell me which extension 81518 is please? They’ve bleeped me twice but each time I call they don’t pick up…okay thanks… well I’m heading over there now anyway.’

‘All okay?’

‘Yeah, I’ll take the next patient on the Take. See you in a bit,’ he replied before jogging out of the ward.

And then it struck her, like a poisonous snake darting out from the undergrowth, impaling its fangs into her heart.

You’ll make a tracing if you’re smart, and uncover the test, where it will start.

Of course, why had she not thought about it sooner? But was it really that simple?

She picked up the phone immediately.

‘Switchboard?’

‘Hi, I received a call from an outside line about an hour ago. Are you able to trace the call at all?’

‘I can try. What’s your bleep number?’

She double-checked the sticker. ‘457.’

‘Hang on…’

The pause was gutting her insides. She spotted the porter who had brought the defibrillator to the scene during the arrest call enter the ward with a colleague. This time, they were wheeling a coffin between them, concealed in detail by a white cloth but hardly hidden by shape.

Maria met them head on and began gesturing to them.

They nodded before moving the box away from view.

‘That’s odd,’ came the operator at last.

‘What is?’

‘It seems that the call was made from inside the hospital but somehow diverted to us to contact you via an outside line.’

‘So, whereabouts inside the hospital?’

‘Surgical Four…’

Philippa nearly dropped the receiver. The person making these threatening calls had been on this ward, possibly where she was sitting right now, shortly before it had all happened. She was on shift with an evil killer inside the hospital and that begged an even more dangerous question: where was the killer now?

You’ll make a tracing if you’re smart, and uncover the test, where it will start.

What if? What if she had done this immediately after the call? No, the killer would have fled by the time she had arrived, but at least she would have been ready on the ward when Jonathan’s heart stopped. And what did the next line in the riddle mean?

I’m four before V and three after S, it would help to know, how to prevent a death…

‘Philippa? Philippa?’ Maria, the nurse-in-charge was clambering over the nurse’s station to get her attention and waving a frenzied hand in her face.

‘Sorry… yes, Maria?’

‘Jonathan’s parents are still waiting for you in the Relatives’ Room. They said if you were busy, could they see their son first and speak with you later?’

Philippa felt awful. ‘I’m so sorry, no let them know I’ll speak with them now,’ she replied getting hastily up from the chair.

The couple, both in their late fifties were seated on leather chairs that from personal experience were far less comfortable to the glutes than to the eye. Philippa was left to take the more humbling plastic stool.

The room accommodated a maximum of six people at a time. A scrunched-up damp hand towel had somehow wormed its way inside the room, acting unintentionally as a temporary doormat. In the corner, one of the standard bedside cabinets had been converted into a makeshift flower-stand for a dying pink orchid drooped helplessly in its vase.

Philippa adjusted the collar of her navy dress. The stifling air choked her lungs as she inhaled. Her seat felt unpleasantly warm from where Mr Arisan had undoubtedly been sitting.

The woman, dressed in grey trousers with a pink cardigan, had been crying and clutched her soggy tissues tightly. Her firm grip represented a denial over the sudden death of her son, Jonathan Wickshaw. She had a pointy nose which had turned red from irritation and curly blonde hair. But her eyes… they simply stared into space…

‘Hi, I’m Philippa, the doctor on-call overnight.’

For some reason, that triggered the woman to burst into more tears.

So only her husband replied. ‘I’m Travis and this is my wife, Megan.’

‘I just wanted to say, I’m truly sorry for what happened to Jonathan,’ said Philippa. She felt even more responsible given that the event had been a challenge directed against her and if only she had been sharper at deciphering the first part of the caller’s riddle.

Megan composed herself temporarily and continued to stare straight ahead, past Philippa’s shoulder as though the ghost of her son was standing there. Her legs were folded up so that her espadrilles rested on the edge of the chair. Her chin slotted in between her knees like a poorly-fitting jigsaw piece.

‘Mr Arisan said that the surgery had gone perfectly. Is that correct?’ Travis asked, squeezing his wife’s arm gently, as he tried in vain to console her. The serious man wore an outfit that resembled a rehearsal for the imminent funeral. His black shirt, in need of ironing was as creased as his current appearance.

‘Well,’ began Philippa, ‘the surgery was apparently uncomplicated. But something happened which led to his heart stopping tonight.’

‘Do you have any idea what it was?’

‘We don’t yet. He’ll probably need a post-mortem.’

‘I understand.’

‘My Jon…’ whispered Megan. Her tears sparkled like broken diamonds under the ceiling light as they tumbled down her cheeks.

‘Meg?’ Travis asked.

‘My Jon…’

‘Meg, I’m here for you.’

Megan turned to her husband. ‘Huh?’

‘I’m here for you.’

‘I’m sorry. I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling; this all came out of the blue,’ said Philippa though in truth she understood more than most what it was like to lose a loved one so suddenly, especially after what had happened with her sister.

‘Hopefully we will get to the bottom of what happened to Jon…’ Travis said forlornly.

Philippa merely nodded; silence was golden in these situations.

When Travis spoke, he gestured a lot and had a habit of picking at one of the many spots upon his face. ‘We don’t want to blame anyone for what happened, Philippa. It’s strange because we visited Jon yesterday and he seemed completely fine. He was able to walk with hardly any pain and he even managed to eat the lunch we brought him. He was very pleased about being discharged soon.’

‘Trav…’ muttered Megan.’

‘Meg?’

‘Why our Jon?’ she cried as she raised a trembling hand to her mouth.

Travis Wickshaw brought his wife close so that his shirt became a suitable replacement for the saturated tissues in her hand.

‘I understand how shocked you are. It feels pathetic that all I can say is I’m sorry…’

‘It’s not your fault. We are honestly grateful for your efforts to save him,’ Travis said.

‘We will find out what caused your son’s death,’ insisted Philippa.

Her bleep rang for a second time during this conversation and Philippa silenced it immediately.

God you can’t do anything properly around here; not even break bad news…

She resisted the urge to launch the black box against the mould-strewn wall. ‘Sorry about the bleeping,’ she added with a sense of embarrassment before saying: ‘Look I was wondering, can I ask you both a few questions?’

The couple looked at each other.

‘Of course,’ Travis replied with bewilderment.

Philippa wasn’t trained for this line of questioning and she had no leads or guidance. But she had to start somewhere. ‘I hope you don’t find these questions inappropriate or invasive, but I was intrigued by Jonathan’s tattoos.’

Megan dried her eyes and sat up.

Travis frowned. ‘Yes, his tattoos. Jon at least, was very proud of them. He became addicted to acquiring them once he got his first one after his A-levels, although I think that was more the influence of his friend from school at the time, Zach.’

‘I noticed one tattoo in particular, a name: Kerrie. Will I need to get in touch with her about what’s happened tonight?’

‘No, Kerrie was his ex-girlfriend. We won’t need to let her know,’ he replied firmly.

An ex-girlfriend, would that be reason enough to target him? Philippa wondered. The voice on the phone sounded masculine but altered nonetheless. ‘So that didn’t end too well?’

‘No it ended in a civilised manner about three years ago though they simply drifted apart. Jon just made the error in thinking his first girlfriend would be the one.’

‘Why?’ Megan asked. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Well…’ Philippa hesitated but she held herself together and added, ‘well having tattoos can increase the risk of blood-borne viruses which can sometimes remain unnoticed for long periods of time. He didn’t have them done anywhere –’

‘No they were all done in very legitimate places,’ Travis said.

‘Or so Jon assured us,’ added Megan.

Philippa Haven teased out as much information as possible. She found out that Jonathan Wickshaw worked as a fitness instructor in the local gym and had an otherwise pristine health record. He had been planning to run the marathon next year and he had no enemies, although that was slightly harder to enquire about casually…

Instead of inducing more tears which Philippa had anticipated whilst finding out more about the young man, the reminiscing seemed to yield a positive effect on Megan’s mood. Yet despite the various directions of interrogation, Philippa Haven was no closer to solving the mystery; a futile conversation.

‘Wh-what happens now?’ Megan stammered.

This was always difficult but Philippa explained that Jonathan Wickshaw’s body would be taken to the mortuary and the death certificate issued in the morning. However, there was likely to be a delay given a referral to the coroner was warranted.

‘The bereavement office will be in touch with you I’m sure. If they haven’t by late Monday morning, give them a call. You should be able to contact them via switchboard, but I can try and get you the number now if you would prefer?’

Megan shook her head.

‘It’s okay,’ Travis assured Philippa. ‘But thanks.’

‘Dr Haven?’ asked Megan suddenly as Philippa stood from her chair. ‘Would it be possible to stay with Jon just for a short while longer – before he gets taken away? We’d just… we would just like to say goodbye to him.’

‘Of course,’ Philippa replied and for a moment she too had to fight back tears.

Travis whispered something in his wife’s ear and kissed her temple. Then the couple shook hands with the doctor.

But as Philippa’s fingers rested upon the scratched steel handle of the door, she suddenly remembered something else. ‘By the way, there’s a blue scarf in the bedside cabinet. Feel free to take it back or it might end up in lost property,’ she told them.

Travis Wickshaw appeared bemused. ‘Do you mean the red and white one?’

‘That’s what he wore on the day he was admitted into hospital,’ Megan added.

‘Red and white…?’

‘Yes, and we took that home yesterday. You must be mistaken; it probably belongs to someone else.’

Philippa froze.

Her vision may have been tainted by weariness but her eyes did not deceive her, even in the dimly lit quarters of Surgical Four, Bed Sixteen. She was certain that the scarf in Jonathan Wickshaw’s drawer had been blue.