Two weeks later
‘Can I change your mind… about quitting the health service?’
‘Dr Steer, working in the NHS; it’s fire-fighting… it’s politics over patients and I cannot take it anymore – the injustice. The medical registrars – we’re the ones who keep the hospital running in and out of hours yet it’s the management who take any credit when things go right and the doctors who are blamed when things don’t. Until things change up there, I don’t fancy working for people who care nothing about their staff’s wellbeing or serving an ungrateful population.’
‘Do you think it was –’
‘What happened on that night shift certainly played a huge part in my decision; but I actually feel sorry for Tim despite what he did to me and those innocent lives… it made me realise a lot of the things he said were true and he was simply one of many desperately frustrated doctors.’ Saboteurs… she wanted to announce. ‘Tim just wanted to bring workforce changes for the better, but I see his point – no one else is going to try and improve things for us… it’s just a shame he didn’t go about it how I would have done…’
The consultant was saddened by her words. ‘What are your plans now?’
‘My sister Julia always said I should travel and see the world. It’s changing every year; places are coming and disappearing. I think I’ll learn to enjoy my life for once. After all, we never know if the end is just around the corner – as it could have been for me that night.’
‘I understand,’ she said. I’m sorry we all failed to do more to keep you.’
‘It’s not your fault. I know enough good doctors who have left the NHS for pastures better,’ she replied. Her friend Rachel was returning briefly from New Zealand, having booked a flight as soon as she saw the events crop up on the news. It had made international headlines. ‘Dr Steer, can I tell you something?’
‘Of course, Philippa.’
‘You know during that shift, I actually briefly suspected you were behind these tests!’
The consultant managed a chuckle, which Philippa presumed equated to a laugh. ‘When I found Melissa Dowd in the church eight years ago, that really shook me. I had to take time off for PTSD. I cried for weeks. When I returned, I pressed for changes to the rota patterns and fought to uncap the locum pay rates but all that changed was the sickness reporting.’
‘Did Tim ever talk to you about how he felt?’
‘Oh yes, all the time,’ Dr Steer replied. ‘He was pretty accurate about a lot of things you know – overpopulation being one of them. Just look at the Princess Royal Hospital. It has four hundred medical beds. The average twenty-four-hour period sees fifty admissions. If everyone stayed in for a week, that’s practically a full hospital in seven days. Things aren’t sustainable, especially not with the loss of goodwill from several other factors.’
Philippa fidgeted with her hair. It was almost as if she was back in the church nave, being preached to by Tim. She peered at her watch. The service had just begun; she could hear choral singing. She should get going soon.
‘One of Tim’s victims Mary Surrey – I think you saw her that night. Her daughter put in a complaint against you.’
‘Yes, she told me she was going to. Did anything come of it?’
‘We threw it out the moment we had to release what happened – with her mother dying from unnatural causes and backed you to the hilt with your resuscitation discussion. Your notes were concise and helpful.’
‘When do you think the hospital will be fully open again?’
‘I’m not sure; I’ve no idea how long an investigation like this takes.’
‘Thanks for backing me.’
‘If only the hospital backed the doctors all the time – unlike with Melissa’s case for instance… Patients have too much power these days; the NHS is on borrowed time. Hence, I have handed in my retirement notice.’
‘You’re… retiring?’
Dr Steer sighed and the lines on her face momentarily faded. ‘Yes.’
‘What are you planning to do?’
‘I’m going to leave the country for a bit.’
‘Oh yeah? Like me?’
‘Not quite; I don’t intend to travel around too much.’
‘Have you got a place in mind?’
She smiled. ‘China. Wuhan, to be precise.’
‘I’m sure that will be amazing. Have you got anything in particular; to do over there?’
‘Ah, I have plans,’ she replied, tapping the tip of her nose cryptically. ‘Anyway, enough of that; you’re a great servant and an excellent doctor. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.’
Philippa Haven smiled and replied, ‘Coming from you Dr Steer, that means a lot. Maybe one day if the NHS changes for the better, who knows I might be persuaded to make a return. It was a pleasure meeting you.’
‘Indeed. Take care.’
The two doctors shook hands firmly then headed in opposite directions.
Philippa walked up the path that led to St Paul’s – one which was all too familiar for haunting reasons. She shivered as she recalled the last moments of that dreaded shift. She watched several cars drive down the road behind the metal fence, which she had hugged on her way to the entrance of the church.
You’re too late… everyone on the planet is too late… it will be released soon and the plan will be complete… I didn’t work alone…
Her last vision of Tim Chung was his twisted smile before his head slumped and he was gone – just like that.
What did he mean? What plan?
And then she froze. Karan had told her about Tim’s frequent visits to China for research. Was there a connection?
She shook the conspiracies away. It must have been a mere coincidence.
When she arrived at the doors, two smartly dressed clergymen stood guarding them.
As she wandered inside, her eyes darted to the top left-hand corner of the doorway, where the remnants of a spider web were conspicuous.
She was met with a respectful silence. The benches were full except for one space right at the back. She straightened her skirt then sat down. It was toasty and she loosened one of the buttons on her black blouse.
At the rear of the atrium, an unhealthily thin man who she recognised was crammed into a wheelchair. He was connected to an oxygen cylinder and had a nasogastric tube in his nose and a catheter bag wrapped around the outside of his hospital trousers. His carer sat next to him on a chair with a comforting hand on his shoulder. He did not look like he understood what was going on – it was unlikely Eric would ever…
Suki Nyarko walked to the lectern and cleared her throat. She had tied her hair into a French braid and with make-up, an elegant black dress and matching heels; she was barely recognisable from the shocked lady sitting in her grey tracksuit with messy extensions next to her dying husband in Bed D of the Chartwell Unit that night.
‘Thank you all for attending today. It means a lot to be given the chance to tell you what sort of a man my husband, Shinji Nyarko was. First and foremost, he did not have friends, because if he thought you were a good guy, he would take you into his arms as his family and treat everybody the same no matter how long he knew you for.’
Philippa closed her eyes. Memories of that tragic night overcame the floodgates in her mind and tear ducts; Shinji Nyarko sitting up in his bed, frail but determined, his vomit bowl filling by the hour with bloodied sputum until necessitating a transfusion. Yet his chief worry had been for her to remain well hydrated.
Indeed, he had bled, as predicted. But it was in his brain rather than in his lungs. He had lost consciousness and perhaps that meant he had suffered less. Why did all the terrible things happen to the best people?
Shinji inhaled his last breath three days after the bleed. Philippa Haven did not return to duty with treatment for shock and a police interrogation taking priority over on-calls. It was following a sign-off by Occupational Health, that in her temporary freedom did she realise how much of a prisoner she had been in the NHS.
‘Shinji was a very caring man who will stay forever in my heart. This hospital may be his place of resting, but it was never supposed to be. He had always wanted to rest near Kingston – the first place he lived the day he moved to this country. Yet that day he had strangely insisted on coming to Locksbottom. He would not tell me why, but I learned recently that it was because he had been tipped off about a forthcoming crime – a serial killing.
For those of you that did not know, serial killers were his favourite in a morbid sense. Shinji used to explain that they were the most dangerous, because killing was an addiction for them; once they started, they wouldn’t stop until they were caught. So, every one that he helped catch meant potentially, several lives saved. But these cases gave him the most suffering too, because our daughter, Yuna had her life horribly stolen by one five years ago. At least he joins her now and they can spend the rest of time together, in Heaven.’
Philippa placed a hand over her mouth. It made sense, why the case meant so much to him and why he was so set on uncovering the man behind the murders of the Princess Royal Hospital.
Suki continued: ‘He must have known he was close to dying from his cancer…’ Suki was struggling to complete her sentences.
Philippa removed a tissue from her bag and blew her nose.
‘Yet the last thing he did…’ Suki said, swallowing hard, ‘…the last thing he did was call his colleagues and tell them it was time for them to step in. He was such a brave man and my soul mate.’ She broke down and someone from the front row leapt to her side to give her a comforting hug.
The service lasted an hour and included some of Shinji’s favourite songs; Everything I Do by Bryan Adams stuck out in particular for Philippa as it was the song her sister had chosen for her first dance with her husband, Charles.
When everybody left, Philippa walked alone towards a set of four headstones, clutching a bouquet of ruby roses. They rested like a sleeping baby in her arms.
She had not felt such isolation for some time. Following that deadly night shift, she had suffered recurrent nightmares and stayed with friends. But she always knew that at some point she would have to get stronger and move on – to find a means of closure.
In her reflection, it occurred to her that Shinji must have known about the killer somehow. After all, he had been admitted into hospital with his laptop, a means of checking on gang-related symbols and software to create burner emails.
It was a glorious day by October standards and the scent of freshly mown grass was rejuvenating. Despite the weather, a few daisies had sprouted along the path.
She was both anxious and excited of the unknown that would arise when she officially left the NHS next week. But she had readily told Shinji that there was more to life than work that night; she was now going to practice what she had preached.
The doctor stood as if conducting the stone choir before her. Every time she read in her mind, the name engraved upon one of these headstones, she offered a prayer and placed a rose a few centimetres in front.
Jonathan Wickshaw, Mary Surrey, Rob Gadra… don’t ever stop joking, Rob…
When Philippa got to Shinji Nyarko, she fell to her knees.
The detective had a modest marble headstone with golden letters and an emblazoned photograph-cutting no larger than one suitable for a passport. He was wearing his uniform. It could not have been taken long before his death as he boasted a bald scalp. In the photo, he smiled bravely.
‘Shinji, I will never know who tipped you off about the serial killer that night but hopefully you can watch over them for me. Rest in peace,’ Philippa mourned.
A final tear cycled down her cheek as the blossoming rose landed softly on the grass and as though her prayer was answered, she felt an acknowledging breeze.
Every few days... 